by Dyrk Ashton
In attendance are the band of ruffians who first breached the lobby: the dark-haired pale young men, Derek and Tod, the bearded men Henri and Didier, and the fur-coated brothers, Wepwawet and Surma, now joined by the larger one who chased Fi, Zeke and Peter at the pool. Max is also with them, as are the blond pale young men, Hedwig and Curt, who accompanied him at the hospital. The nameless throng that piled in afterward are nowhere to be seen.
As they cross the driveway, Surma reaches beneath the front of Edgar’s car with his one arm and flips it over with ease. It lands upside down with a loud crunch of metal and glass.
* * *
“That would be my Bentley,” Edgar scowls. He drops the backpacks and his long bag at the corner of the hall that leads to the kitchen, then strides up to the black case Zeke thought might contain a musical instrument or snowboard and snatches it up. In one smooth motion, he slides one arm into a slot in the back of it and swings around in an about-face, his braid of gray hair flying, while reaching into the top of the long pocket on the front and drawing out something silver and shining that makes a high ringing sound as it arcs through the air.
Zeke looks on in doubt and fascination. A sword?
Edgar gives the case a shake and it falls to the floor, revealing an aged white shield with faded smears of red in the shape of a cross. The whole maneuver took only seconds and now he stands at the edge of the raised area of the floor, facing the arch that leads to the foyer.
Having paused in the process of assembling her flute, Fi recognizes the sword and shield as the dusty heirlooms that have hung over their fireplace mantle all these years—but she isn’t sure she recognizes her uncle. The shoulder slouch and hunch of his back are gone, and his expression holds a deliberate intensity she’s never seen. Mol, who has remained innocuous but attentive, assumes a protective stance next to him, showing no sign of discomfort from his injuries.
Fi opens her mouth to speak—
“Don’t move,” Peter utters from behind her.
She whispers to Zeke, “He says that a lot.”
“I think I’ll listen to him this time,” he whispers back.
They peek back over their shoulders, but Peter is gone.
* * *
The motley crew of aggressors crowds around Kleron beneath the portico at the front door.
“So, we’ll storm the place, bust in through the windows?” inquires Derek. “Maybe tear through the roof?”
“Such tactics have their place,” Kleron replies, “but when one is not entirely certain what to expect, I have always found it prudent to simply use the front door.” He surveys the group, meeting the eyes of the bearded and pale young men in particular. “Stick close, and make no move whatsoever unless I expressly command it.” The bearded men seem nervous and confused. Derek looks disappointed. Kleron fixes him in his gaze. “Do you understand?” Derek nods. Kleron addresses the little hobo. “Max?” Max lets out a high pitched grunt that’s difficult to read as agreement or not, but Kleron seems satisfied. “Let’s proceed then, shall we?” He nods to the largest of the three fur-coated men, who pushes his sunglasses up from his bright red eyes.
* * *
Fi and Zeke jump as the front doors burst into splinters.
Through the arch, they see the big man step cautiously into the foyer. He casts his red eyes around the room, glares at Fi, Zeke, Edgar and Mol, then scans the stairs and balcony above and backs out the door.
Fi and Zeke both let out a breath, then gasp together as Kleron strides in with Max right behind him. The rest of his retinue follows, silent except for wet footsteps on the marble floor. Rain continues to lash the great room windows and lightning flashes through the house between them and the open front doors.
Kleron stops a respectable distance from Edgar on the lower level of the floor. The others flank him closely, except for Max, who crouches farther to the side, nearer the hall to the kitchen.
Fi and Zeke hold their breath while the intruders survey their surroundings. Edgar and Kleron consider each other, unblinking. Though the low steady growl in Mol’s throat is barely audible, his posture and raised fur clearly indicate his readiness to spring at the slightest provocation. Other than the big man with red eyes, Fi and Zeke have seen the group only on security video in the hospital.
Fi’s surprised to see that Kleron isn’t all that tall, maybe 5’ 8”—though he’s far from unimposing. His wet hair is slicked back and his features not unattractive, in a sharp and swarthy sort of way. Rainwater trickles down the black leather of his trench coat, beads on the shining black clasps on his shoulders. Most striking, however, are his eyes. Completely devoid of color or light, like an abyss, or the coldest, darkest reaches of outer space.
