by Amy Hoff
In the midst of it all, Desdemona knelt by the side of what Robert’s limited knowledge identified as an elf. Beautiful, his eyes stared out, glassy, as she held him down. Her fingernails grew into long talons and she pierced his neck, leaning down to drink.
“She’s baobhan sith,” he whispered to himself. “She’s a vampire.”
He watched in wonder, however, as she did not drink the elf’s blood, but collected it in a pan. She leaned over and put her hand to the elf’s forehead, staring down through those bright green eyes, and even from this distance Robert could see the anguish on her face. Shaking her head slightly, she took the blood collected in the pan and brought it to another elf, shaking and screaming in pain, and introduced it to the gaping wound in his stomach. Light bled out from the wound, but the body accepted it, and the wound began to heal itself as several monsters held the elf down in order to allow the painful healing process to begin.
The elf’s stomach began to pull itself together after the offering of blood, and Desdemona stood watch as the young man wept and shrieked in agony. Her eyes never left his, and Robert remembered drowning in that endless green, the first night in the pub where he had seen her and fallen. The elf slowly quieted, hypnotised by the green in her eyes, and while his body continued to work the wound closed, the screams abated into sighs, and then languid breathing.
The elf looked down. He was whole again.
He sighed, collapsing against the other monsters holding him down.
“Desdemona,” said the elf, weary, “Thank you.”
She nodded to him, and turned away, toward where Robert was hiding.
“We’re killing each other,” she muttered, “over this.”
He was startled to see her angrily brush at her eyes, tears dimming the preternatural green radiating there, moonlight through a stained-glass window.
She was almost close enough to touch…
A hideous grey-blue face appeared in front of his and Robert cried out in surprise and terror.
“Desdemona,” said the monster, “look what I found.”
***
“I told you not to follow us,” said Desdemona.
“That was very unwise,” said the ugly grey-blue creature, whose name was Gregoire. “Your penchant for these handsome young men, Desdemona –”
“Yes, yes,” Desdemona said, waving this away. “I got hungry. I wasn’t being careful.”
Iain stared at Robert, as he polished his gun.
“You want me to kill him, General?” asked Iain.
“There’s no need for theatrics,” said Desdemona.
Robert knelt on the ground in front of her, his head bowed.
Desdemona looked down at this man, kneeling in the mud, his face smudged with dirt.
“Look at me, Robert,” she said, and he looked up into her eyes with a love so sharp and honest she nearly took a step back.
“Oh,” she said softly, in a voice that almost sounded like it was not her own.
Iain glared at him, cocking his weapon.
“There’s been enough bloodshed,” she said. “Put the gun away, Iain.”
Desdemona knelt down in front of Robert, who was about to protest. He would kneel there before her forever, he knew this in his heart; this imperious queen could not be brought so low as to look into his eyes as if they were equals.
“Do with me what you will,” he breathed, his heart pounding, less from fear than from her proximity.
“Gregoire, Iain,” she said. “Leave us.”
“General…” Iain started.
“Iain, go,” said Desdemona.
Iain reluctantly stood.
“I’ll be right next to the first row of cots if you need me,” Iain said.
“I won’t tell you again,” said Desdemona. Her green eyes never left Robert’s face, searching.
“Come on,” said Gregoire, turning the young lieutenant’s shoulder toward the camp, “she’ll be safe.”
“But –” Iain began. Robert didn’t hear what his protest was, as he was led away into the general cacophony of the clearing that served as the medical bay for the Fae battalion.
Robert dropped his gaze, staring at the ground. He felt that he would be consumed from within, by that green and strange fire, by the way his world had contracted, expanded, and fallen in upon himself, and by the treachery of his poet’s heart.
“Look at me, Robert,” Desdemona commanded, and all he could do was obey.
He lifted his eyes and was caught, snake-charmed and pinned, and he knew he would do anything she asked. If it were impossible, he would kill himself trying.
The pain behind her eyes was more than he could bear. His own eyes filled with tears, ready to throw himself on whatever had given her that endless stare.
“Go home, Robert Burns,” she said, her voice cracking.
They knelt there together, the young, handsome, lovestruck idiot, newly adult, newly human, and the war-torn battle veteran, impossibly ancient, indescribably old, pale and powerful. They reflected each other, and for once in the godforsaken history of that war, it was the awkward, brash, and human love that won. Desdemona had seen thousands of years like this one and would see thousands more. Robert had only a handful of years. This was the first time the love of Robert Burns transcended darkness, immortality, and destiny, as he stared back at her and into that endless abyss of green.
“No,” he whispered, and the sound of his defiance was loud in the clearing, even with the sick bay and the sounds of war. The world was hushed to hear the voice of this foolish youth who had walked bodily into the fire so it could consume him and somehow, he stood within it, unscathed.
Desdemona’s natural frown deepened. She could think of nothing to say. She knew this young man was different, and she knew then and there that he would cut a path through history so deep the entire world would sing of it one day.
