by Anya Bast
He didn’t stop at his apartment. There was nothing there for him anyway. No family. No romantic entanglements. Gabriel didn’t even keep any servants, preferring total solitude within his walls. No pets. Not many friends, though the ones he had were close.
Admirers and lovers he had, sure, but they were the nighttime kind, for sex only. Relations between them were warm . . . burning, but the actual friendship was cool.
That’s the way he liked it.
And if once in a while he became lonely, well, that was the cost of the secret he kept—the secret he wouldn’t trade for anything because it gave him a reason to exist. It gave him a purpose and a way to serve his people in a meaningful way. Take away his duty here in the Black Tower and he would fade to nothingness.
He moved through the dark marble hallways and past carved wooden doors. In places, water streamed down the stone faces of the walls or fires burned in the fireplaces of the myriad small sitting areas of the tower.
The architects had done a good job with the place and there was nowhere else Gabriel wanted to call home. He’d been there when the tower had first been designed and constructed. As a child he watched every day from the square as it went up, hope burning in his chest that he would someday live behind its walls with his kind. Back then it had been the only hope he’d had. It had kept him alive in the first harsh years after Piefferburg had been formed. He’d had no one back then, and he had learned it was better to stand on your own than to rely on anyone else.
He slipped through a secret door in the west wing and mounted the winding stairs that would lead him to the roof of the Black Tower. The twisting cool gray stone was like something out of a human child’s faery tale. Once in a while a gargoyle head—placed there by the builders and imbued with spells of protection—jutted from the rocky walls. Small shelved alcoves held hand-carved wooden statues depicting famous Unseelie fae. Gabriel made this climb every night—had for more than a century—and knew each of them by name, as well as their stories.
When he reached the top of the winding staircase he found Aeric Killian Riordan O’Malley, also known as The Blacksmith. Leaning in the doorway leading out onto the roof, Aeric crossed his brawny arms across his chest and lifted a dark blond brow. “You’re late and the souls are restless. We almost left without you.”
Aeric, long ago and in another world for the fae, had been a blacksmith with an ability to forge magickal weapons that had given a whole new dimension to the battles in which they’d been wielded. These days there wasn’t much call for magicked battle weapons, though Aeric still found work here and there, making charmed restraints and the occasional illegal charmed club or sword. Now Aeric was a part of Gabriel’s host and one of his best friends.
Some called it “the Furious Host,” but Gabriel thought they were only mildly annoyed. Probably more so than usual since he’d been making them wait.
“I’ve been busy. I’m doing something for the Shadow King over in the Rose,” Gabriel said, reaching the door.
“The Rose?” Aeric pushed off the door frame and fell into step beside him. His longish, dark blond hair was tied at the nape of his neck and he wore a pair of battered jeans, steel-toed boots, and a T-shirt that strained over his chest. He wasn’t a blacksmith anymore, but he still had the build of one. “What’s it like over there?”
“Boring.” Except for Aislinn. She was a spitfire. Normally he’d tell Aeric all about it, but Aodh wanted it under wraps. “Are the rest of them here?”
“Yeah. We’ve been waiting for the last hour.” His voice came out an angry, low growl. Aeric had a temper that was infamous in the Black Tower.
Emerging onto the roof, he saw the rest of his host reclining on the shiny black quartz top of the tower. The mystic horses roamed aimless. There were six of the Netherworld horses tonight, which meant a healthy amount of souls to reap. Abastor was Gabriel’s black quarterhorse and the only mount that appeared nightly. A headstrong horse only Gabriel could control, Abastor led the hunt. The sleek black Netherworld hounds, Blix and Taliesin, also roamed, sniffing what there was to sniff when they weren’t tracking needy souls throughout the city.
Melia, a petite, redheaded battle fae, lounged on the roof near her husband, Aelfdane. Aelfdane was much taller than his tiny spouse, stick thin, and had long blond hair that hung to the small of his back. Aelfdane had a gentle, almost effeminate air about him in the way all the Twyleth Teg did, but that gentleness was as deceptive as Melia’s size. They were both deadly in a fight. To boot, Aelfdane’s magick was giving sickness on a whim. Not someone you wanted to piss off.
