by J. A. Pitts
As I wandered back, I could see Katie was having the time of her life. She was holding her own with The Harpers. Ari had disappeared with a couple of his girls. Good riddance, I thought. He reminded me too much of our main actor over at Flight Test—JJ Montgomery. Decent actor, but a shit when it came to women.
What made some men such pigs? Sex was important, and pretty obsessing at times, but to crawl all over all those women while the others were there watching—what was the point, beyond narcissism?
And what was with the women? Why would they allow themselves to be used like that? I knew I was still fighting through the prudish ways instilled in me by my Ma and Da, but as much as I disagreed with Da particularly, I think he was right on one thing: You need to treat each other with respect. He thought there were two standards, which I didn’t agree with. You didn’t just respect women, especially because they were weaker or some such. You respected all people—allowed them their individual rights, without stringing them along, filling them with false hope.
Like that girl outside waiting to get into a party she’ll never see in her lifetime.
I needed some air. Things were suddenly too stuffy. I thought about making my way over to Katie, telling her where I was going, but the noise had reached a point where I couldn’t think, and the memories were thick with pain.
I went back to the coke roadies and chatted them up, told them I needed some air. They introduced me to Pablo, the bouncer at the back door, let him know I was “one cool chick.”
Whatever.
Four
The great hall swallowed the quiet noises of the children as they scampered about doing their duties. The house had settled back into a routine—as much as could be expected after the last rage had taken so many of the favorites.
Qindra sat at tea with her mistress worrying over Nidhogg’s growing weakness. “What is it you wish, Mother?”
Nidhogg placed her teacup on the saucer daintily. “I like not these rumors of the King of Vancouver.”
Is that all? “Surely that is beneath your station,” Qindra said, keeping her eyes downcast. “You are grieving.”
Nidhogg slammed her fist on the table, sending teapot and cup dancing, spilling tea. “Do not mollycoddle me, child. I am fully aware of what goes on within my own domain.”
“Yes, mistress.” She could not risk her raging again. “Vancouver is in flux, but it will not sink into chaos.”
“I cannot tolerate one of the Reaver’s brood moving in. It would unsettle things.”
That would be unpleasant. The wild ones wished to rule openly—break the compact, and the chattel be damned. Luckily they were in the minority, and kept that way by the high council.
“Perhaps you should claim it as your own,” Qindra finally said. “Until a suitable caretaker can be determined. None would dare question your right.”
Nidhogg considered a moment, the gleam in her eye as bright as ever. “Intriguing thought. Or, perhaps we should watch this King of Vancouver, secretly support his claim on the city, if for no other reason than to thwart that jackanapes, Frederick Sawyer.”
Qindra smiled. “You are quick in the game of thrones,” she proffered. “I will make some subtle inquiries.”
Nidhogg nodded and then took up her teacup as if nothing untoward had occurred. “You are invaluable,” she said. “Your mother would have been proud.”
Luckily the teacup covered her reaction. Qindra took a quiet sip and let the thought of her mother’s broken body fade from her mind. How many had Nidhogg destroyed in her rages? How many lost to the madness?
“I thank you for your kind words.”
They sipped their tea in quiet solitude. The very house itself seemed to hold its breath. Around the great hall, the others remained motionless, frozen in their tasks. Only their breathing gave them away as living beings.
Nidhogg sat her cup aside, drew a long stuttering breath, and whimpered. “The blood,” she whispered. “I cannot rid the air of its stench.”
Qindra sat her teacup down, slid to the floor, and folded her hands on her mistress’s knee. “Come away with me, only for a drive. Leave this house and breathe the fresh air.”
Nidhogg stroked Qindra’s hair with her gnarled hand. “You are as a daughter to me, fair one. But I cannot leave here, as you well know. It is unseemly for me to be seen out in the world of whisperers and spies.”
Paranoia, Qindra thought. She bowed her head, setting her cheek on her hands.
“You have not lain your head upon my lap in many a year,” Nidhogg whispered. After a moment, she began to croon a ragged tune.
