Within limits.
But elves weren't anywhere close to my limits; they were well across the county line and into the next state. Viruses and mutations and quantifiable paranormal phenomena are one thing, ancient magical races are quite another.
Still, that little trip out west with the Wendigo had blurred a few more lines between what was possible and what seemed not . . .
And now that I needed the faerie four-one-one? It probably wasn't the best idea to rely too heavily on a certain smut-surfing bat-demon with public library access to the internet.
And there was another reason to call Seattle, as well . . .
"Is good to hear your voice, my friend!" Ancho's voice boomed at sufficient volume to make my cell phone buzz as though set to vibrate. "How are you doing now?"
"Fine, Big Guy. How about yourself?"
"Ah! My Basa-Andrée is big with child again! I hear you are soon to be proud papa, too! Too bad you cannot come for visit, anymore . . ."
I shook my head trying to clear the disturbing image of a pregnant aguane. Ancho was married to a water elemental, possessed of an ethereal beauty when sporting about in rivers, lakes, and fountains. Out and about on dry land, however, she was about the ugliest woman I could ever imagine.
And the past couple of years had put my imagination on steroids.
"Yeah, well right now I'm Mr. Persona-non-grata up your way but maybe things will relax down the road," I offered. "I was hoping you wouldn't mind sharing a little information in the meantime."
"Well, you are only prohibited from coming here in person," he said thoughtfully. "As long as you are not asking wrong kinds of questions."
"Fair enough," I allowed. "Ancho, you once told me something about faeries—about how there are three different kinds . . ."
"Are many different kinds," he corrected, "but, yah, three different realms."
"Right. You said: light, dark, and dusky . . ."
"Yah, different kinds in each realm."
"With different powers and purposes?"
"Among different kinds, yah. And everybody different like humans are different, too. Realms not having anything to do with powers or—how you say—purpose. Good or evil?" I could almost see him waggle his hand. "Not to do with realms. There are bad light elves and good dark elves. All mix up, just like humans."
"Which is the kind that steals children, Ancho?"
There was a pregnant pause. "Steal children? Human children?" His voice betrayed a note of alarm. "Is not done so much anymore! The world has changed!"
"What do you mean 'changed'?"
"More humans, now. Live together closely. Ten generations ago, sun go down and all was darkness. Much woods and fields and many hidden places. When cloudy or new moon, our world strong beyond feeble glow of lantern or candle. Now is little night and much steel and concrete. You have lamps that flash like sun over great distances and no shadow, no dark or hidden place is safe . . ." His voice had gone soft and sad but suddenly snapped back with a tone of barely controlled disgust. "So, is not done so much anymore."
"But why?" I asked. "Then or now, why do the faerie kidnap children?"
"Most do not. Did not even when humans were cattle and huddled in the great dark. But for those who did? Are different reasons like different kinds. One—individual or tribe—loses a child of its own and cannot conceive. They adopt from the race of Men because they are too ancient to renew themselves with pure lineage."
"Hmmm," I said. "Sort of like the House of Windsor . . ."
"Sometimes a human child is seen to be abused or neglected. The Folk take that lost one out of mercy or kindness."
So, sort of a Fey Folk Family Services . . .
"And once, every generation or so, there is a Telling."
"A Telling?"
"When a babe is foretold. Is anointed . . . gifted. Child is taken to help fulfill special destiny or . . ." He paused. "Are you asking about a specific child?"
My hand was gripping the cell phone so tightly I was in danger of crushing it. "Or what, Ancho? Prevent its destiny from being fulfilled?
"Christopher, are we talking about your child?"
"My son hasn't been born, yet."
"But something has happened. What can I do?"
"If I describe an elf and her human servitor, do you think you could identify them?"
"I do not know. But for you I will try."
So I described Fand and Setanta as best I could. Answered the dusky elf's questions about their clothing and jewelry.
It wasn't enough.
"But their names," Ancho said, "seem familiar. I will ask around."
"Thanks, buddy," I said, forcing the tension back out of my voice. "I really appreciate it."
"Is there anything else I can do?"
I hesitated. Time for that other thing. "Yeah, would you ask Suki to give me a call when she rises?"
There was a long pause. "Is not a funny joke, my friend."
"Joke?"
"The Doman was angry enough about your threat to the other demesnes. He forgave you for Deirdre; her making was largely your doing. But he feels Suki and the others were betrayals."
"Um, Ancho, this isn't a joke. I really want to talk—"
"Tell her," he continued, "that if she ever leaves your protection, he will make an example of her to the rest of the Northwest demesne."
"Ancho—"
"Goodbye, my friend. Be careful and guard your son."
The connection clicked off and I was left holding a silent lump of plastic to my ear.
* * *
"Your eyes . . ."
It eventually occurred to me that I was the only other person aboard the New Moon at the moment. I turned from the upper deck railing and looked at Volpea. "What?"
She had thrown on a white shirt but hadn't bothered to button it. The material billowed out behind her as the wind angled up off the river. With her bronzed skin and articulated musculature, she looked like some caped crusader from the comic books. It is I, Bikini-woman!
