by A. E. Lowan
She heard male voices coming from the direction of the building. She had parked up against what few other cars were in the lot, clustered around one of the lights. Winter had lived in Seahaven her whole life and knew better than to park in the darkness. She did not know if the voices were office workers or security guards come to humiliate her further, but either way she did not wish to be found like this. She dragged herself back up into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut again. The exhaustion had returned like a living thing seeking to devour her, but there was nothing she could do except fight it and make her way home. By some miracle she did not drop her keys from her shaking fingers and got the Bug started. She turned the AC on full, blowing chill air onto her flushed face, and backed the car out of the space to begin her long, defeated journey back to the Point.
Winter found herself again pausing to lean on the massive oak front door of her home, tracing her fingers over the elaborate carving. She turned the handle and pushed it open. The door was never locked. She was not entirely sure the door even had a lock and was far too tired to look for one, now. No one besides the family ever came down the mile-long drive to the House, anymore; the Mulcahy family owned the entire Point, all the way to their mailbox on the outer road. Besides that, the protections on the House itself were impenetrable. No one not invited in by a family member could get in. The House itself would not let them enter.
As usual, she was greeted with complete silence. Soft lights came up as she entered, lights she knew did not light for her father. She did not know if he had told the House to stop bringing them up for him, or if the House had forgotten he was here. The thought made her chest clench. She moved to the foot of the great staircase and slipped off her bag and coat, her third coat this week, leaving them on the last step. She gave the coat a small scowl. She had rubbed at it with a napkin in the car, but she was fairly sure she had gotten sick on it somewhere she could not see. Her dry cleaning bill this week was going to be ugly.
She made her way through the library to where her father sat, unmoving. He had not touched the soup she had left for him before going to Moore Investments. “Papa, you need to eat,” she murmured with more habit than force.
He kept his face turned towards the window, his hands unmoving.
Winter pulled up one of the ottomans and sat on it, facing her father. “Papa, I need your help. Jonathan Moore, the sidhe lord Midir, is doing something… I don’t know what… but it’s causing the instability that we felt this morning.” She watched his hands, his face. Nothing. “Papa, we have to do something. He’s going to tear the city apart.” She could hear the panic creeping into her own voice. She watched him. Nothing. She reached out and took his hands, giving him a small shake. “Listen to me, please! Papa, people are going to die. I know… I know you can’t do anything, but you have to give me permission to do something. To make an alliance with Erik or…”
She felt his hands move against her own, and pulled away to let him speak. He flexed his long fingers in slow, halting movements, like clearing his throat after his very long silence, and then he signed in sluggish, methodical words, “Let him do what he wants.”
Winter felt her eyes widen as his meaning passed over her like cold water. “Papa?” She looked at his face, and his dull eyes were turned to face her.
His hands fluttered again. “Let it burn.”
She gasped and stood, her heel barking painfully on the edge of the ottoman. She tripped backward, weariness and shock making her clumsy, but righted herself and faced him down. “How could you?” she asked in a whisper, afraid that if she said it too loudly that his horrible words would become true. “How could you say that?”
“They’re all dead. We’re dead, too. No one cares. To hell with this place. Let it burn.”
His hands, his blasphemous hands kept moving. She had wanted him to say something, anything; now all she wanted was for him to shut up. “They died so this place can live,” she replied, raising her voice. “While you hid away in the House for twenty years, they all died heroes, fighting for what they believed in.” He turned his eyes away from her, back to the window. “Don’t you look away from me! I know you can hear me. All you cared about was that mother left.” Rage was rising up, fueled by her frustration, her humiliation, by a lifetime of grief. She choked on a harsh laugh. “How can I even call her ‘mother?’ Tersa never cared about us. The three of us were just byproducts of her marriage to you.”
Winter paced away and back again. Colin was still looking out the window, his hands still, a new tear marking its way through the salt tracks on his cheek. She did not care. “You abandoned us, just like she did. You know who raised us? Grandma and Grandpa, and vampires. Papa, are you listening? You left us to be raised by vampires. You never cared enough to wonder if we were loved, or being given good guidance – all you cared about was that your wife left you because you made a mistake, and you’ve spent twenty years wallowing in self-pity. You’re negligent and self-indulgent.”
Her father’s eyes closed.
“Meanwhile, I’m giving everything for this city. My sanity, my health… look at me. Papa, look at me!”
He did not.
“Fine. You don’t care about anything outside yourself. I understand that. But know I’m killing myself for the people of this city. A little bit more every day.” She hesitated, because even in the midst of her rage she was afraid to say it out loud, but pressed on. “I’m addicted to the energy potions, but I would rather be the one to burn.”
He still would not look at her.
Winter shook her head in anger and disgust. “If you want to sit there in your dirty robe, that’s your choice. But I refuse to have let everyone – my sisters, my cousins, Grandpa and Grandma – everyone to have died in vain. I will not dishonor their memories by sitting idly by and letting this city fall. So, to hell with you, Papa.” She turned on her heel and stormed out, refusing to watch his hands anymore. If that was all he could say, then fine, let him talk to himself.
