Faerie Mage: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Vampire's Bane Book 1)

by Marian Maxwell

  “The Academy thing? Is it serious?”

  “It’s not good,” Logan replied. “I hate to leave you here alone, but it’s orders.”

  “Yea, sure,” Suri said, sullenly. So much for ‘partners.’

  “You should know,” said Logan, meeting her eyes. “This place, Brexly Hall. It’s dangerous.”

  “You’re only telling me this now?” The hairs stood up on Suri’s neck. She didn’t like what Logan was saying—not from a man she had seen shot five times and brush it off like it was nothing. If a badger shifter though it was dangerous…Well, once again, Suri didn’t like her chances.

  “That’s the reputation. It’s a no-go zone for enforcers. One of the few black sites in San Fran.”

  “The criminal underground,” Suri added.

  “Right. HQ for…” Logan shrugged. “Get in, get the info, get out.”

  “Will they just let me walk on?”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Logan. He pocketed his phone, started walking away. “Call me if you’re gonna die, or anything,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Yea, sure,” Suri muttered. Her long red hair caught in a gust of the breeze. She raised a hand, moving it out of her eyes, and saw the barge pull up next to the pier.

  The swirling silver oars were even more splendid upon close inspection. A thin man, well over 6 feet tall, completely hairless, dressed in a three-piece suit with a thin, black tie right out of Interview With a Vampire, opened a door by its curved, metal handle, stepped onto the main deck carrying a plank of dark wood that looked far too large and heavy for one man to carry. He waited until the barge pulled alongside the pier, then dropped the plank with a thunk over the thin gap between the barge and the pier.

  He didn’t seem to notice Suri at all. He leaned against one of the glowing, ivory pillars, one hand in his pocket, the other pulling a muffin from his coat pocket. He munched on it as if it was a piece of bread, crumbs falling all over the front of his shirt and onto the deck floor, where they vanished within two seconds. Zipped out of existence, so to speak, by an advanced cleaning spell.

  “Marius! You shit licker. I told you, if I saw you again I’d cut your guts out.”

  The voice came from behind Suri. Unexpected. Unknown. Logan was gone, his car pulling out from where he’d parked it, on his way to deal with an emergency.

  “Oh,” said the new speaker. He was dressed in a flowing, purple robe. Actually, it was more of a poncho; It covered his whole body, arms included. His head stuck up through the hole for his neck, long hair falling down to his shoulders. A medium length haircut. He looked to be around fourteen-years-old, rosy cheeks included.

  “Who are you?” He asked Suri, noticing that she was noticing him.

  Suri didn’t say anything. Gawked at him as he floated down from who-knows-where to land next to her on the dock.

  “Who is she?” the Poncho boy asked, this time directed at Marius, who was finishing off his muffin.

  “Dunno,” said Marius, through a full mouth.

  “She’s a mage,” said Poncho. He sized up Suri, looking her up and down. He narrowed his eyes, taking in Suri’s leather jacket, jeans, and motorcycle boots. Her hands, as they held the beginning of a death magic spell.

  “I like her,” Poncho stated, decisively. He nodded his head twice.

  “She’s waiting for us. Obviously,” Marius drawled, wiping crumbs from his lips. His gaze settled heavy on Suri. Seeming all the more intent and disturbing given that he didn’t have any eyebrows. He couldn’t signal what he was feeling with them, so it made his every look seem like a psycho’s stare.

  “I’m, uh,” Suri glanced over her shoulder, confirming that Logan was gone. Why didn’t I come up with a cover story? She cursed her lazy, unpreparedness.

  “Quick tongue on her,” said Poncho. “Are you coming?”

  Suri gulped. “Yes.” She took a step onto the plank, following Poncho, who was already on the barge’s main deck.

  “Now wait a minute. You don’t decide who comes and goes,” said Marius. The glow from a nearby ivory pillar reflected off the top of his bald, egg-shaped head. He ran a tongue over his teeth. Continued to stare at Suri, as if weighing something in his mind.

  “Are you daft?” said Poncho. “She’s my guest. My guest. Darling,” he said, addressing Suri. It was almost laughable coming from his adolescent voice. “Why are you here? How long have you been waiting?”

