By the time Rowan finished speaking, Aven was deeply asleep, and Rowan trusted his own abilities enough to know that there would be no nightmares tonight; he couldn't be certain about the days to come, but at least for now the lad could rest.
Rowan climbed out of the bed and straightened out the covers before gathering his things and, with one last sweep of his psychic eyes to be sure all was well for now, left the room, closing the door silently behind him.
The senior Healer met him at the front desk. "How is he?" she asked.
Rowan smiled tiredly. "He will heal. It will take time, but I believe he'll pull through. I'll come again to see him tomorrow--when he wakes in the morning he'll be hungry, but go easy on his stomach for a few days. Weak tea, bread, the usual."
Her smile was almost beatific. "Thank you, Rowan. We had all but given up hope."
He bowed. "It's why I'm here. Good night."
It was, in fact, just the near edge of sunset when he walked out of the Healing House, and he paused to ground himself and breathe the cool Spring air for a moment, listening to the sounds of harpstrings not far away, a peal of laughter from one of the houses across the way, and the birds of evening calling farewell to another day.
He hoped Sara had found a way to occupy her afternoon; he felt a little guilty for leaving her to her own devices so soon after they'd arrived, but he knew she understood. She was probably thrilled to see him acting as a true Rethla again after everything they'd been through together. Perhaps after he'd had a while to rest he might take her for a pre-Beltaine walk of their own. He smiled at the thought.
Rowan made his way back along the main path from the House, past the Temple, where he paused again, watching the members of Clan Willow gather inside the cheerfully lit building for their evening devotional rituals.
He would of course be welcome there. Part of him wanted to go in, to slip back into the arms of the religion of his people and be lifted back into the heart of the Mother...but part of him, for some reason, was almost afraid. It wasn't guilt--he knew he had nothing to feel guilty about, though he had certainly done things he wasn't proud of--so much as it was...the knowing that, if he were to open himself up that way again, something would change, change so profoundly that his life would pivot yet again, and he just wasn't sure he was ready for anything else to happen. It had taken months to regain his life after Clan Yew had tried to take it from him; still there were days when his memory simply went blank, out of nowhere, and he had to be reminded who he was and how to do the simplest things. He had almost lost Jason, almost lost his identity and his own life; his family was dead, his Clan destroyed. What more was there that could be taken from him?
He was afraid to learn the answer to that question. And so, he didn't go into the Temple. He skirted its edge, trying to keep his eyes averted, until something caught his peripheral vision: the movement of leaves.
Now, he smiled, and moved off the path, walking through the dewy grass around the side of the Temple to the ring of stones that stood behind it, encircling the broad trunk of the Clan's Blessing Tree.
It was here that the rites of Beltaine would be conducted the next night--the main celebration would take place on the village common, but the part that Sara was so nervous about went on here, as couples joined together beneath the Tree, just as millennia ago the Goddess and God had done. Just as his own mother had done, once, and never told him who with. As High Priestess of the largest Elven Clan she never had the time or inclination toward a fulltime lover, and so she took men to bed at the Beltaine fires, and again at the Midsummer rites, and that was enough for her. Among their people the mother had the right to determine her child's fate and to declare his official parentage; a Sabbat-conceived babe could even be considered offspring purely of the gods, with no mother and no father, to be raised by the women of the Temple whose work it was to care for the Merry-Begotten, as they were called. Rowan's mother had wanted to keep her blood tie to him known, as if he were half Elf and half Lord of the Wood; he had never felt the want of a father, so he had never questioned her actions.
Rowan stepped up beneath the tree's great spreading canopy, and laid a hand on its bark in mute greeting. He could feel the life stirring there, feel its recognition. He leaned his forehead against the Tree and closed his eyes, not sure what his thoughts were trying to accomplish, or how he felt tonight.
It was strange to have been healer to someone wounded exactly as he had been, once. Years ago he would never have imagined he could help anyone after what had happened to him, but here he was, a Rethla in action if not in official title, doing what he had been called into this life to do. So many wounds...how long until Aven was able to go back to what he had once loved? How long before he was ready to be touched by another, after Rowan was gone? How many Beltaine fires would burn before he stood before one, let alone here beneath the Tree awaiting a lover?
In that moment, his heart cried out--he missed Jason. They were too far apart for normal telepathy, and he didn't want to switch on his Ear and risk interrupting whatever the vampire was doing; it had been difficult enough to convince him to attend the violin symposium in the first place. He would be performing in front of strangers for the first time in decades, and taking part in several panels on technique and musical theory. There were receptions, parties, and performances all over Austin this week, and Rowan and Beck both had urged Jason to attend, to stop hiding what he could do, and to give himself over, just for a little while, to what he truly loved.
Rowan risked stretching out just a thin channel of energy and thought, in case he could gain some reassurance even at this distance...as he'd feared, it was too far for words, but after a moment, in his mind while he stood with his eyes closed...he heard music.
