Yeah, he knew a thing or two about living life on the threshold.
He and Aryal had returned to Cuelebre Tower in New York.
There were seven demesnes of Elder Races that overlaid the human geography of the continental United States. The seat of the Wyrkind demesne was in New York City. The seat of Elven demesne was based in Charleston, South Carolina. The Dark Fae’s demesne was centered in Chicago, and the Light Fae’s in Los Angeles. The Nightkind, which included all Vampyric forms, controlled the San Francisco Bay Area and the Pacific Northwest, while the human witches, considered part of the Elder Races due to their command of Power, were based in Louisville, Kentucky. Demonkind, like the Wyr and the Vampyres, consisted of several different types that included goblins and Djinn, and their seat was based in Houston.
Upon Rune and Aryal’s return, the first thing they did was debrief the Lord of the Wyr, Dragos Cuelebre. A massive dark man with gold eyes, Dragos’s Wyr form was a dragon the size of a private jet. He had ruled over the Wyrkind demesne for centuries, with seven immortal Wyr as his sentinels.
Rune was Dragos’s First sentinel. Among Rune’s other duties, he and the other three gryphons, Bayne, Constantine and Graydon, worked to keep the peace in the demesne. Aryal was the sentinel in charge of investigations, and the gargoyle Grym was head of corporate security for Cuelebre Enterprises.
Dragos had just lost his seventh sentinel, who had not yet been replaced. The Wyr Tiago, thunderbird and longtime war-lord sentinel, had walked away from his life and position in the Wyr demesne in order to be with his newfound mate, Niniane.
Dragos was not the most even-tempered at the best of times. At first he had not been pleased with the debriefing. He had not been pleased at all.
“You promised her WHAT?” The dragon’s deep roar rattled the windows. They stood in his office. Dragos planted his hands on his hips, his dark machete-edged features sharp with incredulity.
Rune set his mouth in the taut lines of someone struggling to hold on to his own temper and said, “I promised to go to Carling in one week and do a favor of her choosing.”
“Un-fucking-believable,” the Wyr Lord growled. “Do you have any idea what you gave away?”
“Yes, actually,” Rune bit out. “I believe I might have a clue.”
“She could ask you to do anything, and now you are bound by the laws of magic to do it. You could be gone for HUNDREDS OF YEARS just trying to complete that one fucking favor.” The dragon’s hot glare flared into incandescence as he paced. “I’ve already lost my warlord sentinel, and now we have no idea how long I will have to do without my First. Could you not have come up with something else to bargain? Anything else. Anything at all.”
“Apparently not, since I was the one who made the goddamn deal,” Rune snapped, as his already strained temper torched.
Dragos fell silent as he swung around to face Rune. It had to be in part, no doubt, from surprise, as Rune was normally the even-keeled one in their relationship. But Dragos was also taking a deep breath before releasing a blast of wrath. The dragon’s Power compressed in the room.
Then Aryal, of all people, stepped in to play her version of peacemaker. “What the hell, Dragos?” the harpy said. “It was life-or-death, and Tiago was bleeding out right in front of us. None of us actually had the time to consult our attorneys about the best bargaining terms to use with the Wicked Witch of the West. We brought you a present. Here.” She threw a leather pack at Dragos, who lifted a reflexive hand to catch it.
Dragos opened the pack and pulled out two sets of black shackles that radiated a menacing Power. “There’s finally a piece of good news,” he breathed.
The three Wyr stared at the chains in revulsion. Fashioned by Dragos’s old enemy, the late Dark Fae King Urien Lorelle, the chains had the ability to imprison the most Powerful Wyr of them all, Dragos himself.
His outburst of anger derailed, Dragos listened as Rune and Aryal finished telling the story of how Naida Riordan, wife of one of the most powerful figures in the Dark Fae government, had used Urien’s old tools in her attempts to kill Niniane and Tiago.
“The shackles prevented Tiago from healing,” Rune said. “We nearly lost him while we were figuring how to get them off. That’s when I had to bargain with Carling.”
