Faerie Blood

by Angela Korra'ti

  He shook his head and said simply, “No, lass.”

  “Good,” I said, while a warm glow of pleasure blossomed in my chest. “See, I’m getting used to having you around, but I need more time to really get the hang of it, you know?”

  Christopher smiled. “We’ve got time right now,” he noted, ducking his gaze and then bringing it back up again. It made him look almost shy. But interest and anticipation, not shyness, gleamed in his eyes.

  And I beamed at him for it. “Yeah. So! What say you show me your bouzouki?”

  We sat down with one another on the living room couch, Fort prowling curiously around our feet, while Christopher unzipped the bag he’d brought from his boarding house and drew forth the instrument within it. His hands seemed almost too large for such a delicate-looking thing, but with the deft ease of long practice, he settled it into place on his lap and struck a chord upon the strings. Steel and bronze chimed in a voice a bit too high and bright for a guitar, too full for a banjo. For several seconds afterward the notes lingered, as though the very air of the room sang backup.

  And the bouzouki itself was gorgeous. Four pairs of strings ran across widely spaced frets down its long, slender mahogany neck to a fat teardrop-shaped body that could have been rosewood or cherry, its natural hues undimmed by varnish or finish. The texture of engraving set into the ebony of its head caught my eye, though I had to look closer to make out an elaborate Celtic knot surrounding a phrase in an unfamiliar language: Airson mo mhac Crìsdean.

  Curious, I gestured at the words. “What’s that say?”

  Christopher did not exactly frown; the tension that had haunted him before did not return. But his gaze turned pensive as he brushed a finger along the bouzouki’s bottommost, thinnest pair of strings, making a faint sliding noise that segued into a whisper of an E. “It’s Gaelic,” he said, so faintly that I marveled that I heard it; it was as if he were speaking from another room, or another time. “Scots Gaelic. It says ‘for my son Christopher’.” He looked over at me then, his direct stare peculiarly more defenseless than his looking away would have been. “Mum was a luthier as well as a Warder. She made this instrument for me for the last of my birthdays she saw.”

  Oh Jesus. I went very still, watching Christopher closely for some cue about how I could reply. For sixteen years the fate of Damhnait MacSimidh had remained a mystery; was her son about to tell me now what he’d never shared with his own kin?

  “What happened to her, Christopher?” I murmured.

  He didn’t duck the question, though his gaze slid down to the engraving on the ebony and stayed there.

  “An Unseelie came to St. John’s,” he said in a whisper like sandstone crumbling beneath the onslaught of ocean waves. “He found my mother. And wanted her. She refused him. They fought. He won.” He paused and closed his eyes, then opened them again and stared out across the room, abruptly looking very, very young. “I was there when it happened.”

  It was a sparse, bare recitation, oddly devoid of pain or grief or even much detail—but Christopher’s raw expression alone filled in many of those blanks. “An Unseelie. No wonder you lost it at Elessir’s little proposal.”

  “I did,” he agreed, swinging his gaze back to me. “I’m sorry. My past days don’t excuse me bein’ a lout. But that fey bastard said what he did—and I saw red. All I could think of was Mum.”

  “And me.” I scooted a little closer on the couch so that I could touch his shoulder, since his hands still busied themselves with the bouzouki. Fragments of slow, plaintive melody wafted up off the strings, a background murmur to our voices. “You didn’t want him touching me. Thank you for that.”

  “I couldn’t keep him away, lass,” Christopher whispered, and I knew he wasn’t talking about Elessir.

  Neither was I. “You did what you could.” I didn’t need to know precisely what had happened in St. John’s to guess that the boy had done then what I’d seen the grown man do several times already: stand up and put himself at risk to defend another.

  Emotions roiled so thickly in Christopher’s eyes that I could almost see them, like ripples in a pair of hazel pools. He muted the bouzouki’s strings and shifted the instrument, turning its neck upward and resting it against his shoulder, gently, as though he held a child. “You’re braver than I am, Kendis Thompson,” he said as the notes he’d played died away into silence. “In just two scant days, I’ve seen you be braver than I’ve been in sixteen years. I should thank you. Facin’ what’s in your blood made me think it was high time I should face up to what’s in mine.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I said. “But why didn’t you tell someone what happened? How old were you?”