She found herself in the echoing expanse of the warm kitchen. Alone. She was shaking violently and did not know if she had begun again or simply had never stopped. She looked and saw Maria’s Great Book still holding court on its stand. She had forgotten to put it up that morning. The shock of her carelessness was the last she could take. A choked sob escaped her mouth, and another. Winter tried clasping her hands over her mouth, but they kept coming, one after the other, until she was kneeling on the floor, tears of rage and humiliation warring with her need for self-control.
It was hours before she slept.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Aodhán and Midir stood in the Historical District in the cold rain. The back door of the clinic was protected by several wards, but Aodhán watched as Midir casually teased them aside. Breaking them would have alerted the caster – that was half the point of these types of wards, the other half being to destroy anything magical in nature inside the building in the event of a chance break-in – but she was young and inexperienced while the great prince had been practicing his art for longer than Aodhán knew. He did not know Midir’s exact age; that was something no faerie knew about themselves, or really cared about, given the variable ways time flowed within the Faerie realms and the fact that most of them honestly did not care to be so precise with… well, anything. Time, borders, sexuality, names, sometimes even genders, it was all very flexible to the fae.
What he did know about Midir, though, was that he was one of the oldest of Dagda’s sons. Dagda was High King of all Faerie and a most prolific breeder. His sons were numerous, and powerful, and most of them were kings of their own realms. Aodhán’s own father was a son of Dagda, one of the middling ones. But with age came power, and Midir was so old it seemed he had always been one of the power players of Faerie.
But Midir was not a king. Had never been a king, as far as Aodhán knew. His brothers had seen to that.
Midir pushed open the door and they both stepped in out of the rain. It was d
ark and quiet, but the darkness did not matter to their sharp eyes. Aodhán closed the door behind them, careful to keep it from clicking shut, and strained his ears to listen for company. Midir was already moving into the room, apparently not caring if they were alone, but Aodhán did. It was not that Aodhán feared a confrontation – he simply wished to be prepared when it came. But no footfalls, no sounds of breathing other than his own or Midir’s greeted his ears. Nothing but the sounds of music and cheerfully raised voices muffled by the thick brick wall. It sounded like a party was in full swing next door. Aodhán relaxed.
Midir had sat down in the office chair and was opening and rifling through drawers in the desk that sat next to the thickly beaded curtain. Aodhán moved to the set of file cabinets beside it and opened one at random. “Finding anything interesting?” he asked.
Midir pulled out a thick leather book and opened it with interest, then closed it after a moment and tossed it back in the drawer. “She has no business acumen. That’s full of expenditures for supplies and records of procedures, but no accounts receivable.”
Aodhán pulled out a folder that proved to be a therian rabbit’s medical record. His gut clenched at the extent of her injuries as he scanned the notes written in tight, neat handwriting. Wolves had brutalized her; the writer noted the rabbit was young, she had gotten too scared… He felt his jaw tighten because he knew what would come next. Rabbits, being prey animals, had very few ways to defend themselves from predatory therian. Their primary defense was to change their scent from fear, which made them smell tasty, to arousal, the theory being that it was better to survive a rape than to be eaten alive. But there were ways it could go wrong; excessive fear could flip the scent back over again and this little rabbit had found that out. She had not been sure how many wolves there had been. He felt his eyes widen. Had not been sure? How had she been able to talk? Aodhán flipped through the record, skipping past the horrors written there, and found the end – the rabbit had survived! He shook his head in wonder. “I think the wizard is treating them for free,” he said.
“What makes you say that?”
Aodhán closed the file and waved it to make his point. “This is a rabbit. The local hutch is notoriously short on money, but this girl was treated for life-threatening injuries. That sort of surgery isn’t cheap.” He refiled the rabbit’s folder. “Whatever this wizard child is, she’s a good physician. I’ve seen therian die from lesser wounds than this rabbit suffered.”
Midir made a dismissive noise. “Therian have so many varying levels of power – who’s to say she isn’t just very strong? They’ll heal themselves without assistance if they can shift enough times.”
Aodhán waved his hand in a gesture granting the great prince his point. But he knew he was right. He had not recognized the rabbit’s name and he prided himself on knowing the power players in Seahaven. She was not one of the hutch’s Matron’s Assistants or Odd Bunnies, their alphas, which meant she was less able to heal herself of grievous wounds. No, the little rabbit should have died.
He looked around the small clinic. And if the wizard was performing these surgeries in this room, it was nothing short of miraculous. There were counters and cabinets, a double steel sink and an examination table, and what looked like a few pieces of medical equipment, but that was it. This was not a surgical suite. The floor was smooth concrete with a drain that reminded him of his lady’s “play” rooms, though he was willing to bet the wizard child did not play such bloody games.
However, the place also had the clean smell of disinfectant and the surfaces gleamed in the low light.
Aodhán moved past the large, heavy table in the center of the room, and a map that took up an entire wall caught his eye. It was covered with red marks and more tight, neat writing. “This is curious,” he said.
“Indeed it is.”
It was not Midir.