The dragon gave him a grim look, thoughts shifting like shadows in his gold eyes.
“All right,” Dragos said after a moment. “Use the week to get your affairs in order and delegate your duties. And when you get to San Francisco, try like hell to persuade Carling to let you do something quick.”
So Rune spent the week delegating, while Bob and the images in his head kept him company at night, and the sights and the sounds of New York assaulted his senses by day.
Normally he enjoyed New York’s energetic hustle and bustle but since returning from Adriyel, the gigantic city steamed in the summer heat, all the smells trapped in a heavy humidity as it emitted a constant harsh, cacophonic noise that scraped like sharp fingernails underneath Rune’s skin. It turned him into a feral stranger with a short, unknown fuse so that when his temper exploded, he shocked himself as much as anyone. He felt something he had never felt before in the long uncounted years of his existence: he felt unsafe.
Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing he had to take off for a while. It might give him a chance to regroup, recover his equilibrium. It would be wise to take a break from dealing with Dragos’s temper, since his own self-control had become so uncertain. He and Dragos had had a productive relationship that had spanned centuries, and it was based partly on friendship and very heavily on a partnership of reliance on one another’s skills, such as Rune’s even temper and diplomacy.
But at the moment he seemed to have misplaced all of his not-inconsiderable skills at “managing up.” If he continued as he was, he and Dragos could possibly have a serious, very ugly clash, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone, least of all himself. There was simply no reason to let things degenerate to that point.
He was supposed to coax Carling into letting him do something for her that was quick, huh? Maybe he could offer to take out her trash or do her dishes. He wondered how well that would go over.
Did the Wicked Witch of the West have a sense of humor? Rune had seen her at inter-demesne affairs over the last couple of centuries. While he might have heard her say something once or twice that seemed laden with a double entendre, or he might have thought on occasion that he’d seen a sparkle lurking at the back of those fabulous dark eyes, it seemed highly doubtful. She seemed too intense for real humor, as if laughter might fracture some kind of critical weapons system inside.
On Thursday, the sixth day, his iPhone pinged. He dragged it out of his jeans pocket and checked it. He had received an email from Duncan Turner at Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law, headquartered in San Francisco.
Who the hell?
Oh riiight, Duncan Turner was Duncan the Vampyre. Duncan had been part of Carling’s entourage as she traveled to Adriyel, the Dark Fae land, for Niniane’s coronation in her position as Councillor for the Elder tribunal.
The Elder tribunal acted as a sort of United Nations for the Elder Races. It was made up of seven Councillors that represented the seven Elder demesnes in the continental United States, and it had certain legal and judicial powers over inter-demesne affairs. Their main charter was to keep the current balance of Power stable and work to prevent war.
Among other things, the Councillors had the authority to command the attendance of residents of their demesne when they were called to act in their official capacity as representatives of the Elder tribunal. Like jury duty for humans, demesne residents either had to comply or provide proof of their inability to serve.
Rune wondered how many billable hours Duncan had lost for the privilege of attending Carling on the trip to Niniane’s coronation in Adriyel. Not only had Duncan proven to be an asset on the trip, he never showed a hint of frustration, impatience or resentment. He had been the ideal travel compani
on, and while Rune distrusted such exemplary behavior, he had grown to like the Vampyre in spite of it.
Rune clicked the email open and read through it.
Rune Ainissesthai
First Sentinel
Cuelebre Tower
New York, NY 10001
Dear Rune:
RE: Per verbal contract enacted 23. 4. 3205, Adriyel date.
As payment for services rendered by Councillor Carling Severan, please present yourself at sundown tomorrow at my office in Suite 7500, 500 Market Street, San Francisco, CA 94105. Further instructions will be given to you at that time.
I hope you have had a good week, and look forward to seeing you in due course.
Best regards,
Duncan Turner
Senior Partner
Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law
Rune rubbed his mouth as he read through the message again. His already grim mood darkened further. Ask Carling if he could do something quick, huh? Take out the trash. Do the dishes.
