Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  “But there really wasn’t any choice, anyway, was there? This has all happened before. You and I, I mean. Every time I—she—comes back, the two of you meet and something ends up killing me—us—” Eyes wide in growing consternation, Claryce shook her head. “I don’t know who I am! I just know that I’ll die and then some new version will eventually come along . . . if you aren’t killed first, that is.”

  I took her by both arms and made her meet my gaze. “This ends here, Claryce! I won’t lose you—”

  “You mean her—Cleolinda—”

  “You.” I leaned dangerously close, but I had to make her see the truth. “There’s a part of her in you. I won’t deny that. It’s very likely the reason for the reincarnations happening. I don’t know. Even Diocles can’t explain it from his side—”

  “Diocles? Who’s he?”

  I wanted to bite off my tongue for letting him slip into the conversation. Had he heard me now, he would’ve no doubt smiled victoriously at my lapse. “Someone who knows about the afterlife,” I answered vaguely. “Not important otherwise. The point is, Cleolinda is part of my past; you’ve become part of my here and now.”

  She clearly wanted to believe me. I suppose I should’ve done like Valentino and swept her in my arms, but there was one very good reason I couldn’t. I still hoped to break the curse between us, and the only way I could think of was to make certain that at some point Claryce and I parted ways forever. Unfortunately, Oberon—and it seemed Her Lady as well—wouldn’t let that happen. I had to keep Claryce close to me until I could see to it that neither would toy with her ever again.

  That was assuming that I didn’t die first.

  More and more of a clamor arose outside as the cops pretended to be what they were supposed to be and mopped up the mess inside the barrelhouse. I knew we were taking a risk staying so near to the activity, but I refused to bring Claryce back to the main house until I could be certain that whatever hints of Feirie surrounded it could be contained by me.

  She continued to wait hopefully for more from me. When I did nothing but release her and step back, she looked openly disappointed. Nodding slowly, Claryce retired to the room I’d previously set aside for her, then shut the door behind her.

  I noticed Fetch eyeing me. “What?”

  He looked guilty. “Nothing, Master Nicholas . . . nothing.”

  Fetch didn’t deserve my anger, but I was suddenly in too foul a mood to care. I had a sudden, growing concern on my mind that had much to do with Claryce’s situation. Ignoring the shapeshifter, I abandoned the upstairs for the silence of the old hat shop. Down there, among the dust, I tried to clear my thoughts.

  But no sooner had I tried to sit down in the back than I heard a voice out front. Moving cautiously to the crack on the front window, I peered out.

  Claryce peered back at me from across the street.

  I instantly knew I’d made a mistake and tried to pull back.

  When I did, it was to find myself back in the main house.

  I was upstairs in the bedroom I used. Everything was as it had been when last I’d been here except for the placement of the painting back on the wall. Leonardo’s Cleolinda stood praying anxiously while St. George did battle with the dragon. It was a scene almost as fanciful as the actual event had been dangerous, but for the first time I noticed something he’d done in the course of creating it, something with Leonardo’s typical cleverness.

  I’d always seen myself eyeing my foe. The obvious thing. Now, though, standing exactly where I was, I saw that my gaze was elsewhere.

  “St. George” was looking at the princess.

  It was too much of a reminder of what I could be losing again. I started for the painting . . .

  “A beautiful piece of art,” she said from behind me.

  Her voice might’ve sounded exactly like Claryce’s, but I knew that she was the changeling. Her Lady had managed to heal the wounds of her puppet, and the false Claryce looked whole.

  “I know you’re not her. Stop pretending.”

  The changeling already stood too close. I couldn’t be sure whether this was a dream or I’d been transported by the Feirie arts back to the actual house, but either way I didn’t want her any closer.

  “Poor dear Nick,” she murmured, stretching forth a hand to me. “Won’t you hold me?”

  I took a step back . . . and yet suddenly her hand was on my cheek, and she herself was only inches away. She looked and even smelled like Claryce, yet I reminded myself again that not only was Claryce far from here, but she wouldn’t have acted like this, especially considering how I’d treated her.

