A Feather of Stone #3

by Cate Tiernan

  Despair was nothing new to Richard—it was more of a constant companion. But this gut-turning misery, this twisted yearning, the desire and the horror all mixed up—that was new.

  Now that she was gone, Richard lay down on his bed. In a minute he would get up and drink about a half a bottle of scotch. That would be good. Shut his mind down, shut his body down.

  The front door opened again and closed. Richard’s heart flared—had she come back? If she’d come back, he would take her. No matter what, he would hold her and kiss her and lose himself in her and forget everything but the deep pleasure of not thinking for a while.

  “Hey.” Luc stood in his doorway. Richard felt like his life had become a surreal movie.

  “Hey,” he managed, his mind reeling.

  “You okay?” Luc frowned at him.

  “Yep.”

  Sighing, Luc leaned against the doorway. “Marcel’s here. In town.”

  Richard’s stomach clenched tighter, if that was possible. Perfect. His day was now complete.

  “And Claire. She’s at Jules’s.”

  “Good.” Richard liked Claire.

  “You wanna get something to eat?”

  Richard thought about it. “Yeah. Give me a minute to grab a shower.” A really cold one.

  True Love

  It was getting darker earlier every day, Sophie thought, hurrying down the street. She’d left her car several blocks away, seizing the first free parking space she’d been able to find. Now she walked quickly away from the river, away from the more touristy parts of the French Quarter, toward the quieter, residential blocks.

  Even here in the city, surrounded by lights and noise, one could still notice the changing of the seasons. Sophie thought longingly of the several years she and Manon had spent in northern Virginia. For an almost perfect, storybook balance of seasons, Virginia was the place to go—even better than Paris. Three months of real winter, including actual snow. Three months of glorious spring, the kind of spring that had first inspired the goddess’s festivals: a giddy, heady rebirth of life in all forms, painting the earth in a wash of fresh, bright colors. Three months of actual hot summer, hot enough to go swimming in rivers and lakes, hot enough to bask in the sun, feeling languid and soft. Then autumn, the first tingly breezes leaving one’s cheeks chilled; the fiery, painted leaves as trees shut down for winter. Apples, leaves crunching underfoot, Récolte and Monvoile celebrations. Each season brought its own particular joys, its own painful beauty. The rhythm and cycle of seasons and time, the yearly death and rebirth that was the basis for the bonne magie.

  Now she was back in New Orleans, and though the days were growing shorter week by week, still—it was hardly a real autumn.

  Sophie crossed a street, easily walking between two cars that were inching toward Canal Street.

  New Orleans basically had nine months of summer, then three months of ugly weather. Very few trees lost their leaves, and the ones that did didn’t turn gorgeous colors first. Just brown. Then an ugly, wet, usually chilly but sometimes depressingly warm and muggy winter. Then a spring that lasted about a week. Then summer again.

  Some of it was beautiful. There was a certain attractive lassitude that came over one after months and months of unrelenting heat. As if keeping up emotional and behavioral standards were too much effort after so many hot months. It broke you through to another place, a place where you acted differently, thought differently, went further and dared more.

  Sophie smiled slightly. She’d written a dissertation on this topic in 1983. It was still fascinating to her. She’d shown that to Ouida, hadn’t she? Ouida would probably enjoy it.

  Looking up, Sophie saw the big pink house, the address that she remembered. There was a crushed-oyster-shell driveway on the right side, and she walked down it. Jules could afford any place he wanted—they all could. After two hundred years, even the most imprudent of investments paid off. All of them were well-off, never needed to work again. Experience had shown most of them that lack of purpose led to madness. They needed occupations, jobs, interests, responsibilities to keep sane.

  She wished Richard would admit that, get his life together. And Luc.

  Her lips pressed together for a moment, then she shook her head. This was it, the first apartment. She rang the bell, feeling Jules within. He answered the door and smiled when he saw her.

  “Salut, Jule” she said, leaving the s off his name.

  “Come in, petite,” he said, holding the door open.

  Inside it was dim—the windows faced east, and the sun was setting. The furniture was mismatched, but everything was severely tidy and well cared for.

