by Rowan Casey
The Dubh Sithe pushed a button at the neck of the contraption and it swung open down a right-hand side hinge. With an exaggerated wave he showed the smooth interior to the crowd.
He snapped his fingers…and a forest of vicious six-inch spikes sprung out, then just as quickly retracted, leaving behind only the metallic echo of their passing.
The crowd went quiet as the girl stepped into the maiden. Her skirt proved too full to fit. She pulled it off in one smooth motion to a chorus of cheers. She performed an impromptu high-kicking chorus-girl routine before the Dubh Sithe swiveled the other half of the contraption into place, closing her inside. He raised an arm, the chains rattled, and the girl lifted an inch off the floor.
The band played a carousel theme as the Maiden, and the girl inside it, rose above the stage. The chains clattered noisily, raising her up over the heads of the crowd and swinging her out to hang suspended over the great painted wolf.
The music stopped, the chains fell quiet, and the crowd in the church went silent as the Dubh Sithe raised his arms. He clapped his hands. The band hit a huge vibrating minor chord in perfect time…but the sound of the spikes emerging was louder.
The girl screamed.
The Maiden, chains and all, fell to the floor. The audience scattered like ants from beneath. Someone squealed but it was soon cut off. Silence fell…until the crowd realized that the girl wasn’t there. The Maiden fell open with an echoing clang—it was empty except for a swarming mass of blood-red butterflies that fluttered softly upwards.
The Dubh Sithe floated away to the back of the stage. The band started a four bar repeating riff. It slowly grew in depth and volume until almost everybody in the hall jerked in time.
The Dubh Sithe floated to the front of the stage again.
The band brought the sound down to a slow heartbeat.
"And now we have begun!" he cried. "Are you hungry for more?"
The butterflies fell like snow around the conjuror. He snapped his fingers, and they burst into a dancing swirl of flames. With a wave of his hand the magician sent them out over the audience. The crowd moved aside as the tiny fires settled on the head of the painted wolf, giving it a semblance of squirming life.
Suddenly the flames flared. The pair of bats swooped and joined the conflagration, adding their burning flesh to the searing heat, causing the crowd to step further back.
The fires died as quickly as they came, leaving a rough pillar of red ash behind.
"The prelude is almost over," the Dubh Sithe said. "It is written that the Hebrew god turned a wicked woman into a pillar of salt."
He jumped off the stage and the crowd parted to let him pass.
"Let us see if we can do it the other way round shall we?"
He approached the pillar and, impossible as it seemed, drew a long wooden staff from within his clenched fist. I knew that trick myself—and wondered whether maybe Face wasn't the one-of-a-kind thing I thought her to be.
The band stepped up the beat, keeping time with the Dubh Sithe as he began a complex swirling dance around the column. The quarter-staff missed the ash by millimeters on each pass, and on each pass it edged closer. It wasn’t long before he was shaving small puffs of ash from the column with every stroke.
Like a master sculptor filmed in fast-forward, a figure emerged as the ash was stripped off.
With one last flourish he tapped the figure’s head hard. The red dust fell away.
The black-haired girl shook ash from her hair and grinned widely.
The crowd stamped their feet, howling and cheering as the magician led her back to the stage, where she jumped up beside the band.
The keyboard player led the rest into ‘Riders on the Storm.’ Rain started to fall inside the church, a red rain that turned to steam and fog in a thick layer just above our heads. The band got into the groove and the crowd swayed in time, heads down, feet stomping.
A crowd of dancers encircled the wolf’s head. An inner track of black-clad figures tramped counter-clockwise, heads down, marching in time with the band. Beyond that a second track marched clockwise and, even as I watched, a third, counter-clockwise ring started to form.
The band stepped it up a gear and the circles spun ever faster.
Once more the Dubh Sithe came to the front of the stage. The band took the noise down so that he could be heard.
"We are of the dark," he said. He raised his hands, and all light in the hall went out save for one red spotlight that illuminated his face from below. It was an old trick, but still an effective one.
"Long ago there was a night when the pack ran free and hunger never came. Soon we will bring that time around again. Patience little brothers and sisters…patience."
He drifted to the back of the stage. Through the dry-ice smoke I saw him lead the black-haired girl away behind the curtain.
That was my cue. I made my way stage-side.
Nobody stopped me as I jumped up and followed the band behind the curtain.
3
I exited through the door I found straight ahead of me and came out into open night air where I'd expected there to be a backstage dressing room area. But, dressing room or not, as I had suspected, my countryman was already trying to persuade the black haired girl of the many virtues of sex-magic. He had her pinned against a long silver SUV out in the back car parking area, with a hand on either side against the bodywork to stop her from squirming free. His face pressed up close to hers even as she tried to turn away. She wasn't quite so enamoured of her place in the spotlight now that she'd found out the cost of it.
She tried again to push the man away, but he was too big, too strong, too intent on having his way with her. My white-knight genes—or maybe it was just common decency—kicked in and I stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder. I let him hear the accent as it should be, unadorned by any L.A. influences.
"Maybe if you leave that lassie alone you'll get to walk way with all your teeth."