Eyes burning, he opened himself to it, and the music grew clearer and louder, flooding into his head, its familiar strains almost as warm and enfolding as the hands that created them. Rowan felt himself swaying back and forth to it, fingers digging into the Tree's bark, and the sweet melancholy sound filled him with calm, with peace. There were no words, yet he could feel words carried to him with every note:
I am here, my love. I am with you. Always. As close as this. I am here, and I love you.
Distantly as the music wound to a close he heard fifty humans spring to their feet in a thunderous ovation, but the performer barely noticed them; as he bowed to the crowd, inside he bowed to his beloved.
"Thank you," Rowan whispered, knowing he was heard. "Good night."
With a sigh, he stepped back away from the Tree, turning back to the path that led to the guesthouse, but as he walked, he was smiling.
Part Three
It was a strange feeling, being watched by so many people. It was an audience of fifty, not exactly the Erwin Center, but still, the largest group he had ever played for was about ten, in the relative privacy of the Agency infirmary. This was the auditorium in the Music Department of the University, and as he stepped out onto the stage, he felt something rather alien for him: nervousness, even a little fear.
He came to the center of the stage. The techs had complied with his request to keep the light low--he was used to playing in candlelight, preferably shirtless with a naked Elf watching him from under the covers. At the very least the lighting tech could keep the spot from blinding him.
The symposium people had asked him what he planned to play, so they could print it in the program, and he'd stared blankly at them for a moment before answering that he was going to improvise. Then they'd stared blankly, clearly uneasy at the thought of an unknown musician making it up as he went along during a prestigious event like the symposium. The woman who had contacted him about the event, a professor at the University, had chuckled and told the committee to trust him. They were, he noticed, all in the audience.
He stretched out his senses and swept the crowd quickly as he adjusted the mic and lifted the Tempest to his shoulder; it was habit, assessing potential threat. He recognized a few of the auras, includ
ing Beck's, although she'd pretended not to be interested in coming. Much of the audience was weary. The conference had gone on all day, and this was the last performance. He'd missed a lot of it both because of the daylight hours and because his time was also loaded with casework right now. He'd almost cancelled this whole thing because of the werewolf situation in Round Rock.
He began simply, as always, with a few long notes, letting the violin speak to him--what did they want to create together tonight? Where did she want to take the listeners? This was partly an experiment, to flex the psychic muscles he'd been building over the months. He had learned new ways to use his powers, but they were mostly untested. Building on the simple opening, he layered first one melody, then another, twisting them around on each other. One layer was a mournful Irish traditional, the other a more upbeat Middle Eastern dance, but neither stayed that way for long. One played off another, call and response, and he brought them closer and closer, weaving them into each other so deftly that the audience had no idea he was even doing it until he lifted the entire piece up and turned it on its head. He could feel dozens of heartbeats spiraling into orbit, hear breath catching. He swayed with the melody, left hand dancing along the Tempest's fingerboard, sometimes dizzyingly fast, sometimes circular and slow.
He was winding toward a conclusion when he felt Rowan's presence against his mind.
Even hours away he could sense the trouble in the Elf's heart, and he drew him close, as he always did, making the old offering between them. For Rowan, he transformed the song subtly into an ancient Elvish hymn; the music of the immortals had influenced human art, so the average listener would have claimed the piece was still Celtic in origin. He spun energy into the song and fed it to Rowan until he felt the Elf's gratitude and love resonating back over the distance between them.
Then, and only then, did he finish.
The last note rang out into the auditorium, and for a few seconds there was absolute silence.
Then the storm of applause broke over the room, every last person thundering to her feet, and he lowered the Tempest, letting the power settle around him like a cloak and sink back into his skin.
He bowed, sending wordless love to his Elf, and heard the host of the event concluding the performance. As he left the stage they were still applauding.
Once in the safe darkness of the wings, he slid the Tempest back into her case, mind and body both still buzzing with adrenaline. The audience's reaction had made him a little giddy, he had to admit. He also had to admit he rather liked it. Usually his method of getting attention involved a very large firearm and a long black coat, but being appreciated for the thing he had kept hidden for so long was an undeniable thrill.
He'd intended to slip out the back and disappear for the night, returning to the base and his solitary bed, but as he was walking out, he heard a voice calling him back.
He paused, turning halfway, eyes still on the door.
“I’m sorry,” the voice said again. “I don’t want to keep you, I just…”
“Yes?”
“I had to…what you did in there, it was…”
Smiling faintly, Jason lifted his head, fixing his eyes on the young human…and had to steel himself against his reaction.
The young man was about the same age as Jason was supposed to be, around 25. His brilliant green eyes widened slightly when he saw the vampire, and Jason knew what he was seeing—even the densest human knew, upon meeting one of his kind, that there was something…different…about his appearance, something subtle and dark that was both atavistically frightening and irresistible.
