Bone Walker

by Angela Korra'ti

  In the glow before us his hazel eyes had gone golden-green, sparking with a light of their own. No matter how normal we’d been trying to be that night, the fact remained that my boy was a Warder, the Warder Second of Seattle. With that set to his jaw and his magic drawing upon the ground beneath us, adding to the rising crackle of power, he looked the part.

  I wasn’t about to go anywhere. “Bring it. What do you want me to do?”

  “Get your phone out and call Millicent. But stay ready. I may need your help.”

  He didn’t have to ask twice. I whipped my new smartphone out of the patchwork tote bag slung off my shoulder, unlocked it, and tapped my speed dial for Millicent’s number while Christopher eased closer to the twisting light. His stance didn’t change as he lifted a hand towards the electric radiance. The power thrumming through the earth coursed up to his fingers, a wellspring born out of the wealth of life patterns in a thriving city, ready to let him steady the portal. Or close it, if that was what he needed to do. No passerby would have seen anything remarkable, just a tall young man reaching out for nothing. To my eyes, though, he shone.

  “I am Christopher MacSimidh,” he announced all at once, not loudly, but with a resonance that made each syllable ring out above the distant pounding rhythm from the concert. The lilt of his Newfoundland accent, thicker than usual after singing along with the band, lent music to the rhythm of his speech. “By the Pact between Warder and Sidhe, I bid you, show yourself in peace.”

  Just beside my ear Millicent’s number kicked over to her voice mail. “Millie, this is Kendis,” I said into the phone, never taking my eyes off Christopher. “We’re at the concert and there’s a portal opening up, call us as soon as you get this!”

  On my very last word, as if provoked by Christopher’s cautious tendril of power, the portal abruptly expanded. Blue fire stretched across the entire width of the alley, still uneven in shape, but now a broad rent torn open out of the dark. A man-shaped form dropped through it and landed hard on its hands and knees, swift enough that I yelped in surprise. Christopher’s reaction time was better than mine. He let loose some of the magic he’d called out of the earth, stabilizing the hole in the air and easing it closed. It was impressive, really—he’d been doing plenty of practicing of his own under old Millie’s guidance—but truth be told, I barely noticed. I was too busy being thunderstruck by what had just fallen out of the portal.

  Or rather, who.

  “Oh God, no way,” I burst out. “No fucking way!”

  The figure on the ground had no shirt or shoes, and the form-fitting pants that were his only clothing had seen far better days. A long tear down one leg showed bruises and streaks of blood beneath, and what flesh the trousers didn’t cover was in similarly dire straits. Half-healed scars crisscrossed his back, and skin that should have gleamed with the translucence of moonlight looked bone-pale with fatigue and cold. Black hair that I’d last seen styled into quite the retro pompadour was reduced to an unkempt mop. For an instant I hesitated, stunned by this piteous appearance; was I really seeing who I thought I was?

  When he looked up at me, though, I was sure. So was Christopher, who swore as he and I both charged forward in a rush of reaction. But the newcomer’s large, wavering smile stopped me in my tracks, a smile that clued me in that nobody was home behind his eyes. He tried to rise, to push up to his knees in a ghost of his normal grace. Maybe he was trying to bow? I couldn’t tell and didn’t care, and yet I couldn’t help wincing as he promptly pitched forward onto his face.

  “My dear Miss Thompson,” he said on the way down, in a Tennessee drawl I knew to be as false as a six-dollar bill, “we’ve jes’ gotta stop meetin’ this way.”

  Oh yeah, I knew him. He was a bard of the Unseelie Court, a singer who shamelessly exploited his coincidental resemblance to a young Elvis Presley, modulo tapered ears, and eyes that gleamed like sapphires—or would have, at least, in proper health. Like me, he was a mage, though he was many centuries my senior and had had much more time to master his power.

  His name was Elessir a’Natharion.

  And he’d tried to kill me.