Qindra recognized it. A lovely ballad she remembered her mother singing, back before she fell to Nidhogg’s madness. “I love that song,” she said. “I miss you singing.”
Nidhogg stopped stroking her hair but kept her hand on Qindra’s head. “I am old,” she said as if this were a new discovery. “And I fear my own mind ofttimes.”
“Hush, now.” Qindra started to raise her head, but Nidhogg held her firmly in place, her strength suddenly manifest.
“’Ware, child,” Nidhogg said, her voice clear and crisp. “It is I who am the mistress, you the servant.”
Qindra tried to relax, let her muscles grow limp. “I meant no disrespect, mistress.”
“I am rid of sleep these nights,” Nidhogg went on as if Qindra had not spoken. “Death haunts my dreams—death and decay.”
Qindra looked around the room as best she could. The newly appointed Eyes sat clutching her book, her face painted with nausea and fear.
Fear, you should, Qindra thought. Your predecessor died screaming at that very spot.
“The wheel is broken,” Nidhogg continued. “The world has grown ill. I can taste the black blood. Dark magic is upon my land.”
Dark magic? Wheel? Qindra’s mind raced. She’d noticed nothing. Mayhap it was time to change her focus from the young smith, Beauhall, and seek out this new obsession that unsettled her mistress.
“The dead,” Nidhogg wailed. “The dead will give me no peace.”
Several of the smaller children began to cry, nearly silently, but loudly enough for Qindra’s ears.
Nidhogg held her there for a very long time. Qindra began to ache from the awkward position. “Shall I quiet the dead, Mother?” she finally asked.
Nidhogg said nothing immediately; then she began to hum another song, one Qindra did not recognize—full of dissonance and discord. After several minutes, she pulled her hand from Qindra’s head.
Quindra slid to the floor, barely daring to breathe.
Nidhogg kept singing as she reached beside her chair and pulled out her knitting. She began to croak out words in the ancient tongue.
Only the words regret and decay were clear to Qindra’s mind. A song of loss and mourning.
Qindra lay on the ground at her mistress’s feet until the most ancient of dragons dropped her knitting to her lap and filled the great hall with her quiet snores.
Only then did Qindra crawl away, not even rising to her knees until she’d reached the great doors to the main house. Only then did she rise, brush off her dressing gown, and look back at her mistress.
“Leave her,” she said quietly to the room. “Return to your rooms and say your prayers this evening.”
She did not wait to see if they complied but opened the doors and swept out into the hall.
The wheel is broken, blood haunts my mistress, and the dark magic is upon the land. Ill tidings and damnable luck.
She returned to her room, to her scryings and her runes. There would be little sleep in this house this evening, of that she was sure.
Five
It was chilly out there after being in the crowded party. It was around two in the morning, and I could see my breath. Fall was strange in the Pacific Northwest. Seventies in the day and low forties at night. I hugged my arms and walked out across the gravel toward the two large tour buses.
I didn’t have any particular reason; they were just t
he only two things out there. Past them across a dozen feet of scrub was a service road with no traffic. It was pretty quiet, actually—a nice change from the overwhelming drone of the party. I stopped at the first tour bus, leaned back against it, and closed my eyes, letting my body relax and drawing in breaths of clear night air.
The cold made me think of flying. I’d ridden the Valkyrie’s winged horse and chased the dragon through the thick clouds as the morning sun broke over the horizon. I could almost feel the cold wet of the clouds as we soared across the mountains. Of course, the final battle had been filled with pain and heat. Burning, roasting, charring flame. My right hand spasmed and I bolted up from the side of the bus, remembered smoke burning my eyes—blistering my lungs.
I leaned forward, hands on knees, and tried to breathe. The cool air felt good going into my body, and the smoke and fire were just vivid memories. After a minute I heard a noise around the side of the bus. It sounded like someone moaning. My mind clicked over into hyperawareness, and I rolled onto the balls of my feet, knees slightly bent, my hands in tight fists.
