Bedlam's Edge, page 27
part #8 of Bedlam's Bard Series
Zeke, where’s Zeke?
Culéoin looked back at Zeke just as the clear tenor voice ceased. A deep blue glow enveloped both Bard and … Culéoin blinked. It was no longer a zombie facing the Bard, just a confused-looking man in an ill-fitted black suit. The glow faded; another black suit, this one still occupied by a zombie, knocked the disorientated man aside and reached for Zeke. He ducked.
“Too many!” he yelled.
“Let me help,” Culéoin said, and opened his own mouth in a warm baritone C. No words; he fed pure tone to the Bard, who caught it, added harmony, power. For a moment, blue light washed through the room, around five bewildered mortals, a Bard, and an elf. It faded, along with echoes of a simple chord that held the riches of an entire chorale.
Elegant solution, that. Clever boy, he’s so appealing. I want to … no, you mustn’t take Aerienne’s path.
Look at all that he is, then remember your sister. Your course is set.
“Didn’t know I could do that.” The Bard helped one man up, then looked at the former zombies. “Y’all okay?”
The Voudoun priest, dignity unmarred by a bloody nose, rose unsteadily to his feet. Swaying slightly, he said, “They will know their own desires again.”
He waved to several shame-faced worshippers making their way back to the sanctuary. They began clearing the fallen, black-suited and white-robed alike, and Culéoin gratefully left them to it.
His mind shaped a soundless whistle, the one that summoned his elvensteed. Danu alone knew where the cursed stone was, but he had precious little time in which to find it. At least he could count on Shadow’s Cloak. Then he turned to the Loa.
Her aura flared in a confusion of towering rage, fear, and deeper emotions. Culéoin tried to pick out the threads, but he’d seldom dealt with Loa; the aura was unfamiliar and jumbled with that of the young girl the Loa possessed.
“This desecration grieves me, blessed Mawu Lisa.” Culéoin gave her his best High Court bow. “Yet I rejoice at the privilege of battle on your behalf. May this remind you of the trust between Loa and DeepRiver, and our treaty.”
“Treaty?” Fury darkened the aura to a flame-shot inky purple. “There is and can be no treaty.”
Victory had relaxed him. This unexpected outburst snapped him back to full attention. What am I missing here?
The Loa spoke with patently false patience. “The scepter our handmaid was to carry. Together with the stone and the power of the crowd, it renews our spell and blessing on our servants’ city.”
She meant the silver baton the priestess had been holding, Culéoin realized. His eyes searched for the woman, but the Loa spoke again. “You need not look. Our servant fought hard, but our people’s enemy has stolen it. Long has he gathered dark powers for this purpose. Now we have no scepter. We have no stone. We—you, Monsieur le Prince—have no treaty.”
A dozen thoughts clamored. He’d not been told of the scepter, but it came as no surprise; many spells worked only when two objects came together. Anyone willing to attack the Loa to get the scepter must already have the stone. Norenlod might have had some help making a fool of himself this time.
Be honest, Culéoin. You knew this was more than a simple mugging; no ordinary thief could have shielded the stone. But how could a mere caplata know to approach Norenlod? Something still does not make sense.
Long practice kept his thoughts out of his voice and off his face. “I gave my word you would have the stone. So you shall, and the scepter as well. But the treaty …”
“What think you might befall, mon cher prince, should one cast the spell after evil returns to this city?”
Evil would indeed return, a century and more of pent-up energy, should the spell that symbolized the treaty not be renewed. By now, the spell was worth more to the Loa than the treaty. In fact, from their perspective, there was no reason to sign the treaty without it. When he returned to DeepRiver, he’d have to point that out to Irindilel.
Worry about that later. He thought through Mawu Lisa’s question. The spell amplified psychic energies it was fed, and kept out opposing ones. It had been reinforcing positive energies and holding back negative for one hundred and sixty human years. No one had ever considered what might happen were it allowed to lapse and then be recast.
Culéoin now did so. Once the spell lapsed, as it would if he failed to return stone and scepter in time, the Mardi Gras crowd, seething with raw energy, would be open to the negative power that would come rushing back to fill the void left by the spell. If the caplata then triggered it, with the crowd still present and filled with dark energies … I spoke truly when I called the stone a bomb. A very large one, which feeds on itself. The human term, he remembered, was critical mass.
