Fae's Anatomy

by Mindy Klasky

  Alerted by his faithful squirrel, Oberon peered past Dr. Weaver. It took him a moment to drop his gaze, to find me at my gnomish height. At least I got the visceral pleasure of seeing his dryad eyes widen in disbelief.

  He hadn’t known I was glamoured as a gnome. Fae magic called to fae magic, and we’d been bound to each other since we were children. That was how Oberon had followed me down the Thames, across the ocean, along the ley lines to this benighted hospital.

  But I still had the ability to surprise him. Even in my exhaustion, I stood a little straighter, proud to have gotten the better of the man I’d been intended to marry.

  As Oberon’s dryad fingers curled into fists, Dr. Weaver waved him toward a chair. “Have a seat,” the vampire said, clearly unaware of the fae drama playing out around him.

  The Unseelie Prince took the offered seat. I tried to tell myself that was a good sign. He was willing to play along, at least for now.

  The vampire set his fingers on Oberon’s chin, tilting my enemy’s head to get a clearer view of his still-bleeding wound. No one back home would dare to touch a fae prince. But no fae had set foot in the Eastern Empire for centuries; the ancient strictures were long forgotten. And a dispassionate doctor wouldn’t think twice about manipulating a dryad patient.

  “How did this happen?” Dr. Weaver asked. His manner was cool, distant and professional as he pulled open a drawer in a nearby cabinet and fished out several packets of gauze and a bottle of some clear solution.

  Oberon sucked in his breath as the vampire started cleaning the wound. As if to distract himself, he made a half-hearted gesture toward his squirrels. “We were walking by the Tidal Basin,” he said. “Among the cherry trees near the Jefferson Memorial.”

  My not-so-beloved had clearly spent time with his own tutors, and he’d paid a lot more attention than I. I couldn’t have named a single landmark in Washington DC, much less a grove of trees that seemed appropriate enough for a dryad walkabout that the good doctor didn’t flinch.

  Oberon continued his lie. “A group of kids jumped us. One had a gun, and he demanded I hand over my wallet.”

  Wallet. My fingers immediately went to the pouch at my waist. I’d stowed away Dr. Weaver’s wallet without taking a peek. That was standard training, of course. Finish the Game undetected. Study the spoils later.

  But now that I was hidden away, I might as well examine what I’d lifted. There was still a chance that all of this could work in my favor. I could take what I needed from the vampire’s wallet and return the billfold after Oberon left, buying myself additional time before my gnome impersonation was discovered.

  That assumed, of course, that Oberon left. And that I wasn’t leaving with him.

  But that was a fair assumption, because I wasn’t going anywhere with the Unseelie Prince. Not as long as I had a fighting bone left in my body.

  So. The wallet.

  I flipped it open to find a rigid piece of plastic embossed with Jonathan Weaver’s photo—a driver’s license. I’d read about those, just as I’d been instructed in the outside world’s use of charge plates. Er, credit cards, that’s what they were called these days. Jonathan had three—one in black, one in gold, and one in a rather garish red.

  Now that I was prowling through his personal possessions, it seemed appropriate to use the vampire’s given name. Doctor seemed so formal, not at all appropriate for a man who kept a couple of dozen receipts folded every which way inside his wallet.

  Two photographs were stashed among the slips of paper. One showed a human girl, a child of four or five, clad in a sundress and a smile as she offered up a bunch of daisies. The other was a formal picture, a serious young woman in a somber black robe, staring out from beneath a matching square headpiece.

  Both photos caught the glint of green eyes, the slope of a strong nose, the set of a determined jaw. I was staring at Abigail Weaver, the woman who’d been on the television selecting lottery winners.

  The television woman looked to be the same age as Jonathan was now. But everyone knew vampires stopped aging the instant they were turned. Given the evidence in the wallet I now held, I was willing to bet Abigail Weaver was Jonathan Weaver’s daughter.

  “No needle!”

  The shout jolted me back to the hospital emergency room. I clutched the curtain and leaned forward, squinting my gnome eyes to see better.

  Jonathan sat on a wheeled stool in front of Oberon, beside a paper-covered tray that was festooned with crumpled florets of blood-stained gauze. The doctor held a needle in his right hand, the surgical steel—cold iron—already fitted with black silk thread.

