by Lynn S.
Isabel grew pale at the mention of their father’s name. She was already moving about, reciting a list of flowers needed for a fragrant offering. It had dawned on her that she might have done irreparable damage to Marissa and she was quick to make amends.
“Was he good on his word? Is Esteban safe under his keep?”
“As safe as one can be in the inter-world. Esteban is having a hard time responding to the restorative powers of Aval. He struggles still. Francis was hoping his Sidhe nature might take over while unconscious, but he has not even opened his eyes. There are things that keep him bound to this realm.”
“Things, you say.” Isabel allowed her rage to slip in. She closed her mouth in an angry white line and took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m betting on people.” Her gaze turned toward Marissa. The sparkle in her eyes spoke of hate in tones of emerald, and Carla concluded it was best when a fairy didn’t taint herself with something as petty as human emotion.
Carla reminisced once again about the night they had told Esteban about their side of the family. She remembered walking in on Isabel at the fishing cabin, how her sister spoke softly, pleadingly, leaning forward while sliding her hands up her son’s thigh. It bordered on seduction. She never spoke of it with Isabel, but Carla always wondered how far she would have gone had they not been interrupted. Esteban was half enthralled and her sister looked every bit hungry. That was when she knew Isabel was at fault. Her sister was not the nearly perfect creature her father boasted about. She was the weakest of them all. Torn between two worlds, she had no measure of how to react to feelings, always on the edge of decadence, given to unhealthy extremes.
Carla swore her sister, on a certain level, did feel an attachment for Neil O’Reilly, going beyond the obvious lure of compatibility. She struggled against it and thought to have won. But after Neil’s death, and when, in time, Esteban’s looks and demeanor started mirroring his father’s, Isabel transferred her obsession. Her life became nothing but a pursuit on behalf of her son. No. Isabel would never settle for something less than Esteban. Carla decided not to share all she had seen and heard from Francis Alexander, let alone what she had concluded about it.
“Let’s begin this, Isabel, before your whim puts us in a bind again. You’ve done enough damage for a day. Let’s repair all that is at fault here. Esteban is on the line.”
They carried Marissa into the private garden, where the commemorative plaques served as a circle. Esteban waited for them there, faint at first, then materializing as his body crossed the threshold. His flesh bound to O’Reilly flesh on sacred ground, his spirit in possession of the Sidhe, now granted to his mother on the other side. His face looked calmed though kissed by the pallor of approaching death, a soft rising in his chest was the only link to life. Isabel wanted to touch him, but Carla warned her not to. It would be an insult to the Sidhe to claim a prize without offering a proper sacrifice. They were there. Silent, witnessing. Eyes darker than ink glinted between the rustle of the leaves of an elder tree planted in the circle.
The elder tree could go unnoticed in the eyes of any visitor at Innisfree. It was not impressive at all. Its only redeeming quality was a thick canopy of luscious green. Its bark grew rough, with wide cracks and ridges running deep, born from the expansion of branches that now grew inward due to their own weight and the passage of time. For centuries, these trees were considered emblematic of the children of Fae. Dual in nature, being both poisonous and sweet, theirs was a gift of life and death sprouting from one sole root. A warning to mortals: the good people served whom they fancied and used whom they must.
Using the length of one of many silver chains, Carla propped Marissa’s body against the tree, taking care to extend her arms to fit the downward curve of the branches. The blonde woman’s delicate frame looked suspended, a gruesome reconstruction of a fairy tale scene in which a child crossed through a gate to discover she’d arrived at a place where her feet didn’t touch the ground. Her open palms and the slight angle of her head made her look saintly and giving. A fitting martyr.
Her body had relaxed into the soothing depth of sleep, but the touch of silver made her jolt once more, forcing her eyes open, if only for a moment. Marissa woke up to a nightmare, remembering the dream in which she was a flesh flower, exposed to elements bent on cruelty. She felt like screaming, but her throat was rough as sandpaper and it hurt just to breathe in. Her instinct had receded, tormented by the need for sustenance and the presence of offensive silver. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she tried to wake up the vigilant entity that resided inside her. Utterly defeated, it had shut down completely, leaving her to die at the hands of an enemy.
