The Key to Starveldt

by Foz Meadows

  It’s not like I’m asking for much, Laine told herself. I just want to know where we stand.

  Despite her cardinal rule, she was almost prepared to read his mind deliberately: the uncertainty was eating at her, imposing significance on his every gesture. She was preoccupied, gnawing away at herself. It wasn’t until Solace read the prophecy out loud that Laine jolted back into the present, brought up short by the reference to secrets all unsaid. Of course it meant her; there could be no doubt. Even so, it was such an unsettling realisation that when Solace handed her the paper, she let her wards slip. It was only for a second, but that was more than enough time to gaze on the yearning loneliness that had dominated the vampire’s early life, brought to the surface through learning about her family.

  The more Laine’s Trick connected her to people, the more disconnected from them she felt, but that was quite a different species of isolation to what she gleaned from Solace. It shamed her.

  There had been something else in Morgause’s pages to cause her unrest, and demanded her continued attention: the naming of a place that had since become their destination. The Rookery. Thrills ran through her at the thought. She’d never been there, having only learned of its existence through the overheard thoughts of folk stranger even than her friends, and yet that fleeting reference had been enough to pique her curiosity. Despite what she’d told Evan, she knew what the word meant because she’d googled it after the first time she heard it mentioned. Had her search turned up anything that might have proved useful now, she would have come clean up-front – but it hadn’t.

  And now, here they were, moving forwards again, moving ever deeper into those strange troubles that Solace had brought with her. Laine didn’t mind – didn’t care, even, because although it had caused her problems, sooner or later, something always did. But meanwhile, there sat Evan, as cheerful outwardly as he ever was, but with his mind closed to her, offlimits, silent as clouds.

  ‘I hate Sydney streets,’ Jess muttered, not for the first time since leaving the house. ‘A pox on all town planners and their no right goddamn turn signs!’

  ‘Sweet sister, we understand,’ said Evan wearily. ‘We also comprehend, sympathise and generally agree. Now stop whining and find us a park!’

  ‘He says, as if it were the easiest thing in the world,’ Jess hissed, blasting the horn as she swore at a passing cyclist. ‘Dammit! Would you like to drive? Don’t answer that!’ she amended, as Evan opened his mouth.

  They were on George Street, driving at snail’s pace between each set of lights. The house was situated in Surrey Hills, and although they hadn’t needed to cover much distance, the exercise had proved overlong and frustrating. Still getting used to Sydney, Solace was hard-pressed to understand why driving through the CBD was so hard – an irritation caused largely by a veritable barrage of no right turn signs, most of which seemed to be situated at junctions where the objection to turning right was not so much based on the traffic flow as a desire to cause as much congestion as possible.

  ‘Look,’ Paige interjected crossly. ‘We’re nearly at Bathurst Street, anyway. Turn left there to turn right into Kent, and then we can park underground, seeing as the whole point of the exercise is to find parking.’ She sat back, apparently satisfied.

  ‘Fine!’ snapped Jess. Abruptly, the lights changed to green, causing the traffic to lurch forwards like a conga-line of drunks on a downward slope. Bathurst Street loomed large ahead, and before the lights could switch again, Jess flicked the indicator and veered sharply left. The right-hand turn into Kent came so swiftly afterwards that Solace wasn’t alone in feeling jarred.

  Miraculously, no other cars were interested in Kent Street at that particular moment, and Jess was able to slow down. As Sydney roads went, it seemed at first much like any other, lined with the common slew of cheap cafés, hotels, office buildings and underground car parking facilities. Of the latter, there was one ahead on the left, advertised by the usual blue and white P-sign, but beside it lurked a different sort of building altogether.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Electra, pointing. The motion of her arm caused Laine and Solace to duck, as they, along with Harper, were all squashed together in the middle row of seats. They all leaned forwards, vying for a look.

  The building in question was an old-fashioned house. Built of creamy sandstone and situated behind a wrought-iron fence, it was overshadowed by slender, leafy trees. Smaller than either of its neighbouring structures by far, it seemed marooned in an island of shade, anachronistic and beautiful. Despite its obvious age, it was well maintained and clearly occupied, with a brass nameplate resplendent on the fence.

