FOUR KINGS: A Novel

by M. D. Elster

  “Well… that can’t be good.” I blush, feeling ashamed.

  “I’ll second that! It’s very unfortunate if you wish to hide from an attacker. But I suppose it was useful enough for my purposes this evening.”

  Still humiliated, I don’t say much in response to this. Sir Lewin looks at my face and notices my mortified expression.

  “Ah,” he says. “I forgot: Humans categorize odor as a thing to be despised.”

  Again, I say nothing. I simply look at him, uncomfortable.

  “Don’t worry,” Sir Lewin continues. “You don’t smell… unpleasant. Not even by those bizarre human standards of yours. Quite the opposite, actually.”

  “What do I smell like?” I ask, suddenly wanting to know.

  He shrugs. “Like… Green earthy moss and freshly milled flour, and… I can’t quite explain it… but a sea of bluebells?” he says. “I never knew bluebells could have such a scent.”

  I think of the Hallerbos, with its carpet of blue in the springtime. I laugh, and break out into a grin.

  “Have I missed a joke?” Sir Lewin asks, blinking in bewilderment.

  “No,” I say. “You just described the exact scent of the place where I grew up.”

  “Hah,” he says, seemingly disinterested. “Yes. Well, that explains it; it seems to have permanently adhered to your person. Now… I suppose we ought to get down to business. Did you discover where the Snake King keeps his grimoire?”

  “I did,” I answer.

  “Hmph. I am obligated to let you know that I still thoroughly disapprove of the reckless way you went about gathering this information, but at least it appears to have rendered useful results. All right, Anaïs: Tell me the grimoire’s location, and I will move in stealth to rip out the page that contains the Ritual to Extract the Power of Human Blood…”

  I smile a tight-lipped smirk, trying not to laugh at him. “Sounds like quite an operation, when you put it like that.”

  “Well? Where can the grimoire be found?”

  Instead of answering him, I reach into my pocket and extract a folded piece of weathered, yellowing parchment.

  “What is this?” he asks, bewildered. He opens it up, and smoothes it out on the smooth surface of one of the opal-encrusted dressers. “Is this… how?... it can’t be!” he stammers.

  “The Snake King gave it to me,” I say.

  Sir Lewin’s green eyes flash at me as though angry and unconvinced. “He gave it to you? He… just… handed it over? It makes no sense! Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Sir Lewin,” I say in a low, soft voice. “I don’t think the Snake King is our villain.”

  Sir Lewin frowns. “Not our villain? If ever there was a villain, it would seem he was born to be one! This is our proof — he is indeed the owner of this incantation!”

  “I know, I know…” I say. “And he lives here, in a state of rotten decay. I grant you, this place is… unsettling, to say the least. And he practices black magic. He is hardly an extravert or the kind of king that the masses champion… but I am telling you, Sir Lewin: He says he has nothing to do with these murders, and I believe him. He isn’t hoping to build an army of enslaved creatures and take over the land; he wouldn’t even marry the Young Cwen and take the crowned title of High Cyning, not even if the harpy herself blessed the union.”

  Sir Lewin snorts and raises an eyebrow. “Not marry the Young Cwen! Is he blind as well as strange?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Sir Lewin shrugs. “You’ve seen her.”

  “I have.”

  “She’s quite beautiful.”

  “I wasn’t aware you thought so.”

  “Everyone thinks so,” Sir Lewin retorts. “Anyway, we’re getting away from the point. Why this sudden faith in the Snake King? What makes you so sure he wouldn’t want to become our High Cyning?”

  “He loves another. A woman who is departed from this life,” I say. “The woman who we summoned at tonight’s ritual, at tonight’s séance…”

  Sir Lewin ponders this, remembering the evening, and it appears to hit home.

  “Hmm,” he says. “All right. Let’s say — hypothetically — I believe you, and I can see how the Snake King is not the mastermind behind these murders. That would only leave… I suppose that would only leave one of the other kings, and more than ever, your dear Mr. Fletcher would be a prime suspect, in my opinion. We can’t possibly hand this page over to him as planned.”