  “I won’t hold you, and I don’t even want to touch you.”

  Her other hand reached behind me, and opened a door. I realized that I now stood in front of the closet in the room I’d given Claryce.

  With the hand by my cheek, the changeling tried to push me into the closet. I grabbed the hand and spun us around, sending her inside instead.

  It was a waste of effort. The room, the closet, the entire house vanished. I stood in a massive tangle of dark green oaks, with an underbrush so thick it would’ve been a battle just to take a step in any direction. Worse, I could feel that I wasn’t alone. There were eyes everywhere, eyes from a number of different creatures who all shared one and one thing only.

  They served as loyal followers of Her Lady’s Court.

  It was impossible that I should be in Feirie. That would require crossing the Gate. I’d have felt that passage in my bones and even if I hadn’t, the dragon would’ve said something.

  Of course, he wasn’t saying anything, despite our surroundings, and that worried me, too.

  The murky forest shimmered as if swayed by some unfelt wind. The Court could be seen in many ways. I’d known it in several forms but had seen it like this, too. I thought it generally matched Her Lady’s moods and, if I was right, her mood was a bad one.

  Her darling Gatekeeper . . .

  Two of the trees became the tall backrest of an ebony throne. Its top was decorated by two black birds facing opposite directions, but each with one vile, red eye toward me. A third perch at the center of the backrest stirred my suspicions.

  The other trees receded. Faint firefly lights gathered around the open grove, giving as much illumination as one could find in true Feirie.

  Some of the half-seen shapes coalescing around me moved nearer as the trees retreated. I reached into my coat. The simple act made the shapes stop.

  “That’s better,” I growled confidently.

  Her darling Gatekeeper . . . she repeated, again using the third person, now that the changeling was not involved. Her voice wafted through my mind, its very essence seducing and frightening at the same time. These were her greatest tools—seduction and fear. I steeled myself against both, aware that, even together, the dragon and I had to be careful.

  There was movement from my left. I glimpsed a stretched out figure with long, narrow features, who melted into the shadows almost as quickly as he appeared. Even though I didn’t catch a good look at the face, I knew him for one of Kravayik’s kind, the highest caste in Feirie, that from which Oberon and his queen had been spawned. That I’d seen him at all meant that I’d managed to keep him from doing whatever mischief he’d been commanded to do by Her Lady. That would earn him some slight punishment later, but I didn’t care. I had no friend in the Feirie Court.

  “Her darling Gatekeeper,” the changeling murmured in my ear from the opposite side.

  I pulled away, moving more quickly than I should’ve. I’d just marked my unease, a potential point of weakness to those of the Court.

  “A pale imitation,” I remarked, staring at the changeling. “Both you and this place.”

  Her eyes—no longer at all like Claryce’s—burned black. I knew that mood, having seen it before. She suddenly flung her arms back, and, as she did, those arms became black wings. Her face twisted into an avian one and she shrank rapidly.

  While there was no
discernible difference between this black bird and the other two, I knew right away that this was the one that’d helped me for so long. Small wonder I’d never been able to figure out why it’d been exiled; it’d been a spy for Her Lady, even pretending to be shocked when her sentinel stirred. Her Lady must’ve laughed quite a lot.

  The black bird fluttered up to the center perch, one ebony eye fixed on me. As it settled, Her Lady rose.

  The shadowy figures of the Court receded farther, as the slim figure of their queen flowed toward me. She was tall, very tall, and her long, midnight hair shifted around her face, always partially obscuring it, but leaving enough visible to tantalize. Her Lady was beautiful, very beautiful, but her beauty was also that of a pale, drowned corpse. To love her was to love death, which was why the only one who could handle her had been Oberon.

  Her darling Gatekeeper . . . you should have come to her long before this . . .

  “I’d no plans to come to you at all. Oberon is my responsibility, one that would’ve been easier to handle if I’d been let in on all the little secrets!”