Derek and Tod cast mocking glances at Edgar’s sword and shield and nudge each other, smirking arrogantly. They and the two blond men would be extremely good looking, like fashion models, except there’s no life in their eyes and their skin is so pale it’s almost transparent. Makeup smudges their faces, smeared from the rain. It stains their collars, and spindly veins show on their cheeks and necks. A pink stain on Derek’s white designer shirt is all that remains of the blood from Stan’s unfortunate demise at the lobby security booth.
The odor that pervades the room is unmistakably that of wet animals. It wouldn’t be entirely unpleasant, except for the choking stench Fi remembers so well. Her eyes are drawn to Max, still wearing the same grimy stocking cap, four pair of sunglasses and three coats covered with filth. And she sees now that his wretched hands are both the same—the last two fingers missing, leaving just two fingers and a thumb on each, caked in crud, fingernails ragged and black. Stock still, grinning madly, slaver dripping into his forked beard, it feels like he’s looking right through her.
Zeke realizes he’s gripping the guitar much tighter than he should. The air in the room is charged with tension. He’d swear there’s a palpable, almost supernatural force emanating from this group—and not a benevolent one.
Kleron scrutinizes Edgar’s sword, his mouth curling in a smile devoid of mirth. He speaks in Austro-Bavarian, a language Fi and Zeke don’t recognize or understand—but Edgar does.
“You’ll not touch me with that before I have your throat, boy.”
Edgar answers in English, his voice grim but steady. “I might, lad, I might.”
Kleron’s eyes narrow and his body tenses—
“Hello boys.”
The voice fills the room, followed by a flash of lightning and a sharp crack of thunder. Peter steps from the dark hall to their right.
The group shifts timorously, watching him with care. For a brief moment, what could be disbelief and trepidation flash in Kleron’s otherwise expressionless eyes. “It is true,” he says softly, in English now.
Peter deposits something that glints gold into his pocket as he steps calmly to the raised area of the floor. He stations himself between Zeke and Fi, looking down at the intruders.
Kleron forces his mirthless smile and—to Fi and Zeke’s amazement—goes to one knee. “Pater.”
Zeke recognizes the word. Most people would pronounce it in English as “pāter,” with a long “a,” but when Kleron says it, it sounds like “pah-t-ĕr,” with an alveolar trill at the end—a little roll of the “r.” In Biblical Greek and Latin, it means “father.”
The three fur-coated men drop to their knees and bow their heads. The bearded and pale men are befuddled, then Kleron reaches down and taps the floor with one finger of a black gloved hand. Derek, Tod, Hedwig and Curt lower themselves reluctantly. The big man with red eyes grabs Henri by the arm and hauls him to the floor. Didier gets the idea and drops as well. Max just hunkers down further.
Peter looks the group over. “Cù Sìth,” he calls out ominously. The big man with red eyes rises to his feet, keeping his head bowed, avoiding eye contact.
“Surma,” Peter announces. The one-armed man with yellow eyes stands. “And Wepwawet.” The third of the fur-coated men, the one with blue e
yes, rises cautiously. “The Cerberus three, reunited, I see,” Peter says lyrically. “Such an honor.” But the hard look in his eyes clearly communicates this is no honor at all.
Fi catches Zeke looking at her, his face screwed up in skeptical perplexity. Is he thinking the same thing she is? Cerberus? She glances at her uncle to see what his reaction might be, but he remains intrepid, unvexed.
Peter directs his attention to the little homeless man, “Max.” It’s as if Max hasn’t heard him, and he still doesn’t take his eyes off Fi. “Maskim Xul!” Peter says more empathically. Max finally acknowledges him. Peter glares back, but he appears unfazed. “Are you quite comfortable, Max?” Peter asks coolly. No reaction.
Peter turns to the high-collared man, his voice becoming venomous. “And Master Kleron.”
Kleron rises. “Pater, it is—”
“Kindly introduce the remainder of your entourage.” Peter cuts in, surveying the bearded and the pale young men. “The least you could do after destroying my front door and soaking my floor.”
