by Lynn S.
He could see it in her eyes, in the way Marissa nodded as he spun his story. She was certain they had both been target of an entity with evil intentions. And, for some unknown reason, she was the only one to perceive it.
Marissa felt the light head rush of nausea. Alcohol and adrenaline hadn’t proven the wisest of mixes. The woman leaned against the rail, emptying the contents of her stomach. The fairy cursed under his breath. He had to do whatever Marissa expected of Esteban, some grand gesture like clearing the hair off her face and bring some comfort. Aval’s presence was still strong and he’d suffer damage because of the iron, even if only by touching her while she held onto the railing. But he did, and endured it. He stood behind her, keeping her hair back, careful not to touch skin to skin. A slight brush on her part, hand upward, looking for support, touched his wrist, and dark patterns flashed underneath his skin.
“I’m sorry! Oh, this is terrible!” Marissa was too mortified to notice and he was just grateful, happy to escort her out of the lighthouse, back into the vehicle.
Once on the road, when she stopped blushing furiously and apologizing, Francis decided to keep pushing. He needed to know.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. Stop making yourself miserable over nothing. I’m more worried about what made you react than about puke on sleeves. You have not told me what happened, that’s all I want to know.”
“It’s all a blur now. My head is jumbled.” She tried to concentrate, compelled to answer even through a headache. “I don’t remember saying anything. I just saw. One moment we were standing on that deck and I could hear the sound of the sea in the distance. Then it all shifted, quickly, just for few seconds, but enough for me to feel the wood rot under my feet. I fell through darkness at first and then I found myself in front of a golden gateway, my feet once again touching the ground. I was standing on a field of flowers. The colors…I’ve never seen colors like those, emerald greens in the grass and a thousand shades of wild blossoms. I heard the gardens whisper. They were not just flowers but living, breathing things, accomplices to a secret. I felt there was something, someone I should have not seen. A man. He was bare chested, with a mark on the right side of his torso, it looked like a hand print burning red. His eyes, his hair…impossible colors. If someone said anything, it was him. He made me repeat it.”
Alexander deflected a glance to the side of the road. His frustration was mounting. The conversation was turning into something that required him to tread softly—poignant truths to cover bigger lies were needed. He reached out for her hand, the warmth of his skin against hers, the soft song of the ring on her finger lost to her perception.
“When I destroyed the portal at Innisfree, I closed a door to Aval. From what I know from the time I spent in the land of the Fae, there are other gateways. They can still come across, and it looks like someone has an interest in keeping pursuit. We must keep moving until we reach a place where it will be impossible for them to find us. I know this is not what you might want to hear right now, but it’s the best course.”
Marissa agreed, but Francis was not as happy about her compliance as he expected to be. The night had brought complications. His brief excursion into the land of Aval had been noted. That reversal of fortune and the moment of vulnerability against iron had dealt an unexpected blow. He’d kept calm, looking to question Marissa further down the line. In the meantime, her observations were enough for him to draw a conclusion.
If he was dealing with Killian, and the Morrigan were in the mix, he’d just need to set a couple of events in motion and watch them tear each other apart.
***
The Phantom Queens were articulate, cautious, and strong. But right at that moment, Mikka had to bite the inside of her cheek until it bled, and concede. The Morrigan were only the sum of their parts, and in the absence of Annand’s wisdom and Bansit’s carefulness, her impetuous nature proved detrimental.
Mikka couldn’t help being impolite to Meav, but the fairy queen had the last word, making her a fool. Those born as Fae had the ability to shape truths into lies and make half statements feel like decrees written in stone. She was promised and delivered the help of a prince. Meav must have laughed all the way back to her quarters once it was revealed which of her sons was to lend a hand. Mikka was stuck with Killian. A thousand years may have been the batting of an eyelid to a Morrigan, but Mikka could not believe she had lost track of time when it came to the prince.
After their brief exchange of not so cordial greetings, they both kept quiet. Surely Bansit was better equipped to deal with the Court’s least lovable heir. Younger brother to the fabled Auberon, Killian of Fae was as far from his brother, in both looks and behavior, as siblings could get.
Free from the promise of a crown and sometimes hounded by the Court’s suspicions—their best bets said he was a bastard—the son of Crisden, now dead King of Aval, and his wife, Meav, not necessarily the most loving of mothers, lived to prove his worth. His disdain for the Morrigan was legendary since the day Annand, following the designs of the Universe, condemned his lover to death.
Mikka herself had placed a mark upon him, a geis on his side. Part protective spell, part never-ending torture, the Morrigan’s touch set him to sleep for seven hundred years, to allow his grief to subside. Upon waking, Killian discovered that the Morrigan had also intended to tame him. The mark obliged him to be kind, forcing him to return two favors for every kindness done upon him. Since then, Killian decided better to collect enemies than to settle debts of good faith.
“Those centuries of rest did you some good, I hope.” Mikka looked him in the eye and he did the same to her. However, Killian’s bourbon-colored irises distilled homicidal anger where the Morrigan’s stare gave nothing away.