Bloody hell.
Until he knew what was expected of him, he decided it might be a smart thing to have comfortable accommodations arranged, so he reserved an open-ended stay in a balcony suite at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco, opting for the suite’s more modest size in favor of the room’s view and French doors that opened onto a wrought-iron balcony. Then he said good-bye to his peeps, packed a duffle and fought a nasty short battle with the pride of Wyr-lions that was the Cuelebre Enterprises army of attorneys, for the use of the corporate jet. Despite their vociferous objections, the argument was over the moment he pulled rank. He sent the group of pissed-off cats scrambling to book first-class tickets for their corporate meeting in Brussels.
He could have flown in his gryphon form from New York to San Francisco, but that would mean he would arrive tired and hungry at the law offices of Turner & Braeburn, which did not seem to be the best strategic option when facing an unknown, potentially dangerous task. Besides, as he told the cats, he had some important last-minute things he had to take care of during the flight.
And he did. As soon as the Lear had left the tarmac, he stretched out on a couch with pillows propped at his back and a pile of beef sandwiches at his elbow. He punched a button that opened the shutters that concealed a fifty-two-inch plasma widescreen, settled a wireless keyboard on his upraised knees, a wireless mouse on the back of the couch, and he logged into the World of Warcraft’s game Wrath of the Lich King via the jet’s satellite connection.
After all, he didn’t know when he was going to get the chance to play WoW again. And it was damn important to do his bit to save all life on Azeroth while he could. Booyah.
He played WoW, and ate, and napped while the Lear shot westward through the sky, hurtling toward the death of the day. It felt good to be on the move again, albeit in such a leisurely fashion, and Rune’s mood lightened until he felt almost cheerful again.
Then the pilot’s voice overrode the game on the Lear’s sound system. “Sir, we’ve begun our descent. It should be a smooth one. We’ll reach SFO within the half hour, and we’re already cleared for landing. San Francisco is currently at a balmy seventy-four degrees and the skies are clear. It looks like we’re in for a beautiful sunset.”
Rune rolled his eyes at the travelogue, logged out of WoW, stretched and stood. He stepped into the luxuriously appointed bathroom, shaved and took a five-minute shower, dressed again in his favorite jeans, Jerry Garcia T-shirt and steel-toed boots, and went to check out the scenic action in the cockpit.
Pilot and co- were a mated pair of Wyr-ravens. They sat relaxed and chatting, a slender, dark-haired quick-witted couple who straightened in their seats as he appeared. “Dudes,” he said in a mild tone, resting one elbow on the back of co-’s chair. “Chill.”
“Yes, sir.” Alex, the pilot, gave him a quick sidelong smile. Alex was the younger and the more aggressive of the two males. More often than not, his partner Daniel, who was the more laid-back of the pair, was content to play backup. For the longer flights, they tended to switch hats, one flying pilot for the flight out and the other piloting the return trip.
The Lear would be serviced and refueled overnight, and the ravens were headed back to New York first thing in the morning. Rune asked, “What are you guys going to do with your evening—have dinner out, take in a show?”
As they chatted about restaurants and touring Broadway shows, Rune gazed out at the panorama spreading out underneath the plane.
The San Francisco Bay Area was awash in gigantic sweeps of color, the bluish grays of distant landmarks dotted with bright sparks of electric light, all of it crowned with the fiery brilliance of the oncoming cloudless sunset. All five of the Bay Area’s major bridges—the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, Hayward-San Mateo Bridge and the Dumbarton Bridge—were etched in perfect miniature in the watercolor distance. The southern San Francisco peninsula sprouted skyscrapers like colossal flowers in some god’s back garden. At the other end of the Golden Gate lay the North Bay area, which included Marin, and Sonoma and Napa Counties.
Sometimes there was another land in the distance, sketched in lines of palest transparent blue. One of the Bay Area’s Other lands had started appearing on the horizon around a century ago. It seemed to sit due west of the Golden Gate.