  Suri opened her mouth—was immediately interrupted.

  “Forget it,” said Poncho, waving a hand through the air. “It doesn’t matter. She knows when to be here. She wants to come inside. My guest. Marius?”

  “She doesn’t have the insignia. I’ll tell Horace,” Marius said. It was stated calmly, blandly. Cold. Like a threat.

  “You do that. You do that,” repeated Poncho, glaring snake eyes at Marius. “We’ll see what he says.

  “We will, won’t we,” Marius drawled back.

  “Yes, I guess we will.”

  “Ok, then.”

  After this odd exchange, Marius stepped out of the way, allowing Suri to pass over the plank and onto the barge. “Welcome,” he said, “to Brexly Hall. Observe the rules. Respect Horace. Don’t spend more than you can afford.”

  “She’ll be fine,” said Poncho, cooly. He was a head shorter than Suri. Practically a dwarf next to Marius, but he glared up at the hairless man defiantly. He locked Suri’s arm in his own, so that they walked like a Victorian couple as they rounded the main floor of the barge and approached a pair of double doors that were made of a deep, white material that was solid and did not catch the light.

  It was not ivory, but bone. Humanoid bones, forming the frame of nearly ten-foot-high doors. Leading inside, through which the plain glass Suri could see a crowd of poshly (and oddly) dressed customers sipping drinks, playing cards, laughing, and generally carrying on in merriment.

  It somewhat steadied her heart to see that the bones were too large to belong to humans, or fae. They must have come from giants.

  “Minotaur bones,” said Poncho. He produced a straight, black walking stick from inside his purple Poncho. The head, which he gripped in a small, brown hand, was a black stone carved in the head of a lion.

  Expensive. Who is this guy?

  “I see,” said Suri. “They match the pillars.”

  Poncho laughed. “That they do. You have an eye for beauty. I can tell.” He threw open the double doors, bringing raucous noise to the still night air. “Welcome to Brexly Hall. Home of pleasure and vice.” A wave of his hand showed off a bar, the counter sparkling with the aurora’s hue and stars. Somehow, they had trapped the reflection inside the glass. A fae stood as bartender, polishing an assortment of glasses with a pure white cloth as he kept an eye on the crowd.

  Suri caught Poncho’s arm before he slipped off into the crowd. He froze, turned slowly with a bemused expression on his face. He wasn’t used to being touched that way.

  “I’m looking for the Androsian,” Suri asked, keeping her gaze straight and steady.

  Poncho held her eyes with his own, unblinking, for a good five seconds. Then he nodded once, curtly. “I see. He’s somewhere around here. Has a stomach for butterflies,” he finished, wrinkling his nose in displeasure. “If that is the company you keep, I bid you adieu.”

  “No! I just…” Poncho paused, raised a quizzical eyebrow, but Suri didn’t know what to say, without giving anything away. “I was hoping you would be my friend,” she said, sheepishly. Not that she could trust him. But bonds of friendship, stated aloud, were taken much more seriously in the gifted world than among the ungifted, who seemed to break relationships on a matter of temperament. Even if the barge was dangerous, magical criminals were, if anything, even more loyal to their bonds than ordinary gifted. And more reluctant to make them.

  “Mmm,” Poncho mused. “No. Yes. Maybe. We must drink, for me to decide.”

  Stomach for butterflies. Did that mean what Suri thought it did? Yuck.

>   “Silas!” Poncho called. “Two broadsides.”

  The fae bartender nodded, began pouring out of a bulbous, dark green bottled shaped in the head of a demon.

  Poncho’s eyes were hazel green. He set the drinks on a table at a booth off to the side and in the corner of the main floor of the barge that was known as Brexly Hall.

  “Friend,” he said, and took a sip of his drink. It came in a tall, thin glass. About a foot high. Suri followed Poncho’s example, took the drink off the table, held the glass near the bottom and tipped it high to take a large quaff of what turned out to be a surprisingly sweet tasting beverage.

  “Is this mead?” she asked.

  Poncho’s eyes sparkled. He grinned. “Indeed. The bonding drink.”

  “Will you help me find him, the Androsian? He is here, somewhere. But I know not where.” Why are you talking like this? Suri asked herself. Is it the drink, or the odd company?