I listened closely and heard a shuffling and another moan. I edged around the bus and peered around, ready to kick someone’s ass.
What I saw through the open door of the bus, instead of a bad guy, troll, or mugger, was Ari doing the nasty with two of the groupies.
I pulled my head back, hoping they hadn’t seen me. Not that I thought they’d have seen a flying saucer if it landed in the scrub alongside the road.
Two girls and one guy screwing on the stairs inside the bus. He was living the dream. The Red Sonja–looking chick had her face buried in the crotch of the petite girl with tattoos, piercings, and green hair. The rock star was doing Red from behind. I couldn’t be sure they even noticed Ari. At least the girls were really into each other. He’d be out of the picture soon enough.
I had no desire to watch that, so I quietly made my way back around the other bus, letting the night air clear my head. I only closed my eyes for a second, when I heard someone stumbling toward me. It was the tall girl with red flowing hair and a skimpy skirt that until about two minutes ago was hiked up over her ass. She stopped at the front of the bus, leaned one arm against the grill, bent nearly double, and vomited.
Jesus, but she sounded like she was going to hack up her spleen. I came toward her. “Hey, you okay?”
She wiped her hand across her mouth and spit. “I need a drink.”
Yeah, she needed more booze. “Sure you wouldn’t like to go back inside and freshen up?”
She stood up, rearranged her breasts inside her shirt, and smoothed the latex skirt down over her upper thighs. “Good idea,” she said, pulling her hair back off her face. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d gotten vomit in her hair. Where was her girlfriend? Wasn’t it her job to hold her hair while she barfed?
The redhead stepped away from the bus and began a rather crooked path back toward the club. I watched her for a moment, debating whether or not I should help her or if she was going to fall down.
That’s when the screaming started. Okay, I can totally understand drunk chicks getting laid by C-list celebrities, and even the joy of doing something you know you shouldn’t oughta, but nobody screamed like that unless they were afraid or in pain.
I ran back around the bus in time to see the other girl on her knees in the parking lot, her head thrown back and another scream about to erupt from her. Halfway across the scrub to the service road, three guys were dragging Ari away.
They had a bag over his head and his paisley pantaloons bunched around his ankles, but he was fighting—kicking and yelling for all he was worth. But they were big. I sprinted forward, clipping the nearest guy in the back of the leg and sending him crashing to the ground. He dropped the leg he’d been holding, and the other two guys stumbled as Ari’s weight hit the ground.
I grabbed the second guy, spinning him around and landing a solid roundhouse into his breadbasket. It was liking hitting a steer. He dropped Ari’s left arm and stumbled back, holding his midsection. The last guy dropped Ari and lunged at me. Damn, I wish I had Gram. I could hear her in my head, crying for battle. The fog flooded my brain and I launched myself into the mêlée.
By this time, the first guy was on his feet and swinging a wild punch at my head. I danced back and kicked the guy I’d punched, sending him over onto his back, where he sat up, shaking his head once before falling onto his back.
The guy I hadn’t touched yet rushed me, wrapping his arms around me and driving me backward. I stumbled and we both went ass-over-teakettle. As soon as we hit, his shoulder against my chest, I used our combined momentum to flip him over by thrusting upward with my hips and legs. He flew over my head and landed with a grunt.
It hurt like a bitch, and made breathing hard for a minute. I struggled up onto my elbows just as the guy I’d clipped first dove on top of me. He did not appreciate me raising my knees, but I didn’t want his huge bulk squashing me into the gravel like a bug. He felt it as I torqued to the left and let his weight carry him off me. He would be catching his breath for a minute, I hoped, as I scrambled to my feet.
Two sorta down. I turned around. The guy next to Ari was not really moving. The guy I’d flipped over my head was rising, but not moving too fast, and the third guy rolled onto his stomach before rising up onto his hands and knees.
The girl continued to scream. I hoped she or the redhead would get the roadies or bouncers to lend a hand.
