by Lynn S.
Killian opened his arms to meet her, but other than that, granted no response to her affection. He simply allowed it, so as not to make a scene in front of strangers. The Phantom Queens owed him much; the fact that Bansit refused to take part in the thick of his suffering didn’t relieve her from that debt.
Mikka saved her sister from further embarrassment by pulling her off the prince and into an effusive embrace. The prince, in turn, acknowledged Wedo.
“Look at you, Bansit. It has been so long since you took a human disguise, I had forgotten how you look without your wings!”
Mikka threaded her fingers through her sister’s hair, combing it to the side. Blonde tresses covered her uncommon, glowing white. Centuries ago, the sisters used to spend entire seasons among humans, far from Annand’s observant eye, showing up on the Spheres only in times of battle. But the sisters learned, in the most painful of ways, that all matters of creatures also hid behind human skin. Taking a human mantle and being disregarded of duties carried grave consequences.
“I just wish to be back, in all honesty.” Bansit’s tone was slightly embarrassed, as it happened whenever she spoke of her forced exile.
“Keep family business to your leisure time, crows. I’d rather tend to business.” Killian was desperate to get it over with. “I’ve made contact with the half human who is currently under Alexander’s spell. Whenever she allows, I visit her dreams. He did a fine job with her, though. She is so terrified of all things Fae, a mere glimpse of my presence is enough to jolt her out of sleep. Yet she’s oblivious to his deeds. My big question is, of all the planes…why this city? Not to be discourteous, beautiful as it might be, it’s the closest to hell I’ve felt in seven hundred years.”
The prince knew protocol called for him to keep his negative observation to himself, so as not to offend a host, but it was inevitable. So much iron made his skin crawl and thin beads of sweat rolled down his temple. It was equivalent to feeling naked, exposed. Despondency made him bitter and unstable, and, therefore, weakened him.
Mikka simply said, “Francis Alexander is not just wearing a human disguise. He is locked into a human body, one of his own bloodline. Francis obliterated Esteban O’Reilly and kept his skin. He is now as human as he is Fae, along with all implications. The Sidhe has all the advantages and just minimal restrictions. This is the one place where fair folk will find it difficult to assist in his extraction.”
“That only means I’ll be as eager to return home as Bansit here. I’d better get settled, then.” The prince turned to Wedo as their host had become eerily quiet. “My apologies once more, life oracle. Not only have we imposed on you this circus of a family and not so much friend reunion, we have taken upon ourselves to discuss what we are doing within your city without your say so, or that of the Lady.”
Wedo had allowed for them to speak as they pleased. He didn’t care much for protocols or turns to speak. Let gods and royalty feel validated by such trivialities. Wedo carried a deck of cards called Life, and in every hand, a chance for kings to become paupers and gods to be forgotten was revealed. He had to set the rules, though, the prince was right about that.
“If you are to walk these ssstreets, then you must take on human appearance and a human name. Royalty or not, Brigitte likes to keep track of all visitors to our Crescent City.”
“Aidan Faraday,” Killian answered without hesitation.
Wedo nodded and, tracing the spelling of the name in the air, it appeared scripted in one of the bricks of the mausoleum, along with at least a hundred others. The boy with serpentine tongue spoke softly once more.
“I’ve lost a bet against my sssister. Brigitte knows your kind better than I do. Ssshe told me you’d be Aidan Faraday against all odds. The Fae like to change their appearance and their name at every chance, and yet their prince keeps the same, always. Either you are not afraid of sssins committed, or you consider yourself truly innocent.”
Silence fell upon the crypt. It became evident that Wedo’s observation was not welcomed.
“Ssshow me your human face, Aidan Faraday.”
Before the sickly, snake-skinned boy finished dragging his words, the prince of Fae had changed his aspect. The contour of his face was roughly the same, except it no longer had the glow that allowed the sons of Fae to make mortals fall in thrall at just one sight. His long, silver hair was now cropped short and was a light shade of brown, kissed by sunshine. His eyes, inhuman and crimson as they were, now looked softened in a warm green. The transformation was not humiliating. The prince simply descended from devastating into exceptionally attractive. Wedo placed a cold finger on the prince’s temple and Aidan Faraday received several pieces of information crucial to his stay in the city without having to demand a word.