Bran sat at the card table playing solitaire. There was nothing unusual about that. Bran was a mystery to most of them. His skill lay in managing animals—controlling and directing creatures like the waterhorses and phookas in the Boundary Lands and even the host’s mystic hounds. Blix and Taliesin adored him. Bran’s pet crow, Lex, perched nearby, watching everything with his fathomless black eyes. Bran didn’t look up as Gabriel approached, lost in his own world. He seemed to communicate well with fae animals, but not so well with anything or anyone else.
All of them had been handpicked by unknown forces to be his posse, the Furious Host. Every night they formed the Wild Hunt, the group that tales had been told of in almost every culture of almost every land since time had begun. Every night they met here and did their sacred duty.
Every night, they rode.
Melia and Aelfdane’s heads popped up as he strode past them. “Okay, let’s go gather souls.”
THREE
AISLINN gasped and came awake, her white silk sheets a tangle around her legs. She sat up, breathing hard, trying to push away the remnants of the dream that clung to her like a spiderweb. Clutching the soft sheet to her chest, she shuddered.
It had been a prophetic dream, like other ones she’d had from time to time. There was no mistaking the difference in it, the clearer quality and sense of utter and total reality. That was what made them so terrifying: they seemed real and were usually horrific.
This one had been more horrific than most.
With a heavy sense of foreboding clinging to her, she slid from the bedding and found her slippers and bathrobe. She made her way out to the kitchen in the semidarkness and poured herself a tall glass of cold water with shaking hands. The rim of the water jug trembled on the lip of the glass, nearly making her slosh liquid everywhere.
It was times like these when she hated living alone, when she regretted not keeping a servant like just about everyone else in the Rose. She’d almost taken on Lolly, her friend Bella’s house hobgoblin, when Bella had been banished, just because Lolly felt like part of the family. But Lolly had found employment elsewhere and it was just as well. Because nights like these were also the reason Aislinn couldn’t allow anyone to live with her, not even someone she could trust like Lolly.
Taking her glass to the couch in the living room, she stood at the window that overlooked Piefferburg Square and took a long, cool swallow, trying not to recall her dream. Of course, that was fruitless. She could probably kiss sleep good-bye for the night.
The ability she had to occasionally see the future was a fae skill that had been passed down by her forebears. It was a common and respectable Sídhe trait and part of what made her Seelie. But she wasn’t just Seelie. Her bloodline was—at least so far as was documented—pure Tuatha Dé. One needed such a pedigree to be a part of the highest echelons of the Seelie Court.
Her mother was incredibly proud of her family’s social standing. In fact, their family’s place in the Rose was the only thing she really cared about.
Aislinn’s mother didn’t know that her daughter possessed another skill besides prophetic dreaming. A much darker one. An ability that would put her on the other side of Piefferburg Square, with the monsters. It was the reason she couldn’t have anyone living with her. They might notice her odd behavior as she dealt with her ability and tell the queen about it.
Aislinn could communicate with
the dead.
She could see them and talk to them when no one else could. Souls sought her out for exactly that reason. She suspected she could also summon and influence the dead, though she’d never tried it. It just didn’t seem right to use those who came to her for aid as guinea pigs. Even so, she could feel the ability in the center of her. She simply knew she had it. Calling and controlling spirits from the Netherworld was magick that lay in the realm of the necromancer.
And that was certainly not a respectable Seelie ability.
It had started when she was young, but Aislinn had learned to conceal her skills quickly. If anyone in the Rose knew that Aislinn had Unseelie magick, she’d be exiled and her mother would be disgraced. So she’d grown up squelching and denying it, even though there had been a part of her that had been intensely fascinated by her ability.
A dangerous part of her still was.
Aislinn would love the chance to find a teacher, one who could help her wield her ability more effectively, increase her talent. The fact that she wanted to develop her necromancy instead of suppress it was a secret she couldn’t reveal—not even to Bella, whom she’d told about her dark magick. Anyway, even if there were any other necromancers, they all dwelt on the dark side of the square.