  Chapter Two

  He’d made it. No sun shone, not in a night sky streaked with autumn clouds. But mortal-crafted lights pierced the darkness, providing almost too much brightness for his dazzled eyes. The breeze carried the scents of water and a nearby gathering of a great many people, and that too pushed his overloaded senses almost past bearing. Chill air struck his skin even as his hands and knees slammed into unforgiving pavement, leaving him trembling and breathless.

  And there was music, unrestrained in its ebullience, somewhere close. He might almost have giggled at that if not for the voice purring up from somewhere deep within him, or the cold lodged in his chest—against which the rising heat everywhere else in his flesh seemed all the fiercer.

  Well done, my sweet, oh well done. She’s a pretty one, isn’t she?

  There were two faces before him. The pale one blurred in and out of his sight as he collapsed, but the dark one, the one with the golden eyes, he saw clearly. You can’t have her, he wanted to tell the voice inside him, though he couldn’t quite make the thought coalesce. It was too hard to find it amidst Melorite’s laughter, or in the unexpected rush of relief that swamped him as he babbled a greeting to those eyes. What words he uttered, he had no idea. Yet it seemed critical somehow that he address them, and hold fast to the name that fueled their astonished gaze.

  Miss Thompson.

  * * *

  “Jesus thundering Christ!” Christopher erupted. His accent surged up even stronger in the rush of his anger, turning the words to Jaysus t’underin’ Christ. “We’re missing the show for him?”

  We’d wound up on either side of the fallen Sidhe, looking at each other in consternation, and I scowled down at the figure at our feet. Elessir had much to answer for, teaming up as he’d done with my uncle and his lackeys and helping them kidnap Christopher and me. Tonight gave me new offenses to add to his list—not only my interrupted date, but also the disappointment brimming underneath Christopher’s ire. He tamped it down, but I spotted the brief liquid glimmer in his eyes nonetheless. For making Christopher miss music from fellow Newfoundlanders, I wanted to kick the Unseelie singer right in the ribs.

  Problem was, he looked like somebody had beaten me to it.

  All at once I remembered what else Elessir had done when Malandor had turned on him and doomed him to be sacrificed with Christopher and me to the demon Azganaroth. Though he’d taken a literal knife in the back along with the figurative, Elessir had thrown his lot in with us and helped us break out of the chains that bound us within a circle of power. Not long after the dust had settled, his angry Queen had caught up with him and hauled him back to Faerie, ready to unleash upon him whatever punishment she’d find warranted for conspiring against her with members of the Seelie Court.

  I hadn’t said anything to stop Luciriel then; I hadn’t known what to say. The guilt of that had never quite subsided, and it rose up now, fighting with the guilt Christopher’s expression threw me. From all the way back to the amphitheater I heard the band gearing up into a still livelier number, full of fiery fiddle playing that made me want to moan with admiration and envy. Christopher and I both glanced back the way we’d come. “I’ll stay,” I blurted. “I’ll wait for Millie if you want to go back.”

  He clearly did, but with a palpable effort Christopher hauled his gaze back to me. “It wouldn’t be the same without you, and security probably won’t let me back in.” Then his gaze dropped back down to the Unseelie, and his crooked wisp of a smile faded. “And even if they would, this one’s Warder business.”

  I blew out a breath and bobbed my head. “Let’s get him up.”

  For no good reason I could name, save for a fleeting thought that I was less physically intimidating than Christopher, I kneeled first. It wasn’t exactly sound planning. Elessir was obviously ill—his glance up to me had been glazed with delirium, and
lurid flushes of color heightened his otherwise haggard complexion, punctuation for the febrile heat that radiated off his skin. I had only a couple months of magical training under my belt, but even I could guess that a delirious mage was a dangerous mage. There was no telling how Elessir would react to us.

  He’d recognized me, though. Thinking I could use that, I leaned down and tried to roll him towards me, as gently as I could. “Elessir,” I said. “Wake up. It’s Kendis. Come on.”

  Elessir convulsed at my touch, a wild thrashing of motion that more or less got him slumping in my arms. I grimaced and fought to catch my breath at how he reeked. My senses had grown significantly keener over the last couple of months, and up close, I almost choked on the stench of sweat and blood and sickness. “W-what?” he stammered. “Where am—did I—”

  “You’re safe. You’re in Seattle. Do you know who I am?”