“The city of New Orleans embraces you, envoy of Ssseelie. May your days here be pleasant. Make yourself at home in the place my sssister has readied for you.”
The prince bid farewell to Wedo with a courteous smile and to the Morrigan with a dry but required deference. Using the last magical source he’d be freely allowed while in the city, Killian opened a portal to the place Brigitte had designated as his home.
“I have things to oversee,” Wedo informed the sisters. “I’ll leave you to each other’s company.” A quick flash of a bifurcated tongue, Wedo’s own devise for a smile, and he was ready to go.
“That is very kind of you, Wedo. But I believe I won’t stay long with my sister. I must return. Sad as it might be, there is war and strife everywhere, and in Bansit’s absence, I have water and land to care for.”
“Hmm, I understand, Mikka. I see the other side of the coin in Brigitte. Death is unsavory business, but when its conduit is war, it’s just horrible. Having sssaid that, it is wise to take a break. Talk to your sssister. It will do you good. There are details that escape gods, mortals, and those in between. But life never misses.”
He left, disappearing into thin air. Off to tend to whatever business kept him stuck in the cemetery. The sisters knew then that behind that semblance of a child, there was a source as powerful as Light and Shadows, with eyes all-seeing.
Bansit took her sister’s hand in hers and together they walked out of the mausoleum into the street. It was a relief to leave the crypt behind. As the sun started to set, the streets about the cemetery were clean of tourists. That measure of peace was welcomed.
“Are you okay?” the shy sister asked of her sibling.
“Why shouldn’t I be? I have been given a free pass in this city. Screw Annand for all I care. I’ll be even better if you sponsor me a whiskey shot.” Mikka abandoned her wings with utmost glee. Her long white hair became a dark, chopped bob. Though she kept sunglasses on, not to scare Bansit, the Morrigan went beyond what was allowed and changed the shade of her lilac, iridescent eyes to a rich hazel. It was painful to do, the change had been restricted by Annand for the better part of seven hundred years, and her whole body fought against it in fear of being chastised. It cost her dearly—a bitter tear ran down Mikka’s cheek, stinging her eyes. But damn it, it was all worth it.
Chapter XII
Blame it On the Moon
The envoy of the lands of Aval was assigned to a mansion on St. Charles Avenue, right in the heart of the Garden District. A rather monolithic structure, it was completed just after the turn of the twentieth century with ten rooms across four stories, and considered by many as the city’s most impressive living quarters at the time.
At first thought, Killian of Fae believed Brigitte and Wedo graciously accommodated him in this house as a guest, to show him the beauty, decadence, and extravagance everyone talked about whenever New Orleans came to mind. Architecture was, after all, one of the many curious wonders found in this city so closely surrounded by waters.
However, after a couple of hours of walking those mahogany hallways, the prince started to construe that maybe Bansit had told them a secret story or two. Either that or a looming sense of nostalgia was drawing him in, making Killian s
ee connections where there were none.
There was no place in the mortal world gracious enough to be compared to the lands of Aval. Whatever magic animated the streets of New Orleans was, at its most, the product of human artifice. Magic that had roots in flesh and bone and blood, acquired by years of either treachery or sacrifice.
Magic for the sons of Fae was nothing to be pursued, but a birthright. It flowed through them, guarding their every breath. If anything, the semblance of skin fairies kept, however beautiful, was only meant to protect the magical being that lived within. For the Seelie Court, the source of their power was an uncanny affinity with nature.
The aftermath of centuries of war and strife spoke volumes about the cruelty of fairies toward men. Nevertheless, as dreadful masters as they were over humankind, they kept the inhabitants of Earth at bay. Under fairy rule, no mortal man or woman ever abused the land. The fair folk made sure they felt invited to live off the kindness of nature, not at all stewards over it. A part, never the center.
