by Allison Pang
Redheaded and petite, the subject was lounging in a massive hot tub of green and gold marble. Her torso was that of a human woman, her hips curving into the body of a silver snake. A leather corset hugged her waist, tight and glossy black, the shadows offset by a rainbow headscarf and violet teashade glasses. The snake-woman held an elegant violin to her cheek, a golden key poking from between succulent lips.
“It’s truly dreadful, isn’t it?”
I tweaked the curly red locks of the woman who suddenly brushed up against me. “I think he captured you rather well, Mel. The violin is a nice touch.”
Melanie St. James, mortal fiddler for a number of local bands—OtherFolk and otherwise—lightly punched my shoulder. “But a snake? Why a snake? I told Topher I wanted to be painted as a Faery.”
“Technically, I think Melusine was a Faery, and a rather famous one at that. She just happened to become scaly in the bathtub.” My mouth twitched. “According to Wikipedia, anyway.”
“You would know that.” Mel pushed her violet glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “You’re late, you know. I’ve been here for over an hour.” She peered dubiously into her wine glass, swirling it with a practiced flourish. “And this stuff tastes like the bastard love child of grapes and rubbing alcohol.”
“Your first mistake was choosing wine over champagne.” I snagged a flute of the bubbly from a passing server. “And I fell asleep.” I stifled a yawn, the bubbles dancing on my tongue as I took a modest sip. I’d had every intention of catching a shower and then shoe shopping, but somehow all I’d managed was to stagger up to my apartment after work and pass out on the bed. By the time I woke up, I barely had enough time to toss on some fresh clothes and hoof it to the gallery. I wiggled my recently manicured toes in my sandals as if to prove the point.
“That is kind of weird.” I motioned at the key between her painted lips. The letters G-A-G were lightly etched on each burnished prong. “Maybe he’s trying to tell you something?”
She rolled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, brows drawn. “Who the hell knows? I offered to set up in the corner and add a little ambiance to the place tonight, but he turned me down.”
“Not everyone can appreciate the subtle tones of Apocalyptica, I guess.” I eyed the violin case on her back with a twinge of envy. The instrument never looked like much, battered as it was, but there was always a sly gleam along the woodwork whenever the light touched it. Rumor had it Melanie had pulled a Charlie Daniels to get it, but I’d never had the courage to ask her. Some things are just private, and probing as to whether your friend really had outplayed the Devil seemed a bit rude.
“Apocalyptica uses cellos,” she corrected primly with an aggrieved sniff.
I shrugged and gestured toward the painting of the woman with the red wings. “Any idea who that is?”
“She’s hot, but no.” Melanie’s gaze lit up with mischief. “Seen yours yet?”
“Uh . . . no?”
She erupted into a fit of tipsy giggles and looped her arm through mine, steering me away like a rudderless boat. We stumbled through the roving jungle of viewers and velvet ropes. My drink nearly spilled at least half a dozen times.
“Here we are.” She tilted her head at the canvas, hazel eyes whirling in expectation.
If my goal had been to capture flies, I would have succeeded marvelously. As it was, I could only blink dumbly as my jaw slacked and the blood rushed to my face. “Ah. He seems to have made me naked.” A naked mermaid, in fact. The scales of my tail were like spun glass, luminous and shining. Dark green strands of seaweed were entwined in my auburn hair, sweeping over my shoulders and around the sculpted edges of my hips. And yes. There was my chest in all its diminutive glory.
“Christ. The least he could have done was cover them up with seashells or something,” I complained.
“I think they’re kind of cute.” Mel winked at me. “Like little teacups.” I glared at her and she laughed again. “Oh, come on. It’s not like it really matters. I doubt anyone but us would know it was you.”
I pointed to the pink and blue streaks decorating the mermaid’s tresses. “Of course not.”
“Ah, well . . . I suppose there is that.” She tapped the pencils jutting out from the bun I’d hastily twisted together as I’d run out the door. “That’s, uh, a new look for you, isn’t it? And you’re going to have to dye your bangs again.” She flicked the pencils. “The color is fading.”
