by Sienna Skyy
Isolde’s lip tensed, revealing the sharper teeth at the corners of her mouth.
Rafe’s stature held. “I am concerned for this errant strength the lovers have achieved. It has made of them potentates, though they themselves have little awareness of such. To mine own end, I wish to act with haste lest their bond become impenetrable and our opportunity lay wasted.”
Enervata turned away from Isolde and she folded her arms about herself. Sileny fidgeted but did not raise her hands to speak.
“Have you something to say, Sileny?” Enervata said.
Sileny’s ragged hand flew in quick sharp gestures.
Rafe is right. The bond grows too strong.
She clenched her fists and knocked them at the tops of her thighs.
Enervata turned his head. “Yes. I have already decided to accelerate our schedule. You are a dedicated servant, Rafe, though I sometimes wonder at your sympathies.” His eyes creased. “But no, avarice is your sympathy. Your dedication to me is driven by your lust for power in the new world I shall create. So be it.” Enervata drew in his breath and spread his hands. “But let us not forget the matter of dear Isolde. Isolde the Fair.”
Hedon spoke, licking fat from his lips and gesturing with a swine’s rib. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, master, why not leave the matter of Isolde to me and me chap Glueg ’ere. We fancy takin’ on these matters o’ discipline. And anyway it’d be a distraction you don’t right need otherwise.”
Enervata sighed. “I have no wish to indulge you gluttons. Her punishment shall reflect her sin. Isolde, approach.”
She turned, regarding him first over her shoulder. Then she stepped toward him reluctantly.
“Even now you lack respect!”
Isolde quickened her movements and sank, bending crooked legs and resting on the tips of her talons so that she knelt in the manner of formal presentation before Enervata, Macul of Love Maligned.
“Lord, I bewail my lack of care. In future matters I shall beware.”
Rafe looked on, raising his chin. “A fool too late bewares when all peril is gone past.”
Enervata gave a harsh laugh. “Rafe truly wishes to see you suffer, Isolde. To imagine he was once your lover, bonded to you almost as strongly as our Bruce and Gloria. Almost. But now look at him. You are but a nuisance that has put his ambitions at risk.”
Enervata reached toward Isolde and she flinched. His fingers forced her chin upward. “Just as you have put mine at risk, Isolde the Fair. Now let us see. You frustrate me. I need you to be able-bodied so that you might serve, and yet your deed cannot go unpunished.”
His fingertips gripped her chin with greater force. “Your vanity is what induced your carelessness. Too acquainted with a looking glass, as are all canteshrikes.”
Isolde’s breath quickened.
“Suppose we punish your vanities.”
Enervata released her chin and began to circle her. He lifted her delicate arm as if evaluating a bolt of fine cloth, admiring the smooth, goldpearled skin that extended below her breasts to her torso, where it then disappeared under skirted feathers of the same color. Isolde’s fear showed in the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
“Yes, beautiful skin, gilded and pearled, as are your feathers. I believe I might lift that sheen from you. How would the other canteshrikes react if you lost your luminosity? If you were but a gray, plain wretch? I dare say you’d no longer be the central attraction at the orgies of Canteshrike Grotto. Fickle creatures. Obsessed with lust and luster. I do believe you’d be shunned.”
He cocked his head. “And hunting pixieflies would be near-impossible, as you would lose that hypnotic glow. Your prey would be well aware of your approach and of your intentions.”
Isolde swallowed and a faint cry escaped her throat.
Enervata’s eyes blazed. “Ah, thank you, I nearly forgot. That musical voice of yours. You allowed Gloria to hear you, didn’t you? From this moment on, you speak only at a whisper.”
He completed the circle and stood before her, shaking his head. “Even I shall miss that voice.”
Enervata raised his hand and Isolde screamed.
Her body erupted in an indigo flame. She struggled, falling sideways and writhing beneath the scorching glow. Her amber eyes sparked and her cries fell to hisses.
Sileny turned away and tapped her knuckles on the sides of her head.