She stepped a little closer, reducing the quantity, if not the quality, of distraction. "Um," she said, "you know the old saying about how the eyes are mirrors of the soul?"
"Windows," I said. "The eyes are the windows of the soul. Not mirrors. Thomas Phaer, 1510 to 1560."
She stared at me.
"Falsely attributed to Aristotle and Shakespeare."
"Now you're scaring me."
I shrugged. "Just saying . . ."
"Well," she brushed some hair from her face and took another step, "yours are more like mirrors than windows. At this rate your reflective moods will soon be more literal than metaphorical."
"Great," I muttered. "Maybe I can get a temp job, working for Galactus."
She was back to staring at me.
"Galactus?" I repeated. "You know . . . the Silver Surf—?" I sighed. "Oh, never mind." I turned back to the railing and gazed out at the tree-lined bluffs across the green undulations of water.
Looking up at the bleached turquoise sky, I realized, again, just how much I had missed the sun. Not that I didn't look out of a shaded window from time to time. It wasn't even that long ago that I had still been able to slather on enough SPF 1000 sun block for very short excursions outside. Longer on those days that were heavily overcast. But to stand fearlessly out in the open, enjoying the view up close and the warmth of sun on my back? The need might diminish over time but it would never completely fade away.
And it wasn't just me.
Rumor had it that, of all the vampires caught out in the open and immolated by the rising sun, fewer were caught by accident than previously supposed.
Even transformed, we are not emotionally designed for immortality.
I, myself, wasn't suicidal. Yet. Just clinically depressed, according to Drs. Mooncloud and Burton.
And Mama Samm.
And Camazotz Chamalcan.
And even The Kid, though he hadn't been around to haunt my new digs for a while. Apparently g
hosts don't have an affinity for water unless they drowned there to begin with. Since J.D. had been a vampire—with the attendant hydro phobias before he kicked it for the second time—his visitations were rare and usually involved an event of some significance.
Apparently my abduction and return weren't significant enough.
"Tell me about Lupé Garou," Volpea said.
Oh yeah: still had company. Not suicidal but depressed enough to be dangerously distracted. And no longer as averse to risk as I once had been. Not a good sign. I had to keep my head in the game—if not for me then for my son. And, although two werewolf enforcers from New Orleans were more likely to be allies than enemies, I couldn't simply trust in others' better natures. To paraphrase the Tao of the Tomb: shit happens.
In my case it happens a lot.
Over and over.
Like preternatural laxative.
"You probably know more than I do, by now," I growled. "I'm up here. She's down there. You can visit. I can't. I should be asking you that question."
She came to stand beside me at the railing. "Is it true that you were lovers? That the child she carries is yours?"
"Is this any of your business?" I turned back to the view across the river but that wasn't what I was seeing anymore.
"It is the business of the Pack," she said gently. "For, if it is true, it tears at the Covenant. Fang and Fur may be sundered."
"Ask me if I care."
"You have a reputation as Warlock, as Oath-breaker. You are anathema to our traditions."
I snorted. "Whose traditions? The vampires who rule the weres? Or the weres who have been subjugated by the undead for a thousand years, now? Half of it's a lie, you know."
"And what half is that?" There was no shock or consternation in her voice. Either I was preaching to the choir or she wasn't about to take anything I said seriously.
"About it being death or some sort of folderol for a vampire to drink a werewolf's blood," I told her. "How do you think a Doman acquires their powers, after all?"
Her breathing quickened. She wasn't as fully briefed as she'd thought. "And what," she asked carefully, "happens when a lycanthrope drinks the blood of a fanged master?"
I shrugged. "Ask Lupé. Although I'm not sure that I would count as I'm not—" Dammit: saying more than I should . . . "You realize, of course, that even though we are no longer together, I have published a fatwa, promising to destroy anyone who harms her or the child. And then utterly destroy their bloodline as well."
I saw Volpea nod out of the corner of my eye. "Of course. It is why she is still alive despite the breaking of The Covenant." I felt her gaze slide across me. "At least as long as you live, that is."
"Doing fine so far."
She shrugged. "People die."
I nodded. "Yes. Yes, they do. In fact a whole lotta people have died over the past year because they haven't learned to leave us the hell alone. You want covens and packs and enclaves that are socially dysfunctional and obsessed about miscegenation? Fine! Keep your clubhouses and secret handshakes and have your silly little rules and rituals. But don't be pulling any pointy sheets over my head and telling me that I have to sign up for your nonsense! I've got my own clubhouse, thank you very much, and I and my people will do our own family planning!"
"Then why," she asked after a long silence, "is your lover and the mother of your child taking refuge in New Orleans instead of staying up here in your . . . um . . . clubhouse?"
"Why don't you ask her?" was all I could come up with after a slightly shorter pause. "Why do you care?"
"Because I'm curious. Because you are not what I expected. Because I do not know if you are the greatest threat that the New Orleans' demesne has ever faced . . . or its last, best chance for salvation," she said, turning toward me. "And I cannot make that decision without knowing you better." She pushed herself against me. "I think I want to know you better . . ."
I reached down, grasped her upper arm, and moved her back. At least I tried to move her back. She was strong and solid and not ready to move. And I couldn't budge her. Well, my leverage was all wrong . . .
