Not that Dru wanted to do that. She just wanted to be friends with her brother. Like Helen just wants to be friends with you, said an annoying little voice in the back of her head. She ignored it.
“Aline’s a really good cook,” she said instead. Aline rolled her eyes, but Dru ignored her. Jaime was really skinny—skinnier than he had been when she’d seen him in London. He must be hungry. Maybe if she could get him to stay, she could explain—
There was a noise like a soft explosion. Dru gave a small shriek, and an envelope fell from the ceiling and landed on the table. A faint wisp of smoke hung in the air.
“It’s addressed to you, babe,” Helen said, handing the envelope to Aline. “ ‘Aline Penhallow, Head of the Institute.’ ”
Frowning, Aline ripped the envelope open. Her face tightened. She read aloud:
Aline Penhallow:
Pursuant to the most recent Council meeting held in Alicante, the Registry of Downworlders is now enforced. Heads of Institutes and Conclaves, it is your responsibility to make sure that the Downworlders in your region are registered and given identification numbers. You will be receiving a stamp to use in registration, in ink that will show up only in witchlight.
Downworlders must be ready to show their marked documents at any time. Records of all registrations must be handed over to the Office of the Inquisitor. Failure to do so may result in suspension of privileges or recall to Alicante. Sed lex, dura lex. The Law is hard, but it is the Law. In these troubled times, all must be held accountable. Thank you for your understanding.
Horace Dearborn
NB: As reflects our new policy of accountability, all Institute heads should be advised that the traitors Diego Rosales, Divya Joshi, and Rayan Maduabuchi are awaiting conviction in the Gard for aiding in the escape of a wanted Downworlder. As soon as the Mortal Sword is reforged, they will stand trial.
There was a crash. Jaime had dropped his pack. Drusilla moved to pick it up, but he’d already seized it.
“That bastard Dearborn,” he said through white lips. “My brother is not a traitor. He is painfully honest, good—” He looked around at the stricken faces surrounding him. “What does it matter?” he whispered. “None of you know him.”
Helen began to rise to her feet. “Jaime—”
He bolted from the library. A second later, Dru tore after him.
He was fast, but he didn’t know the house or the way the front door stuck. Dru caught up to him as he struggled to yank it open.
“Jaime!” she cried.
He held up a hand. “Stop. I must go, Drusilla. It’s my brother, you understand?”
“I know. But please be careful.” She fumbled at her belt and held something out to him. Her hand was shaking. “Take your dagger. You need it more than I do.”
He stared down at the blade she held; he’d given it to her, left it in her room at the London Institute when he’d gone. A gold hunting dagger carved with roses.
Gently, he took hold of her hand, closing her fingers over the dagger. “It is yours. A gift,” he said.
Her voice sounded small. “Does that mean we’re still friends?”
His fleeting smile was sad. He pulled at the door handle and this time it opened; Jaime slipped through it, past her, and vanished into the shadows.
“Dru? Are you all right?”
She turned around, scrubbing furiously at her stinging eyes. She didn’t want to cry in front of Helen—and it was Helen, her sister standing on the bottom step of the main staircase, looking at her with troubled eyes.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said in a shaking voice. “I know you think it’s stupid, but he was my first real friend—”
“I don’t think it’s stupid!” Helen crossed the room to Dru in swift strides.
Dru’s throat hurt almost too much for her to speak. “I feel like people keep leaving,” she whispered.
This close up, Helen looked even more thin and pretty and she smelled like orange blossoms. But for the first time, she didn’t seem remote, like a distant star. She seemed distressed and worried and very much present. There was even an ink stain on her sleeve.
“I know how you feel,” Helen went on. “I missed you so much while I was on Wrangel Island I couldn’t breathe. I kept thinking about everything I was missing, and how I’d miss you getting older, all the little things, and when I saw you in the Council Hall I kept thinking . . .”
Dru braced herself.
“. . . how beautiful you’d gotten. You look so much like Mom.” Helen sniffled. “I used to watch her getting ready to go out. She was so glamorous, she had such style . . . all I can ever think to wear is jeans and a shirt.”
