A Court For Fairies (Dark Heralds Book 1)

by Lynn S.

  “Hmm, no. I don’t think so. Your time is up, sweetheart, and don’t take it the wrong way.” Her fingers ran through the young man’s dark brown hair, a perfect complement to his eyes. Adriana looked away, breaking contact. She didn’t care about the guy’s name, let alone the color of his eyes. She wanted him gone. “You are perfect. It even scares me a little bit. Hope that makes you happy, now go.”

  There was something urgent ringing in her ears, a voice that grew more potent with each heartbeat. “You need to do this for Mariushka, to better protect her. If you take a sip…just a little bit…it is all you’ll need.”

  “Hells no!” The young man snorted. “Who do you think you are? We are not done, babe. Not ’til I say so.”

  The dark-haired man took the glass from her hand, throwing it aside. It broke against the hard wood floor. Grabbing her shoulders, he pushed her against the sofa and kissed her again, rougher, slamming his body against her, forcing Adriana to open her knees. The woman knew exactly what happened then, he must have had a better memory of what happened the night before. Adriana remembered shared laughter between one tumble in bed and another, but it might as well have been hers alone, poking fun at the inability of her lover. She’d never been too discreet about her feelings and now he felt like she needed to be taught a lesson.

  The woman moved enough to raise her arm and slap him hard across the face, but that only increased his fury. It was easy for him to pin her against the chair once more, this time putting more pressure against her shoulder’s socket.

  “Oh, I’m happy to know—” she said while gasping and struggling “—that you are not a gentleman at all. I guess one cannot ask for quality choices after midnight. Well, my sweet little boy,” Adriana stressed the last two words as if they gave her leverage, “I am busy and you are going home. Maybe one of these days I’ll pick you up again and pretend to moan here and there, just to make you feel proud of the little you could do. Now. Let. Me. Go!”

  She unpinned her shoulder and hit him in the face using her elbow and all the force she could muster. He leaned back and sprung to his feet just as she stood from the chair. Adriana rushed her hand into his face with a dismissive gesture, and he didn’t take it well.

  His fist hit with such force against the right side of her face that it made her eyes water. Adriana felt like drowning in pain. A rush of blood to her lips made her spit. The bastard had a couple of heavy rings on his fingers that cut through, underneath her cheekbone. Her tongue was also bleeding as the surprise made her clench her teeth and bite down on it. Some of her upper teeth felt loose. Blood and saliva ran down her chin, staining her light green tank top.

  The pain soon became attuned to an unusual response; it was numbed almost instantly by a sense of urgency that took over. That voice inside her head that had been playing advocate for Marissa now roared, coming to the forefront, claiming her. Adriana gave in.

  The instinct, that aspect she had inherited from her father, the inner beast that had lived under her skin for…centuries that she thought she had tamed completely during her time with Bastian, took possession of her body. The retaliation was quick and brutal. A primal energy unleashed inside her, finally finding release. Quickened by something akin to an electric shock, her body arched and contorted involuntarily. Her arm slammed against her attacker, extended, with palm open. Hitting the man across the chest, she pushed him several feet off the floor and away from her.

  Adriana’s fingers elongated, deforming her delicate hands, and her nails filed into iron tips that could slash through flesh with the ease of a knife. The guy, still stunned, had fallen on his back, and with a lot of effort he tried to open his eyes. Soon he was nothing but an element in a nightmarish vision. Adriana’s skin acquired the luster and hardness of marble, her eyes were pools the color of stormy clouds. Teeth that looked initially loosened within her mouth were just following what her nature dictated—pushing back while her jaw elongated slightly to allow incisors to double in length and width. Her tongue was covered with tiny plated scales meant to inflict pain and even tear at skin in a flicker.