Wrath flashes across Kleron’s features at the interruption, but then it’s gone, replaced with the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “They are of no account, truly.” The bearded and pale men say nothing, but their displeasure at being discounted so easily is apparent. Kleron continues, waving off-handedly at Henri and Didier. “Howlers, obviously. Third or fourthborn, I suppose. Loup-garous, de France. These are from Alsace. Palantines, shunned by their own people, ex-communicated by Ammann himself.”
Fi watches the bearded men. They’re particularly agitated, hyper almost, jittery and grinding their teeth like they’re jacked up on drugs. Under Peter’s hostile gaze they shudder with intermittent tremors, vibrating almost imperceptibly—and in the blur, Fi swears she can see their faces oscillate between those of men and wolves. She looks at Zeke and can tell by his expression he sees it too.
“I know what they are,” says Peter. “Though I find it hard to believe even you would associate with weres on a phase of purnima, let alone bring them to my home.”
Fi and Zeke edge closer together. Loup-garous? Weres? As in “werewolves?”
Kleron sneers. “I couldn’t leave them locked up. That would just be cruel.” He indicates to the pale pretty-boys. “These are—”
“Yours,” spits Peter.
Kleron raises a thick black eyebrow and offers a shrug. “Wampyr, of course, but what generation, even I do not know.” Derek, Tod, Hedwig and Curt smile maliciously, baring needle sharp, translucent fangs.
Fi and Zeke squeeze even closer. Werewolves and vampires?!
An uncomfortable quiet settles over the room while Peter and Kleron’s eyes remain locked, each attempting to back the other down, or read his intentions, or both.
“Well!” Peter shouts abruptly and claps his hands, complimented by a serendipitous clap of thunder outside. All the intruders jump except for Kleron and Max. The pale young men are particularly annoyed.
“We were just about to play a song,” Peter announces, as if to neighbors who’ve dropped by unexpectedly. “You don’t mind?”
Kleron watches him for a moment, then nods deliberately. The fur-coated Cerberi, Kleron, and Max appear to be accustomed to this man’s odd ways, but the French werewolves fidget and the wampyr pretty-boys exchange puzzled glances.
Peter snatches the back of a chair and hurls it at Kleron, who catches it easily. “Take a load off, little one.” Kleron’s eyes narrow, but he places the chair on the floor and takes a seat with a flourish of his long leather coat.
Peter drags a chair in front of the piano, then pulls Fi and Zeke close. “Once we begin,” he says under his breath, “do not stop playing, no matter what happens, no matter what you might see, understand?” He doesn’t wait for a response before pressing Zeke into the chair.
Zeke’s knees were about to give out anyhow, so he doesn’t mind the sitting, but the blood drains from his face at the prospect of playing for these villains.
Peter walks Fi back and positions her to stand behind the piano bench, then takes a seat on the bench.
Fi feels like she’s moving in slow-motion as she raises the concert flute to her lips. Zeke looks nervously back at them. Peter holds a finger up for Fi to wait, then gives Zeke a reassuring smile and a nod.
Zeke takes a deep breath and focuses on the guitar. Rain splashes the windows behind him, driven by gusts of increasing intensity. Rivulets flash in relief on the glass like x-rays of arteries beneath living flesh. Thunder cracks and rolls. Without thinking, because he’s sure if he thinks, he’ll choke, Zeke begins to play “Brian Boru’s March,” one of the oldest songs ever written, to his understanding. The lush tones of the aged Ramirez drift through the room.
Kleron props his elbows on the arms of his chair, hands folded at his chin, fingers steepled over his lips. Henri and Didier are enrapt by the music, but the pale young men shuffle and cross their arms impatiently.
Derek brushes Kleron’s arm to get his attention, casts his eyes eagerly at Edgar’s sword. Kleron shakes his head. The movement is slight but the message is clear—No.
Peter positions his fingers over the keys of the piano and joins the song. Thunder shakes the windows. Zeke concentrates on his hands and doesn’t falter. Peter nods to Fi.
She swallows hard. As if on auto-pilot, she licks her lips, waits for a good point in the song, then, with a great force of will, begins to play. The airy notes of the flute float above those of the guitar and piano. She’s never performed this tune, but to her surprise it flows effortlessly, as if she’s played it a thousand times before.