  She raised her left hand, and, although she still wasn’t near enough to touch me, I felt a caress across my chest. Inside, I sensed the dragon withdraw more.

  She keeps no secrets from you, Gatekeeper . . . you only fail to see them . . .

  Her Lady likely believed what she said, seeing things through black, Feirie orbs. She suddenly stood next to me, her blood-red lips near my own.

  Let her show you things . . .

  I could’ve and was supposed to take that in more than one way. When I didn’t move, Her Lady stretched one impossibly long, tapering hand before us.

  Here is your friend . . . Alejandro the Courageous . . . finding what the mongrel was supposed to lead him to . . .

  “Mongrel” referred to Fetch, who had been given no name that I knew of when he’d served Her Lady in Feirie. I saw the chaos of the shootout in the barrelhouse. In the distance, I faced off against Doolin.

  Then Fetch broke in nearer to the center of the image. He landed on top of one of Doolin’s mob, sending the man crashing face-first to the floor. I watched in horrific expectation for Fetch to rip out the back of the hood’s neck, but, instead, Fetch scared off another gunman, then began scratching at a long, covered bench atop which several barrels of hooch’d been set.

  He scratched long enough that his work caught the attention of Cortez. The good detective started toward the covered bench.

  That was when Fetch made the mistake of facing Cortez. Fetch in the midst of battle didn’t look like any hound. He looked close to the monster he’d once been and, when he took a step toward the detective, that was all Cortez needed. Already wound up from the fight, Cortez fired with precision.

  Before the bullets could strike, Her Lady caused the scene to change. There were cops everywhere, all of them trying to look earnest as they cleaned up. In the midst of it all, Cortez knelt by the covered area, searching.

  He removed a false panel. I heard him murmur a prayer in Spanish. Cortez reached in . . . and, for the first time in some sixteen centuries, I beheld the very thing that’d started my curse.

  It was long, made of good, strong iron, and very simple in its sleekness. Its point was long and sharp. It was a Roman spear, one that legends said had been broken into a thousand pieces. In fact, it’d only broken in two, but, even then, the front part had done its work. I’d used my sword for the mercy blow, though it hadn’t turned out be that merciful, considering how both the dragon and I had ended up.

  Cortez had found my spear, the one stolen alongside my armor from the Art Institute.

  But something didn’t ring true. “This was Capone’s bunch,” I muttered, not caring if Her Lady knew Scarface. “Oberon’s been dealing with Moran and the North Siders.”

  I sensed rather than saw her amusement. Her darling Gatekeeper knows so much about the other realm . . .

  It sounded like a compliment, but it wasn’t. I understood immediately what she meant. I’d been naive enough to think that Oberon had been the one behind the theft of the relics, but he’d only pretended that. Her Lady’s agents had been behind the theft, taking what Oberon had assumed safe in plain sight at the Institute. He hadn’t counted on the one being as twisted in her way of thinking as him to figure out what he’d done.

  I watched Cortez carefully oversee the removal of not only the spear but the bits of armor. Images of myself wearing those pieces flashed through my head. I refought battles and marched across a dozen landscapes. I knelt before my trusted lord Diocletian while the ambitious Galerius watched from behind him.

  Beware . . . whispered a male voice.

  The dragon’s warning stirred me from the glamour Her Lady had been slowly and stealthily weaving about me. I was usually more on guard, but the vision of the spear had taken me unaware, which was all she’d needed. It didn’t matter that I was her best hope against Oberon; she was mistress of Feirie, and her very nature demanded that she try to make me her slave.

  I brought the point of the blessed dagger to her breast. It was the thing that she’d had one of her servants try to take. Her Lady didn’t show any change of emotion at my threat, even offering her open décolletage to my blade. Still, I noticed that her attempt to play with my mind had stopped.

  The image changed one last time. Under Cortez’s guidance, three uniformed cops brought the spear and armor—now all wrapped in cloth—into the police station.

  She protects her Darling Gatekeeper, Her Lady said, seeming to forget that she’d just tried to enslave me. They are locked there . . .