  His eyes, dulled to nearly black, focused on my face. “Miss Thompson,” he said after a moment, his voice thin and small.

  That name would do as well as any; I wasn’t feeling anywhere near charitable enough to let him call me Kendis. “It’s me. Can you walk? Christopher and I can get you to a hospital.”

  “No!” Panic flooded Elessir’s face, and before I could stop him, he burrowed frantically against my chest, trying to cling to me, trying to hide. All that kept me from violently shoving him away were the tremors rattling through his frame and the broken syllables he muttered, slurring in and out of his affected drawl, turning his voice from honey to silver and back again. “Pl-please, darlin’… don’t let ’em get me… the healers of the Queen of Air and Darkness heal only what she deems is wrong!”

  Shit. I looked up at Christopher, whose expression was as aghast as mine. He mouthed “phone” down at me nonetheless. As soon as I’d left the voice mail for Millie, I’d shoved my phone into a pocket. I was eager to fish it out again, even one-handed, and thrust it at him so he could try the old Warder woman again. We could handle Elessir—I hoped—but she was going to have to know about this, even if it was liable to make her spit kittens.

  What the hell had happened to him anyway? Did I even want to know? As Christopher called I studied the singer, conscious of guilt and more concern than I wanted to admit. I hadn’t laid eyes on another Sidhe since the demon incident, which had been just fine with me. The Seelie Court under Queen Amelialoren’s orders had left me to my own devices. None of the Unseelie had shown their faces in Seattle either, not with two cranky Warders seeing to its protection. I’d fared well enough, or so I’d told myself, with Millicent helping me get a handle on the magic my mother had passed down to me.

  Yet, blessed though Millicent and Christopher were with their Warder talents, they were both human. And as much as I adored them, something restless in my blood locked on to the sight of Elessir and whispered this one is like me. I didn’t welcome the feeling. I liked the terror in Elessir’s eyes even less.

  “Hush.” I cradled the Unseelie against me and smoothed tangled hair back from his face. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

  “Do you promise, Miss Thompson?”

  I’d heard Elessir a’Natharion bewitch an entire bar, including me, with the strength of his singing. It disturbed me to hear that voice drained of its power now. He sounded like—no, I corrected myself before that thought could finish, not a child. Like a ghost, and a wary one at that, unconvinced that I could call it back to life.

  And one who even in the grip of fever could call for my vow, I noted. My skin prickled with disquiet. One of the first things I’d learned about my mother’s people was that lying was anathema to them, even the Unseelie. I didn’t want to consider what it meant that Elessir could beg for my word now.

  Once more I glanced up at Christopher. He’d gotten through to Millicent, for as I met his eyes he was saying into the phone, “Aye, we’ll get him to shelter. Come fast, Millie, we’re needing you.” While he spoke he nodded at me, just once, with a curtness that belied the concern in his gaze.

  “Do you promise?” Elessir repeated, dragging my attention back to him. Fright was laced through that hoarse demand, enough that I was dead sure I didn’t want to know what had caused it. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder.

  “I promise,” I said. Only then did the Sidhe subside, pressing his face against me with a choked and shuddering breath that might as well have been a sob. I could do nothing but hold him, as awkwardly as if he were made of fractured glass, and murmur into his hair, “We’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

  Now all I had to do was figure out how to make good on my word.

  * * *

  In the end we had to call Jude as well as Millicent, since neither Christopher nor I had a vehicle, and nothing short of the city in flames would induce Millie to get herself and her failing eyesight behind the wheel of her ancient car. Nor did I get an answer when I tried to call back to my place for my housemates Carson and Jake. Lucky for us, Jude was already downtown, even though she’d declined to join us at the concert. She’d already had a dinner date with a woman she’d known in college in town for a conference. Pulling her away from that gave me yet another thing to guilt-trip over for the evening, but we had no other choice. Getting Elessir an ambulance wasn’t an option.

