Fire and Bone

by Rachel A. Marks

  “Oh brother, don’t be such a pixie,” Aelia says, coming around the table. She takes me by the arm and pulls me up.

  I jerk away. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re apparently some important demi and you’re acting like a pixie—who are sniveling narcs. It’s sad. And annoying.”

  “I couldn’t care less if I annoy you.” I peer through the windows along the hallway, looking for Marius to come back toward the house. Even if I wanted to get out of here, this vapid girl is the last person I’d go anywhere with.

  “The coast is clear,” she says. “He won’t come back this way. He leaves through the waterfall.”

  My eyes snap to hers—traveling through water?

  “He’s the son of Lyr. Think about it.” She folds her arms across her chest and looks me over. “Listen, I just want this to go right for my dad. The whole Introduction thing tomorrow night is going to go a lot better for our House if the Otherborn catch scent of you ahead of time. The rumor mill will spread word of your presence, and it won’t be business as usual at the ceremony. Just think of the attention, the crowds. It’ll be that much more epic when you’re presented. The House of Brighid really needs this.”

  I’m surprised to hear an edge of vulnerability in her tone; she actually sounds like she cares about helping. I don’t, though. I’ve got to do what’s best for me, not some power structure I have no stake in. “No way. You’re nuts.”

  “I’m practical. My father’s worked really hard to make the House stable again. I want to do what I can to help.”

  With as much conviction as I can manage, I say, “I’m not going anywhere with you, Aelia.”

  She purses her lips, sizing me up again. A couple of tense seconds tick by, and then she smirks. “Oh, you’re going. Either that or I tell my dad you had sex with Faelan last night and that’s why you’re acting cagey.”

  My pulse skips. “What? That’s ridiculous.” I step back. “And who cares?” Even though for some crazy reason I do care if people think that. Which is stupid.

  Her features shift suddenly, fear filling them as her hand rests delicately on her chest. “Daddy, I’m so mortified,” she says dramatically. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, but I can’t lie anymore. That girl totally betrayed us. After we brought her here to protect her and comfort her—I caught her . . . feeding off your hunter. She nearly killed him! She would’ve if I hadn’t stopped her.” Her voice wavers, and a shiver runs through me. “What I saw her doing to him . . . the way she was wrapped around him. He was so helpless, so pale and close to death. And her anger . . . oh gods, Daddy, she got so angry she nearly burned the cottage down. I could’ve been killed.” She sniffs. “I didn’t want to tell you. I couldn’t believe the treachery, how she hurt Faelan was so—”

  “Enough,” I finally say, my whole body turned to ice.

  A satisfied grin slides across her face.

  “Why are you pushing this? I could hurt someone out there. You know that.”

  She waves away my caution. “Not as long as I’m with you. I can place a temporary protection spell around you that’ll last a few hours. You won’t attract a wink of trouble. Except maybe the fun kind.”

  “This can’t be good for you if it goes shitways.”

  “The sooner the general masses see you, the better.” She shrugs. “And if you make your debut with me, no one will mess with you—no one who counts, anyway.”

  God, she’s so full of herself. But she might also have a point. I have no idea who to trust—I definitely don’t trust this bitch, with her willingness to blather to Marius that I’m some evil creeper who was trying to burn down his property and suck the life out of his employee.

  Basically, I’m screwed either way. I may as well take the road I can at least try to have some control over. Once we’re out of this house, maybe I can get some space, get my head clear, even if it’s only for a minute.

  “You’re sure this spell can keep me from doing anything horrible?” I ask.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t let you melt any of my friends.”

  If she can really do that with a spell, why didn’t Marius put something like that on me sooner? All I got was this necklace, and it’s apparently useless.

  I reach up and touch the gold trinket, my finger brushing the orange stone in the center of the design. “What’s this thing for, then?”

  “It’s a torque. Some demis wear them in one form or another.”

  “Marius said it would help hold back the worst of my powers. It’s obviously not working.”

  She seems to be confused by that idea too. “Weirdly, no. Not if the charred cottage is any indication.”