He turned and, in the same movement, pulled his quarter-staff out of his right hand grip. I'd seen that trick already and was ready for it. I had Face turned in my pocket so that I could draw my own weapon—she slid it through smoothly from the shadow this time, like pulling a sword from a scabbard.
If I expected a reaction, the one I got wasn't anything I could have imagined. The highlander looked me up and down and smiled widely.
"Well, well. Another Seton?" he said. "You're a long way from home, but I'm pleased to meet you, cousin."
The girl had already scuttled away somewhere into the darkness—I had to assume she was away and safe, because by then my opponent, taking advantage of my momentary confusion over him knowing my name, leapt forward to press his advantage. Only reflexes and youth saved me from getting my skull cracked. I got my staff up just in time and the two old woods cracked against each other with a retort as loud as gunshot.
"You're a fast one; this will be fun," the highlander said, and took a low guard as I replied with an attack of my own. Then there was no time, no thought, for anything but flow and rhythm, attack and defense as we stepped in the ritual around the clear spaces between the vehicles in the parking bay. We rang the rounds, beating them out like drum rolls—he was good—fast and strong and practiced—but I was younger—and faster still. It didn't take me more than a minute to know that I had the beating of him any time I wanted to. The problem was, he was so good that I'd have to hit him hard and fast to accomplish it—and that might mean putting him down to a place where I wouldn't be able to talk to him for a while. I'd come for information, not a fight.
So I played it out, leaving some openings for head shots untaken, defending when I should attack, and looking for a hit that might cripple him and put him out of the fight but leave him able to talk.
Unfortunately for me, he was good enough to notice. He stepped back away from a hit that would have knocked him out had I put any strength into it, and smiled broadly. I noticed when he spoke that his accent was now as equally broad as
my own.
"Come on, laddie—don't hold back on me—you must be one of them soft Edinburgh Setons—all fur coat and nae nickers."
I put a wee bit extra into the next few moves just to show him I could, and he laughed.
"Much as I'm enjoying the exercise, I've got a show to finish and the wee lassie has done a runner, so no harm has been done, there's no honor for you to defend. Shall we call this one a draw and schedule a rematch for a later date?"
I lowered my guard a fraction and, as I expected he would, he made a move, a shot at the head that would have cracked me to the core. But my father had tried the same thing on me years ago, and I did the same now as I had then. I parried it easily enough, knocked his staff aside and banged him—hard, but not too hard—on his left shoulder, enough to make the whole arm go dead for an hour or so and putting him out of the fight.
"Well done, lad," he said through gritted teeth as he slid his staff away into his right hand. It was only then that I saw he had a piece of burnished metal of his own. He didn't keep his in a pocket, but had it embedded into the palm of his hand, the flesh ridged and callused where it had grown around the edges to seal it in place. He saw me looking and smiled thinly.
"I kept bloody losing her when I'd had a few drinks. This was the only way to ensure she stayed where she was supposed to."
He put the hand out for me to shake.
"I'm Angus," he said, "from the Augustus side of the family. I'm guessing from the hair and freckles that you're from the Alexander branch. Am I right?"
I nodded. I knew there was another scion of the family line—I'd heard the history often enough—but this was the first distant cousin that anybody from my side had met for a century or more. He must have seen the thought in my eyes.
"Aye—we've got some catching up to do—and some stories to tell, I'll bet. Come away inside—we'll have a wee drink and you can tell me what brought you to me."
I looked him in the eye, saw no more subterfuge there, only pain, and put my staff away where it had come from. As I did so, he patted at my pocket.
"Keep her in there," he said, taking out a glove from his sporran and covering his right hand and the embedded mirror. "This is between the two of us Setons—family stuff."
And with that he turned away. If I wanted what I had come for, I had no choice but to follow.
It turned out that the silver SUV was his—and he was obviously doing better with his magic act than I was with mine. It was plush inside, well-appointed with leather chairs, shiny TV set and music system, and with a drink cabinet full of good Scotch and imported beer. He went straight for the hard stuff and poured us two fingers each.
"Get that down ye," he said as he passed one to me.
"Don't you have an act to be getting back to?" I asked as I sat in a seat that threatened to swallow me.
He swallowed his drink in one gulp and immediately poured another.
"Yon crowd will never notice—they're mainly here for the band anyway. Besides," he waved his limp, deadened left arm at me, "Now I have an excuse."
He sat opposite me, tucking the sporran down so that he wouldn't expose his tackle, for which I was pretty thankful.
"So—how did you find me?" he said.
"I didn't know I was looking for you," I said, and sipped at the Scotch. It wasn't as good as the Highland Park George served up, but it was passable. "I was looking for some info."
"Info? About what?"
"About magic, for one thing—real magic. Have you heard of a guy called Dante?"
He got wary, fast. He knew Dante, all right.
"I've heard of the man," he said. "What's he up to this time?"
"It's more what he's got me up to—he's got me looking for a certain item—a magic item. I was led to believe you're a bit of an expert."
"Aye, that I am, and I usually charge for the expertise but seeing as you're family, go on—what are you after?"
"I don't know really. He described it as a bit of old leather. Maybe a halter or a leash? Have you heard of the like?"