Ari was trying to stand, but his hands were tied behind his back and a gunnysack still covered his head. In addition, his pants were around his ankles, exposing him in a way most men would not want. Fear is not kind in certain situations.
“Hang on, Sinatra. I’ll get you.” I stumbled over to him, keeping out of reach of the guy nearest him who still had not moved. Maybe I’d really hurt him. I had Ari sitting up, glancing back at the other two.
“Gotta get you back to the party, big guy,” I said, yanking Ari to his feet. I debated on taking the sack off his head first, but I figured he’d want a chance to cover his wilting manhood. I got as far as steadying Ari and was reaching for the sack when the guy on the ground lunged over and grabbed me by the ankles. So, okay. Lesson learned. Dude was faking it. I hit the ground hard. My jaw snapped shut, rattling my teeth as my chin led the way.
I was seeing stars, one of the girls was screaming, Ari was swearing, and someone kicked me in the ribs. The blow was hard enough to roll me over. One of the attackers landed on my chest with both knees, grabbing me by the throat. He was cutting off the blood to my brain. I only had a couple of seconds before I blacked out.
I bucked, kicking my legs out, while I pounded his arms with my own. Man, he was freaking strong. “Don’t,” I squeaked out as my eyes filled with stars.
The screamer must have decided to play. She hit the guy with a purse the size of a St. Bernard. I rolled over, gasping for air and rubbing my neck. The girl squatted down beside me. “You okay?”
She looked like hell. Her makeup had not been good before the drinking and fucking. Now, with the tears, it was like a mime had been murdered.
I nodded, and she helped me sit up. The guy beat me to my feet and stumbled toward the service road as a large white van came screaming toward us.
“Damn,” I choked out and pointed. The two other guys had a very limp Ari between them and were dragging him toward the van. The third guy reached them just as someone threw open the van door, and they tossed Ari inside.
Screaming Girl helped me to my feet. I took two steps toward the van and realized I’d never catch them.
“We’d better go back and get help,” I said. Okay, my windpipe hadn’t been crushed exactly, but I’d wager I’d have a bruise the size of a ham.
Face it, I’d mostly gotten my ass kicked. Those three guys were big. I’d gotten in a few blows they’d remember come morning, but they’d snatched Ari, and I hadn’t stopped them.
“I’m Brianna,” the screamer said to m
e as we made our way back toward the club. “Why’d they take Ari?”
Damn good question. Did he schtup someone’s wife or daughter? Lord knows. I’m sure the police would figure it out.
When we got near the club, Pablo and the coke roadies were rushing out to gather us up.
Brianna relayed what happened with quick, precise sentences. She didn’t cry once. The roadies assumed I’d been out partying with Ari and didn’t ask me anything. Brianna’s story was good enough. Pablo pulled out a cell phone and called the Mounties while we spread the word of Ari’s kidnapping.
People scrambled, dumping booze and drugs, gathering stray bits of clothing, and generally making themselves and the club presentable. It’s like they’d done this before. By the time we heard the first siren, the place could’ve passed for an AA meeting.
I collapsed next to Katie and let her fuss over me. Brianna was queen of the ball, telling and retelling the story. Once the police arrived, I let her tell her part first. They questioned me, asked if I needed an ambulance, et cetera. I told them I just wanted to get back to our hotel. After an hour of information gathering and promises to remain in touch—even after we went back to Seattle—they let us go.
Sleep was the only thing I wanted. I was bone tired, and starting to hurt in some very unfortunate places. I hoped I hadn’t pulled a muscle in my back. That would totally suck.
Cassidy and his partner Katherine hustled us into a cab, slipping the driver some money and telling him to take us to our hotel. He leaned into the back window and kissed Katie on the cheek. “Daren’t you fret now,” he said, trilling his R’s with gusto. “We’ll check in with you afore too long.”
Katie patted his hand and he stepped back, slipping his arm around Katherine’s waist and waving at us as we pulled away.
“What was that all about?” I asked, laying my head on Katie’s lap.
“He wants to talk music,” she said, stroking my hair. “That and Ari, of course.”