The whole of Aval was finely attuned to their rulers, reflecting their state of mind. Soon all inhabitants of Fairyland became aware something was amiss with the younger prince. The sky above them, soft blue brushed in gold and silver, turned dark, fragmented by heavy grays. The spirits that fed life to the flowers in the garden muted their ceaseless chatter and faded, leaving just the semblance of a man where there once was a garden. The Morrigan wondered how many other beautiful lies she had stepped into while visiting the realm of the good peoples.
The prince was taller than Mikka by almost a head, and his skin, helped along by the incoming darkness, looked as smooth and white as a lily. Silver hair spilled over his shoulders, not at all platinum like that of the Morrigan, but closer to malleable, living metal. Arms crossed over his bare chest delineated lean muscle, the reddish mark left by the Morrigan, an imprint of Mikka’s own hand on his side, seemed to hurt him still. But she was not going to be fool enough to ask, nor did he look like he’d tell her.
“So, the rumor of the land is the Infernal Queens came to Aval with a humble request. Is it true, Mikka? You crows need a favor? Or should I expect you to have the nerve to try to make me do something for you?”
He was teasing her, trying to make her slip further into those dreaded etiquette mistakes. Surely he had been compelled by Meav into serving her. A prince had been offered, and though the queen might have had her laugh, a promise of the Court was a promise.
“I’d rather show you, my prince. The little task I am requiring you to do might even be pleasurable. We all know how much you loved to visit the earthly realm. You might also remember the bit of scorn you held for the fairy kind not so long ago, how you yearned to escape into their world, to find out what made humans tick. You never quite believed the stories, how creatures lesser than angels displaced the fairy kind with such ease. Now, here’s a chance to return. I’ll give you a city to roam…and not just any city. This one is magical in its own right.”
His stance relaxed. His arms no longer crossed about his chest. Killian was interested, even if a little.
“I also remember who brought me back, who taught me there is no place like home. I don’t expect you to say you are sorry, Morrigan, but at least you should acknowledge
it. And you should not lie, not as blatantly as you are trying to. Not here, were I can read you.”
The Morrigan sighed. “It’s not exactly a vacation, I’ll grant it. Francis Alexander has decided to work on the great Dark Herald leap forward. He has taken a bride…of sorts. A half mortal who can conceive Sidhe capable of walking the Earth without ties to Aval.”
Something close to worry crossed Killian’s features, but it soon turned to its usual disdainful smirk.
“It’s a lot more complicated than we all thought,” Mikka continued. “When Francis Alexander broke the Circle, he left all of his allies trapped on this side of reality. Or so it seemed in the beginning. The Seelie Court has been so taken with whatever affairs you run over here that they forgot to keep track of the solitary fairies. Where are your darklings? Where did the Heralds go? Maybe they are just waiting between worlds for a summoning. It’s all fun and games until heads start rolling. The Morrigan were given the order to execute, but our connection to Francis Alexander is blinding us somehow. Gods know I’d rather it not be you, but on the other hand, you are the best tracker I know. We need you, in case the oracle of New Orleans fails in her quest and Francis slips through our fingers once more. There. I said it.”
The Morrigan got close enough to touch him. It was nothing but a slight brush of her fingers against his forearm. Killian reacted, but it was impossible to tell if her gesture was received with relief or disdain. Mikka bet for the latter, while the prince, moving at the formidable speed that characterized fairies, seemed to fade away, leaving her alone in a barren garden.
***
Annand was not at all furious. Mikka could handle rage, it was the worry that really made her feel miserable, with double the guilt on her shoulders. The first among the Morrigan received the prince of Fae with honors due to one of his stature. Annand was graceful and kind, keeping a semblance of peace until Killian excused himself for the evening.
It was then she decided to discuss events with her sister. Annand followed Mikka to the arches that lead to the balcony. Shooting stars hurried across the sky by the hundreds, becoming water as soon as they crossed the threshold to the Morrigan’s abode. It rained softly and blackbirds huddled together in the branches, uncaring about that and many other curious miracles of the Spheres.
“Tell me, sister. Did you have anything to do with this turn of events, or did Meav force your hand?” The dark-haired Morrigan spoke softly, her blind eyes fixed beyond the horizon.
“I can’t say my hand was forced. I simply lost track of my words, fell victim to my lack of patience for all things Fae.”
The platinum-haired Morrigan tensed. Annand, the dark-haired sister, kept quiet. She knew what the next question would be. Still, though not mad at Mikka, she didn’t mind seeing to her suffering. If only a little, to teach her right. Annand let her speak.
“Francis knows. He has always known. What if he were to meet the prince? What if he decides to tell Killian the real reason behind the geis?”
The responsibility fell solely on Annand. She had condemned Killian of Fae to seven hundred years of silence, and while doing so, she vowed to protect her sisters from any consequence. Too many innocents had suffered as it was, including the prince himself. Her gaze, covered in shadows, always knew how to find her sister’s violet eyes. Looking straight into Mikka’s heart, Annand swore, “If anything happens, I’ll take care of it. I have done so before.”