  ‘The Judge’s House,’ Laine read aloud, squinting. ‘Huh. I wonder what that is?’

  ‘Maybe it’s where we’re meant to go?’ asked Paige, from the back.

  Jess shook her head. ‘No – I can’t get in. There’s a security system on the gate. Anyway, it’s above ground.’ She exhaled. ‘Down we go, then.’

  With a scff of rubber on asphalt, the Kombi turned to enter the nearest underground car park. It was a little like being swallowed, Solace thought, watching as the outside light was muted to a dull, fluorescent yellow.

  Once down the slope, a boom gate and its adjacent pay station confronted them. Grumbling, Jess wound down the window and examined the rates, eventually letting out a snort of indignation at the expense.

  ‘Fifteen dollars flat rate!’ she exclaimed. ‘And in coins, no less!’ Imploringly, she swivelled around in her seat, peering back over the gearbox. ‘Any chance, Lex?’

  Without answering, Electra began to glow. In comparison to other times, her aura was soft, but warmer than Solace had expected. For all she’d watched Electra’s Trick before, she’d never been close enough during the process to feel its physical effects.

  Seconds later, Electra was passing a handful of gold coins to Jess, who smiled in thanks and fed the machine. In answer, it made a lengthy grinding noise before finally spitting out a small, square ticket. The boom gate rose, and they drove on.

  ‘Now, the real challenge of parking,’ Harper murmured.

  ‘Hush,’ Jess scolded. ‘You’ll jinx me.’

  For several tense minutes, they drove around in circles, thwarted by row after row of immobile cars. Finally, their thoroughly-frazzled driver spotted bare concrete in a far corner, uttered a cry of relief and made for it with indecent speed.

  With a final, exhausted clunk, the Kombi sputtered and fell silent. There followed a moment of weird hesitation, devoid of movement or speech. The pause was broken by Harper, who unbuckled his seatbelt and slid the door open, almost uncertain of what he was doing. Like wildlife freed from the grip of high beams, the others came back to themselves, stretching as they left the van. Duchess leapt out last of all and started washing her paws.

  ‘Well,’ said Manx. His voice echoed against the concrete. ‘Should we start looking?’

  ‘Um,’ said Paige, pointing at the far wall, ‘I don’t think we need to.’

  They began to move away from the van. Solace’s hand strayed to the key in her pocket, stroking it through the leather of her jacket.

  Paige was pointing at a door. Painted deep blue, it looked as if it led to a flight of tairs – not an unreasonable speculation, as the parking continued above ground as well as under. Nothing odd in that. But across the neighbouring wall was a colourful splay of graffiti, depicting – in the sharp, almost hieroglyphic lines of spray-painted art – a stylised hawk, coloured bronze and red, with darkly golden eyes. Fanning out from beneath its wings and claws were the metallic blues, greys and greens of a storm, while the backdrop overhead was gunmetal and black. The hawk was facing the door hinge, and Solace saw that its beak was open. A faint, almost indiscernible shockwave seemed to be coming from the raptor, flowing out of the image and into the door.

  ‘The Sign of the Singing Hawk,’ Solace said, softly. When nobody answered, she reached out for the handle, gleaming round and silver in the fluoresce
nt light. Manx reached out and stopped her, placing a hand on her arm.

  ‘There’s no turning back from here.’ He spoke in a lowered voice, but his words still echoed. ‘You open that door, and we don’t know what will happen.’

  Solace squeezed his hand and met his mismatched eyes, concerned but unafraid.

  ‘That’s life,’ she said, simply. ‘Every door is a choice, and every choice is a door. This one, we’re walking through.’

  Taking a breath, Solace turned back to the door. The others clustered behind her, moving with the small, animal restlessness of a herd. As her left hand touched the metal handle, her right brushed the key to Starveldt; a gesture of prayer, or safety.

  Head bowed, Solace spoke. ‘We seek entry to the Rookery. We seek Liluye.’

  One heartbeat. Two.

  Beneath her skin the knob began to turn. The lights winked out.

  Enter, then.