  She shook her head, shaking herself back to her normal senses. “I have business.”

  Poncho touched his curls with a small hand. Adjusting and pushing them this way and that…like a girl self-conscious about her appearance.

  “Are you…Are you human?” Suri asked. She had been about to ask if Poncho was a boy or a girl, and decided that it was rude.

  “Please,” Poncho chided, as if Suri should know better. He (she?) looked away from the main floor, where dozens of Brexly Hall’s patrons mingled in a cocktail party fashion, to give Suri a sly glance from the corner of his (her?) eye. For the first time, Suri noticed a subtle eyeliner, dark blue, highlighting Poncho’s large eyes.

  They drank their mead in silence, Poncho allowing Suri the comfort of taking in the barge interior. He watched her with cunning eyes and a knowing grin on his face.

  For being a dangerous place, these sure are happy people.

  Everyone was smiling, laughing, joking, dancing, flirting, playfully pushing, nudging, sharing drinks, flaunting exotic dresses, smoking stylishly long cigarettes. And it wasn’t just humans; Fae were there too, almost as equal in number, accompanied by imps and shifters, djinns and lesser demons. Their race, by conventional wisdom (as taught by the Academy), singled these patrons out as dangerous. Judging by their behavior, they were fine. But Suri wasn’t about to let down her guard. She took another sip of mead, searching for a fae with…butterflies.

  27

  There were so many people, so tightly packed on the main floor and constantly on the move that it was hard to keep track of everyone. And it was only the main floor. The second story, the balcony of which Suri had seen several patrons lounging upon when she crossed the plank and onto the barge, had yet to be inspected. Then there was the third floor.

  A pang of fear shot through Suri’s stomach, brief and sharp. Telling her that, unless she got her butt moving, she could miss this opportunity. Have the night pass her by as she palavered with Poncho, realizing only too late, as the barge once again docked, that the Androsian contact had slipped away undiscovered.

  “I have to go,” she said to Poncho, moving to get up from the booth.

  “Blackwater,” Poncho said, low and clear. “Be careful where you go.”

  That name again!

  “What did you say?” Suri asked, settling back into the booth. Her attention was fully on Poncho. She tucked her loose, red hair behind an ear. Poncho did not respond, but looked at her with a flat expression. “Blackwater, why did you call me that.”

  “Ah. You’ve heard it before,” Poncho said. It was not a question.

  “That’s not my name,” Suri said, voice rising in volume. Her blood pressure was rising. She clenched one hand into a white-knuckled fist, certain that Poncho was playing a trick on her. “You knew who I was, the moment you saw me.”

  “I won’t deny it,” said Poncho, avoiding her gaze. He gulped his mead, taking it down to the halfway mark. “You are known to some of us.”

  “Some of whom?”

  Poncho leaned in. “The Hellfire Guild,” he whispered. He (she?) shook her head. “If I were not jealous, I would pity you.”

  “What are you talking about!” Suri said it louder than she had intended. Several of the barge’s patrons glanced over from where they mingled around small, round tables on the main floor.

  “The Androsian is waiting for you,” said Poncho. She held one of her brown curls, twirling it between forefinger and thumb. “Finish your mead. There is time. Your questions will be answered…In time,” she continued, stopping Suri before she could give a terse reply.

  There were schemes in motion beyond Suri’s wildest imagination. Twice she had been called ‘Blackwater.’ First by the dead man’s ghost, now by this Poncho character. Perhaps they had her confused with someone else, a case of mistaken identity. In that case, perhaps Suri could use it to her advantage. Poncho was acting amenable to her situation, as an outsider, thoroughly inexperienced in this kind of setting. This indicated that ‘Blackwater’ was a desired identity. To Poncho, at least. To others, it could be the title of an enemy.

  Suri sipped her mead, head taking on a lovely little buzz from the sweet alcohol. Lyres and lutes, being played somewhere out of sight (a sound system in such a venue would be most obscene) twanged throughout the large, open room. Some of the patrons were dancing, holding their arms and drinks high, taking their partner by the hand and clicking their heels. Some of the ladies held skirt in one hand, drink in the other, dancing back and forth in a most classy, aristocratic manner. Refined even in their indulgence.