“Maybe. I was actually thinking of letting them grow out.” My gaze drifted back toward the painting, myriad tiny details popping out at me, easily missed on first glance. Many of the brushstrokes were shadowy, particularly the edges around my mermaid self; it was as though I were captured in a delicate blue bubble of light, the depths fading away into inky blackness. Silhouettes of darker things lurked there as well. I wet my lips. If I peered closer, would I see them? The dark fins and gleaming teeth, the rolling dead eyes?
Trust Topher to paint the source of my nightmares.
I sipped at my champagne numbly, trying to focus on something else.
Up, Abby. Look up. A massive galleon sailed on the waves far above my piscine semblance. There was a dark figure standing at the prow, hands extended in heartsick longing toward the crashing whitecaps.
The title was Waiting for Ships. Damned if I knew what that meant, but something about the whole image had my fingers itching to touch the hidden spot above my left ear. The hair didn’t grow over it quite right anymore, but the scar tissue was slowly fading and I’d learned to hide it pretty well. Then again, I’d learned to hide a lot of things pretty well. Topher had been kind enough not to paint it, but if I squinted I could almost see it anyway.
“He really didn’t do you justice,” a dark voice drawled behind us, breaking me out of what was well on its way to becoming a rather large wallow in self-pity.
“Back for more, I see,” I said, not bothering to turn around. I could recognize that voice anywhere. “And whatever do you mean?”
“I think you know,” Brystion murmured. His soft chuckle rippled around us as he slid next to me. Our shoulders were near enough to touch, but just hovering outside the boundary of propriety. The duster was gone and the heat from his arm brushed against my skin. I heard Mel breathe in sharply when she saw him, but I didn’t look at her. I didn’t look at him either, draining the rest of my glass in a single swallow.
The three of us stood there, not moving, staring at my naked boobs for at least another five minutes.
“Well. Did you get enough of a look, or did you need to do that mind-touching thing again?” I asked bluntly.
“I told you that was an accident.” He paused, eyes lighting up with a salacious gleam. “Did you want me to?”
“Not unless you’re serving bacon for breakfast.”
He frowned, and his attention moved past me as he tilted his head toward Melanie. “Are we still on for tomorrow night?”
I did a double take as a flare of jealousy sparked through my veins.
She grinned at him, deliberately ignoring the hairy eyeball I threw at her. “Of course. You’ll be doing the second set, if that’s all right with you.”
“It’ll do.” His mouth curved up in a sly smile. “I’m going to go look around. Catch you later, Abby.”
“I’ll bet you will.” I studied my feet as he sauntered away, darting a last look at his retreating backside.
“I didn’t know you knew him.” Melanie’s eyes followed him too, glowing with blatant admiration.
“I don’t actually know who he is.” I exchanged my empty champagne glass for a full one. “He came into the Pit today. Seems a right arrogant shit, if you ask me.” My lips pursed, unwilling to reveal just how arrogant. “Although he’s certainly in the right place. Stick a ribbon on that ass and you could mount it on the wall. It’s damn near a work of art by itself.”
We ogled said body part with a companionable sigh. We weren’t the only ones. Small pockets of silence fell ar
ound the gallery as the crowd parted for him. He ignored the hungry glances and smug murmurs, taking a few unhurried moments at each painting before gliding away.
“Cheeky bugger.” I purposefully turned my back on him. “Whoever he is.”
Melanie chuckled. “Brystion is eye candy of the highest caliber, my dear, not just some OtherFolk man whore.”
“If you say so. I say if it walks like a duck—”
“You have to have heard of him,” she said incredulously. “He’s only the hottest piece of ass this side of the CrossRoads.” She watched him slip into the crowd and then sighed. “That’s a new look for him though. Normally he’s blond.”
I made a noncommittal sound. “That’s what he looked like earlier today. You said blond?” Something niggled at the back of my mind as I tried to picture him with blond hair. I couldn’t really say that I liked the effect, and yet there was something so familiar . . .