  The man on the floor was on his feet and running, fueled by a rush of adrenaline. The woman suffering the transformation was invested in her own pain and had forgotten about him. But, as he fell under the initial push, he had landed in the broken glass on the floor. The small cluster of cuts on his back drew enough blood to pique the monster’s interest. Adriana discharged her frustration and fury on the young man’s body. The pain he inflicted upon her had been the catalyst to that point she knew there was no return from. Her claws held fast to the man’s shoulder, easily slashing through until they lacerated ligament and muscle. The arm that once struck her was now limp, almost razed to the bone, bleeding profusely onto the floor. She found her way to his neck and bit with enough pressure to tear flesh and artery beneath it.

  It was the second time she had drunk straight from a living being. The first marked her initial transition from mere human child to vampyr. Back then she had licked her dying mother’s blood, her face cradled in the soft curve of her neck. On that occasion she had sobbed and pleaded; she had wanted to die along with her. Now it was different. Her mother’s blood gave her the lengthy life guaranteed to a dhampyr. Now, this man helped her cross the threshold into vampyr. Mother gave her life, this man made her an agent of death eternal.

  Adriana no longer stood firmly between two worlds, that of her human mother and her undead father; the final transition claimed its prize and the violent consumption of blood had wakened the vampyr that slept within her. The man’s attack was the straw that broke it for her. For days now she had been toying with the idea of letting all go. To become vampyr was her penance, the way to make right on her many, many mistakes.

  And now everything was clear. Her instinct, that spirit that possessed all of those of her kind, whispered in her ear, clear as ever, “I warned you, but you allowed Mariushka to play a dangerous game. Don’t you dare fight me now, because only we can save her.”

  The instinct was right. If anything, it had been her ally, an echo to her failing common sense. Adriana had known since the first time she laid eyes on Esteban O’Reilly. She knew her daughter’s boyfriend was not an ordinary man. He was the continuation of a story she knew quite well. Part of a past that stripped her of all but her daughter, and now reared its ugly head to strike her once more.

  However, she trusted Esteban the same way she trusted her daughter. She knew both were innocent, having not partaken of old offenses. And though she didn’t like the women of Innisfree, having guessed at their nature, they didn’t seem evil at the time. She broke away, for her daughter’s sake, and did not give herself time to delve deep enough as to have a clear picture.

  In her dreams, she heard her daughter curse her name, but it was more a call for help than a denial. She needed to make it there on time, to stop them. If she didn’t, then the dark fairies of House Alexander would have her daughter in their thrall forever. Adriana was sure Isabel and Carla thought Marissa was merely human, and that gave her an edge. She had to act, and quickly. If mother and daughter were to find Marissa’s true nature, if they were to force it out of her by means or magic…they might find a way to use her daughter in ways inconceivable. There were things worse than death for a dhampyr who fell into the hands of a Fae.

  Chapter X

  Clap Your Hands If You Believe

  Manhattan, 1984

  The idea of taking the subway was too much for Neil. He walked fifteen blocks in the drizzle, never minding that the wind and low temperature made it feel like needles were piercing his face.

  The cold outside was nothing compared to the one that clung to his bones whenever he experienced those damn vivid dreams that forced him to leave this world and step into another realm. He couldn’t shake Bauer’s face. The psychiatrist had pleaded with his eyes and written a number on a piece of paper with the hopes of a mad man. For the first time, Neil saw in his countenance the weight of almost seven
decades of age. His hands trembled…trembled, he thought.

  He made it to the apartment building on Madison just to realize that going home was not an option. So he called from a nearby phone booth and told Isabel he’d be working late. After toying just once with the piece of paper, he finally summoned the courage to dial. It all had become a matter of when, not if.

  “Hello.” The voice on the other end of the line belonged to a man. O’Reilly waited in silence, hoping for his interlocutor to reveal something else. “Is this Mr. O’Reilly?” the voice continued. “Do not hang up. If Bauer gave you this number, it is a call we’ve been waiting for.”

  “And who exactly am I speaking to?” Neil hated to be in the dark. The man’s responses didn’t level the playing field. If anything, the other person had the upper hand, knowing more about him than he did about them.

  “This is Bastian Salgado. I am the specialist your psychiatrist told you about. I’d like to see you tonight, if possible. Do you know how to get to The Cloisters?”