For the time being, though, she lifted him from where he had nearly prostrated himself before her, his hands, the hands of a farmer’s son, clinging to the dirt and earth for the last time. His heart still beat with fear; fear of the unknown, despite the desire consuming him. He held to the earth, digging his fingertips deep in the soil. He was reluctant to let go.
She offered him her hand.
“Then join us,” she said simply.
He put his hand in hers, and relinquished the earth.
And Robert has never stopped falling.
***
Leah stared at Robert over her glass.
“And that was how I joined the resistance,” he said.
“Without even knowing why?” asked Leah. “Or what the war was about?”
“Well, she was captivating. I had a weakness, which is famous by now. And eventually, that's how I met Dorian.”
“That must have dragged things down a bit,” said Leah. “He's not exactly the life of the party.”
“On the contrary,” said Dorian. “I was rather different before I was Taken.”
Robert grinned.
“Rather,” he said. “Dorian was the party. And if there wasn’t a party, he’d start one. All by himself.”
A glass dropped, smashing across the floor. The two men looked at Leah.
“Are you all right?” asked Dorian.
“I think you may have to go to the trial alone, Dorian,” she managed to say, as she collapsed onto the floor.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Robert rushed into Gregoire’s cave, holding Leah in his arms. This would have been disappointing to Leah, both because she was not conscious to experience it and also because her ideas ran more toward the roles being reversed.
“Gregoire! Help us!” shouted Robert.
He set her down on Gregoire’s couch. Leah stared up at him, eyes glassy.
“What is it? What's happened? Dorian?” said Gregoire, rushing around a corner to see Leah’s still form lying on his sofa. He looked from her to Robert, questioning.
Dorian stood well away, close to the wall, as if he did
n’t want to get involved.
Robert walked over to Dorian, crowding into his space.
“Dorian, what is going on here?” Robert demanded. “You show up after all these years, and there’s no way it’s just for your brother’s trial. Tell me.”
Dorian looked at the floor.
“It's the Smoke, Robert,” said Dorian. “It's back.”
Both Robert and Gregoire recoiled, the urisk letting out a sound of horror.
“It can't be, Dorian, everyone died a long time ago...” Gregoire said, not wanting to believe his friend.
“I know!” said Dorian in desperation. “But a few days ago, Dylan – the new Guardian – watched a woman die of it in a stairwell. Leah was there. I thought – if we got her out of the city, somewhere near Faerie, she wouldn't …”
“It's too late now, Dorian!” Robert shouted. “What were you thinking? She must stay here, Gregoire. You were the field medic, back then. You're the only one who knows.”
Gregoire nodded.
“Of course.”
Robert rounded on Dorian.
“This was irresponsible of you, Dorian! She needs medicine! Human medicine!”
Dorian glared at him.
“That never worked either, Robert!” he said. He took out his phone.
“What are you doing now?”
“I'm calling Milo.”
***
Down in the heart of Caledonia Interpol, beyond the Minotaur and his labyrinth, Milo worked in silence.
Milo’s lab was filled with mysterious things. Strange creatures in cages all along one wall, and bubbling liquids of questionable colours filled every conceivable beaker and phial. Vivisected animals of unknown species and origin lay pinned to various boards. In the distant darkness, the bodies of the morgue could be seen through the gloom.
Milo was a merman, and Caledonia Interpol’s resident forensic pathologist. He was a genius, but not averse to soul-eating, as the ceasg were wont to do.
Milo sighed. He found working by himself overwhelming, with no one to bounce ideas off or help him with his questionably legal experiments. Finding a reliable assistant wasn’t easy; he did most of his work in a secret underground lab and almost never went outside. He missed Geoffrey, but now that they had discovered he was Sebastian, his assistant wasn’t coming back. So he worked alone.
He chopped up something phosphorescent and orange, dropping it into a beaker. Something rolled past his hand and he dropped a book in front of it to stop its progress.
His phone rang. He lifted it to his ear.
“Hello, Dorian,” he said. He listened for a moment.
“Oh yes,” he said. “The false Black Death. It’s been so many years since I’ve seen it. Still, we’re able to cure the Black Death these days, and if we’re able to isolate the causative agent, it may be possible to deal with the false Black Death as well.”
He grabbed another small animal that was making a break for it and firmly locked it into a cage.
“It’s not the disease itself that is your biggest concern, of course,” said Milo.
“Why’s that?” asked Dorian.
“We’re as powerless to stop it now as we were back then. I am sorry, but it is only a matter of time,” said Milo. “We won’t have enough of the cure in stock, whatever it may be, and human doctors are likely treating it as if it’s the true bubonic plague. They’ll be getting nowhere. Like it or not, this disease may be supernatural in origin, but it is a human sickness. They will quarantine the city. And the monsters will be all that is left.”
Dorian blanched.
“You’re certain there’s nothing we can do?” asked Dorian. “Milo, we’re the Fae. The most powerful creatures on earth.”
Milo shrugged.
“We are powerless stop it, now as we were then,” said Milo. “The Black Death stalks Glasgow. And this is outside our jurisdiction. The humans will not survive.”
Dorian shot a horrified look at Robert and Gregoire.
“Still. You say there is a cure,” Dorian said. “Could we put it into the water supply?”