She watched the Wild Hunt lift off from the top of the Black Tower. As one of the highest-ranking Seelie nobles, she enjoyed a beautiful, lavishly furnished apartment with a wonderful view. If she was up late, she often caught a glimpse of the Wild Hunt taking off to do its work for the night—gather the souls of those fae who had passed on during the twenty-four hours since their last ride.
Those fae who died outside Piefferburg’s walls—and there were still some out there, those who’d managed to evade the Great Sweep by the Phaendir in the mid-1600s—were never collected. They wandered aimlessly for an eternity, growing angrier with their fate and dangerous to humans. Aislinn knew that because she could feel them pulling at her from beyond the warding that guarded Piefferburg’s borders. They called to her through the strong magick the Phaendir had imprisoned them in. Their cries were muffled but audible.
Humans thought the fae were immortal, but that wasn’t quite right. The Seelie and Unseelie royals were immortal because of the magick bestowed on them by the court artifacts. The Unseelie Royal wore an amulet and the Seelie Royal wore a ring, each piece of jewelry bestowing on them eternal life—freedom from disease or age. They could still be killed, however. They weren’t granted immunity from mortal wounds.
The fae, most breeds, were immortal by human standards but not by exact definition. They were simply very long-lived, the aging process slowing to a crawl once a fae hit twenty-five. But the fae races still fell prey to accidents, illness, and, eventually, age, just like any human. Watt syndrome had taken an especially large toll and still stole away a fae here and there within the limits of Piefferburg. The only fae races that were not long-lived were the goblins and their lesser nightmarish offshoot species, the hobgoblins. Their life span ranged only to around a hundred years.
She watched the Wild Hunt sail off into the darkness on phantom horses and with hounds at their side to sniff out the needy spirits. Did the Lord of the Wild Hunt hear the lost ones beyond the warding of Piefferburg, too? Could he feel all those departed fae yanking his psychic chain and demanding help he could never give like she did?
In an odd way, she felt more kinship with the mysterious Lord of the Wild Hunt than with anyone at Seelie Court . . . at least since Bella had gone.
No one knew who the Lord of the Wild Hunt was. His identity, and that of his host, was closely guarded. Too bad, since she’d like to meet him sometime, no matter that he resided in the Black.
But then she would meet him, wouldn’t she? And soon. Her dream had told her that much. She’d meet him when he came for her soul. Her dreams always foretold someone’s death.
This time it had been hers.
She closed her eyes against the swelling memory of the dream, the glass of water slipping from her fingers and crashing to the thick fawn carpeting at her feet.
Hands. So many hands, grasping, yanking.
They’d pulled at her, caught in her hair, her clothes, bruising her limbs. Below and behind her a murky darkness had spread. Before her and in front of her had been lighter, like she’d been submerged in water and was looking toward the surface of the lake. The owners of the grabbing hands had been moaning and purring in her ear to give up, let go, and allow them to carry her soul over the twilight threshold of life and death to the Netherworld. To death. She hadn’t been able to resist them. She’d been so tired, so weak.
She was going to die soon and Gabriel Cionaodh Marcus Mac Braire, somehow, someway, would be the catalyst.
THE man stood flickering in the image his soul took to the living—gray and softly glowing. A shimmering silver cord rippled and pulsed from his back, reaching to the Netherworld, where his place already waited for him. All he needed was for the Wild Hunt to show him the way. The elderly fae’s expression was a mixture of sorrow and pain as he gazed down at his still-living wife, who lay sleeping in bed beside his motionless and silent body. The wife probably wouldn’t realize her husband had passed until morning.
Gabriel regretted her discovery and her impending grief, but this was the natural pattern for all living things. No one was immune. He was only a ferryman, imbued by some unknown cosmic force with the ability to escort the departed to the afterlife.