Finally, Isolde fell still and the indigo flame rippled across her a few moments longer before extinguishing. Her body lay arched on the marble floor with skin and plumage of metallic gray. Her lower leg and talon now gleamed black. One arm folded over her silver breasts. The other canted behind her so that her fist rested in the small of her back.
Hedon set down his mead and rose, waddling to where Isolde lay. He nudged her hand gently with his foot and she recoiled in unconscious pain and then lay still again.
Hedon grinned at Enervata. “After all, it seems a waste to just let her darken your floor like ’at, isn’t it? We’ll remove her safe and proper, we will.”
Enervata looked at Rafe. “What say you, Rafe? Shall I let the brothers have their play?”
Rafe shrugged. “Matters not to me.”
Enervata nodded. “Sileny?”
Sileny’s wide eyes flickered over the brothers and she stroked the hairs of her mole as if they were a rat’s tail. She moved her hand in a single motion.
Mercy.
Enervata smiled. “You wish her mercy. Yours is a gentle heart, is that it, Sileny? Show poor Isolde a little pity from the nasty brothers? Or is it because the last time I threw you to the brothers, I gave Isolde to them as well? Yes, I do believe that’s it. You fear that if I give them Isolde now, I’ll also give you to them.”
Sileny clenched and unclenched her fists, eyes to the ground.
Enervata waved his hand to Hedon. “No matter. Take Isolde to your little hovel. But you have one day only. And no broken bones. She must be able to serve without injury.”
Glueg rose gleefully and waddled to Isolde’s other side. He and Hedon began to tug at her and she jerked in agony at their touch, though she still did not rouse.
“But,” Enervata said and the brothers halted. “You must remove Rafe as well. I don’t care to look at him darkening my floor for the next day or so.”
“What?” Rafe’s voice was sharp.
Enervata turned to the other canteshrike. “You might as well keep her company. After all, you failed to keep her under control.”
Rafe’s eyes flashed and then suddenly indigo engulfed him as well. He roared, swinging and struggling, until his consciousness waned. His crooked legs stumbled, talons scratching against the flame, and he fell to the marble.
Enervata watched with satisfaction. “I will let him keep his voice. His was never a proper canteshrike’s voice, anyway.”
The others nodded. Rafe had never spoken with the chiming intonation, nor had he adapted the canteshrikes’ iambic lyricism as Isolde had.
Eventually, Rafe lay still and the indigo flame continued its dance.
6
NEW YORK
“GLORIA, YOU HAVE A VISITOR.”
“Really? It must be Bruce sneaking out for lunch. I’ll go let him in.”
Bruce’s timing was perfect. Gloria’s concentration had forsaken her for much of the morning. She couldn’t shake the memory of the man she’d met at the Reach Out and Read fundraiser. They’d had such a strange conversation and, in her hurry to escape, it felt like an unresolved one. She’d poked around a little online and found his name associated with some other fundraising interests, but little else. Maybe it was destiny that they met the way they did. Maybe he’d turn out to be a megabenefactor for Woven Hillside. Who knew?
On top of this, Candace’s mood lately had unsettled her. They’d talked about maybe grabbing a noontime sandwich, but Gloria tried calling Candace all morning with no response. Candace probably couldn’t get away. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Candace always seemed so nervo
us these days. She seemed loath to leave her apartment, but horrified anytime Gloria told her she’d gone somewhere alone. It almost seemed as if Candace dreaded talking to her, didn’t want to hear something that was going to make her anxious.
Gloria checked herself in the mirror that hung near her office. Lunch with Bruce would be a welcome respite from everything else on her mind. She wore a pinstripe skirt suit with a crisp white button-down blouse, buttoned all the way up, of course. She grinned with mischief, unfastening the top button.
Hey, it’s Bruce; she could dispense with office etiquette.
She strode through the corridor, wondering if her stride had become “sleek and catlike,” because Bruce and his magic pheromones were in the vicinity.