  “Well, why? And how are you sure this spell will work if this torque thing won’t?”

  “It uses a different kind of magic—every torque is spelled with blood magic by a druid from the House of Morrígan. But my spell would use gravity magic instead.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  She releases a long-suffering sigh. “Look, new girl, I’m a druid, I know what I’m doing, okay?”

  A druid? This girl? I thought druids looked more like Gandalf than Chanel models.

  “Maybe your torque is faulty or something,” she adds. “I can look at the spellwork later. I’m getting much better at reading blood magic. But,” she says, moving a little closer, whispering, “continuing to push back at me isn’t recommended.” Then she begins to sing quietly. “Faelan and Sage nesting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N—”

  “Whatever!” I’m so done with this insanity.

  She smiles her slinky smile again. “Such a smart new girl.” Then she takes my hand, leading me out the side door, into the evening air.

  The spell she supposedly puts on me as we’re riding in the back of the Lincoln Town Car seems pretty lame. She does a little chanting—glowing again—and then tosses this dried green plant in my face. After all of that, she grabs my chin and looks in my eyes before declaring it done.

  I’m fairly sure she’s bullshitting me. I just wish I knew why. Is she up to something underhanded, or is this really some misguided attempt to help her dad? I’m going to have to be more than a little careful. And on the off chance the spell is real, it’s still only going to help protect people from me for a few hours, so I’ll try to use every available second to get a break from the crazy.

  We drive quite a ways down the Pacific Coast Highway to the 10, then head into Downtown. Our driver doesn’t seem to mind Aelia’s weird chanting, so it makes me think he’s used to the freaky. Maybe he’s a vampire? Or a pixie?

  “Are there male pixies?” I ask.

  Aelia gives me a tired look. “Tonight isn’t a factoid mission. It’s meant to be fun. But yes, there are guy pixies, though they tend to be rare.”

  “What other kinds of creature things are there?”

  “Are you serious? You’re going to ruin my night, aren’t you?”

  “You’re ruining mine, so fair’s fair.”

  “So rude.” She pulls a compact from her clutch and opens it, examining her makeup in the tiny mirror. “Our world isn’t some show on TeenNick. It doesn’t fit in a Hollywood box.”

  She could’ve fooled me. “Fine, we’ll talk about how you’re a psycho manipulator who may be trying to get me killed, then.”

  She glances at the driver like she’s worried. “Whatever, let’s not.” She pauses, then says, “It’s not that complex. I hear you already met Ben, a shade, so the bloodsuckers are checked off. And then you met Niamh, and she’s a pixie—though pixies are thick on the ground in LA, so you’ve probably met a few of those. There are also alfar, wraiths, and selkies—which are like mermaids, except they don’t have fins.”

  I’m suddenly ten years old again. Part of your world . . . plays in my head. “Mermaids are real?”

  “Don’t get too excited. Selkies aren’t anything like Ariel. Unless Ariel bit off people’s tongues.”

  A shiver runs through me. Okay, I don’t rea
lly want to know more on that score, and she’s probably just trying to shock me, so I pretend I didn’t hear and ask, “What are alfar?” I’ve never even heard the word before.

  “They’re earth-based beings, sort of like pixies—which are actually air based—but alfar are way more rare and a whole lot smarter. Tricky little bastards, usually. I guess you could say they’re similar to those elves from Lord of the Rings. They’re warriors and guards for the demi lines.”

  “And wraiths are like ghosts?”

  “No, ghosts are from human spirits. Wraiths were never human. They’re where humans got their legend of demons from, and alfar are sorta how they got angels. But trust me, you don’t want to run into either of them. Not while you’re so unaware. If you see one, just walk—or run—in the other direction.”

  Nice. I want to tell her I don’t have a freaking clue what either look like, but realize it’s pointless. “So, where are we going exactly?”

  “The Fitzgerald. Super exclusive.”

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  “It’s a club.” She makes a duh face. “Humans don’t end up there much—or, I should say, not many are let in. Just enough so it’ll feel real. And the blood attracts the shades, which is good for business because shades tend to be . . . pretty.”