  One moment, Solace and her friends were walking through the door and into darkness, feeling the odd buzzing, clicking sensation that marked any passage through conjoined space – doorways where magic acted as a shortcut through the distance of reality. And then there was light: blinding, dazzling and absolute. For an instant, Solace thought that they’d emerged outdoors, and flinched. But the dizziness she’d braced for didn’t come. Bewildered, she risked opening her eyes, blinking furiously until her vision returned. Behind her, she was aware of muttered swearing – Jess, she guessed, or Paige – and felt someone bump into her. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one to have been blinded.

  ‘Greetings! Please, remain where you are.’

  The voice was lilting, unfamiliar, and female. Straightening – when had she stooped, exactly? – Solace stared and squinted. Her sight was still blurry. At first, all she could make out was a blue shape on a light background. As the figure approached, her focus tightened: it was a person dressed in blue? – a woman? – a blue woman?

  ‘Um,’ said Solace dumbly.

  The blue woman smiled, revealing a mouth full of the kind of white, absurdly perfect teeth usually unknown beyond toothpaste ads and the cosmetic dentistry of Los Angeles. Solace focused on the teeth: they at least were known quantities. The woman herself was a different matter entirely.

  Her skin was dusky blue, lighter on her throat and arms, as though she, like anyone else, would tan from the sun. She was impossibly svelte and shorter even than Paige, dainty as a child. Her face was alien: wide, too-large, almond-shaped eyes – their huge pupils limned with the barest ring of dark blue iris – set off ascetic cheeks, and ears like lobeless arrows swept back against the narrow carriage of her head. Even her hair, shorn in a shaggy pixiecut, was blue, the kind of deep, profound colour that dye endeavours to achieve, but never does. And there were protrusions on the crown of her head – two slender, waving sensors of which the only apt descriptor was antennae.

  Curiously, she was dressed in a blue toga, or perhaps sari. The woman’s left breast was bare, the final disconnect with any lingering sense of normality. Wherever we are, Solace thought, it certainly isn’t Kansas.

  With fluttering, graceful steps, the woman moved forward.

  ‘I am Anise.’ Reaching up, she brushed Solace’s cheek before letting her hand fall back. ‘Do not be alarmed. You are safe.’

  ‘Wasn’t alarmed,’ Solace mumbled. Abashed, she forced herself to look Anise squarely in the eye. ‘Well, I was. But only a little.’

  Anise laughed. It was a pretty sound, rippling like the music of an underwater bell.

  ‘You are honest,’ she said, smiling again. ‘That is good.’

  ‘Where are we?’ Electra asked.

  Belatedly, Solace thought to look somewhere other than at their host, and realised their location resembled the lobby of a glamorous hotel. The floor underfoot was white marble. Ahead lay a grand staircase of the same stone, covered with red carpet as it flowed up to a landing that diverged into two separate flights, each leading to a different level. On either side of their point of entry, a marble hallway, lined with elegant portraiture and bric-a-brac, stretched off into the distance.

  ‘This is the Rookery,’ Anise said. ‘I assume that this is your first time among us. Repeat visitors rarely materialise in this place.’ She waved a hand to indicate the lobby.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Solace, glancing at the others. Paige looked awed, Jess still slightly cross, Electra thoughtful. Manx and Harper were taken up with not staring at Anise, but Evan, to Solace’s surprise, seemed to be experiencing no such difficulty. Instead, he was watching Laine from the corner of one eye. Under this subtle scrutiny the psychic stood rigid, as though she were aware of his attention, but not wanting to show it. Solace felt the Vampire Cynic take note. Interesting.

  ‘You asked us to wait,’ said Jess, after a brief pause.

  Anise nodded. ‘I did, and I appreciate your compliance. You must speak with the owner.’

  ‘Liluye.’ Solace exhaled the name.

  ‘Not because you spoke her name. Your cargo makes it necessary.’ Anise motioned towards Solace’s jacket pocket. ‘The Rookery has a cautious policy toward objects of power. That which you carry activated certain of our wards, the effect of which is to blind and bind while notifying me. Had you tried to leave the lobby before I stopped you, the result would have been – well, unnecessary, let us say.’ Her gaze flicked upwards, momentarily lighting on each of them. ‘But I am sure there will be no problem. Liluye will discern the truth of the matter.’

  ‘This Liluye,’ Manx began, nervously licking his lips. ‘Is she – I mean, is she like you?’