But the man who stood waiting at the reception desk was not Bruce. Not at all. It was Aaron Vance.
Gloria froze.
Vance turned and his eyes appraised her. Gloria opened her mouth to say something but hesitated, attempting to regain her poise in the suddenly charged atmosphere. “Mr. Vance.”
“Aaron,” he said, as though it were a direction rather than a request.
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Forgive me. I probably should have called.”
How did he know where to find her? She hadn’t so much as given him her last name or told him about her work at Woven Hillside. And yet here he stood.
“I . . . that’s . . . of course that’s all right, Mr. . . . Aaron. How may I help you?”
He took a step closer. “So it’s to be that way, is it, Gloria? So very formal.”
Again, her mouth wanted to speak, but she refused to let it. Even as she stood in the reception area, the heat of him radiated toward her, danced at the open V of her button-down blouse. Waves of oxygen vacated her lungs.
He advanced another step. “After all, the reason I came to your offices, in case you were wondering, was because of the unusual rapport you and I forged at the Reach Out and Read event. I wasn’t mistaken about that, was I?”
She felt so very strange. Something like what she felt when she spied those images in the store window or heard the voice in the chandelier.
“No, Aaron, I think it’s safe to say that there was something unusual in our last meeting.”
He tilted his head slightly. “I’m glad of that.”
“How did you find me?”
Her tone was abrupt. Sharper than she’d intended, but her sense of caution wrestled its way to the forefront.
“You?” Vance said casually. “After you left I asked some people about you, and they told me where to find you. It seems you are notorious, working with teams to raise record-breaking donations. Your name is on the most ambitious grant proposals—grants that get funded. You, Gloria, were easy to find. You come highly recommended as a philanthropic consultant.”
Gloria raised a brow. “I see. So you are looking for a philanthropic consultant.”
He regarded her, expressionless.
“. . . for your interests of benefaction.”
“It is something that requires a certain rapport, don’t you think?”
That he still hadn’t answered her question wasn’t lost on Gloria. Her mind reeled, striving to make sense of this strange game.
Vance turned toward the door and lifted his hand. “Perhaps we might discuss this over lunch.”
Something told her that Vance’s intentions had little to do with her professional advice. At the same time, though, she felt a force beyond flirtation at play. There was something more going on here. Something just barely out of reach.
So be it. She was damned if she wasn’t going to face this head-on, whatever it was. If Vance had dubious intentions, she’d just set him straight. One luncheon, she’d figure this man out, and then she’d either have him dole out huge funds for her charities or neatly exorcise him from her brain forever.
“Fine.” She lifted her chin with something akin to defiance. “See? I already have my coat.”
As they left, she felt the eyes of her colleagues follow. People finding reasons to pass the reception area. She didn’t sense any judgment; her coworkers were simply exhibiting the same fascination the crowd at the Reach Out and Read fundraiser had shown. Vance certainly had a high level of magnetic pull—she clearly wasn’t the only one who thought so.
Vance placed his hand at the small of her back. It was a simple gesture. Chivalrous. Still, Gloria swiveled slightly to disengage it and remembered how Vance had used his own posture to prevent the man in the tweed suit from offering his assistance to her at the fundraiser.
Outside a Maybach idled at the curb with a driver standing by. The driver was a plump man with curled red hair and beard, the same one she’d seen Vance speaking with at the event.
Though he never instructed the driver where to go, the car meandered through the streets and pulled up in front of an ornate building with scrolling cream beaux-arts trim. She’d never noticed the place before, but then again they weren’t exactly dining at her usual sandwich shop. The driver helped her out of the car and the doorman led them into the restaurant. When she walked inside, an attendant accepted her coat. Everyone there knew Vance. Despite herself, Gloria’s posture lifted two degrees.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vance.”
“Right this way, Mr. Vance.”
And to Gloria, with the most elegant gestures, “Mademoiselle.”