Those days had come and gone before the prince saw the light of day. Basking in tales of a power that was never his to tap served nothing.
Killian felt lonely, and a tad guilty. Lonely as he was, there was no need to be alone. To entertain himself, the prince drummed his fingers on top of the table in the ornate dining room, waking the spirit of the tree within the varnished wood. Underneath his feet and about him, slates of rock that once reached deep in the earth and now gave the mansion its polished exterior and foundation vibrated softly.
Rock and wood whispered the story of the house. It was built by one of those so-called Cotton Kings, entrepreneurs who made their fortune dealing in textiles. It was a gift, a promise made to a bride-to-be, who died a young wife, unexpectedly, never to set foot in her dream house.
Killian ground his teeth, frustrated. It was not much of a communion. The rock beneath and around him no longer remembered the heat of the sun or the need to hold its ground against torrential rains; the wood, no longer alive, didn’t breathe. They just echoed a story carved upon them by the hands of men. It was the equivalent of listening to a ghost in constant penance. A house inhabited by the damned.
“A tomb,” the prince whispered to himself. “No better than the one where they hole up in Lafayette. The tomb of a poor, rich man who saw love scape like water through his fingers. I must keep in mind, once I leave this forsaken place, to repay the kindness of that damn Lady of the Cemetery, blow by blow.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Brigitte’s flicker of the tongue echoed through the hallways. The Lady might have been there since the beginning, or perhaps appeared out of thin air once her named was mentioned. It didn’t matter. It was just another way to demonstrate who held control. It would be beneath her to excuse herself for the intrusion. Brigitte just pouted her lips, mocking a kiss. “It is unbecoming to the office of a prince to conspire against hosts. I play no tricks, but do no favors either. It’s not my fault there are only few places available and so many coincidences running around.”
The oracle smiled her edge of a knife smile as her eyes checked Killian from head to toe. Brigitte sighed with dramatic exaggeration. “Wedo told me you’d be dressed in human flesh and I thought for a second you’d be like Auberon. Your brother knows this lady’s choice and so gentlemanly obliges.”
Killian kept a straight face, ignoring any between the lines about his brother, the Crown Prince of Seelie.
“It takes more than a spoiled loa with a pretty face to make me change this appearance.”
“I know, I know, dear.” Brigitte was kind, as much as one could be, before plunging her knife. “You are the unchanging prince of Fae. And then you wonder why memories haunt you.”
It was Brigitte’s rendering of rough play. To set it raw, painfully intimate. Her finger poked Killian’s clavicle and then her hand ran smoothly over the fabric of his shirt, discovering every sculpted detail in his torso. Caressing with one hand and almost hitting with the other, her left hand suddenly touched the side where the mark of geis lay hidden. Finger’s stretched, she measured her hand against Mikka’s. The presence of the Morrigan burned even through cloth. Killian took a violent step back, setting his feet firm and his arms tense. For a second, anyone watching might have assumed he was about to do the unthinkable and strike the Lady.
“Ticklish, aren’t we?” Brigitte’s face had become a frame for mischief. “Silly Mikka, I would have chosen more interesting places to leave you something to remember me by…”
Killian kept his lips pursed. To claim any degree of respect toward the Seelie Court from this woman had all the makings of claiming water in the desert. Plus, the Seelie always gave leeway to beauty, and Brigitte was not wanting in that department.
“State your business, my Lady.”
“Ah! Of course. Boys, boys…where did I leave my other one? Dear gods of the graveyard…don’t tell me you are one of those blood suckers who needs to be invited in. I got no time for posing, darlin’.”
“Not at all, sweetheart. I was just sticking to the shadows, watching your take on foreplay.” Garan appeared in the room as if tearing through the shadows in the hallway.
