by Allison Pang
I was outraged.
I was livid, even.
I was hopelessly out of my league.
The golden edges of his eyes faded away. “Are you all right?”
The sudden change in his demeanor left me suspicious. “Right as rain. Why the . . . you know?” I tapped my head and tried not to blush.
“Side effect. I’m afraid I got a little carried away.” He eyed me cautiously, all peaches-and-cream polite. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Understatement of the week.” I reached out, clinging to the edges of the counter like a barnacle at high tide. “And how the hell did you know who I was?”
His mouth twitched. “Name tag.”
Idiot.
I shut my eyes, cheeks burning. “Where’s a nice bottomless pit when you need one?”
A sharp rap sounded from outside and I started. The figure at the door was young and female and far too perky for a rainy day.
“Shoo,” I hissed at the stranger, uncertain of how much attention he would attract. “Shouldn’t you be moving along now? The CrossRoads will be closing any minute.”
He shrugged and leaned against the wall, a wolfish grin on his face. He raised a finger to his lips as he motioned toward the door.
I rolled my eyes. Leave it to me to attract the tall, dark, and obnoxious ones. I pointed at the sign in the window, hoping whoever it was would cut me some slack and come back after my uninvited guest had left. No such luck.
“Wow.” A head poked through the doorway. “It totally stinks in here. You should open the door or something.” Blond, top-heavy, and rather leggy on the whole, she looked like she’d wandered off the set of a Girls Gone Wild audition, wrapped up in denim cutoffs and Skechers. Her eyes were wide and imploring, the color of warm hazelnuts. Innocent.
“Ah, yes,” I said, ignoring the soft snort coming from the corner. “You know, we’re kind of closed right now.”
“Yeah, well, I need some information. Do you have any books on Celtic myths?” She breezed her way in and trotted up to the counter with the self-serving air of the young and stupid.
I chewed on the question, a low throb at the base of my skull signaling an oncoming headache. Or a seizure. Crapshoot as to which one was going to come first. I wasn’t going to get rid of the headache, but I could eliminate the pain in the ass standing in front of me. “There should be a copy of Lady Gregory’s Gods and Fighting Men back behind the mirror. It would be a good place to start. Unless you’re looking for something specific?”
“Well . . . uh. Actually, I was kinda hoping you might have something a little more . . . real?”
I raised a brow at this. Truth be told, I did; I had books that would damn near bite your nose off if you put them too close to your face. But those were locked away in the back, not for public consumption. Moira had drilled that into my head often enough, but I would have figured it out on my own. I’m lazy, but I’m not a moron.
“Real?” I mimicked.
“Yeah.” She leaned in so I could see the roots of her hair. Her voice dropped to a conspiring whisper. “You know . . . OtherFolk?” She turned her head to take in the quantity of shelves. “You have a lot of books here.” Her gaze became slightly unfocused as it slid past the corner, and I realized my visitor must be hiding behind a Glamour.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” I said, deciding to play dumb.
“Oh, I get it.” She winked at me. “It’s okay. Brandon sent me. Said you would set me straight. Something about TouchStones?”
“Brandon,” I repeated, my voice careful and quiet. I would have to have a little chat with that sometimes furry bartender. I don’t mind helping out, but I didn’t have time for another one of his strays. “And just how did you run into him?”
“I tried to get into the Hallows last night.” She flushed beneath my stare. “Everyone knows this town is full of weird shit. Why shouldn’t I be a part of it?”
“Did you find your way there by yourself?” I phrased it casually, but my estimation of her slowly began to rise when she nodded. There was a pretty heavy Glamour on the OtherFolk nightclub, geared toward warning away an ignorant mortal public. If she’d had the determination to push her way through it . . .
Still. Even if she was right about people being aware, I wasn’t going to go shouting it from the rooftops. The OtherFolk guard their secrets well. Spilling them was a really awesome way to end up on someone’s private shitlist. And that didn’t even include the one currently laughing his ass off in the corner.
“Listen, you don’t want to get involved with them. Trust me. It messes with your head and the only thing you’ll have when you’re done is a big pile of regret.” I held up my hand to forestall what would surely be a whining protest. “However, seeing as Brandon sent you my way, I’ll throw you a bone.” I resisted the impulse to giggle at my own pun, though something told me the werewolf wouldn’t have approved. “What did you say your name was?”
“Katy.” One perfectly waxed brow arched, daring me to make an issue of it. It would have been more impressive if the expression on her face wasn’t flitting between hope and suspicion.
“How old are you, Katy?”
“Seventeen.” I glanced over at the mirror in the corner, as though to argue with my reflection. Seventeen. Jesus. Had I ever been that eager to throw myself off the cliff? I let my gaze go slightly fuzzy, the blue of my eyes fading into the glass of the mirror, the pale, freckled face curving away into some far-off piece of my past.
Yes.
My reflection stared back without blinking. The mirror itself had always given me the creeps. It was carved of black wood with silver gilt edges, on a curved stand with a wide base. There was nothing particularly ominous about it at the moment, just my face peering from its cold depths, familiar and smooth. I shook my head and turned back to the girl.
