Uninvited (Etudes in C# Book 3)

by Jamie Wyman

“Poncy twat,” Malcolm growled, waving off his brother’s snarkasm.

  While Marius dusted off his hands, Malcolm turned in circles, taking in the detritus of a life interrupted. Along with the glass-topped dining table were two matching end tables and a few chairs stacked on top of one another like some depiction from the Kama Sutra. The shape of a tall floor lamp cut the gloaming, its bowl top the overlarge head of a skeletal scarecrow. There was also a leather sofa, and in one corner of the unit, three cardboard boxes formed a weak pyramid.

  “There’s hardly anything here,” Malcolm said. “At least it shouldn’t be hard to find anything.”

  “Not difficult at all,” Marius agreed. In two long strides he was at the back wall. The boxes went tumbling away, empty, as he kicked them. He stomped the concrete with his booted foot, and a rectangle of emerald-green light burst open in the floor. As Marius reached down into the portal, I could smell the metallic sweetness of a freshwater stream, could hear the gurgle as it flowed and the birds singing in harmony with the rustle of leaves. The springtime light danced over Marius, as well as the wooden box he withdrew from the secret space.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Marius looked up at me as the ground sealed itself. “A safe place.”

  Malcolm only had eyes for the box. Roughly the size of a shoebox, the wood gleamed in the citrusy light from Mal’s orb. Vines of Celtic knotwork wound around its beautifully carved surface in twining designs.

  “It’s been a long time since I saw one of Grandfather’s pieces,” Malcolm said, his voice uncharacteristically reverent.

  “Made from the trees near his temple,” Marius added. He slid his hands over the invisible seam of the box and opened it.

  A set of a dozen reeds had been lashed together with leather. Gently, as if handling the oldest scroll or most delicate artifact, Marius lifted the pan flute out of the box. A silver charm dangled from the largest end and winked in the wan light.

  “Pipes?” I asked.

  “Some of the finest Grandfather ever made,” Marius said, hushed with the wonder of a pilgrim.

  Pan pipes. Named for the King of Satyrs himself, the instrument of his legend.

  The realization struck me in the solar plexus, nearly knocking the wind out of me. “Oh shit,” I breathed. “Pan.”

  Marius lifted his eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “Pan is your grandfather?”

  Marius rolled a shoulder in a half shrug, but the way Malcolm puffed up his chest screamed of pride. Neither of them needed to say a word to confirm or deny it. All these years I’d thought of Marius as just some spawn of a random goatfucker. I had no idea that he was one generation removed from a deity. Just when you think you know a guy…

  Malcolm, visibly humbled, shook his head with futile disdain. “Lucky bastard. Why do you always get the nice toys?”

  “Next life you should try being the first born of a first born,” Marius intoned.

  I punched Marius in the shoulder. “Keys? Why didn’t you just say what you were looking for? Melodramatic sonofabitch.”

  “These are keys, Catherine. Play the right song and these will carry you home. Easier than traveling by mortal means. Safer for us, too, at the moment.”

  “Home.” Malcolm moistened his lips, his eyes full of utter longing. As he stared at the pipes, I wondered what he saw. The satyr’s jaw worked, swallowing a lump of palpable homesickness. Then the moment was gone, and Mal slugged Marius in the other shoulder. “Right, then. Hand ’em over so I can be on me way.”

  Marius swatted him away. “Didn’t that baseborn whore you call a mother ever teach you manners?”

  “Don’t you be takin’ the piss out of me mum!” Malcolm thrust himself into Marius’s space, chest to chest and nose to hooked nose.

  “Or what?” Marius asked, his voice as cold as steel.

  “Or I’ll smash your pretty face in, rip that charm out of the girl’s hair, and fuck her cross-eyed while you watch.”

  “Hey,” I burst in. “No one is fucking me cross-eyed!”

  “More’s the pity,” they said in tandem.

  The corner of Marius’s mouth slid up with a slight hint of approval. He gazed at the pipes with longing, but something flashed in his eyes. A sort of reminder of the moment.

  “You’d better bring your car in, Catherine. And shut the door.”

  “I’ll get me bike,” Malcolm said.