  “No,” I protest. “I promised we’d deliver the page to Mr. Fletcher and that means we’re delivering the page. Mr. Fletcher is not capable of masterminding murder, let alone carrying it out himself. No… I think we need to look elsewhere. The Raven King might be lunatic enough. And the Lion King… I know he’s your king but he’s awfully aggressive.” Sir Lewin shots me a warning look, and I move on quickly. “What about the Unicorn King? I don’t know anything about him yet.”

  “No,” Sir Lewin shakes his head. “Mr. Fletcher was smart to go there for asylum; it makes him look innocent. If the Unicorn King is behind this, then he has fooled quite a lot of people. He is orderly, a stickler for high morals, and adored by his subjects, who claim their kingdom is the most civilized in the land. I’d say rogue terrorists are a much stronger possibility.”

  “Well, fine,” I say. “As long as you don’t count Mr. Fletcher in among them. He has done nothing wrong.”

  Sir Lewin grows somber. He turns to look at me, and takes my hand in his own. “All right, Anaïs. I will make you a proposition: I will trust in your Mr. Fletcher, if you trust in my king. The Lion King is an aggressive creature, I grant you, but one with integrity and a sense of righteousness. It would break my soul to think I was party to any plan to wrong him.”

  “That’s not what Mr. Fletcher means to do,” I say.

  “Fine. Swear it to me, and I will protect Mr. Fletcher with my own life,” Sir Lewin says. He points to the page the Snake King has torn out of his grimoire. “I will bring the page to Mr. Fletcher in accordance with your wishes, if only you can promise me he is not mixed up with something underhanded.”

  “You have my word,” I say.

  “Very well, then,” Sir Lewin replies. “I will ensure Mr. Fletcher gets this page. If everything is as you say, it is the only safe place for a dangerous recipe such as this.”

  “I appreciate it, Sir Lewin. I appreciate your believing in me, in taking me at my word.”

  He releases my hand, and bows.

  An awkward moment passes. Then he gets up and begins pacing around the room, possessed by a fresh state of agitation. He picks through the bookshelf beside an old, cabinet-sized Victrola.

  “And what do you make of this strange modern music that Snake favors?” he demands suddenly, lifting a few records out and reading the labels. I shrug.

  “I like it,” I say. “It sounds like… like home to me.”

  Sir Lewin frowns. “Do you mean to say, this is what a forest filled with bluebells sounds like, back in the human world?”

  “Oh — no,” I say, laughing a little. “No. But I heard songs like the ones here quite a lot in human nightclubs.”

  “What nightclubs?”

  “Oh, well… I guess I’ve spent a good amount of time in nightclubs… places where adults entertain each other with song and dance… it’s difficult to explain…”

  “Humans allow their young offspring into nightclubs?”

  “Not really,” I say. “I was an exception.”

  Sir Lewin looks at me, clearly puzzled.

  “Like I said, it’s difficult to explain. A long story, really…”

  “Well, since you like this music, perhaps we should dance?” Sir Lewin says, putting a record on the Victrola, and setting the needle into place.

  Suddenly, I hear the opening guitar strains of “Goodnight Sweetheart,” and soon after, Al Bowlly’s quivering voice. I close my eyes and listen, feeling as though, if I want
ed to be, I could be back home in Louisiana.

  Sir Lewin bows, and stretches out a hand.

  “May I have this dance?” he asks, smiling. It is a warm smile — more warm than any I’ve been able to get out of him thus far.

  “All right,” I say.

  He takes my hand, and puts his opposite hand on my waist, and together we begin to sway. It ought to be awkward, but I suppose unsurprisingly, Sir Lewin is very agile and light on his feet. We sway in time to the dreamy, drunken music of “Goodnight Sweetheart.”

  The chorus repeats. Our swaying slows down, and the already thick, humid air grows thicker. I suddenly feel my cheeks burning incredibly hot. An awkwardness creeps into the room.