Only himself and his host could see fae spirits. He guessed there were probably a few others beyond his circle with the ability, but he’d never met any. Gabriel wasn’t sure if his skill extended to human souls. He’d been born outside Piefferburg, but he’d been a child and not yet Lord of the Wild Hunt during those few, short years of freedom. Since he’d probably die in Piefferburg, he’d probably never know.
The torch of the Wild Hunt had passed to him nearly two hundred years ago. In those two hundred years Gabriel had seen every type of soul there was to see. Some left their life with a peace and acceptance that was beautiful to behold. Some were angry and fought to stay earthbound. Some did remain earthbound.
But most of them were simply sad to leave those they loved and were reluctant to sever their attachments. Sometimes it was hard to get souls to take that final ride with him, a ride that would usher them forward to their next life—whatever that was. Gabriel wasn’t privy to the secrets of the world that lay beyond this one, despite his job servicing it.
His host waiting outside, Gabriel reached out a hand to the soul. “It’s time to go now.”
The man looked at him, then turned away and knelt at his wife’s side. Clearly he needed some time to say good-bye. Gabriel was always willing to give it. If the man’s wife woke while Gabriel was in the room, all she would see were shadows. All she would hear were murmurs and whispers. Magick protected the hunt’s true identity and had since the dawn of time.
Though she would perceive the Wild Hunt, the woman would not be able to see her husband. She would probably presume that the Wild Hunt had killed him. The trooping fae, who lacked the gentle spirituality of the wilding fae and the knowledge of the nobles, believed that the hunt was evil.
Gabriel gave the man until dawn began to edge slowly over the horizon. “Come. Your life is done here and another is waiting for you. Your wife will grieve you, but her journey on earth isn’t finished yet.”
The man ignored him, gripping his wife’s hand like he would never let go.
Most of the souls he collected seemed to understand that it was time to leave. Some did not. He kept track of every soul he couldn’t collect, returning periodically to see if he could entice them into passing. Fae souls didn’t have magick anymore, but they could still hurt others if they wanted to badly enough. A powerful enough necromancer could even make them into weapons and kill people with them. Luckily there were no necromancers in Piefferburg.
The man finally moved away from his wife and toward Gabriel. Silently, they walked out of
the small house in the ceantar láir and back to the waiting host. They had a full collection tonight. Five other souls were mounted on the horses.
Once the man was secure on a jet-black mare, the hounds led them off once more, toward one last soul to retrieve.
“NOT again,” Aislinn mumbled and turned over, pulling the blanket over her head. It was almost dawn and she’d finally managed to fall back to sleep after convincing herself that the dream she’d had was just a dream and not prophetic.
It was a lie she had to believe. She couldn’t function any other way. How could she look Gabriel in the eye thinking anything else? How could she do the job that the Summer Queen had given her believing Gabriel was somehow a trigger for the events that would lead to her death?
Finally, after she’d managed to divert her mind from the grasping hands, she’d fallen back to sleep. Now she was awake again and someone was watching her, looming over the side of her bed. It was a feeling she was familiar with . . . one she selfishly wanted to ignore right now.
A soft whisper.
Shuffling feet.
The psychic press of a soul in need.
Aislinn rolled back over and confronted the soul that stood at her bedside. She sat up and her breath came out in a shocked whisper. “Elena?” She was one of her mother’s friends. The cord that anchored her in the Netherworld shimmered a soft peach color. “No. That’s impossible. You’re too young to die.”
“I’m already dead, dear. Watt syndrome,” Elena whispered in that gentle, breezy way that souls spoke in. “It lay dormant in me for close to a century then finally sank its claws in.”
Watt syndrome was a fae-specific illness that was mostly under control . . . but not quite. It had decimated the fae races, both during the years of the Great Sweep and in the preceding years when Piefferburg had been newly born. Those left behind after the illness had burned through were either naturally immune or had developed immunity to it. The disease itself was magickal in origin—which was why most believed the Phaendir had created it—but no countermeasure for the illness had been developed, not for a lack of effort. Watt syndrome still claimed victims occasionally, even after so many years.