  Christopher heaved a deep sigh, and as if it somehow helped him speak of these things, he plucked another soft smattering of notes upon his instrument. “Da made me swear not to,” he admitted. “He wasn’t ever the same, after. Thought he had to take me away to keep me safe, and that meant from everythin’ and everybody, and keepin’ on the move. ’Course I went with him.” He shrugged a little, as if to ask what else he might have done. “I was just sixteen. And he was my Da.

  “We went through Halifax, Toronto, and Montreal before I was eighteen. But Da took to drinkin’, and when we got to Winnipeg, he couldn’t hold a job—not that either of us got good work as long as we were movin’ so much. We had a row about it, and about Mum.” The strings jangled; Christopher’s hands shook. “He threw me out of our rented rooms, and that was the last I saw of him. Funny thing was, by then I had the taste for movin’. So I kept goin’, on to Chicago and South Dakota and every state between South Dakota and here since. I haven’t lived in the same city for two years runnin’ since Mum died. Been afraid the Warder blood would rise in me and I’d share her fate.”

  So that was it. I could picture it without effort, Damhnait’s devastated husband and son fleeing the site of her death—and Christopher’s flight continuing after his father had driven him away, leaving him with only the treasured instrument his mother had made him. Never staying long anywhere lest he find the power in his own blood catching up with him… and unless I missed my guess, kicking himself for a coward the whole time. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but he’d semaphored me that bit of subtext with big bright neon flags by looking so utterly thunderstruck when I’d praised his bravery.

  “And now you’re in Seattle,” I concluded, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, Christopher. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Slowly, as if through a series of time-lapse photographs, Christopher’s entire face eased. One corner of his mouth quirked up, then the other followed suit. His brow smoothed out, and with a quiet contentment that shone like a light his eyes grew clearer and brighter. Whether it came from his embracing his Warder station or just from talking with me I didn’t know, but it heartened me to see that peace.

  “Smile at a man like that,” he rumbled, “and you’ll make him forget he’s tryin’ to brood.”

  “That’s the plan,” I cheerfully replied. “Brooding is unhealthy, and as long as we’re stuck here for a while anyway, you don’t get to sit there with an instrument I’ve never laid eyes on before and not teach me how to play it.”

  “I’ll teach you gladly—but I seem to recollect, lass, you promised me some fiddle.”

  I had, and with that reminder, my spirits skyrocketed. All at once the idea of waiting for word from Jude and Millicent didn’t seem so onerous, not with an easy way to fill the hours before us, and one which would give Christopher some rest and relaxation. After everything he’d been through in the last few days—getting his head bashed in by a troll, challenging pissed-off Daoine Sidhe, and facing down the past that had haunted him for sixteen years—I wanted to give him that. He’d have plenty of time soon enough to be a Warder of Seattle; right then I wanted to give him some time just to be Christopher.

  And perhaps, I thought, I could do that with music.

&nbs
p; Chapter Eighteen

  Now you may expect me to say that due to shared magic and mutual attraction, Christopher and I achieved seamless, perfect unity on our instruments. Didn’t happen. Fact of the matter is, even the best musicians in the world (in which august category neither of us qualified) must learn each other’s pacing and style before they sound like they know what they’re doing when they play together. And for us, anyway, camaraderie rather than perfection was the point. We played to work off the stress of the last many hours, to kill time while we waited for news from Jude and Millicent, and for the sake of simply making music. For every note I struck badly Christopher came in late on a chord or overshot the frets on the bouzouki, and we didn’t care. Our initial nervous winces at mistakes turned into snickers, which in turn became challenges to throw one another off the beat by making outrageous faces at flubbed notes.