“Depending on whether we figured out what strain it is in advance,” said Milo. “But you are dealing with humans now, not the Fae. Humans are superstitious and afraid. It is the panic that you will not be able to quell in the coming days.”
“How long do we have?” Dorian asked.
“Most cases of the true bubonic plague end in death between two days and one week,” he said, “However, the cases we were certain were caused by the Smoke? We never found out. We were a bit distracted by the war at the time.”
Dorian sighed and put his hand to his forehead. Dimly, he was aware Milo was speaking to him.
“Dorian,” said Milo. “You may have to make this sacrifice.”
Dorian clenched his jaw and hung up the phone with a gruff ‘thanks’. Robert and Gregoire looked at him in earnest.
“Is there a cure yet?” Gregoire asked.
“There never was,” said Robert. “As far as I know, there still isn't.”
Dorian nodded.
“Milo says there is nothing he can do,” he said. “It's nearly dawn, and I need to go to the trial.”
Robert took Dorian aside.
“You care for her, Dorian,” he said gently.
Dorian nodded.
“Not in the selkie way, of course,” said Dorian. “That was taken long ago – but she is my partner. And she is human.”
He suddenly slammed his fist into the table, shaking the little postcards of Scottie dogs and the tartan throws, bagpiper trinkets, and tea tins.
“She is human,” Dorian said. “And there's nothing I can do. Faeries, magic, power…all the power in the world, and there's nothing we can do.”
***
The sun filtered down, as it always had in the selkie court. Dorian wasn’t sure if this was because there were no clouds in Faerie or if the court moved constantly to places where the sun was still shining. The only time he had seen it in darkness was in the evening, when it was lit by thousands of candles.
Anything to light our features well, Dorian thought uncharitably.
His brother was brought out again, the shackles weighing him down. Magnus looked up in hope at the gallery, trying to catch his eye. Dorian ignored him.
“Magnus Grey, we are here to discuss your punishment,” said the handsome Seal-King from his throne.
“You have murdered humans in cold blood, in order to draw attention from yourself, and one you have killed in passion after abusing our powers.
“The court has decreed that you will be sentenced to death by overdose.”
Magnus, silent and defeated, bowed his head.
Dorian looked up.
“Your Majesty, if I may?” he said.
Magnus started, lifting his head to look in his brother’s direction.
“Let the court recognise Dorian Grey,” said the Seal-King.
“Today I discovered that the Smoke has returned,” said Dorian.
There was a collective gasp, and a murmur in the court. The Seal-King waved his hand, and there was silence.
“I may have already lost my partner and best friend to the disease,” said Dorian. “Although I am angry with my brother, and I have not forgiven him – I may never forgive him – I will not lose another person today. Would Your Majesty entrust the imprisonment and punishment of Magnus Grey to me?”
The Seal-King regarded Dorian for a moment, and then conferred in whispers with other selkies on the council.
“I am told that you are trustworthy,” said the Seal-King, “and have made a name for yourself as a detective, along with your human partner Leah Bishop. Is this true?”
Dorian lowered his gaze.
“I fear, Your Majesty, that Leah deserves most of the credit. As a detective, I...”
Here, Dorian paused, unsure of how to continue.
“I have made choices I regret.”
The Seal-King observed him for some minutes, while the o
ther selkies whispered amongst themselves.
“In itself, a worthy response,” his low voice boomed across the cavernous space. “Can you guarantee his imprisonment? The new monster Sebastian is said to have escaped.”
“Yes,” Dorian agreed, “from the Deeps. No prisoner has escaped from there.”
The Seal-King conferred in murmurs again with the council. He turned to Dorian with a slight nod.
“Very well,” he said. “The court will agree on one condition.”
“And that is?” asked Dorian.
“An appropriate punishment must be found,” said the Seal-King. “I am not convinced that Magnus Grey truly repents of his crimes.
“These small human lives, so easily extinguished, are lost forever. The resulting pain and insanity of the Taken selk, as well as the creation of a monster like Sebastian, deserves a severe reprimand – a lasting one. A fitting punishment will be one that teaches Magnus Grey the value of a life, and the value of sacrifice. Can you guarantee this?”
Dorian bowed deeply.
“I give you my word.”
“You have a month to discover the punishment,” said the Seal-King. “If you do not, you will join your brother here in Faerie as prisoner.”
“Understood.”
The Seal-King addressed the court.
“Let my judgement be heard,” said the Seal-King. “Magnus Grey will be confined in the Deeps of Caledonia Interpol until such time as his brother, Dorian Grey, who takes full responsibility for him, can discover a fitting punishment, or the brothers will share the same sentence.
“If all present are willing to accept this outcome, say aye.”
The entire court replied with a unanimous aye. Dorian nodded his thanks, and did not show his concern beneath his confidence.
***
The fire was crackling merrily in the little stove in Gregoire’s cave. He hummed to himself as he made tea.
Dorian entered, looking downtrodden. Gregoire nodded to him.
“She's awake now,” he said, “you can talk.”
“Hello, Miss Bishop,” said Dorian.