  None of their faces were recognizable. None of the fae had butterfly wings sticking out from their mouths. But some, Suri noticed, a blush creeping to her cheeks, were making out with humans. Pure rebellion, she thought. The audacity, and openness of their forbidden love (or passion, whichever it may have been) made her heart beat faster. Gave her courage to firmly take Raja as her own. A fae boyfriend…Here, it would be accepted, if nowhere else.

  “So you’re not going to tell me anything?” Suri asked, with a sour voice.

  “It is not my place,” Poncho answered, after a long pause.

  “So then we aren’t friends.”

  Poncho frowned. “That’s not fair. I made a promise. A promise is a promise. You know that.”

  “Should I be afraid?”

  Poncho quirked her head, considering the question. “Yes, and no. It is a blessing and a curse.”

  “What is?”

  “Look,” said Poncho, pointing out over the crowd.

  Suri tried to follow, but could not see what she was pointing at.

  “The Androsian. See how he orders the butterflies at the bar?”

  A man with a white beard held out two hand over the aurora bar counter. He accepted a stone bowl filled, nearly overflowing, with butterfly wings. His face was tanned, and wrinkled. Immediately recognizable.

  “It’s him!” Suri exclaimed, sliding out of the booth. Her glass of mead was nearly empty, the alcohol making her bold in unfamiliar surroundings. A touch confirmed that the man’s package, the black envelope, was still folded within the courier pocket inside her jacket. The man’s ears were hidden behind a curtain of long, straight grey hair that fell all the way down to his chest.

  He could be a fae, wearing a minor glamour to hide his cat’s eyes. Or is he an in-between, a human courier relaying information between Earth and Faerie?

  “Go,” said Poncho. He slid a wooden charm, a rune carved from what looked like oak, across the table. “Take this. Talk to the Androsian. We will meet again.”

  Tentatively, Suri took the charm. Pocketed it, nodded at Poncho, put her hand briefly on top her his in a gesture of friendship, and went off, turning her wide shoulders to make her way through the crowd of patrons. Ignoring the ones who gave her odd glances, as she took a path after the bearded man, who had lied to Suri when he asked to be her client.

  “Hey,” she said, finally catching up with him. She put a hand on his shoulder, in the most non-threatening manner she could manage.


  He paused. Stood stock-still for a moment, then turned to face Suri. She had been right; It was the same guy, the new client who had given her the black envelope to deliver in Lodum. His eyes widened, in what looked like terror. “How did you find this place?” he hissed. He grabbed Suri by the arm, tugging her along with him toward a darkened staircase.

  “Weathers’ diary,” Suri blurted. It did not seem worthwhile to lie about it.

  “My god,” said the Androsian, shaking his head. He glanced over his shoulder, at the crowd behind him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “It seems safe enough,” Suri countered. “Who the heck do you think you are, leading me on like that? ‘Just a client,’” she said, mimicking the Androsian’s words, when he had come to drop off the envelope.

  “This place is anything but safe,” he answered, in icy tones. “It changes at midnight.”

  “So what are you doing here,” Suri asked. She followed him up the stairs, out a set of doors before she could take in the second floor, and out onto the balcony. The breeze hit her again. She was tempted to reactivate her third sight for the aurora. Held back, knowing she should preserve her power.

  “Never mind that,” he said.

  Suri rolled her eyes. It was such a typical non-answer. Once again, someone wasn’t trusting her enough to tell the truth. And he expected her to follow along with everything he said?

  “Look,” Suri snarled. “I’ve had a rough couple of days trying to figure out what the heck is doing going. I’ve got fifty humans trapped in Faerie—”

  “Shh!” the Androsian interrupted her, a wild look of fear in his eyes. “This is not the place,” he whispered, hoarsely. He walked further out onto the balcony, to the railing where he gazed down onto the water. Holding the stone bowl in one hand, he used a pair of chopsticks with the other to grab a set of red-and-yellow butterfly wings, bring them to his mouth.

  Crunch.

  Suri wrinkled her nose. But, actually, she wanted to try one. Next time.

  “Why were you meeting with councillor Weathers?” she asked, striking at the heart of the issue. “Did you kidnap him?” She stared daggers at the Androsian, reading his face for any flinch that might give something away.