I didn't want to step back because predators always recognize a retreat as a sign of weakness. I had learned that early on. I just hadn't learned how to deal in situations precisely like this.
"One of the reasons Lupé is not here is that she walked in on a conversation very much like this one and got the wrong idea," I said. I did not speak softly, I spoke quietly. There is a marked difference.
"Well," Volpea said, reaching up to finger my shirt, "she's down there . . . we're up here . . . so she can't walk in and get the wrong idea this time . . ."
"How about Fenris? Suppose he gets the wrong idea—"
Her index finger came to rest on my lips. "I told Fenny to stay away for a couple of hours. I told him I had a better chance of getting information out of you if we were alone."
"What kind of information?" I mumbled around her finger.
"Some of us want to know where your sympathies lie . . ." The finger left my lips and trailed down my chin.
"Sympathies?"
"The conflict between Lupin and Wampyri. If you had to choose sides . . ." The finger ghosted my throat and made a lazy tour of my chest.
"I thought it was a matter of public record that I've always taken my own side," I answered.
"You, yourself, have said repeatedly that you are not a vampire." The finger trickled lower.
"Not yet, anyway."
"You resist the Embrace . . ." Lower. "You are still potent . . ." Uncomfortably low. "And we have questions regarding your plans for . . . expansion . . ."
I grabbed her hand and brought it back up. Lucky for me she didn't resist.
Even luckier, I didn't squeak when I said: "Expansion?"
"Your demesne. At least what you claim as your own gathering of allies and were-lieged."
I finally took that step back and released her wrist. "And why should I tell Marie Laveau all of my plans? We already have a mutually agreeable arrangement."
I had released her wrist but Volpea had performed a smooth reverse and now had mine. "Because, as much as she and the other fanged masters would like to know how you fit into their plans, it is the Lupin who ask. And, depending upon your answers, they may be the key to your supremacy over all other demesnes."
I stared at her.
"Do you understand?"
Well, yes and . . . "Not really. No."
A moment before she was looking at me like I was a seven-course meal in a five-star restaurant. Now she wore the expression of someone whose tuna casserole was a little overdone and was thinking about ordering pizza delivery instead.
"Look," I said, "it's not that I don't see where you're trying to go with this. It's just that it doesn't make any sense. If the Lupin want to rise up and throw off the shackles of vampire oppression, you've got my blessing. I won't get in the way. But if you're talking about the weres all signing up to be members of my demesne? Well, what is that? Trading a bunch of undead masters for another? Uh-uh. I can barely manage my own affairs much less anyone else's. And the whole point of seceding from the demesne system would be to free yourselves from anyone's domination. So, best of luck to you. Hope it all works out. And drop me a postcard from time to time."
"It's not that simple," she said.
It was for me. It had to be. I had complications enough without getting involved in additional hostilities. On the other hand, no sense in pissing off another werewolf. Much less a whole new clan or pack or furry activist coalition. Tread carefully, Cséjthe . . .
"Tell me about bloodwalking."
"What?" Tread carefully and pay more attention! "Why? So you'll know what to look for if I try anything?" I grumped.
The seductive look was back in place. "Because maybe I'd like to know what I'm getting myself into should I decide to invite you in."
"Invite me in?" I echoed stupidly.
Now I'll be among the first to admit that there are times
that I can be, well, obtuse. A little slow on the uptake, at the very least. Occasionally. Not often, mind you, but . . . sometimes. More rare than common—
The point is, I find it helpful to feign confusion at times in order to get people to volunteer more information. Such as when their motivations are obviously suspect.
Like now.
"I need you to consider our cause," she elaborated. "You might be more inclined to do so if I were able to smuggle you in to see your . . . people . . . under Marie Laveau's nose."
I stared down at her. It wasn't that great a distance as she was tall. "You're talking about giving me a ride inside your head," I murmured.
"Maybe. It would depend on a number of things."
"Like what?" I asked, already knowing the negotiations would likely involve some sort of compromise on my part.
"I would need to know what kind of a man I would be sharing my body with. And would my mind be violated? Or is it possible for my thoughts to remain private if I so wish it?"
I didn't like it. You don't give intel to the enemy. Or, at the very least, to strangers. Especially when you have so little, yourself. But if Volpea was even halfway serious, it would be my best and possibly only chance for slipping through the Voodoo Queen's cordons and seeing Lupé.
Explaining my mode of transportation to Lupé could be a big problem but this was not the time to look a gift wolf in the mouth.
So I explained what I did know from my surprisingly limited experience in invading other people's bodies. I told her that I had never tried being the "passenger" aboard a willing host. That all of my experiences in bloodwalking had involved taking control of the body of an unprepared host and relying on shock and surprise to help keep their consciousness suppressed while I sat in the "driver's seat," as it were. And that the only time I had actually delved past anyone's surface thoughts while visiting was to fish a security pass code out of a panicked guard's memory—which he surrendered as soon as I asked the question. That's all.
I promised to be a gentleman, if that helped any.
Her response, after a long pause, was that her only formal acquaintance with any "gentlemen" was at "gentlemen's clubs."
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