  Oberon’s fingers were clamped around the vampire’s wrist, gripping tightly enough to bruise. The squirrels had closed around the pair, chittering away, flashing their puffy tails like battle standards. Their claws scratched the tile floor.

  “No needle,” Oberon repeated, his voice a trifle closer to a dryad’s calm murmur. “I had a nasty experience with them when I was a child.”

  He’d have a nastier one now, if Jonathan had his way. The cold iron would burn Oberon’s face as it sutured. Whatever he’d done to make himself bleed would be nothing compared to that blistering of scorched flesh.

  The vampire pushed back a bit on his stool, cocking his head to get a better look at the wound. “I can try gluing it,” he said. “But it’s deeper than I’d like—”

  “Do it,” Oberon ordered. There wasn’t a dryad in the world who’d ever spoken with such a voice of command. If Jonathan noticed, though, he didn’t say a word.

  I glanced back at the wallet in my broad hands. Driver’s license, credit cards, photos of a long-lost daughter—none of those would do me a bit of good here in the Eastern Empire. But the stash of green-toned bills, shoved into the horizontal compartment that ran the length of the billfold…

  What sort of doctor kept his money jumbled like a drift of fallen leaves? Ones mixed in with twenties. A few fives were scattered through the messy stack. A single hundred-dollar bill was folded in the middle.

  Vampires. I’d always heard they couldn’t organize their way out of an open beehive.

  I riffled through the funds, leaving behind a twenty, a couple of fives, and a handful of ones. With any luck, Jonathan wouldn’t remember how much cash he’d had before I helped myself. He might even think he’d spent the hundred, or it had somehow fallen out of the messy jumble.

  As I slipped my ill-gotten gains into my leather pouch, I discovered another piece of paper in the wallet. The parchment-like page had been folded twice. Its creases were well-worn, as if the document had been handled often.

  I opened it to find a pretty drawing of chrysanthemums and pumpkins. Graceful letters stated:

  Clarice Sanders invites you to the

  wedding of her daughter,

  Abigail Weaver,

  to Matthew Drake

  at the Church of St. Peter

  at 10 a.m. on Saturday, October 31, 20—

  I sucked air between my yellowed gnomish teeth. Jonathan’s daughter was getting married in about six weeks. And from the look of things—the distinct lack of his name on the invitation and the broad-daylight timing of the ceremony—my new vampire friend was not included in the festivities.

  Shaking my head, I returned the worn invitation to the wallet before I resumed spying on the emergency room beyond the curtain. Jonathan was rolling his stool back from Oberon. My not-truly-beloved had a crimson line across his not-truly-a-dryad forehead, a raw seam of glued flesh that glistened slightly in the bright lights.

  Oberon craned his neck, as if he were searching for a more comfortable position. I knew the truth, though. He was eyeing the curtain that hid me.

  Apparently unaware of my immortal danger, Jonathan said, “If you’d like to take a seat, the receptionist should be back from her break in a few minutes.” He waved a hand toward one of those hideous orange chairs. “She’ll be able to take your insurance information and your co-pay and get you on your way.”<
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  Oberon patted his jacket, unsuccessfully searching for his insurance information and his co-pay—whatever those were. “I seem to have…” he started. “It must be right here…” He abandoned his search with an elaborate shrug. “Perhaps you could hold this, until I can return with the appropriate funds?”

  The Unseelie Prince produced a tarnished silver pendant from one of his pockets. Even behind my curtain, I felt the push behind his words, the pressure any fae applied to manage a weak-willed mortal.

  Oberon was working the Pledge Game.

  If I’d had any doubt, the prince’s slim dryad fingers flickered by his side, sending a message in the ancient sign language of our people. Play the Game, he told me. Forgiveness.

  He knew I was watching from behind the curtain, and he expected me to play my part in his charade. I only needed to wait for him to leave. Then I should ask to see the pendant. I’d discover it was a rare piece, immensely valuable beneath its tarnish. I’d stoke Jonathan’s greed so that when Oberon returned, the vampire would pay handsomely to keep the junk.