  “That James guy is a shade,” I say, trying to link it all together.

  She looks uncomfortable. “Yes, but remember, you never saw him at my house.”

  Well, looks like I’ve got dirt on her too. Not murder dirt, but something to hold on to for later, in case I need ammo.

  The car pulls up in front of a building, and I realize I’ve been so focused on getting information from Aelia that I didn’t even notice we were smack-dab in the middle of the city. It’s only nine o’clock, but there’s already a line down the street along the building; the figures are lit by the sign above, which in large cursive letters reads “The Fitz.” It looks like something from old Hollywood. And then it dawns on me—the club is named after F. Scott Fitzgerald, the author of The Great Gatsby. I assumed she’d be taking me to some gaudy neon palace of techno, but this place actually seems classy.

  The structure is old—it looks like it might’ve been a municipal building, with white stone walls and a large metal door about ten feet high that’s etched with an Art Nouveau design. There are actual silk ropes marking off the waiting area and a red carpet leading from the sidewalk to the entrance.

  Our driver puts the car in park and gets out, then comes around to open the door on Aelia’s side. She slides out gracefully, obviously practiced at presentation. She looks like she’s posing for paparazzi, but I don’t see any—just a couple of girls with their cell phones out, filming. I’m not so delicate when I emerge, feeling like a lobster escaping a trap as I scoot across the seat. My skirt ends up awkwardly hiked to my thighs by the time I finally get free of the car, and I have to straighten myself out with the whole line of club bunnies looking on. More phones lift to document.

  I ignore the gawkers and follow Aelia as she heads for the entrance as if she owns the place. I’m a little wobbly in the heels on the red carpet behind her. One of the large men flanking the entrance nods to her like he knows her and opens the heavy door, ushering us inside. The guy with the clipboard gets on a walkie-talkie and says something, but I don’t hear what it is.

  A strange combo of big band and electric music fills the air around us in the entryway. My skin tingles as the pulse of the notes crawls over me, and the smell of clove cigarettes and new paint fills my head.

  The inside of the club isn’t what I expected from the grand exterior. It feels intimate. Maybe because of the oddly gray light or the low ceiling. The life-size images along the walls catch my eye as I trail behind Aelia—scenes from the nineteen twenties of sly-eyed flappers with bright lipstick and broody-looking men with fedoras, cigarettes hanging lazily from the corners of their mouths. They almost seem alive, a part of the small crowd in the entry, the past mingling with the present.

  We walk by a couple of clusters of people as we move through the passage. Heads turn to look at us, at Aelia. It’s clear people know her. Of course, she acts oblivious to it all, an air of confidence in her straight shoulders, her lifted chin.

  A silver-haired man appears in the opening to the main floor in front of us. He looks a little like a flashy butler from the turn of the century. “Miss Aelia,” he says, his tone a bit too airy to be genuine. “It’s so lovely to see you here tonight. We weren’t expecting you until after the tribunal tomorrow.” His blue eyes dart to me, then away again. “Are you bringing in a candidate for the feeding rooms?”

  “No, Leaman, this is a new arrival to the fold. Still unclaimed.”

  “An unclaimed, you say?” He looks over his thin spectacles, studying me intently.

  She puts a thin finger on the center of his chest. “Now, now, don’t get any ideas for your mistress, Princess Mara. The House of Morrígan isn’t going to be in the running for this one. She’s all ours.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gives a slight bow, glancing at me again before saying, “May I take you to your section?”

  She nods and we follow him onto the main floor and through a cocktail area. Waitresses in short skirts walk around carrying trays of drinks, the loud music vibrating the glasses a little. The patrons sit in high booths, looking smug. Some are in small cubbies with privacy curtains, and everyone looks as if their wardrobes and jewelry could solve the LA homeless problem for a week. I think I spot three or four Hollywood stars. I recognize a guy from a reality TV show about making your marriage work sitting in a booth, a drink in each hand, surrounded by fawning females.