  “Something to drink? Sherry?”

  “Oh yes, please. Lovely.” Sophie sat on one of the couches, feeling herself relax for the first time in days. Axelle probably hadn’t talked to Jules—she seemed to think Jules’s loyalty to Daedalus would overrule his judgment. Sophie wasn’t sure of that.

  Jules came back with two small, delicate glasses of sherry. Sophie inhaled its scent, warm, a bit woody, rich. She took a sip and let it trickle down her throat.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” she said, loving the honest warmth of his eyes. “Have you been thinking about what—”

  The slamming of the back screen door interrupted her. Sophie’s eyes widened as Claire came through the back bedroom and the kitchen to the front room. Daedalus’s summoning spell had worked. Of course. And Claire was staying with Jules. This was awkward.

  “Well, hello, Sophie,” said Claire. She was wearing Hawaiian-print capris and a red spaghetti-strap top. Plastic flip-flops with big red flowers over the toes seemed to glow against the floor’s dark, scarred wood.

  “Hello, Claire,” Sophie said politely. Her mission would have to wait till another time. Claire’s green eyes were sharp, taking in Sophie from head to foot.

  Sophie waited, wishing she had never come, though of course she’d have had to see Claire sometime. Claire was one of them, just like Sophie. One of the Treize. She and Claire hadn’t gotten along since Sophie was eight and Claire was nine. Even then they had been the antithesis of each other, and almost two hundred and fifty years had done nothing to change that.

  “Why, you haven’t aged a day,” Claire said, smirking. She sat down in a rocking chair across from the sofa.

  Unfortunately, neither have you, Sophie thought, giving a tiny smile at Claire’s tired joke.

  “Whatcha got there? Sherry? How about a little coupe for me, eh, Jules?”

  Getting up, Jules went to the tiny galley kitchen.

  Sophie took a sip, trying to finish her drink quickly so she could leave.

  “I hear you’re still with Manon.”

  Sophie looked up. “Yes,” she said warily.

  Claire leaned back in the rocking chair, looking at the ceiling. She gathered her wild magenta hair in both hands, twisting it into a ponytail. “Well, good for you,” she said.

  Sophie waited, but Claire didn’t sound sarcastic.

  “I guess it’s true love,” Claire went on. “If I ever found true love, I’d stay with it too.” She glanced at Jules, but he wasn’t looking at her. He poured some burgundy liquid into a small glass and brought it to her.

  “Thanks, babe,” said Claire. She turned back to Sophie. “Manon got a tough ride. Her and Richard—their situations suck. But it’s good, you with Manon. You seem good together.”

  Sophie nodded, wondering how sincere Claire was being. This was the most personal they had ever gotten, except for an ugly fight back in 1931.

  “I’m going to see Richard later, I think.” Claire took a big sip, emptying almost half her glass. “Him and Luc. I guess they’re batching it, more or less, over on Ursulines.”

  “Yes.” Sophie finished her drink with relief and stood up. “Thank you, Jules—I’ll call you later. Nice to see you again, Claire. I’m sure we’ll all be getting together again soon—whether we want to or not.”

  Claire laughed, sounding bitter. “Wha
t do you think of Daedalus’s scheme, Sophie?”

  It was a direct question, one that many members of the Treize had skirted but not voiced.

  Shrugging, Sophie edged toward the door. “I need to think about it some more,” she said. “I don’t know how much he’s worked out, and I need to know more about what’s going to happen.”

  Jules nodded at her—they could talk about it later.

  “Thanks.” Sophie opened the door. The sun had just set, and there was a magickal sensation in the air, the everyday magick of day turning into night. She headed out into it, retracing her steps back to her car. That visit had been a complete bust.

  Then she realized, if Claire were here, Marcel probably was too. Sophie grimaced at the thought of Marcel. She didn’t want to see him. It would be lovely if she never had to see him again.

