by Lynn S.
Blameless
There was a quiet understanding between the dweller and the spirit of life that surpassed the violence around them. The elder vampire had savaged Francis Alexander’s body, cleaving through flesh with rage, readied to meet its purpose, and then it simply let go. The dark fairy’s body hit the ground as the dweller took to the skies, merging with the flashes of light of an angry storm.
Brigitte felt the weight of a major force leaving her. Wedo hardly ever imposed, as life would have its way apart from death, but when he did, it was easy to annul her. Too close to a humiliation to be easily forgiven. She tried to get an explanation from her brother, but the oracle of life, looking no better than a desolate child, had fallen silent. He simply separated Marissa from Garan and disappeared, taking the violinist’s body with him.
Bansit also felt a hard hit. Her body, now relaxed from the needless push of adrenaline, could not withstand the mantle thrust upon her. It took her a moment to acknowledge the presence of her sisters, and all her will not to stumble. The Morrigan of the Waters felt her sister of Battlefields and the elder of Judgement stirring within her. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she knew, indubitably, that must have been Annand, allowing herself a measure of sentiment. The first of the Morrigan remembered her failure. As they were commanded, they had to deliver Francis Alexander to judgement…still, there was a part of her that lamented the loss of a son.
Mikka was there also, looking at the world through her eyes, and Bansit could feel the swell of uninvited emotion. She tried to concentrate on Killian, understanding for the first time that the damage Mikka had done to the prince didn’t leave the Morrigan of the Battlefields unscathed. Whenever the prince hurt, it also tore through her. Bansit had discovered the one secret her twin never confided. She felt Killian’s pain, the torment left by Meav’s cruel pronunciations…all those questions that now demanded an answer.
At her feet, Francis whimpered.
Bansit knew that, broken as he was, he remained one of those reptiles that could bite even after their head had been severed.
She knew what was required of her, and didn’t hesitate.
Killian had his own intentions with the Sidhe, but she was faster. Before the prince could get hold of his captive and ask, Bansit trapped Francis’s thighs between her knees and fell upon him, covering his torso in the dark of her wings. They were trapped by silence, far from the world, and whatever they spoke could not be heard by others.
“Our son, our love…the bane of our existence…” Bansit spoke for three before speaking for herself. “They say I’m the weakest of the sisters, but it is a misunderstanding of my role…” Her voice was sweet as lullabies lost to memory. She combed her fingers through his hair like when he was a babe. “See, Francis, it takes a certain stock to carry around the depth of secrets I’ve been holding in my breast since this world was young. There are things of me I see in you. Endurance is not one of them. You, my dear, will sell your soul with sweet words three times over to spare the fate that awaits you. And the things you know are too many to trust your silence…”
Bansit pushed the Sidhe’s head back, forcing his mouth open. Francis was too broken to fight. He felt the warmth of Bansit’s lips upon his own, the intrusion of her fingers forcing him to cooperate, and then the rush of his own blood flooding his mouth as she curtailed his tongue with a blade.
“That was convenient!” Killian faced her as she stood. The Morrigan, no longer needing to conceal herself with a human appearance, was taller than his current disguise of Aidan Faraday. He had to look up to her. As the Morrigan’s usual kind smile became a mocking smirk, the prince recognized that Bansit was allowing the mantle to grant passage to Mikka. She drew near and her lips, wet with blood, were perilously close to his own.
“Ah, ah! Now you must do your work without complaint, and remember, oh sweet prince…you owe The Phantom Queens a favor for setting you free from the prisons of Fae.”
***
“I don’t understand.” Marissa sat on the ground, her clothes soiled with soot and blood. She could still feel Garan’s body against her. He trembled as the blue of his eyes darkened, but she found neither fear nor reproach in the way he looked at her; if anything, he simply compelled her to hold him closer. Wedo took him away, leaving nothing but cold in her bones and questions unanswered.