Aodhán whirled to face the man who spoke with a clipped British accent, standing framed in the now-open doorway. Midir rose from the office chair, apparently as surprised by the man’s appearance as he was which led Aodhán to wonder: who could sneak up on two sidhe? He looked the man over, from the cruel twist of his smile in the darkness to the rain drops that glittered in his dark hair and across his broad shoulders. He was mortal, a magician. From the way he held himself he was a man used to the power of his body, used to using it against others. Aodhán knew the type well. It reminded him of his older brother. He felt his gut harden in instant dislike and pushed the sensation away. Politics had little to do with personal feelings and he knew next to nothing about this stranger.
“I do not believe we have met, sorcerer,” said Midir, his voice smooth.
Sorcerer. Aodhán looked more closely at the man, and now that he was looking for it could see the traces of the demonic interlaced with the man’s own magic, strengthening him. Those traces trailed off and away from him to the source of his power, whatever item symbolized the pact he held with his greater demon. How could he have missed it? But he knew the answer to that question right away; his normal experience with sorcery was… unique.
The sorcerer moved a few feet into the room, black eyes gleaming as they shifted from Midir to Aodhán and back again. “No, indeed we have not,” he replied. He looked at Aodhán and that smile widened. “‘Curiouser and curiouser.’”
Midir gave him a blank look, but Aodhán frowned. “Quoting Lewis Carroll?”
The sorcerer looked about the room, including the other two men in the sweep of his eyes. “And doesn’t being what we are make us all inhabitants of Wonderland? We are all mad here, you know.” He kept his right hand in his coat pocket. Aodhán was a betting man and his money said there was a focus object in there. It could be a gun, but this man did not strike him as the type who would want to finish his prey so quickly.
Midir looked annoyed. Aodhán knew he did not like missing cultural references. “In that case, whom do we have the pleasure of addressing?” He looked like that pleasure was dubious, at best.
The man waved his left hand in a negligent fashion. “That is not important. All that really matters is that neither of you are supposed to be here.”
Aodhán did not move his attention to Midir, nor did he feel the great prince’s gaze on him. They were not children to share a guilty look. But he did move further away from both the wall and the central table to give himself more room to maneuver. This backroom clinic was not set up for a fight. Something occurred to him, and as he moved he spoke. “Interesting that you point that out, considering I didn’t hear you using keys to get in here.”
“Well, since you gentlemen so kindly left the door unlocked behind you, there was no need.”
“And you knew that because…?” Aodhán let his question trail off.
“Because he was watching the clinic.” Midir supplied. “Watching us.”
“Well, now, that truly is curious.” Aodhán’s voice took on a slight mocking tone.
The sorcerer’s smile slipped. Apparently he could not take what he dished out. Aodhán filed that away in his mind. “I have a vested interest here, sidhe lords, which is more than I can say for you.”
Aodhán turned his head to address Midir, but kept his eyes on the big man. “In other words, he’s not supposed to be here, either. The Mulcahys don’t run with sorcerers, or their demons.”
“Oh, what little you know,” the sorcerer replied before the sidhe prince could. He looked to the wall above the desk, where personal pictures hung in a wild assortment of frames. “You have no idea the ties that bind me to this family.” His voice was low, intense. He was no longer smiling. His eyes came back to Midir. “What do you want here?”
Midir was quiet a moment, and then, “The wizard child came to see me today. She performed a strange magic that I have never seen. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”
The sorcerer smirked. “The Mulcahys are a muddled lot. There hasn’t been a pure wizard in that line for generations. It could have been anything.”
; “This felt like she was looking inside me and rummaging around.”
His dark brows twitched up. “You felt that?” His eyes moved back to the wall of photographs. “She’s poorly trained,” he muttered, then continued in fuller voice, “What she did is called ‘soul-reading.’ It’s a talent she inherited from her paternal grandmother.”
Aodhán kept control of his face. She was a soul-reader? Fascinating. That was an ability he knew something about. He’d simply never felt it so strongly before.
Midir frowned. “What can she do with it?”
The man gave an elegant shrug. “It depends on how strong she is. She should see impressions made on your soul; images, intense memories, even intentions if you feel strongly enough about them.” His smile widened. “She could read you like a book, or more correctly a well-annotated photo album, flipping through your sins in full color. She could even see things long forgotten, for the soul always remembers.”
Midir frowned harder. Aodhán was not happy about the prospect, himself. He knew more than most how it might be used against them. “Where did you say she got this ability? Her grandmother? Where does it come from?” Midir demanded.
The sorcerer chuckled and shook his head. “Now, now, that’s not how this game is played.”
Midir’s cheeks began to flush with rage. Aodhán jumped in, trying to divert disaster. “What are we playing, then? ‘Show me yours, I’ll show you mine?’”
“Close. We’re playing ‘Reciprocity.’”
“Fine. What the hell do you want?” Midir’s voice was sharp with his rising anger.
Aodhán did not clap his hand over his face, but it was a close thing.
The man’s eyes moved to Aodhán as if he was waiting for him to do just that, then went back to Midir after a moment. “What do I want?” he echoed. Aodhán wished the sorcerer would stop teasing Midir – it never ended well. “I want the two of you out of this clinic and to keep your hands off the Mulcahys.” He stepped aside, giving them access to the open doorway and the rainy night beyond.