  The Unseelie Prince would be out the cost of a poorly wrought silver trinket. He and I would share the harvest from Jonathan’s avarice. All I had to do was play the Game, prove my devotion, and my flight from the altar would be forgiven.

  Jonathan, unaware of the plot against him, produced a handkerchief from his pocket. Folding the cotton carefully to avoid any possible contact with the corrosive metal, he gathered up Oberon’s offering. He didn’t speak until the silver was safely stowed in the pocket of his white coat. “Very well,” he said. “But if you’re not here by midnight tomorrow, I’m selling this thing.”

  Oberon looked directly at the curtain between us. “I assure you that will not be a problem.”

  A red mist clouded my poor gnome vision. The Unseelie Prince was certain he was in command. He was positive I would play my role. Like any dumb chattel, I’d follow my master’s lead.

  Oberon waited until he was at the emergency room door before he snapped his fingers, calling his squirrel-formed sycophants to heel. They must have transitioned back to hounds the moment they crossed the threshold because I heard them baying in the garden. The sound spiked the temperature of my near-boiling blood.

  Before the beasts moved out of earshot, Jonathan stripped my curtain away, rattling its hooks in the long metal channel above me. I barely had time to palm his wallet, to keep the billfold from his sight. At least my broad gnomish hands were good for something.

  I let my surprise at the rucked curtain carry me forward two steps, tripping over my foreign toes, catching my beard beneath my feet. As Jonathan steadied me with rock-hard fingers, I angled my body to the right, allowing my hand to brush against the front pocket of his trousers. Another stumble, another shift, and I was back on my feet, his wallet neatly returned to his pants.

  But there was one small problem.

  The vampire gripped my wrist, his fingers as tight as a hawk’s talons. “Give me one good reason,” he said, “why I shouldn’t call the Empire Bureau of Investigation and report you as a thief.”

  3

  “I’m not a thief!” I shouted, like every thief who’s ever thieved in the entire history of thieving. At the same time, I silently cursed my blunt glamoured hands. If I’d been clad in my true form, Princess Titania of the Seelie Court, he never would have caught me.

  His fingers grew tighter around my wrist as he used his free hand to tug away my leather pouch. “And what will I find in here?”

  If I’d been my fae self, I might have pouted. I might have accused him of being a beast, of overpowering my innocence with his cruel and heartless physical aggression. But a short, squat, bearded gnome wasn’t going to elicit the slightest pang of sympathy.

  So I resorted to an out-and-out lie.

  “My money,” I said, pushing enough outrage into the words to drown ten men.

  But, strictly speaking, Jonathan Weaver wasn’t a man. He was a vampire. And judging from the predatory gleam in his narrowed eyes, he wasn’t buying my spluttered protests for a second. Using the bulk of his body to block my exit from the examining room, he released my wrist. It took both hands to open the leather sack. He stared wordlessly at the jumble of bills, tucked among five rather squashed chestnut buns.

  Of course, he couldn’t prove I’d stolen the cash from him. Paper money didn’t come with a provenance, not like the silver pendant Oberon had used for his Game.

  But the fact that Jonathan couldn’t prove I’d stolen from him didn’t keep him from bulling forward, pushing me back into the examining room. One step. Two. My gnome shoulders brushed against the bed that jutted into the center of the room.

  Jonathan loomed over me, his suddenly expressed fangs glinting against his lips. Unbidden, my flat hands pressed my beard against my vulnerable throat as he demanded, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I— I—” I stammered, trying to come up with a cover story.

  I needed medical attention. That wasn’t going to help me; I hadn’t entered the emergency room with anything resembling a medical complaint. I should have fainted on the hospital’s doorstep. Cut myself, as Oberon had done. Raved as if the harpies themselves were following me. Done something, anything, to explain why I’d come to Empire General.

  I came to steal drugs. That’s what hospitals had, right? But my people didn’t rely on hospitals; we had healers and hedge-witches. We used spells and potions. I couldn’t name a single drug that might be stored inside this building.

  I was fleeing my fae fiancé. One glance at my hairy, stocky body gave the lie to that excuse. And until I replenished my magic by sleeping, I couldn’t begin to change back to my native form.