  And lest you get the wrong idea, we weren’t a complete mess either. We both knew our instruments, and we found a great deal of fun in the diverse music we had to share with one another. Christopher offered up Newfoundland folk songs all about bold sailors plowing the raging sea, and I matched him with classical pieces by the composers I most loved. My instrument was better suited to his than the other way around—after all, the violin is a folk staple. I pointed this out as he scanned the pages of my copy of Irene Britton Smith’s “Sonata for Violin and Piano”.

  “There isn’t any ‘Bouzouki’ in the title of that, you know.”

  Christopher looked me square in the eye. “Pretend I’m playin’ an eight-stringed piano,” he advised, launching into the opening measures. I blinked, laughed out loud, and whipped up my bow to join him.

  Eventually the music came together. Time whirled by in long stretches of melody, rhythm, and harmony, and the bright metallic twang of Christopher’s instrument melded with the more organic sound of mine to make something fuller and richer than either one could make alone. And yeah, sharing the Warding had been wondrous, but this was strangely better in a way. This was something purely mortal, something that didn’t rely on supernatural senses or magic to do. All it needed was two musical instruments, and two people who took great delight in playing them.

  Christopher’s delight was so tangible that I reveled in watching him. He’d glowed with an almost childlike wonder calling upon his Warder power for the first time, but with his bouzouki in his hands, he took on a new, relaxed confidence that electrified every move he made and every chord he struck. Each time I met his eyes, the gold-drenched green of maple leaves bathed in sunshine branded itself into my memory as the color of his joy.

  Oh, I knew the real world—or, rather, the surreal world—would intrude again soon. The weather was intrusion enough upon our playing, what with the rain hammering on the roof and gusts of wind jarring the windows in a ceaseless percussion. Once or twice, tympani rolls of thunder laid down rumbling accompaniment. A single crack of lightning very close to the house not only cut us off as we worked through an air’s opening measures, it sent the cat scurrying for cover as well.

  But with my companion’s high spirits and bright smile to egg me on, I willingly drove all else out of my mind. Even the weather, lively though it was, made things all the more companionable.

  For a few hours, there was only Christopher, me, and the music.

  * * *

  The intrusion I expected turned out to be Jude, calling from her cell phone to report that she’d retrieved Millicent from Renton. As much as I hated to interrupt the fun Christopher and I were having, my friend’s news was far from unwelcome.

  “Can’t talk long, babe, I’m on the road and visibility absolutely blows,” she told me. “But I’ve got Millie. She says she got jumped yesterday, and whoever it was dumped her in Renton. Wiped her out.”

  I conveyed this to Christopher, whose face flooded with relief that the old Warder woman had been found and grave concern over whoever might have ambushed her. “It hurts a Warder to take her out of her city,” he said grimly. “And any who’d think to do it can mean no good.”

  “Could it have killed her?” I asked, and a chill slid down my back at his nod and his reply.

  “If she’d gone too long without help, yeah.”

  That sounded more than a little disturbing, and exactly like something that the Sidhe might have pulled in an attempt to render Seattle defenseless. And by extension, me. I didn’t want to keep Jude on the phone while she was driving through heavy rain, so I urged her to be careful and to call us back as soon as she could. Jude promised another call as soon as she had Millicent in a safe place, and then hung up.

  So much for distracting myself with music. I stood there for a bit with my phone in my hand, feeling a cold weight of fright in my chest and wondering exactly what I was that I could move three members of the Seelie Court to break their Pact with the Warders. Weren’t they supposed to be the good guys of Faerie?

  Did my mother—’the most powerful Seelie mage born in a recent age’, if Elessir was to be believed—have anything to do with it?

  Or that nightmare I’d had of something huge and dark chasing me, a nightmare about which the Unseelie had also hinted?

  And what was it that Malandor had said while he’d held my chin in his hand in the parking lot at the Penguin? I could remember his touch and the pull of his voice, but not the things he’d said or the questions he’d asked me. Something about my blood, I thought. That was important. But try as I might, I couldn’t bring it back to mind. Wrapping one arm around myself, I rubbed at my eyes with my other hand and struggled not to shake.