Brigitte walked toward her. As her mind cleared, the oracle realized Marissa had been under her radar for most of the night. Now she understood that Wedo had subtly claimed her. Therefore, death, unconsciously acknowledging she was marked for life, forgot her. However, her brother had gone and she had loose ends to tie.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk…one was taken and one left behind. Are you in cahoots with my brother, beautiful? I can assure you, you can throw my little brother under the bus. Even if I wanted to kill him for crossing me, I could never. But you…you’d better prove your innocence in this matter. I have a spirit on the run and a dead musician. And from where I’m standing, since I can blame no other, it’s all because of you. Did you charm my little brother out of his wits? Now that’s a story.”
Marissa had been advised not to cross the Lady, but Brigitte always rubbed her the wrong way. And this time around, she felt she had nothing else to lose.
“I’m tired of being judged by you. I don’t even know why I did the things I did, but I’ll be damned if I let you come to me in all your righteousness! You couldn’t care less. You won! It might have cost Garan’s life, but your hand didn’t tremble the first time around. Why should you mourn him now? And yes, there’s a vampiric spirit running from both Light and Shadows, but I can no longer feel it and we both know it must be far from New Orleans now. Whomever might be chasing it will soon leave your city and you’ll have—”
“The summer I deserve!” Brigitte dismissed the woman’s anger with a hand gesture. “Save it, girl. There’s only one thing I need to know, and you’ll give it to me.” Her hands touched Marissa’s temple, sending her in an instant trance. “If you are in any way guilty, I’ll toss you in with the Sidhe. Now show me!”
It was in the nature of the loa to fuse with the human psyche. It was something Brigitte called “riding,” while the most respectful called it possession. Usually, the oracle opened the mind to a vision, but this time, Brigitte delved into memories buried deep.
They were both sitting on the floor of the crypt. Garan had asked Marissa to trust him. The dweller was, as always, listening closely, beneath his skin, but the violinist was in control.
Garan brought a finger to his lips, asking Marissa to keep silent, and then pointed toward the wall on the far right. Marissa felt her heart skip and covered her mouth. She couldn’t give credit to her eyes, even if she had grown used to the supernatural.
Marissa’s instant repulsion was a vestige of ancient fear of threats soon dissolved. She adjusted, accepting beyond her worries that the creature before her projected both sweetness and intelligence. To her eyes, it was no longer a snake, but a boy dressed in torn jeans and a hoodie, who looked at both of them with a spark of curiosity in his unblinking eyes. A gray tongue flashed between his lips and she understood it was nothing more than a greeting. Even with his bizarre behavior, of all the beings she had seen wearing human skin, he looked the most genuine.
Wedo spoke to the three of them.
“I can hear what you are thinking.” Though his attention was fixed on Garan, the boy spoke to the dweller underneath his skin. “I know what you feel…” This time, his words were for Garan. Then he turned to Marissa. “Ah, Marissa…the jewel at the heart of our quest. If I wanted to grant you a boon, I’d ssshow you what awaits you, but you are so ssscared that it is not wise to sssee into the future, for you might try to change it once more.”
Wedo paused, then spoke of his sister. “Once in a while, Brigitte comes up with good intentions, but she quickly avoids them with the excuse that sssuch pave the way to hell. My sssister believes things to be definite. That’s the nature of death
. The crypt has taught her nothing but blacks and whites, a pathway that leads to inevitable resolutions. I, on the other hand, sssee endless possibilities. I believe in chances.”
Brigitte narrowed her eyes and twisted her mouth in a sneer. She always underestimated her brother because Wedo looked and acted like a child. But life presided over death, giving it purpose and meaning. He was older, and even if she didn’t want to grant him the recognition he deserved, her little big brother was also wiser. Marissa was right. Brigitte had been going to sacrifice both Garan and the dweller. It was the resolution she saw from the beginning. She would have wrested the spirit from his host and delivered it to Light and Shadows. The powers would have cursed him back into the mirror without a second thought and she would have made a powerful enemy, granted the dweller managed to escape once more. As for the human, his life would have been reduced to nothing, a husk of flesh, a suit to be discarded. None would have cared.