  After stashing our rides in the unit and closing it up with the three of us inside. The lemony light from Malcolm’s orb fluttered over us, casting odd yellow shadows over Marius’s features. Sliding the ornately carved box under his arm, he caressed the reed pipes. He brought them to his lips, inhaled, and coaxed a few notes from the instrument. At first, the reeds gave off a dry, dusty moan, but Marius closed his eyes and gently pushed more air over them. Soon, the pipes began to sing.

  The melody itself was simple—long, languid notes tracing up and down a traditional scale. What Marius breathed into them, though, turned that easy tune into a song that ached with nostalgia and longing. The notes twisted through the air like thick vines, spreading out in the ether and unfolding their leaves for the first rays of morning. I closed my eyes and let the music carry me to a place as lush and green as his ivy song. Like a reed, I swayed lazily on my feet. An impossibly cool breeze splashed over my face, tossing my hair and bringing the slightly metallic scent of freshwater. If I listened closely to Marius’s tune, I could hear the bubbling of a stream or spring lapping over smooth stones, the gentle sounds of tall grass whispering in the wind.

  Beneath the chaste beauty of his song, however, was a sweet sorrow, a melancholy that would not wash away. I realized then that this was his treasure. This exquisite sadness that he kept boxed in by snark and cynicism was just as heavily guarded as those reed pipes. It poured from his heart and into the melody, leaving bare a soul so scarred and mournful.

  My poor satyr.

  The last notes tapered off into a tremulous breath that hung in the air, an unanswered plea.

  The spell broken, I opened my eyes. To my genuine surprise. I found myself standing not in the musty storage unit, but ankle-deep in soft, spongy grass beneath an indigo sky. Golden shafts of light streaked the horizon as the sun rose. Silhouetted in the dawn was a massive hill, its grassy flanks appeared to ripple with the spiral path carved into the tor. At the top, a stone tower caught the sun and sent spears of light over the valley. The earth rolled with lush hillocks, and wildflowers glistened with dewdrops, waiting to open to the sun’s first kiss.

  “Your aim is a bit off,” Malcolm sneered.

  “It’s been a long time…” Marius’s voice trailed off. “I’m surprised Father has stayed here all the while.”

  “He hasn’t,” Mal said as he set off down the slope. “He roams. A month in Tuscany. A year in Morocco. That sort o’ thing. Old man always ends up back here, though.”

  Marius nodded and made to follow his brother. As he passed me, I caught him by the chain at his hip.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “What the hell?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

  I gestured to the impossible landscape. “Where are we?”

  “Glastonbury.”

  “Glaston— The same Glastonbury that’s in…in England?” I stammered.

  He aimed a finger toward the stone tower to the east. “That’s the Tor. Priestesses from Avalon walked there millennia before the Christians came and insisted that the Lady of the Lake was a harlot. The abbey and spring are a bit off from here, but it’s all the same for the most part.”

  “So we’re actually in England?”

  Marius smirked as he stowed his pan pipes in their lovely casket. “Yes, we are. Do you see why I prefer traveling my way as opposed to Flynn’s vomit-inducing trip through space?”

  Gobsmacked, I nodded and turned in a disbelieving circle. To the west, mist curled along the ground, shifting with the slightest breath. Hills ro
se to the south, and Malcolm trotted northward.

  “Oi!” Malcolm called, his voice echoing eerily in the serene morning. “Are you coming?”

  Marius laced his fingers through mine. “Come along, Catherine. Let’s not keep my father waiting.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Sad Songs and Waltzes”

  If you’d asked me before what I figured a satyr’s home looked like, I probably would’ve conjured up some sort of immaculate playboy apartment with plenty of expensive toys. Maybe an overgrown frat house full of booze, sex, and secondhand furniture. Or a brothel. As daylight cleared the last of night away, however, I saw just how wrong I was.

  We ambled up the dirt path toward Casa del Satyr—a charming stone cottage blending the best of pastoral quiescence and hobbit-inspired architecture. A low wall of mossy limestone circumscribed the squat building. Like the hilly landscape, the house rolled from low to high ceilinged. Even at this early hour, smoke wound up from the tall brick chimney.