  “Millicent will be all right.” Christopher took me by the shoulders and turned me to him as I hung up the phone, giving me a steady, earnest look that was more bracing than a smile. “I can feel her, through the city. She’s back on our ground now.” I liked that our. It gave me reassurance. “Seattle will return her strength.”

  Which made sense; if it hurt a Warder to remove her from her city, I could buy that it helped her to put her back. “It’s all about the life energy, huh?” I guessed.

  “A city sustains its Warders,” he agreed.

  Speaking of which… “Your head!” I blurted abruptly. “Have you seen it? It looks a lot better!”

  Christopher’s hair was not as long as mine, but it was every bit as prone to escape confinement. Several strands had come free of his ponytail while we’d played, testimony to the vigor with which he’d banged away on his bouzouki. One long dark tendril now fell across his forehead, and without thinking, I reached up to brush it aside for a better look at the place where the troll had clocked him. It had changed since the last time I’d looked. The swelling was gone, and the angry reddish-purple bruises along his hairline had faded to a much more subdued yellow-brown, well on their way to regaining the healthy hue of the rest of his skin.

  Startled, Christopher lifted his own hand to his head. His fingers brushed mine, which made us both jump, and I hastily withdrew mine so he could carefully probe the injured spot. “Doesn’t hurt all that much at all, now,” he murmured wonderingly. “I’d forgotten.”

  “We should get your stitches out,” I said. It sounded like a good health plan, I had to admit, and having Christopher hale and sound before me buoyed up my hope that Millicent would indeed be all right. “Maybe when Carson and Jake get back. Jake used to be an EMT. I could get him to do it for you.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” answered Christopher, slowly lowering his hand.

  Is anybody surprised that with him standing only inches away, I blanked out on what I was doing? Uh-huh. I didn’t think so. “No problem,” I said, and promptly forgot the words the moment they left my mouth. Neither of us moved; for several long moments, we just gazed at one another. In the back of my mind I felt that current of ours, still active, like a sweet sustained harmony on the very edge of my hearing. It was stronger today, perhaps bolstered by Christopher coming into his power, but it took a back seat to my growing awareness of his simple proximity. He looked healthy, a
ll right. He looked good.

  “Kendis,” he said then, his stare turning restless and ever so slightly uncertain, “would you think me wretchedly forward if I told you I want to hold you in my arms?”

  Warmth that had nothing to do with magic swept through me, and I stepped closer so that I could snuggle against him.

  “No,” I replied, smiling up into his eyes, “I can’t say that I would.”

  * * *

  Just for the record, we didn’t do that.

  Not that I didn’t think about it, and I needed neither magic nor my keener senses to tell me Christopher was thinking about it too. His embrace sent my imagination wandering off in very interesting directions, and while I was happy to let it wander, I held back from following where it led. So did Christopher, for which I found myself grateful. A lot had happened to both of us in the last couple of days. He was becoming a Warder; I was becoming… well, whatever I was becoming. By unspoken mutual assent, whether born out of the rapport of mingled magic, shared music, or simply reading the language of each other’s bodies, we did nothing more adventurous than holding each other close. It seemed wisest, at least until we knew exactly how weird life was going to get.

  The weirdness wasn’t over yet, I was sure.

  As the day progressed the weather steadily worsened. Rain fell in relentless sheets, turning the view out my windows into a blurred wash of silvery-gray even to my newly sharpened sight; the wind howled, and the lightning and thunder hurled back violent, rattling replies. Around one the power began to flicker, enough of a warning that I scurried through my half of the house and through the connecting mini-hallway Carson, Jake, and I had opened into their half, shutting down all the electronic devices we owned. Around two, the power cut out completely—not only in my neighborhood, we learned over my portable radio, but across most of northern Seattle as well. It was easily the worst storm to hit the city in the last ten years, and on any weekend before this one, I might have thought nothing of it. But this was the first weekend since my enrolling in Intro to the Supernatural 101, so anything out of the ordinary was enough to make me paranoid.