Except for the pale young men, everyone in the room listens attentively, their taut intensity seeming to dissipate. Fi can almost hear the slowing of their breathing, sense their shoulders relaxing—but she notices that none are as absorbed in the song as Kleron.
Lightning flashes much closer to the house this time. Kleron doesn’t blink. His eyes flit to Fi and an icy-hot sensation rises in her stomach, spreads to her chest and limbs. Somehow, in some way, she feels drawn to him, pulled by the vacuum of his empty black eyes. Though he’s looking right at her, his gaze is distant, focused on something long ago and far way.
Lightning flashes again, and Kleron remembers—and so does Fi...
* * *
Wind and frigid rain blast her in the face, drench her clothing where she stands on a hill overlooking the stony Field of Clontarf, in a country that today is called Ireland. How Fi knows this, she can’t hope to guess, but her confusion about it is nothing compared to the burning question—how did I get here?
She realizes she’s lost her flute. Peter’s warning rings in her head—do not stop playing, no matter what happens. Her panic melds with coursing excitement, fear, and rage—but these feelings aren’t hers.
It’s a stormy night like tonight. On the battlefield below, opposing armies rush headlong toward each other through the mud and lashing rain, hurtling war cries. And somehow she knows—on one side are Viking mercenaries and renegade Irishmen, on the other the forces of King Bóruma mac Cennétig, known today as Brian Boru. The vanguard of Boru’s forces are led by a small force of warriors—among them the big man with red eyes, Cù Sìth, who accompanies Kleron today, as well as bearded and pale fighters much like the French weres and the pretty-boys, though not the same ones. There are other men as well, large and very strange. One towers taller than even Cù Sìth, built like a bear. Fi knows his name. Bödvar Bjarki. Matunos. The group emerges from a blinding sheet of rain and mist, and suddenly they aren’t men at all, but shrieking, howling monsters.
Lightning splits the sky—
Seeing through eyes other than her own, she approaches an old man, red-bearded and crowned, who is sitting on a carven throne. The king rises, meets her in the center of the royal hall. She reaches out with a black gauntleted hand to greet Brian Boru, and feels great affection for him.
Lightning blazes—
She’s back on the Field of Clontarf, standi
ng beside Kleron, who is armored in black enameled steel and boiled leather, with a high collared black cape. Next to him, Brian Boru is mounted in full regalia atop an armored horse, watching the battle. She hears the clash and clang of arms, stomping of feet, bodies hitting the wet ground, and screams of agony.
Thunder roars—
The old king is kneeling before an abbott in a monastery, kissing his ring. Fi is next to Kleron as he watches from the shadows, unseen, and she feels his outrage at the betrayal.
Thunder rolls—
The monster warriors stand among the dead Vikings and rogues, surrounded by the Irishmen they fought for. Exhilaration flows through her as they roar in victory, thrusting bloodied fists and weapons to the sky.
* * *
Lightning flashes again and Fi is back in Peter’s house, her heart thrashing in her chest, somehow still playing the flute. No episode, no fit, no seizure—but she wants to scream. She looks desperately to Peter for some indication he understands, that he knows what’s happening to her, but he’s focused on the piano, mindless of her plight. She sees him close his eyes—
* * *
Back in Ireland it’s still night, but the rain is now merely a drizzle. There’s a white tent on a hill, a hand holding a sword over a yellow sun embroidered on the blue background of a banner that whips in the wind outside it. Oil lamps silhouette the old king as he kneels before a crucifix to pray.
A dark figure slips into the tent behind him. Lightning flashes again and again. A curved knife is raised. Immense bat wings unfold. The knife descends. An overwhelming sorrow washes over Fi, coming from the tent, but also—she’s startled to see a man beside her, bearded and robed, standing beneath a gnarled leafless tree. He pulls his hood back in spite of the rain. His hair hangs drenched and bedraggled over sad, emerald green eyes—
* * *
Fi’s suddenly back in Peter’s great room. Nothing has changed. How can this be?! Lightning flashes again—
* * *
Her hand is black and clawed, scrawling musical notation on parchment with a feather quill. She reaches for a lira and begins to play the notes—the same tune that Fi, Zeke and Peter are playing now—