Dru stared in amazement.
“I’m going to stay,” Helen said fiercely. “I’m not leaving you ever again.” She reached for Dru—and Dru nodded, just the smallest nod. Helen put her arms around her and held her tightly.
Dru rested her forehead against her sister and finally allowed herself to remember Helen picking her up when she was small, swinging her around while she laughed, tying ribbons in her hair and finding her lost shoes, inevitably discarded on the beach. They fit together differently now than they had then, Dru thought, as she put her own arms around Helen. They were different heights and shapes, different people than they had been once.
But even if they fit differently now, they still fit like sisters.
* * *
It was nothing like a Portal; there was no rushing tumult, no sense of being picked up by a tornado and hurled around wildly. One moment Cristina was standing in the library at the Institute, and the next she was in a green field, with Mark and Kieran on either side of her and music ringing through the air.
Mark dropped his hand from her shoulder; so did Kieran. Cristina shoved the artifact into her pack and slung it onto her back, pulling the straps tight as the boys looked around in astonishment.
“It’s a revel,” said Mark in disbelief. “We’ve landed in the middle of a revel.”
“Well, not the middle,” said Kieran. He was technically correct; they were just outside a field that was full of whirling, spinning dancers. Pavilions had been set up on the green, with one, more massive than the others, hung with swags of silk.
“I thought we were going to Bram’s Crossroads?” Cristina said.
“We’re close to it.” Kieran pointed. Across the field, Cristina could see the place where two roads met, surrounding by massive oak trees. “It is the place where the Seelie Lands and the Unseelie Lands meet.”
“Who is Bram?” said Cristina.
“Bram was King before my father, long ago,” said Kieran. He indicated the southern road. “Emma and Julian would be coming from there. The Seelie Lands. Any official procession would pass the crossroads.”
“So we have to get to the road,” said Mark. “We have to go through the revel.” He turned. “Disguise yourself, Prince Kieran.”
Kieran gave Mark a dark look. Cristina, not wanting to waste time, unbuckled Kieran’s pack, pulled out a rolled cloak, and handed it to him.
Kieran drew the cloak on, pulling the hood up. “Am I disguised?”
Cristina could still see a glimpse of blue-black hair beneath the edge of the hood but hoped no one would be looking all that closely. If they did, they could tell easily enough that he was a prince. It was in his bearing, in the way he moved, the look on his face.
Mark must have had the same thought, for he bent down, took a handful of mud, and rubbed it firmly into Kieran’s surprised face, leaving smears of dirt on his cheek and nose.
Kieran was not pleased. He glared. “You did that because you enjoyed it.”
Mark grinned like a little boy and tossed the remaining mud aside. Kieran scrubbed at his nose, still glaring. He did look less princely, though. “Stop it,” said Cristina.
“Thank you,” Kieran said.
With a grin, Cristina grabbed some mud and smeared a bit on Kieran’s cheek. “You have to get both sides.”
Mark laughed; Kieran looked indignant for several seconds before giving in and laughing as well.
“Now let’s not waste any more time,” Cristina said a bit regretfully. She wished the three of them could simply stay here, together, and not join the revel.
But they had no choice. They pressed forward into the revel, through the area where many of the dancers had already collapsed, exhausted. A boy with smeared metallic paint on his face and striped breeches sat gazing at his hands in a drugged haze as he moved them slowly through the air. They passed a pool of steaming water surrounded by mist; slippery bodies were visible through gaps in the smoke. Cristina felt her cheeks flame red.
They moved on, and the crowd closed around them like fast-growing vines. It was nothing like the revel Cristina had seen the last time she was in Faerie. That had been a massive dance party. This was more like a slice of a Bosch painting. A group of faerie men were fighting; their bare upper bodies, slippery with blood, shone in the starlight. A kelpie feasted hungrily on the dead body of a brownie, its open eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. Naked bodies lay entwined in the grass, their limbs moving with slow intent. Pipes and fiddles screamed, and the air smelled like wine and blood.