The island had first been sighted around the mid-nineteenth century and had caused major consternation and a remapping of shipping lanes. Much research and speculation had gone into the singular phenomenon, sparking ideas such as a Power fault that might be linked to California’s earthquake faults, but no one really understood why the island appeared at some times and disappeared at others. Eventually an adventurous soul discovered that the island disappeared once ocean-faring vessels sailed close enough. After that the traffic in the shipping lanes returned to normal.
Soon the island became another Bay Area tourist attraction. Sightseeing cruises increased exponentially whenever the Other land was visible. People began calling it Avalon, the shining land of myth and fable.
But Rune had heard whispers of another name. There was another population in the Bay Area. It was not the population that took cruises, ate in restaurants or went to see touring Broadway shows. It lived in the corners of old abandoned buildings, and hid when night fell and all the predators came out. The crack addicts and the homeless didn’t call the land Avalon. They called it Blood Alley.
The island was visible now in the distance, the immense orange-red ball of the setting sun shining through its unearthly silhouette. A small colony of Vampyres reputedly lived on the island. Rune watched it thoughtfully, shifting his stance to take in the change in gravity as the Lear tilted into a wide circle that would bring it into a landing pattern for SFO.
As the seat of the Nightkind demesne, the Bay Area had many Vampyre enclaves, especially in Marin County where an extensive community surrounded the home of Julian Regillus, the official Nightkind King. As far as Rune knew, the street people did not whisper of Julian’s community with the same kind of fear as they did the island. Was that because of the island’s otherworldly habit of appearing and disappearing, or because of who lived there?
Alex the pilot heaved a sigh and said, “I am required by FAA regulations . . . blah blah . . . seat belt . . . blah . . .”
Rune burst out laughing. “If we wouldn’t lose all the shit that’s not anchored down in the cabin, I’d be tempted to just pop open a door and hop out.”
Daniel shot him a look. “Thank you, sir, for refraining from that action.”
“You’re welcome.” Rune clapped the co- on the shoulder and left the cabin.
Truth was, he wasn’t in all that big of a hurry, and they set down soon enough. When they had taxied into position and Daniel opened up the Lear, Rune thanked him and took off. He shapeshifted just outside the jet and, cloaking his Wyr form from scrutiny, he launched into the air and flew into the city.
He was undecided about where to l
and, since he wasn’t familiar enough with the location of 500 Market Street that he could locate it from the air. Finally he chose to set down near the west end of the Golden Gate Park. As he spiraled down toward a paved path, his shadow flickered over a slender furtive figure that stood in front of a sign and shook a can of spray paint in one fist.
Rune landed, changed back into his human form and let his cloak of concealment drop away. He slung his duffle bag onto one shoulder and watched as the figure tagged the sign. The brown creature looked like an anorexic humanoid female, with a skeletal frame and long spidery hands and feet. Her dripping hair had strands of seaweed tangled in it.
She glanced over her shoulder, caught sight of him and scowled. “What are you staring at, ass-wipe?”
He said in a mild tone, “Not a thing, my good woman.”
“Keep it that way.” She darted to a nearby trash can, tossed away the spray paint can and dashed across the path to dive into a nearby pond. Soon the quiet sound of brokenhearted sobbing came from underneath a weeping willow at the pond’s edge.
Rune walked over to the sign. It was one of the myriad signs that were posted throughout the Bay Area’s ponds, lakes and rivers that warned tourists: Please Do NOT Feed the Water Haunts.
This particular sign had one word blacked out with spray paint. It now read: Please Do Feed the Water Haunts.
Welcome to the Nightkind demesne, the home of water haunts, night elves, ghouls, trolls and Vampyres. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of several night elves trotting through the park. Unlike real Elves, night elves were typically slender and child-sized creatures, with large eyes and large bald heads and pointed ears, and they schooled together like fish.
He strolled over to the willow tree and cocked his head to look underneath the dripping leaves. The water haunt sat in the water, her bony thin shoulders hunched. She caught sight of him and sobbed harder.
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