Girl, hell. I wasn’t all that much older than she was, but her innocence nearly overwhelmed me. I was jaded and weary standing next to her like that. Funny what a difference a few seconds can make on your outlook. One moment you’re cruising along enjoying the sweet carelessness of youth, and the next you’ve got a gimpy leg and a metal plate in your head, and everything you’ve ever known is in shambles. Life can be a real bitch, I guess.
“All right. Come with me.”
She let out a muffled squeal and followed me behind the mirror. “Are there any here now? You know. Watching us?”
My hand hesitated inches away from the book I wanted. The stranger’s merriment wrapped around me like a ribbon, and I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. It’s nearly noon, after all. They don’t like being caught out in the daylight hours.” I glanced behind me, avoiding the corner by the door. Her mouth twisted into a scowl of disappointment, and I gave her a wry shrug as I pulled out a volume of poetry. “Believe it or not, in a lot of ways they’re just like us. It’s not like they’re hiding in your closet or under your bed.” I paused. “Or at least, not most of them.”
Her upper lip curled as she looked at the book. “What’s this?”
“A book. And you’re going to read it.” I flipped through several pages, marking them with a couple of spare Post-its from my pocket before handing it to her.
She stared at me and then glanced at the first marked page. After a moment of silence she began to read aloud:
O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers?
That is the Path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.
And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
That leis across the lily leven?
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the Road to fair Elfand,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.
But, Thomas, ye shall haud you
r tongue
Whatever ye may hear or see;
For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,
Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.
Her brow furrowed impatiently. “Yes, yes, I know this part. I’ve read this before, you know.”
“Then you should have some of the answers you’re looking for.” She looked at me quizzically. I sighed and went on. “How many paths are there?”
“Three. Duh.”
I closed my eyes. “Yes. What are they?”
“Faeryland, Heaven, Hell. Yeah, I get it. Light Path, Dark Path, and Middle Earth or whatever. What does it have to do with the CrossRoads?”
“Everything,” I said quietly. “Thomas stood at the CrossRoads with the Faery Queen and he chose her. Not the angels. Not the daemons. The Fae.”
“And that means?”
“The Fae are in control. Or at least they have the most influence, the most to gain from TouchStones. They are the Keepers of the CrossRoads, the liaisons between the OtherFolk and us.”
Thomas the Rhymer had been the first mortal TouchStone to record a Contract with the OtherFolk. And he had fulfilled that contract—for a full seven years—gaining the gift of Prophecy as a result. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me. From his perspective, the Fae were probably the most amusing of the bunch. Heaven knew just about every angel I’d ever met damn near had a stick up his ass. And really? However pretty the daemon girls are, it’s almost always a guarantee they’re going to come back and eat your soul one dark night, and who wants to deal with that?
“You can Contract with whoever you wish, of course, but the Fae watch over it all. Depending on who and what you choose, though, there may be political ramifications.” My mouth thinned. “And if it goes badly, then the Faery Protectorate has to get involved.”
She chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “And what would my Contract with Brandon be?”
I shrugged. I had no idea what sorts of things a werewolf might require of his TouchStone, though I could think of a few responsibilities she probably wouldn’t want to take on. “Regardless of the specifics of each individual Contract, the mere fact that the two of you are TouchStoned will allow him to move between our world and the CrossRoads without waiting for the Hours. Aside from that, I can’t say. Each Contract is individualized.”
Katy’s eyes darted toward the door. “So that’s what he meant. If he has a TouchStone, he doesn’t have to worry about being weaker in the daytime?”
“That’s one part of it,” I agreed. “Each Path has their own Hour, where traveling is easiest. TouchStones ease that transition. Something about having a soul, I suppose. The angels prefer Dawn. The daemons, Midnight.”
“And the Fae like Twilight, I suppose. What about noon? How does that fit in?”
“There’s a fourth Path,” I said, watching her try to work it out. “Can you tell me what it is?”
“Um, no?” She scowled. “It doesn’t say anything about a fourth Path.”
“Yes it does,” I said. “Come back and tell me when you figure it out. It’s all in there, I promise.”
Katy gave me a dubious look and clutched the book tightly. “How much is it?”
“On the house,” I said, waving her off.
“And if I do this, you’ll take me to the CrossRoads?”
“I can’t do that. Most of the Doors are hidden, so that’s something you’ll have to figure out on your own.” That, and the fact you’ve never been there, my inner voice said snidely. The Doors to the CrossRoads themselves were fluid enough—transitory gateways that opened and shut at the Hours—but finding them was another matter altogether. “Truthfully, it’s probably best if you TouchStone to Brandon first. And take it from me—read the Contract and understand just what you’re getting into. Being a TouchStone isn’t for the faint of heart.”
A fierce smile spread across her face. “I’ll be back soon.” She squinted as she peered at my shirt. “Abby?”
“That’s me,” I said dryly, pulling at my name tag. The eavesdropping man candy pointed at me and then tapped his head. I suppressed a sneer.