New Orleans would be devastated, and much of the rest of the country. As the psychic blast fed back and fed back, like a microphone on overload, even Underhill would be affected.
Zeke whispered, “Colin? What’s she mean?”
“It would be …” He paused, searching for a word, then gave up and used the simplest. “It would be bad.”
The priestess, white robes fouled and torn, joined them. A massive bruise covered one side of her face. She stood alone, Culéoin thought, shamed, and bowed deeply.
“Lady. I will deliver stone and scepter on the morrow, into your own hands. This I vow.”
* * *
Shadow’s Cloak drew up to the curb outside the temple in answer to his call. Elvensteeds were the Underhill equivalent of horses—if a horse could assume any shape it wanted and required no assistance on its rider’s part. She had chosen her most glamorous appearance, a jet-black 1956 Mercedes 300 SL gull-wing coupe.
Zeke gave a low wolf whistle of respect and ran his hand down one silken fender. Culéoin smiled as the normally silent elvensteed made engine-noises of appreciation. Her feminine curves, proud sleek nose, trim V of a tail, and winged doors had seduced many a man, and she knew it.
Zeke has seen too much this night; I should send him home, Culéoin thought as they got in. Should have thought of that one earlier. Already there were bound to be more questions than he really wanted to answer.
Culéoin frowned, searching the contents of one pocket. An hourglass a quarter-inch tall, a silver penknife, several small crystal marbles, each containing a single spell. La Chasseuse was not there. He had better luck with the other pocket. Whispering softly to her, he sat back as the cube, a tightly wrapped essence of Seeking that glowed dull red, quickly unfolded itself. He looked over at Zeke.
“Now that I know his energy signature, I can use this spell to track down the man who sent the zombies. Find him, find the scepter, find the stone. No problem.”
Culéoin smiled at Zeke, who smiled back, but the easy comfort between them was strained. Culéoin could almost hear the questions piling up.
Norenlod, you idiot.
La Chasseuse’s cube was gone, unfolded to a shapeless red glow of Magus force hovering over his hand. Culéoin slipped one hand around it and stroked it lovingly.
“What’re you petting?” Zeke asked.
“My hound,” Culéoin replied dryly. “Once she’s set on her scent, even Magus-sight won’t reveal her presence to anyone except me and mine.”
He lowered the window and released the little ball. It hovered just off the ground in front of Shadow’s Cloak, who faked the appropriate shifting noises as she moved out into traffic following the energy essence.
Before the silence between them got too awkward, Zeke took pity on him and said, drawling out each word, “So that’s diplomacy.”
Culéoin chuckled. He is kind. “Some days go better than others.”
Zeke grinned then relapsed into silence. Zeke’s waiting. Say you’re sorry. Confess. Tell him what you are.
No.
Several times Zeke seemed on the verge of speaking; Culéoin braced himself for the inevitable. It came. Zeke sketched a vague circle encompassing Culéoin, the Elvensteed, and the day’s events.
“So why didn’t you ever mention all of, well, this?”
Culéoin took his time replying as Shadow’s Cloak cornered particularly fast. Because you didn’t need to know. It didn’t touch you, and I wanted to keep it that way. “Because all of this …” He repeated the gesture. “Is not what I come to Mardi Gras for, muirnín.”
They were slowing now, turns coming less often. La Chasseuse hesitated, bobbing up and down in place, then stopped decisively in front of a padded black-leather door.
* * *
As they entered the exclusive club, Zeke Washington no longer worried about what had happened to his Mardi Gras. He worried about who or what his lover really was.
He knew this place only by repute, since his tastes had never run to leather and chains. The padded door set the tone for the interior, which combined black leather and gleaming brass on every bit of wall not covered by mirrors. He’d agreed when Colin had suggested another kenned change in wardrobe, but this just felt wrong.