They sat in a private room wrapped in boiserie of carved rosewood. Gloria settled into the chair and regarded her beguiling dining companion. She’d lunched with extremely wealthy benefactors many times before, but by any standards, this was extravagant. Was Vance trying to impress her? It was difficult to tell because he seemed so aloof.
“I take it you come here often,” she said as the staff continued to swirl around them.
Vance gave a sideways nod. “I recommend the langoustines.”
Gloria looked at her menu, a copy of which Vance didn’t require before making his recommendation. Langoustines airfreighted from Scotland with pickled peaches and a reduction of Jurançon. It sounded magical. A fascinating alternative to the Cobb salad she might have had if Bruce had met her for lunch.
She looked at the waiter. “All right, the langoustines.” Then she abruptly turned to Vance. “Tell me about your existing interests. Philanthropic, that is.”
Vance laughed. “All business, aren’t you?”
She tensed, suddenly ashamed of her mistrust. She was usually much more conversational with her lunch dates. But in truth, she did intend to keep this meeting “all business.” She offered Vance the tiniest smile.
Vance settled back in his chair. “My current interests lie in the arts, mostly.”
Gloria had minored in Art History. “Oh? Given our conversation the other day, I’m not surprised. Visual arts, then?”
“In part.”
He spoke of some of his endeavors, and they discussed the trend toward post-modern mannerism: sad and sweet, sentimental and repulsive, or cute and creepy. Gloria learned that he’d sponsored a juried exhibition that featured one of her close friends.
The langoustines arrived, honeyed, rich, and melting. And with it another glass of wine, a Pinot Blanc from Alsace. Gloria felt herself beginning to relax.
“I’m also interested in archaeology. I’ve added my support to the restoration of historic structures—Mexican pyramids and ancient roads of the Aztecs and Mayans. Fascinating historical artifacts.” He shrugged. “Built using slave labor, of course.”
“Slave labor?” It was a surprise to hear him speak of it so casually. Most of the people in her circle would have accented the phrase with derision.
“It’s a fact of history. And you must admit that the greatest structures of the world have all been built using slave labor. I sometimes wonder if that’s what’s necessary to create something remarkable. Our modern architecture could never meet the artistic detail of many of the ancients. To enslave a society can be to achieve new levels of aesthetics, science, and munic
ipal infrastructure.”
Gloria’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that the end justifies the means?”
“What do we have now but the end? We can’t go back and change the means. And if we could, I’m not so convinced I would. What is slavery but a lower balance of power? Throughout the ages, if the strong did not lord over the weak, then the weak would arise and take control. It is the duty of the strong to provide structure and purpose to the weak. Without it, society would have no livelihood and we would be left with only chaos.”
Gloria wasn’t sure how to respond to Vance’s extreme philosophy. She reached to take another sip of wine and then thought better of it.
Vance waved his hand as if to dispel the weight that had settled across the table. “But I digress. We were speaking of the arts and of various interests of benefaction. I dabble in the theater as well. I’ve backed some productions, though I’m still searching. Lately, I’ve set my sights abroad. There is a project in the Moscow Art Theatre.”
Gloria leaned in, fingertips curled on the linen tablecloth. “Really? Moscow?”
Vance nodded. “There is a play that evokes the tale of King Lear, but actors wear local costumes of fur and bone fragments and tin- and copper-cast adornments. What’s most fascinating is that they don’t speak the dialogue; they sing it khoomei-style in the traditional sonnets of the Yakutsk.”
“Khoomei? I haven’t heard of that.”
He shifted toward her. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever imagined. The way they sing, they modulate their voices to sound almost inhuman, emphasizing the ‘oos’ with a soloist and choir. It’s gorgeous and strange. What you’d envision a forest sprite’s lullaby to sound like.”
Gloria’s thoughts wove through images and music. She tried to fathom how these songs might sound. “How incredible. And how wonderful that you found it—that’s exactly the blend of art and culture that we’re at risk of losing.” She shook her head. “I wish they could play in Manhattan. I would love to be able to see something like that.”
“You can.”