  “Of course. And I also know that, at this time, they are closed.”

  “I have time and a key, Mr. O’Reilly. I trust you can make it here within the next two hours. I’ll meet you at the bus stop.”

  A dead line made him aware that Bastian liked to have the last word. It was close to eight o’clock when Neil set out to meet the stranger he’d chosen to place his faith in. O’Reilly stopped at a store to buy a change of clothes. T-shirt and jeans might help him blend in with the crowd. Salgado was waiting for a Wall Street man, and he was desperately looking for a slight element of surprise that might give him an edge. Neil took the bus on the northern route through Manhattan; his work clothes were carefully folded in a plastic bag.

  The Cloisters looked like citadels torn away from the grasp of time and transplanted into the heart of an ever forward metropolis. They rose like a testimony to both the will and eccentricity of certain New Yorkers. Those towers of gray stone and arches leading to terraces were not a mere reconstruction. They had been removed, stone by stone, from European soil and brought to rest on a hill overlooking the Hudson River. Abbeys of French and Spanish origin that once opened their doors to congregations centuries ago now stood as a tribute to the past, sharing space with giants made of concrete and metal. The property, once privately owned, was integrated into the Metropolitan Museum during the 1930s, and ever since, people in the city had been given access to a treasure trove of artifacts and writings that illustrated the Middle Ages.

  O’Reilly got off at the entrance that faced the park, the main one. Just as he thought, the museum was closed. Stained glass windows framed by polished stones extended their shadows upon the street, like unexpected haunts of color over cold gray. It was something only the observant could take in, as the sidewalk still crawled with people—tourists mostly, flashing cameras in hand, taking advantage of an opportunity for a night shot of the place.

  “Punctuality is a virtue. Thanks for coming right on time. I am Bastian Salgado. Glad to make your acquaintance.” A man close to Neil’s own age had made his way through the crowd straight toward him. He spoke softly, with a tinge of an accent, while stretching out his hand in confidence.

  He was nothing like Neil imagined a friend of Bauer’s could be. Bastian Salgado was of medium build with tanned skin and dark hair. There was an air of something Neil initially misread as arrogance in his eyes that was soon dispelled by his serviceable demeanor. His clothes were semi-formal. He could have been any of the thousand city employees in New York.

  Even without speaking much, the man radiated charisma, and something about the way he approached gave Neil a sense a security. However, he couldn’t help answering the handshake with a question. How did Salgado know about him? At least twenty people got off that bus.

  Bastian told him that Bauer had provided him with a physical description. To tell him at that point he could pick him out of a crowd because he had the power to read auras, and Neil’s was broken and weakened, would have probably scared the Irishman out of his wits. And he needed that man to confide in him, and fast.

  O’Reilly coughed into his fist, trying to keep up with breaking the ice. After all, he had been thrown in an odd situation with a stranger as fast as it could be conceived. “So, how do you get access to this place so late at night?”

  Bastian made way for him to cross through the main gate while nodding to the night guard, who didn’t even bother to ask him who he was bringing into The Cloisters. O’Reilly assumed the Portuguese man might have been a museum employee.

  “It belonged to my family before it was given to the city. Let’s just say I still have access to special collections and I’m allowed to keep an office out of respect for nostalgia.”

  Bastian kept talking as they cut through the garden pathway. They had to walk single file, the paths narrow and flanked by low stone hedges that separated trees from flower beds.

  Neil chuckled, finding the answer quite amusing. He quickly added, “It is common knowledge that The Cloisters belonged to the Rockefeller family before they were converted into a museum.”

  “Not really,” Bastian answered while turning the bolt on a heavy door. “Theirs was just a name in property contracts.”