Well, Wedo did.
“Hmmm. Interesting.” Brigitte would not give her brother credit beyond a mumble, much less in front of Marissa. “Still, I need to know about your part in this story, if you are still in thrall to Francis Alexander, you pose a danger to yourself and others. As I said, the cell that waits for both Meav and that wicked fairy boy of hers can fit another.”
Even under trance, Marissa’s face contorted. She feared the Lady to deliver her promise. Brigitte, however, continued probing.
Wedo had finished speaking. As much as Brigitte tried to find out, it was obvious the conversation had been erased from Marissa’s mind. Wedo had taken steps to cover his tracks, knowing his sister might go for the riding trick. Still, there were bits and pieces she could see clearly.
The boy placed something dark and soft in Garan’s hand. It was half of a Morrigan’s feather—the little gift Wedo had insisted upon receiving when Bansit first arrived in New Orleans. A handful of those soft, dark fibers was enough to balance any being into a perfect equation. The Three Who Wait kept their act in perfect harmony. Garan could feel it: Annand’s wisdom, Mikka’s ferocity, Bansit’s patience. There was a sense of stability and peace as no other attempt had brought about. For the first time, he felt completely integrated with his dweller.
“They have one another, and they use that to find themselves.” Wedo spoke about the sisters to the dweller and his host. “You both have Marissa, and ssshe is your enough. Both of you…for her.”
Wedo took Marissa’s hand in his. “And as for you…I know it’s hard, but time will heal your wounds, and then you must learn to trust once more. And once you find your place, and all the things you’ve lost, you’ll see it’s not that difficult to rely on your heart again.”
“On my instinct, you mean?” she asked.
“In your case,” the loa of life replied, “aren’t they both one and the same?”
Marissa nodded, understanding. She promised to do so, for herself, as well as for Esteban’s memory, and for whatever life might have in store for her.
“Then here we are, darlin’.” Wedo was silent as Garan helped Marissa to her feet. It was the Cajun’s time to comply with the oracle of life’s instructions. “I swear this will hurt me more than it will hurt you, cher, but it’s the closest we can get to a remedy. We are counting on a fairy to slip on his own pride.” He cradled Marissa’s face between his hands. “I promised not to touch you, but I must, even if to give you back a little bit of the poison I took from you, enough to allow the Sidhe to believe he still has a hold on you. And you must believe it too, darlin’, or otherwise it will not work. But listen to me, bind your dhampyr to my fate and do what I’ll ask of you, even if it makes no sense. If you see the Sidhe has the advantage, if by any chance I can’t fight him back in full force, you must do away with me and set the dweller free.”
“What…what? I can’t…I…”
“You can. And you will kill me. You’ll do so without regret. Don’t worry about me, Marissa. I just got stuck in my head I’ve found the girl for which I’ll go to hell and back.”
He kissed her, with the excuse of giving back some of the poison he took from her. Marissa accepted that kiss, trying for trust to trump the fear of being bound once again to Francis Alexander over wild guesses made by an eternal teenager. Garan would have liked to feel another response from her, perhaps that sweet descent into passion as his lips brushed hers, wanting. But his wait was in vain. He was giving her poison and she was too hurt to even protest. He asked Wedo to make her forget and she agreed. She’d rather remember his kindness than a moment of unrequited affection. As the kiss broke, they both felt something was lost, a whole lot of maybes, perhaps. Whether or not she asked him to hold her, Marissa could not recall, but she still felt the warmth of his embrace as her memories drifted…
“Blameless,” Brigitte declared as she brought Marissa back from the trance. No one knew if the Lady did it out of spite or compassion, but upon her waking, she restored the woman’s memories. Everything came back…including that ill-conceived kiss and an intimate knowledge of what was going through Garan’s mind at the moment. Marissa was overwhelmed by unfathomable nostalgia. There was a void left due to Garan’s absence—it was heart wrenching and deep.