  Nor was moving him very far, for that matter. Half naked, feverish, and bleeding, he was barely able to stay conscious, much less make it to his feet. Plus he kept shivering in the cool October air, but that at least we did something about—or rather, Christopher did, reaching into my bag to fetch the T-shirt we’d bought him at the concert swag table.

  “That’s yours,” I protested.

  Christopher didn’t look my way as he crouched on Elessir’s other side and shifted him away from me, making the room he needed to tug the slate-green shirt onto the Unseelie’s slack form. “He’ll stand out a bit less this way.” His voice was stoic, his motions a trifle too forceful, too controlled. I caught his hand and said his name, and he met my eyes at last.

  “I’m sorry,” I said weakly. The last roaring bars of the band’s main set finished up from the amphitheater, and a few moments after, the crowd erupted into an exultant three-syllable chant of the band’s name, hungry for an encore. This time Christopher kept himself from looking in the show’s direction, which gave me a full-on view of his unhappy face.

  “They’ll come back,” he said.

  “We’ll see them,” I answered, and that too was a promise.

  Jude’s truck pulled up at the other end of the alley then, and I’d never been happier to see her leap out of it in all my life. She was dressed a little more upscale than I usually saw her, and at any other time I might have marveled at the sight of her decked out in a colorful print blouse, jewelry, and even a bit of makeup. Not tonight. Nor did she give me time to comment, for the first words out of her mouth were a sharp outburst of Spanish. She bit those back hard, and as she hurried over to join us, she exclaimed instead, “What in God’s name is he doing here?”

  “Damned if I know,” I said, grabbing hold of the ailing singer so I could hoist him off the ground. Elessir was almost out cold again, and he lolled between Christopher and me, his head drooping as we pulled him more or less upright. “We caught him falling through a portal, and he’s out of his head.”

  Brown eyes wide, Jude took this in, and then promptly whirled to throw open the passenger door of her truck. “Right then. Where are we taking him?”

  “My place. Millicent’s meeting us.”

  It took some doing to get Elessir into the truck. Though he was slimmer of frame, he was almost as tall as Christopher, and he was just awake enough to feebly resist our efforts to carry him where we needed him to go. Blank-eyed, without a trace of recognition, he struggled against Christopher’s grasp in particular. Power rolled between them for an instant, and I couldn’t tell from whom. Before it could solidify I tugged hard at Elessir’s shoulders, breaking their contact and trying not to lurch as I bore his weight against my own.
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br />   “Elessir!” I ordered. “Remember what I said! You’re safe!”

  Frustration made my voice harsher than it probably should have been, but then again, it worked. Elessir blinked owlishly at me, murmuring in confusion, “Miss Thompson…?”

  I didn’t want my voice to gentle, not when the Unseelie’s arm had curled around my shoulders and Christopher’s expression had darkened from stoic to thunderous. It gentled nevertheless. “Go on, get in, okay? Let us get you somewhere you can rest.”

  That last word made his brow furrow, as if the very concept were somehow alien to him. His mouth moved, nearly soundlessly. Christopher and Jude, with hearing no more sensitive than any other human’s, most likely missed the way he breathed that single syllable, longingly, like a prayer. I caught it, however, and a sharp-edged sympathy rose up to slice at my throat.

  “Rest…”

  Elessir no longer resisted me, though; that was the important thing. He let me help him into the front seat of Jude’s truck and buckle him in, though I had to urge him once more to calm down when the straps confining him at the chest and waist almost set him off all over again. At the sound of my voice he settled, lapsing at last into true unconsciousness. It was with as much trepidation as relief that I closed the truck door on him and followed the others to the vehicle’s opposite side.

  Christopher held the door open so I could get in first. That this put me behind Elessir didn’t escape my notice, but I made a point of ignoring that. As Jude took her place at the wheel and got us going, I reached over and twined my fingers through Christopher’s, just to let him know I hadn’t forgotten he was there.

  Every muscle in his hand was taut. As he wrapped his fingers round mine, they clutched with an almost painful strength, the first real sign of exactly how much disappointment he was trying to suppress. Then, with a sour glance at the inert form up front, he muttered to me, “This had damn well better be worth missing ‘Mari-Mac,’ is all I’m saying.”