Killian had seen a handful of dwellers in his lifetime, but this one was fascinating. A different arrangement altogether. Unlike most of the undead who reeked of death magic even as they slept within a human host, this one had a spark of life anchored to his heart. Clashing constantly, looking for a way to tear him from the inside. An ancient spirit bound to a body in its prime, jolted awake by the whim of the Lady.
No doubt the dark-haired, blue-eyed man had been mortal less than a week ago. There were minimal imperfections in his skin that had not yet been healed by his accursed blood. Fine lines around Garan’s eyes that had not yet disappeared, little details that pointed toward someone who smiled a little too much, as though forcing himself to be happy against all odds. That alone made Killian wonder how someone so young and full of promise ended up dealing with a dweller. Since the Morrigan were involved, the prince guessed Garan found himself made to.
But that was not his concern. A dweller in transition must not be reminded of being so. For all intents and purposes, the prince was dealing with a vampire who had lived for over five hundred years, and responded accordingly.
“Mr. Nolton, I presume.” Killian almost spat the words. He was disgusted at the idea of collaborating with a blood fiend. “I was briefed about your…involvement in our quest early this afternoon.”
Receiving as much respect as could be granted by a prince, the vampire shrugged, neither impressed nor amused. Garan simply nodded before asking, “When do we start?”
“Ugh! It will have to be now. No time for coffee when testosterone levels are making me dizzy. If you are planning to draw your rulers and measure, or are set to start a pissing contest, remember, the house always wins.” Brigitte pointed toward herself, reminding both men along the way that the title of Lady was purely academic.
“Let’s see, if Wedo filled you in, then you already know Adriana Popescu is a no-show. Garan here will take her place.” Brigitte pointed toward the vampire and then back at Killian. “Our fairy prince here has a nifty little trick. How does it work again?”
“I can partially track Francis Alexander,” Killian volunteered, “but I’m afraid he can feel my presence and block me out. I need a fresh pair of eyes. That’s where you come in, Nolton. I’ll be your channel, but you’ll be doing the watching.”
Both men grabbed a chair and sat across from the other. They locked arm over arm, gripping tightly. It was a little too intimate, quite a fraternal gesture for two people who hardly knew each other and had not even decided if they liked one another enough to cooperate, but the ritual demanded it.
“You must be in control at all times, no matter what you see or hear,” Killian required of the vampire. “I don’t think Marissa can do much for us, so I will try something risky that might bring about a decent payoff. I’ll try to sneak you into Francis’s psy
che. He is still trying to adapt to fitting into a dead man’s skin and there are a lot of echoes of Esteban O’Reilly’s former life in him. He might discard your intrusion as such. However, if he were to notice you, get ready. The Sidhe will try to repel you in full force, and he is older and stronger than you might consider.”
“I understand.”
The vampire gave him enough of an answer. The connection was stablished immediately. Garan’s eyes rolled back. He dreamt of mists that set him on edge at first. The pathway was stripped of color and reminded him of the world behind the mirror. But as the prince relaxed into a deeper sleep, Garan found his way, sure footed.
***
They were close to the state line. Francis Alexander had spent over three days making phone calls to real estate brokers. He needed to get established in New Orleans as soon as possible, legally and inconspicuously. The whole process entailed a smooth transition, guaranteeing Marissa was not to suffer any stress.
Ever since their violent incident involving the removal of the ring, and even as her memory had been wiped clean, Marissa was not responding in the submissive way he was accustomed to. Her instinct had not surfaced again, but something kept her on edge, pushing her to question and even demand.
This measure of freedom was creating a source of anxiety for Francis. Conceiving a child would probably sort it all out. The combined influence of mate and conceived changeling could subdue her entirely, her body and soul given only to the idea of keeping and delivering a baby.
Unfortunately for him, the chance of conceiving had to run its due course. Modern science, as powerful as magic, made it impossible, as Marissa had taken certain precautions. He’d have to patiently wait until her body weaned itself from the effects of long lasting contraceptive methods and acclimated back to a natural rhythm. It could take months, and the progression of those days was proving to be hard to handle.