Zeke ran his thumb down the side of his pants, uncomfortable. He’d started the evening in his favorite jeans and a Thelonious Monk T-shirt. First they’d been morphed into Elven Court garb. Now his jeans were so tight he expected to find each individual thread imprinted on his skin, and the T-shirt, sleek black leather instead of cotton, exposed half his chest and back behind lacing that crisscrossed almost to belt level. The effect suited the club’s ambiance better than Zeke’s own clothes, but that made him even more uneasy.
Colin’s hair now reached his waist, pulled into a tight leather-laced braid. Only the single lock of silver remained unchanged. The reassuringly familiar strand fell, and Zeke felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft behind them. This face belonged to a stranger. It held the beauty of the Sidhe, but diamond-edged beauty, sharp and cold, all kindness, all mercy, sliced away. His outfit also featured leather and lacing, but in the elf’s case the lacings ran down the side of each leg, pulling the butter-soft black leather indecently tight. Instead of a conventional shirt, he wore sleeveless mail of fine silver links that draped fabriclike across his torso while affording glimpses of skin. Not a glamourie; Magus-sight matched what Zeke’s physical eyes could see.
Is this the way he’s always looked? Zeke took a step in Colin’s wake, wanting answers, when the mirror-lined wall provided one. His body had changed as well as his clothes, both to outer and inner eyes. Latino, with a wild black tangle of tight, shoulder-length curls and skin two shades darker than Zeke’s own. An unfamiliar weight tugged at his left ear, and he reached up. A heavy earring shaped like a skull dangled from a pierced lobe. He’d never poked any additional holes in his own body.
Some sort of extrastrong glamourie. He broke free of the sight of himself wearing a stranger’s face, and overtook Colin in two steps.
“What the hell—”
“Trust me.” The words were soft, intense. “Just keep following my lead.”
Zeke bit down on further questions.
Colin had used a decidedly non-Elven form of magic to get them in; he bribed the doorman. The guard at the bottom of the staircase looked like a tougher proposition. This time Colin didn’t bother with a bribe; he simply smiled and said, “Thank you,” as he walked straight past the man. Zeke followed him up the circular staircase, past the still-blinking rent-a-cop. He felt magick layered into the words.
Colin’s natural smile held charm enough to work without Magery, but no one could have warmed to that rictus.
Trust me. Zeke’s inner ear, the trained ear of a Bard, echoed the words. Just keep following.
There wasn’t much else to do at the moment, anyway.
As they climbed, he looked around. From the stairs he could see most of the club, from a padded bar matching the door past a small stage flanked by two currently unoccupied cages for dancers. Zeke’s foot froze halfway to the next step. He’d only met a handful of Dark Elves, but he’d bet his horn those two at the bar were members of the Unseleighe Court. He took a second look around. The pair weren’t alone; he spotted at least six or seven more.
If Colin noticed any of them, he gave no indication, continuing his languid progress up to the club’s more exclusive regions. The unfamiliar face looked slightly bored, totally at home, utterly foreign. Zeke looked for reassurance to the strand of silver hair.
Trust.
* * *
At the top of the staircase, the VIP lounge separated two balconies of small private rooms. Luck was with him; this early the crowd was thin, still fishing for their prey among the Mardi Gras throng. Zeke obediently followed to the bar, eyes full of questions. I don’t blame you. I am almost surprised you haven’t run out on me.
La Chasseuse made her way down the left balcony to a door where she bobbed up and down happily. That’s my good girl. Culéoin spoke so only she could hear. She raced back and bounced into his palm. Culéoin kissed his hand to her, and her glow doubled, then she began folding herself. Within seconds he held only a tiny cube, which he pocketed.
* * *
The strangest thing wasn’t that Colin didn’t look like Colin; Zeke was used to elves changing how they looked on a whim. But he didn’t move like Colin. He didn’t talk like Colin. He just didn’t feel like Colin, not really.
Colin’s words to the bartender were clipped and brusque. “In there.” He pointed to a private room, then took Zeke’s hand and led him into what seemed to be a play area for those needing more privacy. It had the usual seating, but it also had a lot of wooden and leather equipment that Zeke thought would be uncomfortable, to say the least. Chains are made of brass, at least. Leastways they sure look like brass, and if they get Sidhe in here regular, they’d need somethin’ other than stainless.