  It’s like they took every LA cliché and brought them all together into one room.

  We come to a staircase that’s blocked off by a black velvet rope. Another beefy guy is standing to the side. He unhooks the rope and the butler, Leaman, bows again, before telling Aelia to let him know if we need anything.

  I follow her up the stairs to a loft area that’s enclosed by walls made of mesh material. Silhouetted figures move inside the gauzy tent. Myriad lights speckle the silver netting, casting colors over it—pink and blue and yellow and green—and as the song shifts, the lights shift too.

  We pause on the landing, and one of the silhouettes, a young woman, emerges from the rainbow mesh. She has big eyes and long light pink hair that seems almost opal in the lighting. She also has gossamer wings hanging between her shoulder blades, like Star did at the party. I’m pretty sure this one’s another pixie. But they must not all have wings—I didn’t see any on Niamh.

  The woman nods to Aelia and me, a curious look on her face when her overly large eyes meet mine.

  But she doesn’t comment; she just pulls aside the fabric for us to enter. “May your cups and hearts be full, ladies.”

  I don’t want to go inside the tented area. I’ll feel even more trapped than I already do.

  But Aelia grabs me and pulls me inside just as a swiftly approaching girl squeals, “Lia!” The girl’s delight is needles in my ears, even with the loud music. “I can’t believe you made it.” She kisses both of Aelia’s cheeks, a painted smile on her face. “We were so totally sure you’d get stuck at home with Beast Barb.” She turns and yells at a cluster of females in the far corner. “Bitches, get your asses over here and kiss the priestess.” But then her attention falls on me, and her grin stiffens. Her eyes scrape over me like she’s noting every blemish and flaw. “Who’s this?” she asks Aelia.

  “This is the new arrival, V,” Aelia says, chin tipping up.

  I bet she gets that same proud look on her face when she’s showing off a new purse. She takes me by the arm and leads me toward the group of females, and I feel like I’m being brought to my judges at the Inquisition. But there’s nowhere to go.

  “Ladies,” Aelia says, “this is Sage.” She adds in a whisper, “The new fire demi.”

  They all frown in silence and study me with skepticism. Bu
t then the first girl, V, sneers, dismissing me with a flippant hand gesture. “Give me a break. Your games are so transparent now, Lia,” she says with a soft laugh. “She’s obviously a street leech. She’s got a zit. And look at that scar on her shoulder.”

  One of the other girls leans in and crinkles her nose. “She smells like an alley cat. Are you force-feeding her to James as a joke?”

  I lean away. “Excuse me? No one’s feeding anyone to anyone.”

  The first girl, the one worried about my zit, acts like she didn’t hear me, directing her words to Aelia. “James would never eat that. I mean, she’s painful to look at. Even he wouldn’t be desperate enough—”

  “James has nothing to do with this,” Aelia says. “Why would I waste my time worrying about him?”

  “Well, because you’re screwing him on a daily basis, obviously,” the zit critic says.

  Another girl shrugs. “And letting him feed off you.”

  Aelia looks baffled. “So? He gets me backstage when Coldplay is in town.”

  “That was one time,” a girl says.

  “Ugh,” Aelia grunts. “Enough about the shade. I came for you to see this.” She points at my face and whispers again. “She’s the second daughter.”

  All the girls go back to frowning at me.

  “What the hell’s a second daughter?” I ask, a bit dizzy from all the dumb in the room.

  Still no one seems to hear me. The girl on my left reaches out and touches my hair, picking up a strand between her fingers. “It’s like a troll chewed off her hair. Look at those split ends.”

  “It’s weird,” the quieter girl behind the zit critic pipes up. “She looks totally human.”

  “No,” Aelia says, “that’s the cloaking spell I put on her in the car on the way here. She’s freaking bursting with juice underneath it.”

  “Ah,” the one examining my hair says in understanding. She stands straight again and points at my face. “So she’s not really that ugly.”

  “Actually, she is,” Aelia says. “Isn’t it fascinating?”