Chapter XXVIII
Thanks for Visiting New Orleans
Greenwood Cemetery
New Orleans had everything its citizens might need, no wonder they called it The Big Easy. The city lived by one rule: the love you give equals the love you’ll receive. To the eyes of both locals and tourists, nightlife was not confined to evening hours. There was always something to do, music in every corner, and a touch of spice to be quenched by either liquor or sweet tea. Whatever strikes their fancy. That applied, of course, to the humans who, blessed and oblivious, roamed her streets.
Then there were the inhabitants made of a different substance. Oh, there was love for them, all right. The space occupied between Jefferson and St. Bernard Parish was theirs, if not by right, granted as refuge. All so long as they lived following the rules of one Lady of the Cemetery. Peculiar as she may have been, Brigitte was a kind landlady. Most would say she was known to have more good days than bad ones.
However, it was also known that those who crossed her, either by omission or blatant rebellion, found themselves wishing they were but mere humans. That way their lives could end at a moment’s notice. No one wanted to live forever being a pet to the Lady.
One. Two. Three. That crucial point after midnight echoed through the city. There was a perceptible energy in the air, an intense concentration of will and power that preceded a manifestation. Those who slept, did so soundly; those awake at the time, felt the need to turn off their lights and close their windows, seeking refuge in the intimate setting of their rooms. Mortal and immortal alike perceived it was time to mind their own business, and keep out of the way.
Four figures appeared at the gates of Greenwood, the cemetery located at City Park Avenue. Founded in 1852, the graveyard was, by city standards, new. A novelty with resting places of singular aesthetics, marble marvels that transformed devotion into eye-catching sculpture. Greenwood was a place of ritual without magic. Therefore, a perfect prison.
Francis Alexander tasted his own blood until his senses failed him. It was only then that Bansit cauterized the wound. The face of the Sidhe, which had been first by artifice and then by its own right arresting, was now a pulp of beaten flesh marked by an empty space between his lips, guaranteeing he’d never be able to charm his way out of a situation by either looks or words.
Killian, prince of Aval, who had to witness over both Meav and her herald, looked at what was meant to be their place of confinement.
It was a magnificent mausoleum, grandiose in beauty even if constructed by human hands. The tomb, with carved stones as foundation, elevated the construction three meters above ground in a granite circle, allowing for packed earth and greenery to cover its ceiling. It looked like a hill contained within a ring, the gray of rocks intertwining with the emerald
of well-kept grass. A sculpture crowned the mausoleum, and the prince knew it was there not only for show. It was an iron talisman, with roots that ran deep into the ground and fused with the stone below to serve as a perfect enclosure.
“It looks like a fairy mound,” he observed. “I had only seen these in the hills of Knocknashee in the Highlands and scattered along the countryside in Ireland. What could possess someone to build this in the midst of an American city?”
“Everyone brings a bit of home, I guess. For centuries, we’ve had people from the British Isles…human and not so much, making their mark in this city. I wouldn’t be lying if I said you can find whatever you are looking for in New Orleans.” Brigitte beamed with pride.
Killian could not enter the tomb, but neither Bansit nor Brigitte was affected by iron. They took Francis to the heart of the interment. Meav waited there, or at least a creature who was a shadow of a former monarch. The Lady didn’t allow for her death. Brigitte determined that the queen was to live whatever might be the length of her years within those walls.
Meav was dried up, consumed by the damage bestowed by the iron above and below her.
Francis, however, was not as affected as the queen. His efforts to merge with Esteban O’Reilly had been successful, and now, debilitated, he was neither human nor fairy. He’d live the span of a mortal lifetime in shackles. Without magic to sustain him, he’d die an old man surrounded by despair, pain, and loneliness, sealed within borrowed skin.
The door closed and one who once was fortunate enough to be a son to The Phantom Queens and Herald of Aval was left to his own devices. He’d be erased from deed and memory, his house soon to be forgotten. His better wish: the agony of breath to dwindle within his lungs, moss to adhere to his naked skin, and for creatures living in the soft soil to find a home within his eye sockets.