  No Room for Her

  Divination was one of Daedalus’s least-favorite disciplines. It was imprecise at best, positively misleading at worst. And not a fun way to spend a Saturday morning, either, in his opinion. He’d wanted Jules to help him with this spell, but Jules hadn’t answered his phone this morning. Of course, with Claire staying with him, they might have been out, or perhaps Claire had unplugged the phone.

  Daedalus’s lip curled with disdain. If he could possibly have done without Claire, he would have, in a heartbeat. He had no idea what Melita had seen in her, what purpose she had served. In the centuries since, she’d proved to be as useless and weak as she’d seemed in their village. Now he was shackled to her for all time and was even in the nauseating position of being dependent on her, needing her, for his rite.

  Yet another thing Melita had to answer for. Admittedly, one of the smaller issues.

  Now Daedalus made a circle on the wooden floor. Axelle was out—perhaps she had joined Claire and some of the other dissolutes Daedalus was saddled with. Richard, Luc. . . . He was fond of Richard but had no illusions about him. Of all of the Treize, Richard was probably the least moral, the least mindful of the subtle differences between right and wrong. Luc cared but was compelled to choose wrongly again and again, then was tortured about it. Axelle was easily swayed, easily led, content to do whatever served her best, as long as it wasn’t too inconvenient.

  Working calmly and efficiently, Daedalus set up the rest of the spell. It was one he had performed countless times over the decades, always without result. But now—now things might be different. He felt it. He felt that there were signs all around him, telling him that now was the time.

  Daedalus’s element was air. He set up five thin sticks of incense in a wooden holder and lit them. Their coiling streams of smoke twined together, weaving a rope of scent. Daedalus began chanting softly, letting himself drift into concentration. This was the hardest part: the releasing of self to merge with and access the world of magick. Daedalus hated the feeling of vulnerability, of letting down his walls. True, it was only moments before that vulnerability was replaced by a surge of power—still, it had never gotten easier.

  He forced himself to sit quietly, to release his mild irritation at Jules not being home, his disapproval that Axelle had stayed out all night, his disappointment that so few of the Treize had lived up to his hopes or expectations. One by one he set these thoughts free, like balloons floating away into the atmosphere.

  His gaze shifted out of focus as he became aware of his connection to magick. It was there; it was always there for the taking. As usual, it caused an unstoppable flood of joy within him, almost embarrassing in its strength and the eagerness with which he embraced it.

  Unseeing, tracing the symbols by memory in the air before him, Daedalus wrote the runes ôte, for birthright, inheritance; deige, for clarity, awakening; is, for obstacle, something frozen or delayed. Then he wrote the sigil for things revealed, veils dropped, and another sigil to enhance the sensitivity of his vision.

  Then he waited. Inhale, exhale. The beating of his heart. Don’t search; let it be revealed.

  The smoke formed a thin, hazy curtain in front of him. He watched, trying to divorce himself from want, trying to just be, with no expectations. Which was almost impossible for him, even after two centuries’ practice.

  But there—there. In the smoke, the haze, an image was forming. A face. Black eyes, straight nose, generous mouth. A woman, not a girl. She was laughing.

  Is this what I need to see? The image seemed to realize he was there. Its expression froze, looking surprised. Then it was gone, as if a wind had swept it away.

  Daedalus blinked and shook his head.

  He’d done that spell what—thirty times? Fifty? Seventy? He’d never gotten an image before. He wasn’t great at scrying—he found it hard to believe stories people told about seeing this, that, and the other thing. Only a few times had he received useful or pertinent information. So this was hard to take at face value.

  Melita’s face, that was.

  If he believed it, then she truly was nearby, after all this time. She wasn’t dead. He’d been searching for her for so long—could this be real? Was she nearby? Was she aware of what he was doing?

  Lost in thought, Daedalus automatically cleaned up evidence of his spell. He hadn’t heard Axelle come home, but he cast his senses to make sure. No—no one was here but him. He put away the incense, the chalk, the stones.

  Melita. If she were back, it would be either truly remarkable or truly, truly disastrous.

  She Can’t Hide It

  The woman behind the counter looked at Luc, then down at the collection of ingredients he was buying.