  I’d lived in the desert of Las Vegas for so long I’d almost forgotten what it was like to see full, lush trees. Oaks older than Mrs. M surrounded the small cottage, and birds chirped from their boughs while wind rustled the leaves. Walking beneath an arbor full of ivy and twining wildflowers, we passed a little gray cat slumbering on the wall.

  I stopped in the garden and stared at the house. Swatting at Marius, I said, “Seriously, if this is some illusion or trick of yours, I don’t want to know.”

  He smiled. “Like it?”

  “I love it.”

  Marius stepped forward, but I held him back. Sotto voce I asked, “Is it safe?”

  He leaned in and spoke quietly so Malcolm couldn’t overhear. “There are reasons I haven’t come home. Chief among them is keeping this place sacred. Like my pipes and heritage, there are things too dear for me to allow Eris or anyone else access. My father and his home are indeed as safe as I can make them. Sad as I am to say it, Malcolm may have just been useful by buying us some time.”

  I relaxed a bit, muscles unwinding, as we moved toward the door. It was a perfect circle of wood painted hunter green. A thick iron knocker had been fashioned in the face of the Green Man.

  Malcolm lifted it and let it fall with a clank. Marius rolled his eyes. “Come on, Mal, do pretend to care,” he said.

  Marius gave a knock with the back of his hand—three quick, syncopated raps.

  A muffled voice came in answer. It was singing. “…les sanglots longs des violins de l’automne…”

  The door swung open to reveal a gray-haired man in a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, flannel pajama pants, and a Guinness T-shirt. Barefoot, eyes closed, he swept out into the morning, still singing merrily. Malcolm shook his head and stepped into the cottage. The old man paid him no notice. He swayed a moment, humming a few bars before reaching out and taking me by the hand. Lifting my arm over my head, he spun me around before pulling me against his chest.

  “…blessent mon coeur d’une langueur monotone…” he crooned as we danced. The older man sent me into a spin then lowered me into a dip.

  “Good morning, dear,” he said in a weathered voice. His accent was subtle and soft. There was no doubt in my mind that this was Marius’s father.

  As suddenly as he’d scooped me into his arms, he set me right and turned in perfect time to the tune in his step. Then he opened his eyes and set them on Marius. Widening his arms, he said softly, “My son.”

  “Father,” Marius said with genuine fondness.

  The old man caught Marius in a viselike embrace, his voice ringing out with jubilation. “My boy! My boy has come home!” he cheered through hearty laughter.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Father.”

  Holding Marius at arm’s length, Papa Satyr surveyed his son over his spectacles. Something stern furrowed his brow. “Next time, perhaps you should make it home sooner.”

  “It has been a long time.”

  “A long time?” he chuffed. “No, a year or two is a long time. The last time I saw you, Marius, we were on a week-long bender with Toulouse-Lautrec in Montmartre! To a father who hasn’t seen his firstborn son, that is an eternity.” He gave his son an approving smack on the shoulder and nodded. “But you’re here now, aren’t you?”

  “As you requested.”

  Papa Satyr squinted behind his glasses, his eyes drifting from Marius and landing on me with no small amount of scrutiny.

  Marius’s gaze followed, flicking to me. “Pardon my rudeness, Father,” he said with the same respect he usually reserved for deities. “Allow me to introduce you. Catherine Sharp, please meet my father, Llyr.”

  The older satyr fixed me with his gaze, then turned a cheerful smile to his son. “Oh, you are in trouble, Marius.” With two jaunty steps he popped to me and took my hand in his. Bowing low, he brushed his lips over the backs of my fingers. “Enchanté, Miss Sharp.”

  “Good to meet you,” I said, returning the grin and the squeeze on his supple hand.

  From within the house, Malcolm bellowed, “Oi, Dad! Where’s your special brew?”

  “Children,” Llyr sighed. “Welcome to my home, young lady. Please come in and tell me all about yourself and how you plan to break my son’s heart.” He put an arm around me, the other around Marius, and guided us into the cottage.

  “Nothing like that, Father,” Marius said as he shut the door behind him. “Catherine is—”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Llyr interrupted.

  I gave Marius a knowing, taunting grin laced with threats that I would blab all to his father. I had a sudden urge to embarrass the shit out of my satyr in any way I could. Did baby pictures of Marius even exist for me to paw through? Probably not. Probably for the best, too.