  I couldn’t lie. And with my shoulders jammed against the bed, my knees aching from standing on the tiled floor, I couldn’t even come up with a Game worth playing. Oddly, impossibly, that left me with one option: Tell the truth.

  “I followed the ley lines,” I said.

  “What?” Jonathan snapped. I might as well have spoken in Rivertongue, for the utter disbelief that clouded his face.

  Nevertheless, I sat back on my hairy, determined heels. “I. Followed. The. Ley. Lines.” Now that I’d committed to the actual truth, I wasn’t about to yield any ground.

  Jonathan hissed, a sound more chilling than anything I’d heard during my entire unsettling night. Even if Oberon had set his hounds on me, I knew their behavior. I could try to escape by baffling them with windsong, confusing them with moonshadow.

  I didn’t know the first thing about handling an enraged vampire. And I wasn’t certain I’d live long enough to begin my education, much less complete it.

  “Everyone knows ley lines are a myth,” Jonathan enunciated around his fangs. “You think you can come in here and lie—”

  Okay. He was a vampire, complete with glinting fangs and a surprisingly well-muscled body that towered over me, nearly twice my gnomish height. But he was not going to get away with calling me a liar. Not when I was actually telling him the Green Man’s honest truth.

  “I’m not lying! Just because you aren’t sensitive enough to sense the ley lines—”

  “Sensitive!” he roared.

  I rolled right over his outrage. “Any child—”

  “I am not a—”

  His protest was cut short by the clarion call of an alarm. Swearing, he glanced at his wrist, at the watch that flashed a bright red alert. He stabbed a stiff finger at the square screen, turning off the shrieking reminder.

  I could read the numbers, even upside down. 5:15. With dawn in the offing, it was time for any self-respecting vampire to run to ground.

  Not taking his eyes off me, Jonathan stretched a hand toward the wall. His fingers slipped for only a moment before he found a button there—red, with a single jagged word written in white: EMERGENCY. He punched it, holding it down for nearly a minute until heavy footsteps pounded outside the room.

  The vampire didn’t look away from me a
s a uniformed gargoyle filled the door. Security said the badge across the newcomer’s swelling biceps. “Dr. Weaver?”

  “Jerome,” said the vampire. “Place this gnome on Vampire Ward for the day.”

  The gargoyle looked confused. “Doctor?” he asked. “We’ve got beds open on the elementals ward.”

  “I didn’t ask for a patient census,” Jonathan said. “The Vampire Ward,” he confirmed.

  “Yes, sir,” Jerome said, the acknowledgment rumbling like gravel down a cliff.

  I had no idea what the Vampire Ward was. But common sense said it was cut off from daylight. And judging from the massive key the gargoyle took from the chain at his waist, it was protected by at least one substantial lock.

  “Wait,” I said. “I’m not really a gnome!”

  “Jerome?” Jonathan prompted.

  “I can help you!” I promised, hating the desperate tone that catapulted my words into a squeaking register.

  “Jerome,” the vampire repeated to his security guard, and this time his voice was sharp with command.

  “Don’t do this!” I shouted.

  But the gargoyle’s hands were firm on my thick gnome waist. He didn’t waste time waiting to see if I would take my punishment peacefully. Instead, he slung me over one shoulder, gripping my ankles with a stony hand as he bounced me out of the emergency room, up a flight of stairs, down a deserted corridor, and into a clean, neat hospital room.

  I was still trying to catch my breath as the door slammed close behind me. I could see the gargoyle through the door’s steel-reinforced pane of glass as he fumbled at the massive ring of keys that hung from his waist.

  He lost no time turning the locks on my door—all six of them—every last one fashioned from cold iron.

  4

  I woke, tangled in white sheets that I couldn’t kick free with my unfamiliar short legs. It only took a moment for the previous night’s escapades to stomp on my memory.

  As soon as Jerome had left, I’d tried to beat down the door—an effort that was almost immediately derailed by the discovery that it was made out of galvanized steel. I tried to shatter the glass pane, but it was set too high for my gnomish arms to get a decent angle. I resorted to shouting for a nurse, bellowing until I was hoarse. The gargoyle security guard must have warned them off, telling them I was being detained under Dr. Weaver’s orders.