  “Yes, all right,” Sir Lewin says, clearing his throat with some difficulty. He releases me abruptly, and steps back. “I suppose I’d better let you get some rest. I’ve been told humans need very regular sleep…”

  “Yes,” I say, “I suppose we do…”

  “Well, good night, then,” Sir Lewin says. He bows at the waist, and moves for the door.

  “Good night, Sir Lewin,” I reply, watching him go. Suddenly, I realize I have one more question. “Wait — Sir Lewin?”

  He stops and turns around. “Yes?”

  “You said you find the Young Cwen quite beautiful…”

  He looks embarrassed. “Oh, yes… I suppose everyone thinks she is.”

  I hesitate, thinking of how the cwen and I both have human faces. “I was wondering,” I finally say, “the creatures here… they seem shocked by my appearance. Am I so hideous to… to…” I realize I want to say “to you” but I wind up saying, “…to your kind?”

  “You are…” Sir Lewin takes a breath, as though cautiously searching for the correct word, “…an unexpected combination to our eyes.” He pauses. “Think of how we look to you.”

  “Oh,” I say, thinking about the mismatched heads and bodies, relenting. “I see.”

  He turns to go again, but when he reaches the door, he pauses one last time. “But in your case it is — in my opinion, at least, Anaïs — a winning combination,” he says quickly, with a roguish wink as he slips away.

  The record ends — as if perfectly on cue — as the door clicks shut behind him. I walk over to the Victrola and lift the needle, setting the arm aside.

  Slightly shocked, I stand in the middle of the room for several moments, possibly waiting for him to come back, but he does not. Finally, confused and exhausted, I climb onto the bed, and without even pulling back the sheets (there is no need; it is far too hot), I lie down. I’m a bit restless, a bit agitated. Outside the window, the sound of crickets has been replaced by the sound of a thunderstorm, brewing in the distance. I listen to it, counting the seconds between the flashes of lightning and rumble of thunder. Slowly but surely, my human need to sleep takes over, and I pass out.

  CHAPTER 29.

  Memories come back to me, yet again in the form of dreams. That night, while dosing off in the Snake King’s Opal Room, feeling warm and slightly sticky, I remember another sticky, stormy night. I dream about my stepfather’s nightclub. I dream about Jules Martin.

  New Orleans was a city prone to terrible storms. Not all of them grew into proper hurricanes, but even the ones that didn’t were nonetheless full of formidable amounts of angry squall and tremendous fury. It was a funny thing about that city; it was always bracing herself for the worst, and was almost never prepared should the worst actually come.

  I was loitering about backstage one night. This happened during the time of my greatest freedom — shortly after Colette turned up for her audition, but before I was seen kissing Jules. My stepfather had not named Jules his primary enemy just then, and being freshly infatuated with Colette, paid little attention to my whereabouts.

  It was very late, I remember. The nightclub had kept its regular business hours, but the audience in attendance was very thin. Everyone was hiding in their homes — “hunkering down” as they say, keeping out of the storm. All day long, the city had nervously watched the sky, wondering if a hurricane was imminent. I recall the drone of the radio broadcast that day — it was playing at home, and again, backstage at the nightclub. But meteorologists who predicted the path and size of the storm were so often wrong, most people left their radios switched on, but paid little attention to what was actually being said. So far, it was just a storm — a nasty storm, but not a hurricane.

  Sometime in the early evening, however, I remember Jules had grown bored with the weather reports and tuned into a different broadcast. I found him dancing around backstage, listening to the big boxing match in New York, and shadowboxing along with the announcer’s descriptions.

  “Well, you look as though you’re busy doing your job,” I teased him. By that point, our friendship consisted mainly of jibes and quick retorts.

  He shrugged. “Ain’t much of a house tonight,” he said. “No outta town headliners, and only Colette and Jacques and all the boys in the band doing all of their golden oldies, so as to keep things simple. Show could probably run ‘erself. I only need to pop up every now and then to check the spots and the curtains.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “I suppose Father ought to have closed for the evening, what with the storm and all.”

  Just then, something exciting happened on the radio broadcast of the match, some kind of knockout or something.