  So although Cortez was an innocent, there were those in the precinct who willingly or unwillingly served Her Lady directly. And Chicago just thought it had a bootlegger war to deal with.

  “Thanks, I guess.” I purposely replaced the dagger in order to show her I had no fear here. I’d taken enough stock of my surroundings to better understand it. We were nowhere near the Gate, so I could never have crossed without realizing it. Instead, somehow, Her Lady had created a “bubble,” a place outside of Feirie that offered a limited access to the mortal realm. It wasn’t stable, which meant that she’d prepared for this particular confrontation before daring to open the bubble up. Oberon’s reappearance had probably been the impetus.

  I heard the flutter of wings and suddenly “Claryce” stood before me again. At the same time, Her Lady vanished.

  “My darling Gatekeeper . . . this is more your preference? Would you serve me like this?”

  I actually found the image of Claryce acting like Her Lady revolting, but I didn’t come out and say it. Instead, I let my growing fury at her need to play games at this critical juncture take command. “No more games with her or anyone else. You understand that? You’ve already broken the sanctity of the Gate more than once, which puts you on his level. I might understand that considering what’s at stake, but I won’t forgive your manipulation of her!” For good measure, I tossed in Cortez. “And leave the detective be, too . . .”

  The full, ebony eyes of Her Lady briefly shone through, as she revealed a hint of her own anger at being spoken to in such a manner. Then the changeling reverted to the black bird form and flew past me.

  I admit it. I made the mistake of following instinct and turning back to watch it.

  I stood in front of the closet again. The door was still open, but what greeted me inside was only the closet’s interior. The bubble Her Lady’d created had either finally collapsed or, more likely, she’d sealed it off again to conserve whatever little stability remained of it.

  Vertigo struck me. The room spun, then darkened.

  I was back in the safe house . . . or rather, the millenary shop.

  But I wasn’t alone. I spun around, my hand already reaching for Her Lady’s gift.

  In the sinister light of its illumination, I made out the outline of Claryce. I didn’t lower the blade.

  “Nick . . . Nick, what are you doing? You were gone again! I couldn’t . .
. I came searching for you . . .” Her eyes glistened from moisture—tears. Tears with more than a touch of anger, though. “Damn you! All these comings and goings! All these secrets! You can’t close me off. You have to let me know what you’re doing and where you’re going!”

  I listened closely, but for more than one reason. I was certain that Her Lady couldn’t have successfully imitated the concern I heard in that voice. Nor could she have had the changeling create such an intense expression as I beheld then. There was true fear . . . fear for me who didn’t deserve such strong emotion.

  Despite the deadly blade, Claryce reached for me. “Nick . . .”

  I dropped Her Lady’s gift on the floor as if were just one more dusty piece abandoned by the hat shop’s former owners. Claryce melted into my arms and, despite all my misgivings about drawing her to me, I held her as tight as I could. We stood like that for probably more than minutes . . . and then she looked up and kissed me.

  I knew I was probably condemning her, but I returned the kiss.

  CHAPTER 21

  Fetch stood at attention when I rejoined him. He looked wary, not a sign I liked.

  “Master Nicholas . . .”

  “You all yourself again?”

  “Right as rain.” His tone didn’t match his remark, though. I had a suspicion about what bothered him, and he confirmed it immediately. “Master Nicholas . . . ’twas not by luck I found ye when I did. I was sent there, and only smellin’ Mistress Claryce nearby did I suspect worse was afoot.”

  I signaled for him to lower his voice. Claryce was asleep. I wanted her to rest, to forget for a few hours the madness Oberon and I had dragged her into. My mind was already filled with regrets for my lapse. Now, I didn’t know how I’d keep her from the thick of danger. “How long’s she been controlling you again?”

  He knew I wasn’t referring to Claryce. Ears flattening and tail between his legs, the lycanthrope replied, “Not long. Days only. After the—the bird—told us about her sentinel in the area . . .”