“Ah, that’s right.” I snapped my fingers. “He was the lead singer for that Dark Path band. What was it? Lolly-Folly or something?”
“Ion’s Folly,” Mel snorted. “You know, short for Brystion?”
“Maybe I should drop by the Hallows more often,” I smirked.
“Yeah, well, don’t get your hopes up. They broke up a few months ago. But you probably would have known who he was if you hadn’t been so busy trying to be Buffy the Vampire Layer the last time you were there.”
I winced. “Cute. Cut the crap, Mel. What am I dealing with?”
She took another sip of wine. “He’s an incubus, Abby.”
A ripple of unease fluttered in my belly as certain things fell into place. “Seriously? Like sits on your chest and sucks out your soul and all that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never slept with him.” Her fingers reached up to twirl her hair, wrapping one fat curl around her thumb. “There are rumors, but from what I understand he’s pretty choosy.” She glanced over her shoulder and frowned, her tongue running over the edge of her teeth. “Strange to see him here though. He almost never hangs out on this side of the CrossRoads without a TouchStone.”
“He didn’t seem to have one earlier today.” I slid my hand over my lips with a little twitch.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “I don’t think he’s had one since the band broke up.”
“Well, maybe he just wanted to rub elbows with you.”
“I rub elbows with him nearly every night he’s at the Hallows. Believe me, I’m over it.” Her face became sly. “Why so interested? Hoping to do a little wall mounting of your own?”
“I’m not. Not really,” I amended. “He was looking for Moira earlier. I was just curious where I could find him if I needed to.” My voice was as nonchalant as a cat licking cream from its whiskers and probably about as convincing.
“I’ll bet,” she said dryly. “He’s playing a set with us tomorrow night. You should come.”
“It’s not really my scene, you know. Not since Jett’s Contract.” A shudder ran through me at the memory of the vampire’s feral grin.
“I know,” she interjected, a touch of sympathy tingeing her words. “And the bloodsucker still hangs around there, but honestly, Abby, he can’t hurt you if you don’t let him.”
“I’ll think about it.” My mind dangled a little worm of remembrance across my consciousness. “Ah, crap, I may need to stop by anyway. Brandon sent me another one.”
“Still looking for a TouchStone, eh?”
“Yeah. Not sure why he thinks I’d be such a good judge of them. This is the fourth one this month.”
“Well, maybe you need to have less stringent tests?”
“Tests? Hell, I give them a copy of True Thomas’s stuff and see if they come back. None of them have. But this one might be different.” I snagged yet another glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray. “She actually managed to make her way to the Hallows on her own.”
“Promising. What’s her name?”
“Katy. Perky and blond. Just the way he likes them.”
“Typical,” she grunted. “But whatever floats his boat, I guess. You should bring her by tomorrow.”
“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “I’m no babysitter. If Brandon wants her so badly he can damn well invite her himself.”
“All right.” She squeezed my shoulder. “I need to go, actually. I’ve got a Contract to meet in about twenty minutes. Duty calls and all that.”
Aside from her singular playing talent, Melanie also had the ability to open Doors to the CrossRoads with her music, regardless of the time of day or location, though she’d never really explained the exact mechanics of it to me. She was in nearly constant demand as a result, but she tried to balance it with short-term Contracts.
“Anyone I know?”
She shrugged. “Doubtful. I hardly know who they are half the time. They pay the fee, we Contract, and then they tell me where they want to go. And that’s that.” Her stance twisted abruptly, the way it always did when we got to a subject she didn’t really want to talk about. “You gonna be okay here?”
“I always am.”
She shifted the violin on her back with a shrug. “Sure you are. You’re a TouchStone. You practically fart moonbeams and piss rainbows. But seriously, take a night off from playing World of Warcraft and come dancing or something.” Her face sobered for a moment as she turned to go. “I think it would be a very good thing if you were seen there, even if it’s just once a week. Let people know you exist?”
“My dancing days are over, Mel,” I said, watching my best friend strut through the crowd. For a moment, I wanted to call her back, to spill the beans about everything—my inability to figure out what I was doing, that odd little note tacked on Moira’s office door . . .