  “Hot damn!” Jules said. “Can you believe it? Knocked out, and in only the third round!”

  I looked at him with a blank expression.

  “Say, you don’t know anything about boxing, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Would you like to?”

  I shrugged. “Sure.” Truth be told, I was more curious about Jules and the things he liked than I was about boxing itself.

  “Now, see — the thing is — you’ve always got to guard your head! You’ve got to guard your head, like this,” he said, holding his fists high up on either side of his face, near his ears. Bouncing in this position, he hopped in a circle around me. “Now you try it.”

  I shook my head.

  “C’mon, don’t be shy — it’s fun!”

  Reluctantly, I raised my fists and began to hop around, feeling a little like a fool.

  “More bounce! You need more bounce in your step!” he said. “You need to think like a cat: Light on your feet, always ready to dodge or pounce.”

  I bounced more. Soon enough, a giggle escaped my lips.

  “See?” he said. “Fun.”

  It was at that very moment — as Jules and I were dancing around like a pair of fools, giggling together over the droning, nasal voice of the radio announcer with his transatlantic elocution — the electricity abruptly cut out.

  Onstage, the music stopped. Backstage, with no windows to speak of, it was utterly pitch black.

  “Jules?” I heard my voice say, weak and small and seemingly trapped in my throat. There was something too familiar about the black-out, something that reminded me of all those nights during the Blitz in London. As memories of London began to flood back to me, I began to feel out of breath. I realized: I didn’t mean to, but I was panicking.

  “I’m here,” Jules said. “Reach your hands out to me.”

  I did, waving my hands cautiously into the bottomless dark that lay beyond my face, feeling a sense of blind vertigo. When we found each other, he kindly put his arms around me. He seemed to recognize my state of distress, even if we could not see each other’s faces. I could feel both of our hearts beating very quickly, startled by the sudden darkness.

  “Must be the storm,” he said.

  “Yes,” I agreed, slowly beginning to feel calmer.

  “Let’s work our way out to the front of the house; they’re bound to have more light. There are candles on the nightclub tables, and they might even be able to dig up an old oil lamp or two behind the bar.”

  “I can’t,” I said helplessly. “My stepfather…
he doesn’t know I’m here. He thinks I’m at home, doing my homework and brushing my teeth. I snuck out when Edie — our housekeeper who’s supposed to keep an eye on me — wasn’t looking. She never tells on me, and I always make certain to get back home before my stepfather does. I’ll wreck our unspoken deal if I get her into hot water.”

  “Hmm,” Jules said, “That does present a problem.”

  There, in the pitch black dark, it was as though I could feel him thinking through the possibilities.

  “All right,” he said finally. “We’ll get you where you belong.”

  “What?” Without a map of facial expressions to read, I wasn’t sure what he intended.

  “No telling when the power’s coming back on. Your stepfather will probably make sure everything’s square here and then go on home. We got to get you safe and sound back in your house before that.”

  I thought about this for a minute.

  “No,” I said. “I should just come clean. I was a fool to sneak out tonight; I knew a big storm was predicted.”

  “Why get in trouble if you don’t have to?” Jules said. “No — if you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for Edie. Let me see if I can’t find a flashlight. There oughtta be one in the big toolbox back here…”

  He let go of me, and I heard him feeling around. “Ow!” he cried, tripping over something. Backstage was a treacherous place to be in the pitch black.

  I heard a soft click, and blinked.

  It was a dim, weak flashlight, but it felt like all the light in the world. Jules tipped the beam up to his face, speaking into it as though it were a microphone.

  “Let’s go,” he half-spoke, half-sang, smiling and winking.

  With the help of the flashlight, we were able to sneak out of the club’s backdoor without anyone seeing us. Normally full of revelry year-round, the streets of the French Quarter were deserted. Soon enough, we were both drenched to the bone, but this was our only true discomfort. The storm was full of bluster, but the air was not cold, and neither was the water coming down out of the sky, for that matter. All of New Orleans felt like one giant tepid bath.