  Anise’s face deepened in a humour. Her mouth and eyes were incredibly expressive, so that even the subtlest change registered with beautiful clarity. Solace had initially taken her for Rare, but now found herself wondering whether she might be something else entirely. Surely it’s not that crazy an idea.

  ‘Liluye is unlike anyone,’ Anise replied cryptically. Before Manx could ask what this meant, however, the blue woman cocked her head and held up a finger, her slender ears (or possibly her antennae) receiving some private message.

  ‘She is ready,’ Anise murmured, after a slight pause. ‘Please follow me, and keep together. You will have an opportunity to ask questions – soon.’

  This last request forestalled both Jess and Harper, whose partially open mouths slid closed with the smooth synchronicity of car windows.

  Beckoning, Anise turned and walked toward the main staircase. Solace was not alone in gasping at the sight of her not-so-bare back.

  ‘She has wings,’ breathed Paige, speaking for everyone.

  They were so fine – and, like the rest of Anise, blue – that nobody had noticed them before. The bone and musculature on which they balanced protruded neatly from her back, eerily akin to what Solace had once imagined dragons having. They were currently tucked away, the long, blue-skinned upper bones folded down against their shorter, stronger counterparts, while segmented flashes of dragonfly gossamer shivered between them like molten silver. Sensing their scrutiny, Anise turned on the third step, raising an eyebrow in quiet rebuke for their dawdling. Guiltily, they caught up with her.

  ‘The Rookery is larger than you think,’ she said, turning away. ‘It would not do to lose yourselves.’ Her folded wingtips fluttered.

  When they reached the landing, Anise led them up and right, following the lower staircase until it flattened out into a sinuous walkway. Solace ran her hand along the smooth wood of the balustrade until the encroaching wall cut it short and the entrance lobby vanished from sight.

  The corridor ahead was broader than she’d expected, with doors only on the left-hand side. Most were wood, and many had glass windows cut into the top half, reminding Solace of some classic private investigator’s office. She tried to look in the first few, but the glass was fogged and rippled, and she saw nothing but the blur and glow of fluorescent lights.

  Soon, they reached a T-junction; Anise glided left, and they followed in ever-dee
pening silence, uncertain of what to say, or of what could be said. Thus far, the Rookery felt like a magic place, some strange conspiracy of the senses that, along with Anise, seemed far too fey to be anchored in reality. As though the building itself were determined to prove this point, a low buzz emanated from somewhere up ahead. Manx and Solace, whose senses were sharpest, heard it first. The others reacted individually: a Mexican wave of puzzlement. After the initial shock had worn off, and as the sound grew louder, Solace realised the buzzing was actually familiar. It was like the distant noise from the Gadfly on the first night she’d met her friends, washed through walls and watered down, but unmistakeable. The sound of a crowd.

  ‘What is the Rookery?’ she asked, unable to stop herself.

  Anise didn’t answer immediately, but the rustle of her wings gave Solace the impression that the query pleased her. Abruptly, they turned another corner, stepping into an open foyer even larger than the lobby. Bare white marble glowed underfoot, and though several other slim passages opened into the space, their little group stood alone. The noise was louder here, washing against their ears like the growl of ocean waves chewing a pebbled beach. Solace looked up: the foyer roof was so high that it resembled the inner dome of a cathedral, vaulting overhead in arched stone beams and curving panels. Before them stood massive double doors of dark wood. Resting one slim hand on a long brass handle, Anise came to a halt and turned to face them. Her alien eyes were wide and bright, glowing with insect intensity and devilish with human glee.

  ‘We are givers of sanctuary,’ she said, ‘on whom the pale moon gleams. We shelter the Rare, and those who are human, and those who are neither, and all who ask. We are a circus and burlesque show, a brothel, a convent and den of thieves; a worship of writers, a talent of gamblers, a skirl of pipers and banner of knights; a coven of witches, a host of angels, remade dreams and a city of lights. We are isangelous, curious, furious, furtive, fatuous, dangerous, slanderous, libellous and lycanthropic, anachronistic and metempsychotic. We are archaic and we are brave, futuristic, forgotten and grave. We are the Rookery, flotsam of worlds.’