Be back soon, Abby. Hold back the fort.
It hadn’t made any sense to me four months ago and it still didn’t. I also had no idea what her idea of “soon” was. The mostly immortal tended to overlook the little things—like the concept of time—I’d noticed.
In the end, I let Melanie walk away. She didn’t understand; none of my friends really did. I was the Protectorate’s golden child, wasn’t I? How pathetic would it be to admit I was failing at this too? But then, it wasn’t like I had much choice in the matter anymore. I had no one to blame but myself.
I sighed and looked at my watch. Still a little while to go before I had to go back to open the Marketplace. I craned my head above the rest of the crowd but there was no sign of Brystion—or Topher for that matter—so I wandered about the rest of the gallery, aimlessly sipping champagne.
I drifted past paintings of other friends, swept away in a haze of feathers and scales, horns and hooves. The irony of portraying humans as the very beings that surrounded them struck me as amusing. A slightly drunken giggle escaped me, attracting the attention of a sharp-nosed eggplant of a woman at the front of the gallery. Stifling another laugh, I bit down on my lip and focused on a small kiosk with a map of Portsmyth etched in sepia tones. I covered my mouth with my hand, quelling my sudden burst of strange humor. “Too much alcohol,” I murmured to myself. Too little sleep, the voice in my head retorted dryly.
You Are Here.
I looked at the red star and snorted. I certainly was. I ran my finger over the star, absently taking in the circular shape of the town, its narrow streets a remnant of an older time, with cobblestones and horse-drawn carriages, candled lanterns and muddy gutters. On impulse, I traced a path from the gallery to the Pit, pausing over the OtherFolk landmarks that I knew. They weren’t on the map, of course, but I’d found the hidden alley that led to the Hallows, the sunken garden of the Judgment Hall, and the Door at the base of the church that stood on its little hill. I’d never been through it, but I knew Moira had used it regularly. I turned away abruptly, heading back to the main exhibit, humor gone in a wave of impotent despair. Had she used it when she left this last time?
I found myself drawn to the scarlet woman again. I stood there for a long while, trying to guess what she
had been thinking when it was painted. Her face was a grim reminder that I was just as bound to this place as she appeared to be, even if my chains weren’t as solid.
“I knew she was kinky, but I never thought she’d willingly submit to chains,” Brystion muttered behind me. I hadn’t heard him arrive, but the smooth timbre of his voice was more than enough to give him away.
Another flare of jealousy stung me as I looked at the woman’s pale curves. “Ex-girlfriend?” I guessed, the words clipped and taut.
He let out a deep chuff. “I’m not quite that kinky either.” He paused. “She’s my sister.”
I looked at Brystion and then back at the painting, the unease growing in my belly. “Your sister? Would that make her a succubus?”
“Of course.” His lip curled in derision. “Figured that out all by yourself, did you?”
I shrugged. “Not really. Melanie told me what you were—the rest was my own clever deduction. That’s what friendly people do, by the way—tell each other things. You know, as opposed to leering around dark corners all mysterious.”
“Your first mistake was assuming I was friendly,” he growled, pushing the dark fall of his hair from his forehead with a sharp tug.
I snorted, the alcohol making me careless. “If invading my mind and trying to fuck me senseless isn’t friendly, I’d hate to see what happens when you actually like someone.”
The light in his eyes emptied, leaving them dark and lifeless. I suddenly wished that I’d kept my mouth shut. The earlier masque of flirtation and faux self-deprecation melted away, leaving him cold. Untouchable. Other . . .
I shook myself. No matter how damned beautiful he was, I had to remember that what I was dealing with was not human.
There was a hint of his sister about him, a pride I hadn’t seen before. His jaw tensed under my scrutiny. I reached out to touch his arm and then thought better of it. Which is really just a nice way of saying I wimped out, but there it is. “What is it?”
His mouth flattened, snaking into a tight line. “You. You’re so damned ignorant.”