Chapter VIII
Death Sentence
Brigitte du Cimetière had many acquaintances. There were as many people she loved as those she had to tolerate. There were also certain individuals who rubbed her the wrong way, but she tried to put up with their obnoxiousness for the sake of the city. New Orleans needed to keep a constant aura of mystery, and a great part of it depended on the development of new urban legends and the emergence of alluring, fresh, sinister factions. C’est la vie.
Nevertheless, Brigitte rarely showed patience for charlatans and poseurs. These were humans who suffered delusions of grandeur, who came into the city claiming an inexistent connection to the supernatural. Tourist traps made of flesh and blood looking to make a quick buck.
They usually arrived in groups of five to ten, waiting for either winter or the height of summer to show their faces around Bourbon and Dauphine. They were as easy to read as a pack of worn cards. Sometimes the Lady wondered if their arrival in numbers was an unconscious call for safety. They knew who they were, stepping into a place that was ruled by what they were not. Still…they tried.
Whenever Brigitte was struck by a forgiving mood, she understood that they just couldn’t help it. They were drawn to streets that called to them. Loving all dark and jazzy, they followed the popular culture’s command. There are surely vampires in New Orleans. There is something those novel writers and TV producers know that I don’t, and yet…if I just dig in the right places…If they went digging, they’d find water, that was for sure.
Vampires, yes, they had carved their niche, they knew how to have their fun and left their mark. But the city was not solely theirs. Brigitte found it all quite amusing. She paid no mind to the bloodsuckers who took credit for all that went bump in the night. She just kept pulling the strings, without intention of revealing the magic behind the puppet show.
There were a number of human seekers of the supernatural who quite blatantly crossed the line and got on the last nerve of the Lady. They started by painting graffiti on the walls surrounding the convent of the Ursulines. The symbols lacked meaning or power, they looked like the product of some energized group leader swearing he’d found the key to wake the Filles à la Cassette, the legendary vampire brides rumored to take residence in the attic of said convent. An episode of belly laughter, a bucket of paint, and a citation for vandalism took care of that. Brigitte believed it wouldn’t come to anything major. However, that was not the case.
The vandals dissipated, most of them college kids, fearful their permanent record might be stained by a misdemeanor done in the name of fun. But a couple of them proved resilient, and knowledgeable enough to be dangerous.
Burial places in both Lafayette and St. Louis #1 turned up opened and stripped of their contents. Old bones deemed sacred to many. Remains of men and women laid to rest in that sacred ground were scattered by ignorant fools, obsessed with being granted a glimpse of the other side, or worse, finding among those in eternal rest a creature capable of cheating death itself.
When things like that happened, Light and Shadows took notice. Both entities had faithful departed and the cemeteries in New Orleans guarded the bones of more than one human paladin who’d given their life in sacrifice for one or the other.
Loa and other spirits started to voice their concern for and against Brigitte. The Lady of the Cemetery had a number of brothers and sisters, not all of them as loyal and invested as happy-go-lucky Wedo. They would gladly stab her in the back for a shot at being guardian of the city. By the time Bansit arrived with her requisition, Brigitte was already thinking about getting her hands dirty with those nosy, disrespectful humans. The Morrigan had an interest in waking up the dweller sleeping within Garan Nolton; Brigitte simply found a way to kill a couple of birds with one stone.
This was what the Lady did for both business and pleasure, she allowed for those bothersome weekend witches to find their way to Frenchmen Street and then started sketching a practical lesson about vampires in New Orleans.
Garan Nolton had finished for the night. The club was half empty, a heavy storm warning had kept both tourists and locals in safe quarters, rather than roaming about. Outside, rain fell in heavy sheets and thunder roared. Garan was about to get busy in the kitchen when Veronica told him there were people interested in his music who had braved the storm to see him.
“Whenever someone comes in just to see you, it’s worth checking out, dear.” Veronica pushed him out the kitchen doors back into the main hall.
Garan never forgot a face, even in the ever-changing tide of t
ourists that was the city. He recognized the woman Veronica spoke about. She had been at the bar the week before, accompanied by a tall man dressed in an elegant charcoal suit. They sat at a corner table, watched him play, and left as soon as his set was over. They had done so more than once.
When Benny, curious and ever approachable, asked them plainly about their business, they said they were talent scouts, leaving behind a card with golden lettering neatly printed on a field of eggshell beige. A bit presumptuous for Garan.
Still, they came back. Or at least the woman did. The talent scout was young. The sophisticated look about her, the three-piece power suit, would have made her look like a caricature if she didn’t bear it with such grace.
Garan asked her, point blank, “Aren’t you a little young for…classical?” He repeated what he read off the card he had been given through Benny.
“I have both the passion and resources for it. Why shouldn’t I start early?” It was good enough to remind him to be a gentleman.
“What can I help you with?” The least he could do was give her his undivided attention.
“We’ve been listening to you. My partner and I—”
“And you were mystified by my rendition of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”” He chuckled.
“And here I thought you were going to give me some credit. I have quite an ear, sir. It’s not the country I care for, but the Paganini and other string vices I can make out when you are rehearsing in the back.” A smile soon took over her face.