The same, however, could be said for the human, who was lovely in that delicate mortal way, auburn hair falling into his eyes, his lush mouth slightly parted halfway through deciding whether to speak or not. He looked like a renegade angel, content to be cast out of Paradise. He, too, carried a violin, but that was hardly unusual given the climate.
"I've been playing since I was a child, and I've never heard anything like you," the human went on, only stammering a little, which Jason found somewhat impressive given the kind of creature he was facing. "And your instrument...it's lovely."
He knew what was coming next, of course--the boy would ask if she was a Strad, and ask to see her, and Jason would refuse. No one touched her but Rowan and Beck, and no other musician laid a hand on her. "Thank you."
The human smiled. "A deLuca, right?"
At the name, Jason's head snapped back toward him. The human's smile widened, and it had a hint of mischief beneath it that made him even more attractive.
Oh, yes. This was going to be fun.
"As a matter of fact, yes," Jason replied. "1883. How did you know?"
Wordlessly, the boy lifted his case, snapped it open, and lifted the lid.
There were few things that could genuinely shock Jason, but the gleaming instrument revealed to him was more than enough to make his mouth drop open. "My god."
He stared at the violin that could have been the Tempest's younger sister, just a hair smaller, its varnish a shade lighter and with a tinge of gold rather than red. Unable to resist, Jason extended a hand over the instrument, not touching, just feeling; sure enough, he could feel the quiet potential of its power, mostly untapped, almost asleep.
"What is her name?" he asked quietly.
"The Rose of Bristol Heath, officially. I just call her the Rose." He closed the lid, securing the Rose with deft, slender fingers that Jason imagined, for just a second, digging into his shoulders. "My teacher was fascinated by the deLuca instruments. She did exhaustive research into each one of them and tried to track them all down. Apparently this one is named after the area of New York where deLuca lived when he emigrated from Italy."
"Quite true," Jason affirmed. "It was an upscale area, but because it was so newly built it was still bleak and bare."
"So you're a deLuca historian too?"
Jason smiled. "Something like that."
"Um, were you...were you in a hurry to get somewhere? If not, I could...well, I'd love to buy you a drink and hear more about your violin."
Jason met his eyes, and he had to give the boy credit for neither blanching nor looking away the way most humans did. Jason was used to people at the Agency, who were used to him; the mortals out here, in the real world, were day-walkers, normal. They didn't know how to react to whatever they saw when they saw him. He'd seen how their perceptions could change--just look at Sara, who had met him on her knees under suspicion of murder--but he usually didn't bother trying to put them at ease. This boy, however, was special, or at least, he had something special, and Jason couldn't help but be intrigued.
"I'd like that," he said. "Now that I know your instrument's name, could I know yours?"
Humans blushed so prettily. "Oh--sorry. It’s Alex. Alex Jordan.”
Alex held out his free hand, and after a pause Jason took it; the boy’s skin was flushed and warm, and Jason’s eyes narrowed, sensing…something amiss. He looked back up into Alex’s eyes again, this time searching with more than ordinary vision, and took the opportunity, as he inhaled to speak, to breathe in the boy’s scent, evaluating with the additional senses of a vampire.
24 years old; native to Texas, but somewhere north, possibly DFW. Extremely healthy diet, including a variety of supplements. Bi, with a general prejudice toward men, but hadn’t had sex for at least six months…and there, Jason felt an inward sigh, for the last scent that registered was unmistakable.
AIDS. Beneath the stagnant-water tang of the disease itself was the telltale afterscent of pharmaceuticals, a staggering array of them. Jason catalogued each in his mind, weighed that with what he knew of the disease, and discerned that Alex, though outwardly quite healthy, had perhaps six months to live.
Jason clasped his hand a little tighter, almost angry at the injustice of it—he could tell just by how the boy carried himself that he was talented, and to have come into possession of a deLuca at all meant he had the potential to work with the vi
olin at a level the average human couldn’t. All of that possibility, and it would soon be consumed by a mean-spirited virus, and short of turning the boy into a vampire there was nothing Jason could do.
“Jason Adams,” he finally replied, realizing that he’d been silent a hair too long for politeness. “I’ve heard of you, Alex Jordan; you’re supposed to be quite a prodigy.”
He turned back toward the door, beckoning, and Alex fell into step beside him as they left the auditorium. “Well, I’d never heard of you until tonight,” Alex said. “Where have you been all this time?”
Jason drew his coat tighter around in front; there was a nip in the air, the last little bit of Winter breathing out before the great inhalation of Spring. There was almost always a freeze around Easter, but this year they’d avoided it in favor of a few weeks’ more of chilly nights.
“Music isn’t my career,” Jason explained. “It’s always been something I kept private. My lover and my sister finally convinced me to at least go out and make a few acquaintances in the community.”
The Agency, Volume III Page 4