They passed a giant lying unconscious in the grass. All over his huge body were hundreds of pixies, darting and dancing, like a moving sea. No, Cristina realized, they weren’t dancing. They were—
She glanced away. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire.
“This is my brother’s doing,” said Kieran, staring grimly at the largest of the pavilions, the one that bore the crest of the Unseelie Court. An ornate throne-like seat had been placed there, but it was empty. “Prince Oban. His revels are famous for their duration and their debauchery.” He frowned as a group of naked acrobats hooted from a nearby tree. “He makes Magnus Bane look like a prudish nun.”
Mark looked as if he’d just heard that there was an alternate sun that was nine million times hotter than Earth’s sun. “You never mentioned Oban.”
“He embarrasses me,” said Kieran. A branch broke overhead, depositing a goblin-size horse wearing a garter belt on the ground in front of them. It wore woolen hose with runs in them and golden hoof covers.
“I can see why,” said Mark as the horse wandered off, nibbling at the grass. It studiously avoided the couples embracing in the tangled undergrowth.
Dancers whirled past Cristina in a circle surrounding a ribboned tree, but none of them wore expressions of enjoyment. Their faces were blank, their eyes wide, their arms flailing. Every once in a while a drunken faerie knight would pull one of the dancers from the circle and down into the long grass. Cristina shuddered.
From the top of the tree hung a cage. Inside the cage was a hunched figure, white and slimy like a pale slug, its body covered in gray pockmarks. It looks like an Eidolon demon in its true form, Cristina thought. But why would a prince of Faerie have an Eidolon demon in a cage?
A horn blared. The music had become more sour, almost sinister. Cristina looked again at the dancers and realized suddenly that they were ensorcelled. She remembered the last time she’d been at a revel, and how she’d been swept away by the music; she didn’t feel that way now, and silently thanked the Eternidad.
She had read about faerie revels where mortals were forced to dance until the bones in their feet splintered, but she hadn’t realized it was something faeries might do to each other. The beautiful young girls and boys in the circle were being danced off their feet, their upper bodies slumping even as their legs moved tirelessly to the rhythm.
Kieran looked grim. “Oban gets pleasure from witnessing the pain of others. Those are the thorns of his roses, the poison in the bloom of his gregariousness and gifts.”
Cristina moved toward the dancers, concerned. “They’re all going to die—”
Kieran caught her sleeve, pulling her back toward him and Mark. “Cristina, no.” He sounded sincerely alarmed for her. “Oban will let them live, once he’s humiliated them enough.”
“How can you be sure?” Cristina asked.
“They’re gentry. Court hangers-on. Oban would be in trouble with my father if he killed them all.”
“Kieran is right,” said Mark, the moonlight silvering his hair. “You cannot save them, Cristina. And we cannot linger here.”
Reluctantly Cristina followed as they pushed swiftly through the crowd. The air was full of sweet, harsh smoke, mixing with the mist from the occasional pool of water.
“Prince Kieran.” A faerie woman with hair like a dandelion clock drifted up to them. She wore a dress of white filaments, and her eyes were green as stems. “You come to us in disguise.”
Mark’s hand had gone to his weapons belt, but Kieran made a quick settling gesture at him. “I can trust you to keep my secret, can I not?”
“If you tell me why an Unseelie Prince would come hidden to his own brother’s revel, perhaps,” said the woman, her green eyes keen.
“I seek a friend,” Kieran said.
The woman’s eyes darted over Cristina and then Mark. Her mouth widened into a smile. “You seem to have several.”
“That’s enough,” said Mark. “The prince would proceed unhindered.”
“Now, if it were a love potion you sought, you might come to me,” said the faerie woman, ignoring Mark. “But which of these two Nephilim do you love? And which loves you?”
Kieran raised a warning hand. “Enough.”