Zeke hesitated to ask this Colin what he was doing. The elf seemed so distant and remote in this guise. In a moment, though, he smiled and said, “There. I’ve set my echo spell. He’s in there and alone; if someone joins him, I’ll hear their conversation. We can relax a bit now, muirnín. Though if you would …”
Zeke sighed, annoyed. “What now?”
“Search for Bardic resonance? A Bard helped fashion the stone, so it should respond. At least we would know if he had it with him.”
Zeke nodded, and began humming, sending soft waves of Bardic energy searching in ever-expanding circles. But no answering vibration reached him. They’d found the man who controlled the zombies, but not the stone.
* * *
On TV and in movies, the bad guys always seemed to spill their plans every time they got together. In real life, Zeke decided, they didn’t.
They didn’t have to wait long for the caplata’s guest, an Unseleighe Sidhe, to arrive. Maybe one of the ones we saw downstairs. If the Dark Court’s involved, Colin might have himself one heck of a mess. Wonder if he had any idea.
Zeke couldn’t tell; Colin acted a mite surprised when the Dark Elf started talking, but didn’t say anything. Been makin’ kind of a habit of not sayin’ much.
Colin’s echo spell worked like a charm, though Zeke found it a little annoying that it echoed every sound for Colin’s ear alone; Colin had to repeat everything.
“What’s with you and spells that work just for you? Didn’t nobody teach you to share when you was a kiddy elf?” At this point, he was only half joking.
They learned little. A hounsi had the scepter hidden under a Voudoun spell of concealment and was to deliver it in the early hours of the morning. The Unseleighe had hidden the spellstone, using the stone’s own power to amplify the shield. Zeke watched Colin’s assumed face grow harder and more distant at the news.
“They are gone,” Colin told Zeke finally. “I’m sorry.”
Zeke didn’t know if the elf was apologizing for the lack of information, the bar, the disguises, the day, Mardi Gras—come to think of it, Colin did owe him a bunch of apologies, didn’t he?
Colin had taken his hand to lead him out when suddenly he whirled to face Zeke, grabbed his wrists, pinned them overhead, and kissed him ruthlessly. What the hell? Under other circumstance Zeke might have enjoyed the process, but given the time and place …
“Well met, Cousin Ruadrí! Good sport?” The Unseleighe speaker smiled, lips an almost straight line that angled up at each corner, leaving the rest of his face untouched.
Ruadrí? Now his name’s Ruadrí? Dammit, if this were a movie, he’d think Colin was working undercover! Was that standard in the elf diplomatic corps?
Colin slowly and insolently finished kissing Zeke, then turned and smiled slowly. “It was until you came in, Senn-fáelad, and spoiled my fun. But since you have, by all means, join us.” Colin looked even colder and more unapproachable. This wasn’t his Colin, was it?
He drew Zeke down next to him on the sofa, while Senn-fáelad took a chair on Colin’s left. The Dark Elf chuckled. “Ruadrí, I didn’t know your tastes ran in this direction. I’ve seen you put up a great deal of game, but I’ve never seen you with human prey.”
Colin knows this guy? And the jerk thinks I’m prey. Human prey. Colin’s prey.
Colin reached out to stroke Zeke’s hair. “It’s not my usual sport. I’ve seen too many good elves become addicted to toying with humans to go that way myself.” He ran his thumbnail down Zeke’s throat and Zeke gasped. The elf continued, “I merely indulge myself with a particularly fine toy now and then.”
Is that all I am? Zeke pushed the thought aside. Trust; he asked me to trust him.
“I assume his flavor is what brought you barging in,” Colin said. “Surely it wasn’t the pleasure of my company.”
“You’re right—though how could I be other than glad to see you? His magic is floating about the lounge; it tickled my aura. Ruadrí, you really have a Bardic toy?”
“Better than that, my dear Senn-fáelad. When I’m done, this Bard will be mine, heart and soul. At my bidding.”
Zeke’s lungs didn’t want to work as he realized he could feel both truth and falsehood in Colin’s words. Half of what he’s been sayin’ since we got here’s been a lie, and half’s been true, and I will be damned if I can tell one from the other.