  While The Cloisters were prided for a love of preservation and easy access, the office of Bastian Salgado was a chaotic disarray that was divorced from any connection to a museum cataloguing system. Hundreds of manuscripts and dusty old books were piled into corners, reducing the space granted. A considerably large table close to the center held fifteen books, neatly stacked. Those were the ones that Bastian must have been taking care of at the moment. O’Reilly read a couple of titles—Prologue of Sadness: Supernatural Occurrences at the Cuthberth Mansion, Das Branderburger Fluch: Lycan Bloodlines of Germany, Ragnarok: Apostles of Chaos, and Daughters of the Crossroads.

  Finally, right on top of a cedar wood desk, crossed with red annotations and patterns of ink on its wide margins, there was an opened book in which Neil saw something familiar. Drawn in neat, black ink were the concentric circles with stone markings that were set as stations on the apartment’s greenhouse. The repetitive patterns appeared even on the beams of carved wood that sustained the glass panels.

  “Do you recognize the pattern?” Bastian asked while inviting Neil to take a closer look at the pages. “I suppose you have seen it enough. I doubt, however, you know what it represents. This is the blueprint for a pagan altar. There were hundreds of them throughout Europe. They preceded the expansion of the Roman Empire. I believe they were commonly known as Cuirt Ciorcal Fae in the British Isles. It means—”

  “A Court for Fairies,” O’Reilly confirmed. It was the second time in the day he had heard or spoken a phrase in a language he thought forgotten. A picture of Carla and Isabel flashed through his mind and he closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to keep a rush of sudden nausea at bay. His subconscious was hit with a realization that set his tongue loose and made him shiver. His mind was opened to a possibility that knocked at the door of the bizarre, as if the place in which he stood allowed him to see the light after being kept in the dark for so long.

  Neil’s knees faltered and Bastian was quick to catch him. Never letting go, the Portuguese man took an amulet from his pocket and placed it on O’Reilly’s forehead, pressing the cool of iron against suddenly feverish skin.

  Bastian kept holding onto the man, who had started shaking violently, finally breaking the spell that had kept him in thrall for months. Magic bindings flushed out of his pores in the form of profuse perspiration. Reality flooded his perception and Neil uncovered, in horror, all those things he had been made to forget or simply brushed off as a nightmare.

  Sweat stained the back of his shirt. Wide-eyed, as a needy child, he held onto Salgado’s arm, almost begging for the man to stop, but Bastian just pressed the iron harder against his skin, his lips never ceasing to recite words as in a prayer. He didn’t let go until he was sure his duty was completed, that the veil of
illusion had been lifted without affecting the poor man’s sanity.

  Once they were done, he gently led Neil to a chair. While O’Reilly slowly came back to his senses, Bastian went about brewing a pot of tea. He kept an eye on the man as he poured, and though shaken, Bastian thought it might be time to get some words from him once again.

  “I won’t pretend you are all together right, my friend. I’ll be happy if you are just willing to accept Marlowe’s words: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are ever dreamt in your philosophy.’”

  “Shakespeare. You are talking about Shakespeare.” Though Neil found it utterly ridiculous to discuss misquoted literature, he had to, if only to open his mouth.

  “It was not just the Rockefellers who liked to lend their signatures…” Bastian whispered, almost unintelligibly. “Anyway, I suppose I owe you a few details as you are still swallowing a bitter pill here. My…family, so to say, has been tracking yours for a while. We are in the know regarding supernatural activity, and sometimes even interfere, but as of this moment, we have only made notations from afar, as is our custom. I’m one of a handful of descendants of rogue officers of the Holy Inquisition, those who saw fit to break ranks and risk going their own way. We are the Holy Office Bastards, if you must. Contrary to the so-called legitimate paladins of the faith led by Torquemada, we distant cousins cultivated the art of living in the shadows. We observe and only interfere when the plans of night breeds take a turn toward the nefarious. In the meantime, our business is to make friends everywhere and leave traces nowhere.”

  “Since when have you been observing me? Are there more of you for me to meet?”

  Bastian pointed toward himself.

  “You are stuck with me. I am the face of our New York branch. Believe it or not, we have some gruesome business to take care of in New Jersey and that’s where the bulk of our company is.” He chuckled for a second, right before addressing the pressing situation.