“Ah, I see, I see.” Cristina wondered what it was she saw. “No love potion could assist with this.” Her eyes danced. “Now, in Faerie, you could love both and have both love you. You would have no trouble. But in the world of the Angel—”
“Enough, I said!” Kieran flushed. “What would it take to end this bedevilment?”
The faerie woman laughed. “A kiss.”
With a look of exasperation, Kieran bent his head and kissed the faerie woman lightly on the mouth. Cristina felt herself tense, her stomach tightening. It was an unpleasant sensation.
She realized Mark, beside her, had tensed as well, but neither of them moved as the faerie woman drew back, winked, and danced away into the crowd.
Kieran wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “They say a kiss from a prince brings good luck,” he said. “Even a disgraced one, apparently.”
“You didn’t need to do that, Kier,” said Mark. “We could have gotten rid of her.”
“Not without a fuss,” Kieran said. “And I suspect Oban and his men are here in the crowd somewhere.”
Cristina glanced up at the pavilion. Kieran was right—it was still empty. Where was Prince Oban? Among the rutting couples in the grass? They had begun to make their way across the clearing again: Faces of every hue loomed out of the mist at her, twisted in grimaces; Cristina even imagined she saw Manuel, and remembered how Emma had been forced to see an image of her father the last time they had been in Faerie. She shuddered, and when she looked again it was not Manuel at all but a faerie with the body of a man and the face of a wise old tabby, blinking golden eyes.
“Drinks, madam and sirs? A draft to cool you after dancing?” said the tabby faerie in a soft and cooing voice. Cristina stared, remembering. Mark had bought her a drink from this cat-faced faerie at the revel she’d been to with him. He held the same gold tray with cups on it. Even his tattered Edwardian suit had not changed.
“No drinks, Tom Tildrum, King of Cats,” said Kieran. His voice was sharp, but he clearly recognized the cat faerie. “We need to find a Seelie procession. There could be several coins in it for you if you led us to the road.”
Tom gave a low hiss. “You are too late. The Queen’s procession passed by here an hour ago.”
Mark cursed and flung his hood back. Cristina didn’t even have time to be startled that usually gentle Mark was cursing; she felt as if a hole had been punched through her chest. Emma. Emma and Jules. They’d missed them. Kieran, too, looked dismayed.
“Give me a drink, then, Tom,” said Mark
, and seized a glass of ruby-colored liquid from the tray.
Kieran held out a staying hand. “Mark! You know better!”
“It’s just fruit juice,” Mark said, his eyes on Cristina’s. She flushed and glanced away as he drained the glass.
A moment later he sank to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Mark!” Cristina gasped, flinging herself to the ground beside him. He was clearly unconscious, but just as clearly breathing. In fact, he was snoring a bit. “But it was just fruit juice!” she protested.
“I like to serve a variety of beverages,” said Tom.
Kieran knelt down by Cristina. His hood had partly fallen back, and Cristina could see the concern on his face as he touched Mark’s chest lightly. The smudges on his cheeks made his eyes stand out starkly. “Tom Tildrum,” he said in a tight voice. “It’s not safe here.”
“Not for you, for the sons of the Unseelie King are at each other’s throats like cats,” said Tom Tildrum with a flash of incisors.
“Then you see why you must lead us through to the road,” Kieran said.
“And if I do not?”
Kieran rose to his feet, managing to exude princely menace despite his dirty face. “Then I will yank your tail until you howl.”
Tom Tildrum hissed as Kieran and Cristina bent to lift Mark and carry him between them. “Come with me, then, and be quick about it, before Prince Oban sees. He would not like me helping you, Prince Kieran. He would not like it at all.”
* * *
Kit lay on the roof of the Institute, his hands behind his head. The air was blowing from the desert, warm and soft as a blanket tickling his skin. If he turned his head one way, he could see Malibu, a chain of glittering lights strung along the curve of the seashore.
This was the Los Angeles people sang about in pop songs, he thought, and put into movies; sea and sand and expensive houses, perfect weather and air that breathed as soft as powder. He had never known it before, living with his father in the shadow of smog and downtown skyscrapers.
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