“Thank you so much, Abby. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.” Katy beamed at me and I couldn’t help but feel like the wolf in Red Riding Hood’s story. The better to eat you with, my dear? But no, that wasn’t right, either. I recognized that determined look in her eye, and even though I was fairly new to the whole OtherFolk scene, there was a part of me that would have loved to have had help instead of stumbling through it like I was.
And fucking it up royally, even.
“Will you be around tonight? You know, in case I figure it out?”
I snorted. There’s enthusiasm for you. “Not really. I’m going to an art gallery showing at the Waterfront. And I need to go get shoes for it first.” Small talk was not my forte, but I seemed to have momentarily adopted a friend.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, you should check out that new place on the corner of Canon and King. They’ve got some really nice stuff. And turn on the fan or something—it’s gross in here.”
“I’ll do that,” I said with a wan smile. She thanked me again and left, the door clinking shut behind her. I took a deep breath. It was entirely too damn hot in here. Of course, the main reason for that was still in the corner. Watching me.
I was going to have to remedy that soon.
“Well, this has been fun, but technically I’m working, so unless you’re going to buy something, you need to leave. Since you couldn’t be bothered to give me your name, I’ll just tell Moira that an extra from the porno version of Something Wicked This Way Comes was looking for her.”
“Extra? Hell,” he muttered. “I’d be the star.”
I coughed. “Emphasis on the word ‘comes,’ of course.”
The amusement rippled from him, rich and dark, but there wasn’t anything menacing about it now. “I suppose I deserve that. Did you want that name?”
“Color me excited,” I retorted. “Seems only fair, though. Generally I prefer a handshake and a hello before I hop into metaphysical bed with someone.”
“I don’t.” He shrugged and held out his hand. “Brystion.” He trilled the r sound, giving it an exotic rumble. Brrrist-e-on.
“Just Brystion?” I let my hand slip into his, holding my breath as I waited for the mind roll to happen again. When it didn’t, I relaxed. His skin was warm to the touch, but somehow not unpleasant even with the heat of the day.
“For now. And don’t worry about telling Moira, Abby.”
“Why?” My pulse jumped at the delicious way my name rolled off his tongue.
He smiled. “Because she already knows, now,” he said gently, shaking his head at my ignorance.
Before I could ask him what he meant, he was gone. I craned my neck toward the window, catching a glimpse of his dark form striding down the street, heedless of the oncoming drizzle—or the dull thudding of my heart.
The woman in the painting was soft and pale and naked. There was a proud thrust to her jaw as she stared down at me, her dark eyes half-lidded and smoky with kohl. I would have had to slaughter a horde of Avon ladies in ritual sacrifice to have skin that luminous and milky white.
She was a flawless collection of curves, her nipples hard and rosy, one hand reaching up to run perfect fingers through a cascade of midnight hair. Delicate wings arched from her back. The feathers were stained a brilliant crimson and spread in guarded invitation. She was chained, bound to the bed she knelt on, the crisp edges of the sheets in violent relief against the darkness in the corners of the room. The iron did not seem to faze her, but I shivered beneath the challenge in her shadowed eyes: I will give you what you want if you give me what I need . . .
I swallowed and read the title placard, strangely grateful that I was the only one standing here at the moment. It seemed more respectful that way, a private sort of voyeurism.
Debt Paid in Full.
“No, thanks.” My eyes lingered on the graceful flare of her hi
p before edging over to the iron shackles at her wrists. I like my kink straightforward, but I’ve never been one for mind games. Whoever she was, the scarlet woman was formidable and wrapped in a raw sexuality I would never possess.
Still, my feet were frozen in place, her ebony gaze holding me there until it felt like I was the one in chains. I doubted she’d ever been mortal. I certainly didn’t recognize her. Not that that meant much in itself—it’s hard to pin names on people who could change shape or Glamour themselves into something else. Or refuse to give names at all. I snorted softly, my heart pattering, as Brystion materialized in my mind. I still had no idea what he’d been talking about, but then, I suppose that was nothing new. Moira’s recent absence had left me hanging in the knowledge department, proper protocol notwithstanding.
Legends and myths, half-truths and lies. All of it swirled into an obnoxious mishmash of information. Most of the OtherFolk liked it that way; it kept them mysterious and hard to pin down.
It also made them damn hard to contact, especially when I needed to call in the debts for the Marketplace. That was something Moira usually took care of, but I’d noticed that since the Protectorate had been gone, there had been a spike in items purchased on credit. I was beginning to think some of our customers were trying to take advantage of the situation.
Luckily, the highly polished marble floors of the Portsmyth Waterfront Fine Arts Gallery appeared to be free of any OtherFolk influence at the moment, and that was peachy keen with me. My attention remained locked on the winged beauty, something inside me shattering with pity.
Topher was three times a fool for trying to capture her on anything as mundane as mere canvas. In the Faery world, you never got something for nothing. If the talent burned bright enough, an OtherFolk muse might be tempted to leave behind a bit of their immortal essence, but at what cost?
A chill skittered its way down my spine, breaking me from my stupor. I welcomed the distraction, uprooting myself to move on to the next painting—Melusine Bathes.