  Llyr led us into a perfect country kitchen—wooden countertops, a deep porcelain sink, and ginormous windows that captured the morning light. An antique phonograph played a languorous tune full of crackles, pops, and French ennui. A teakettle atop a wood-burning stove began to squeal. As he passed the butcher-block table, Llyr slid out a heavy chair and gestured for me to sit. Marius took the seat opposite me and folded his hands on the table.

  Still dancing to the music, Llyr shuffle-stepped about the kitchen gathering the kettle and a handful of teacups. He placed them on a tray before spinning around Malcolm, who stood gaping into the icebox, one arm propping the door open. Llyr withdrew, his hands clasped around a small crock of cream.

  “Do you have nothing to drink, Dad?”

  “It’s dawn, Malcolm. Take some tea before you get knackered, would you?”

  “It might be dawn to you,” Mal protested, “but I just left the beginnings of a decent night out in Sin City.”

  Llyr prepared a plate of fresh fruit and bread. “Las Vegas, then? Is that where you landed, Marius?”

  “More or less,” Marius replied. “I was paying Catherine a visit when Malcolm arrived and said he’d gone and lost his keys.”

  Mal slammed the refrigerator door shut. “Oi! No need to be tattling tales.”

  “Again?” Llyr asked wearily. His eyes moved from his task to his eldest son, then to me. Though his mouth quirked in a very familiar smile, those blue eyes studied me with careful distrust. “So you’re from Las Vegas, are you, dear?”

  “Not from there, but I’ve lived there for more than a decade at this point.”

  “I didn’t know anyone could actually live there, let alone for so long.”

  I shifted in my seat, uncertain how much Llyr knew about Marius’s life and choices, unsure how much I should reveal about myself. “It wasn’t the plan. Just sort of happened that I stuck around as long as I have.”

  “I’ve never ventured there,” Llyr said as he carried the tea tray to the table. He began pouring tea into each cup. “Truth be told, I haven’t been stateside in at least fifty years.”

  Malcolm joined us at the table, a dusty brown bottle of ale hitting the wood with a resonant thunk. “You’re missing out. The food is plentiful, the mus
ic is loud, and the women are delectable. For example…” He gave a flourish of his hand toward me.

  With identical motions, all three men lifted their drinks to their lips and eyed me across the table. Looking at them together, it was impossible to deny their kinship: they shared the same face shape. While Mal was stockier and broader of shoulder, Llyr and Marius were equally lithe. Llyr stood just tall enough that he could look down his nose at Malcolm but was short enough that he had to tilt his chin up to see Marius eye to eye. Llyr’s moustache matched Marius’s—albeit iron gray—and his bare, round chin mirrored Malcolm’s. Along with the satyr blood, the father had given Marius his aquiline nose. To Malcolm, he’d donated those sky-blue eyes.

  Three men—father and sons—older than I’d care to count, each capable of charming the scales off Lady Justice herself. And now all of them were staring at me. Malcolm’s leer was full of dark promise and envy as it lingered over the charm in my hair. Llyr’s gaze fell to my left arm, and I saw the slightest flinch as he caught sight of my tattoo.

  The elder looked away, focusing on buttering his bread. “So what is it that you do, Miss Sharp?”

  “Tech support. And call me, Cat, please.” I gestured to the bowl of fruit. “May I?”

  Llyr nodded. “Please.”

  Malcolm’s leer widened. “Cat. And what a pretty pus—”

  “Stop right there,” I snapped, “or so help me, I will end you.”

  As Llyr snorted with undisguised laughter, Malcolm sulked into his drink. Pushing away from the table, the younger satyr shambled out of the kitchen and off into the house somewhere. On his way out, he grumbled something about “twat brothers” and the tempers of redheaded women. I looked up to see Marius smiling at me with amusement.

  “What?” I asked. “What is that look for?”

  He shook his head and sipped his tea, but otherwise didn’t answer.

  “Now, Cat,” Llyr said, “how long has my son been courting you?”

  China clacked as Marius dropped his teacup. “Father, I assure you, my relationship with Catherine is purely professional.”

  I scoffed. “Right. You’re always so professional, Marius. Like that time in Belize…”