  “Dove feathers, honey, dried foxglove,” she murmured. Her squarish brown hand turned a small green glass bottle so she could read its label. “Dried snakeskin.”

  Luc kept his face impassive.

  She met his gaze, as if weighing the light and the dark within him. He tried not to breathe a sigh of relief as she rang up the items and put them in a small paper bag. He paid and slipped the bag into his leather sack.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Do you—” the clerk said, making him pause. “Are you sure you be wantin’ these things, now?” Her voice was warm, her brown eyes knowing. She had a slight, singsongy Jamaican accent.

  “Yes,” Luc said briefly.

  “Do you be careful, then, man,” she said solemnly.

  “Yes,” he said again, and left.

  It seemed like decades ago that Clio had taken him here. Luc leaned against the broad trunk of the live-oak tree, looking down into the cradle formed by its thick roots. He and Clio had lain together in this hollow, hidden from passersby.

  Now he stepped over the roots and set his small leather sack on the ground. He wished he were in . . . Africa. Or somewhere far away. Where he wouldn’t have to deal with Daedalus or any of the Treize.

  Then Daedalus would just summon him by force. He grimaced. Claire was doing a burn, no doubt about it. She’d spent most of last night fantasizing about ways to kill Daedalus. It had been pretty funny. But goddess, her and Richard together—they were both so bitter and hard. It got to be too much after a while. Of course they all had cause to be that way. But after hours of eating and drinking with those two, Luc had felt like he’d been dipped in acid and rubbed with sandpaper. It had been a relief to leave them.

  Luc heard voices. Probably students from Loyola or Tulane. He lay down, sinking onto the warm, dry earth. Someone would have to be practically on top of him to see him now. On his back, he looked up through the leaves at jigsaw pieces of cloudy sky.

  Clio. Clio and Thais. As usual, the thought of Thais made his jaw clench and his gut ache. Her sweetness, her acceptance. He was dully surprised that she was still so angry, so hard against him. At Récolte, she’d been cold and unyielding—at least, until they were in the middle of that awful circle, their emotions being ripped out of them and used as fodder. He’d felt her then. Felt the deep and powerful love she had for him. He’d felt her anguish, her anger. And her love. She was much stronger than he would have thought possible
.

  Now she was seeing that boy, that stupid boy, kissing him, wrapping her arms around him. If Luc were dark, really, truly dark, no holds barred—that boy would have had a car wreck by now.

  Good thing he wasn’t that dark.

  Sitting up, Luc unpacked his supplies. With a stick he drew a circle in the dirt around him and set four stones at the four compass points. This was dark enough. This was sinking to new lows, even for him. Already he was going further than he’d thought he’d have to. Ten years ago—five—none of this would have bothered him. But there was something about the twins—a vulnerability coupled with an incredibly compelling strength. He hadn’t felt so strongly about anyone in—ever? He frowned, trying to remember. He’d loved Ouida, in his way. He’d loved other women over the years, the centuries. But who had gotten to him this way? Who had ever caused this deep hunger in him? Had anyone? He couldn’t recall.

  It was almost sunset. Luc sat in the middle of his circle, closed his eyes, and let himself sink into a trance. Leaf of tree, cloud of sky, come to me and know not why. I draw you here, with blood and bone. I know you’re near, Clio, my own.

  There. He sent it out into the world, feeling it leave him, aiming straight and true toward the one he called. Similar to what Daedalus had done but on a much smaller scale: if Clio were even fifty miles away, she wouldn’t feel it. Daedalus’s call had reached to the other side of the world. Also, Clio could resist this one if she wanted to, if she was strong enough. Not by just shrugging it off—she’d have to work a little. But she could do it. He wondered if she would.

  The sun had almost completely set by the time he had his answer.

  He felt her before he heard or saw her, felt her angry energy. But she had come.

  When she was close, he opened his eyes. She was striding toward him, her face set in a grim expression.

  “How dare you!” she practically spit at him when she was close enough. He had the sudden thought that if he’d been standing up, she would have punched him. As it was, she swung her woven straw purse and smacked him on the head.