He'd heard of it all right;he went white at the very mention of it.
"If you weren't a cousin, I'd toss you out on your ear right now," he said, and fear danced in his eyes. If something frightened this man so much, I wasn't sure I wanted anything to do with it myself.
"Who told you I might know something?" he asked, keeping his voice low and soft, as if someone might be listening in.
I patted my pocket.
"Face. At least, that's what I call her. She said…"
He interrupted me.
"If she's anything like mine, I wouldn't trust a word she says—she's as mad as a hare and as flighty as a sparrow." He took another drink and poured himself a stiff four-fingers before going on. "You're in way above your head, lad. I don't know about any halter—leash—whatever it is—and you can tell Dante that when you see him. But there's a man, a collector if you like, who'd give you good money for what you've got in your pocket. Enough for you to live the life of Riley out here, and like a king back home."
"She's not for sale," I said.
He laughed and showed me his gloved hand.
"Aye—that's what I said, too. But he's insistent that one—and he's the man you'll need to talk to. He'll know if anybody does."
He paused to take a drink and in the quiet I heard it—a howl, high and far off—dog, coyote—maybe even wolf. But whatever it was it caused my countryman to go white again.
"Maybe I should get back inside," he said, getting up out of the seat. "My arm's feeling better already." He flexed his left hand, and grimaced in pain—but whatever had frightened him overrode any discomfort he might have been feeling. "Now, excuse me, cousin. I've got a costume change, and I’m late as it is."
With that I was dismissed—I thought about trying to press him for more, but something clearly had him spooked.
"Can I check in with you tomorrow?" I asked as he ushered me to the door. "We never got to talk about family history. There's a lot I don't know."
"Aye, and a lot you might be better off not knowing," he said. "But sure, we can catch up again but only if you fancy Sacramento—I'm moving on—you know what it's like—the family never likes to hang about in one place for too long."
And with that I was pushed back out in the parking bay and the door was shut in my face with a loud click that sounded like finality. I was about to reach for Face to quiz her on what she did—and didn't—know about my newfound cousin, when I heard it again—howling, loud and persistent—and most definitely closer. It appeared that my cousin had heard it, too, and that his return to the stage was postponed for the engine started up on his rig, only to quit again a second later to be replaced with another howl. This time it wasn't canine—it was all too human, full of pain and terror, a lung bursting wail the likes of which I hope never to hear again.
The big RUV rocked and quaked on its suspension. The man's screams were now joined by something else—snuffling and growling. I smelled it, strong and musty even through the closed door—the unmistakable odor of wet dog.
I tugged at the rig's door—there was no give at all in it, locked as it was from the inside. The rocking and rolling got worse, the whole RUV creaking on its axles while the man inside screamed, louder than ever, the last wail of a man who knows he's done for.
Then it went quiet and I smelled something else—blood and shit—mainly blood. By the time I reached the driver's door the night had gone completely still. The rig stopped rocking, the last echo of the screams stilled and even the smell started to dissipate in the slight breeze. I dragged myself up into the driver's cab and pulled open the sliding door that led to the main living area behind it.
My newfound cousin wasn't going to be making it to Sacramento. What was left of him lay sprawled on the floor, the center of a patch of seeping gore that washed the carpet, the seats and even some of the ceiling. His throat was torn, so viciously that his head hung at almost a right angle to his neck. His guts were on
the outside, his kilt ripped to mere strips of bloody tartan as decoration. And his right hand was gone—by the state of the stump at his wrist I reckoned it had been chewed off.
There was, fortunately for me, no sign of his attacker, but that didn't make me feel much better. It had gotten in and out without using window or door. That meant it wasn't any kind of dog I wanted to meet any time soon.
I had another look round to make sure the right hand was really gone, and also to take a minute to wipe the glass I'd drunk from, and anything else I could remember touching. Then I slid back out the way I came in, closed the door quietly and wiping it down, and walked away—not back into the venue, but through the parking bay and into the dark shadows of the cemetery that lay beyond, all my senses tingling, listening for a howl.
But there was only the gravestones, the silence, and another dead man to join those already here.
4
I didn't get Face out of my pocket until I felt sure we were safe. I'd walked out of the graveyard through to the open air concert area and was lucky to catch a cab that was dropping off and happy to take me back to the Dugs. The driver—Albanian at a guess—kept up a flow of chat that I let wash over me; just the sound of his voice did much to calm the clamor that threatened to overwhelm me.
I went straight to the bar on my return and ordered a beer—the place was busy so all I got from George was a raised eyebrow that I waved away with a promise to tell him later. I took the beer upstairs to my room—I needed to talk to Face—and I had a feeling this was a conversation we needed to have alone.
Face had been with me for as long as I could remember. Where other kids had a night light, I had a talking mirror—and it was so naturally mine, so much part of me, that I'd never found it strange. She told me stories and sang me songs to get me to sleep as a kid, acted as personal Siri, internet, talking clock and encyclopedia all rolled in to one, and looked after the things I needed to keep hidden, both literally and metaphorically. In all that time—more than sixteen years now—she'd never played me false and I'd never had a reason to doubt her.