Her eyes tried to bargain with Carla, pleading for mercy. But the woman just kept turning the silver rope as viciously as Isabel had done before, pushing her skin against the thorns that started budding from the tree’s bark, thirsty and demanding as all around her. Any attempt to move was agony embedded in her flesh. Whenever she gave up and kept still, the soft rustle of wings caressed every bit of exposed skin, holding her in, wanting her not to resist her appointed role. On the edge of her vision, Marissa could see droplets of blood, her blood, running down the light brown bark. Through cracks and crevices, it was absorbed and soon bloomed into dark, sweet berries adorning the clusters of delicate branches. She was to die, bearing them fruit.
Isabel stood several paces behind. She smiled, satisfied with their handy work. For a moment, her gaze rested on Marissa, just to have that smile replaced by a smirk of pure hatred. No more need for pretense. She had done well. They both had. Now she’d never care to conceal her true feelings ever again. Isabel turned on her heels and walked toward Esteban, who lay in the center of the circle. The offering was secure and she could finally touch him. Isabel sat on the ground, combing her fingers through his hair as she used to do when he was but an infant.
“It is all right, my dear,” she whispered to the unconscious man. “We have lied, faked your death, and presented someone else’s ashes instead of your own…but all of this is forgiven. Our deceit has brought us here, to a place of truth. I swear, Esteban, there will be no more lies within this Circle, as the Court is our witness. You will come to understand it was all for you.”
Duplicity and fraud were a second skin to the sons of Fae, but now in trust, no more lies were needed. They had given blood to the Court of the Unseelie and Esteban was to return.
“Be at ease, my love.” Isabel’s voice was melodic and serene. “We are just waiting for the beginning.” Her dark eyes sought a sign in the growing darkness, that which would give rise to the ceremony, a presence to legitimize her crazy yearnings. In the distance, the beating of mighty wings and the caw of a murder of crows broke the evening’s silence. Isabel’s hair stood on end. She had heard that omen before and it never amounted to any good for her kind.
“Where is Francis Alexander?” she demanded of Carla.
“He is too weak to preside, but count that this ceremony will take place, with or without him.” Her sister was firm, demanding Isabel remain calm as well.
“And what about them?” Isabel’s voice broke, trembling. “It is said they are always close on our father’s steps. You have heard them, the crows…will they stop here? Get close? Interfere?”
“They never do,” her sister-mother answered. “They just observe, as they have done for thousands of years.”
***
Adriana left the vehicle parked in a grove about two miles down from the house on the hill. The eastward wind carried the scent of her daughter’s blood, draining into fine threads, feeding the tree and the creatures that crouched in its shadow, paying the price for bringing someone through the portal of Fae into the human world. Her surging fury was almost blinding. Her instinct told her to take flight and crash their little assembly in a frantic display. Blood needed to claim blood. Though furious, she kept in control. Adriana gave way to the shift into vampyr, taking notes of mistakes that might hinder her. Slowly but surely
, her nails toughened and curved into thick, blackened claws. The saliva in her mouth soon became a poisonous trickle that rendered her aspect even more feral. Beads of venom bathed her skin like sweat. She arrived at the neat, white gates of Innisfree with minimal disturbance to the silent night around her. The white way into the house on the hill was opened wide. The fairies were not afraid of disruptions.
Adriana stopped, perceiving another presence. Her red eyes turned almost black as she smiled into the dark. Taking a deep breath, she could almost taste flesh that was never human. If there was something ever close to godliness, that was it.
“Will you allow me, ladies, to cross this threshold and crash that damn circle without shedding blood?”
Three women were crouched in the wide branches of the red maples. The orange of the leaves made the blue-black of their wings glint with a touch of fire. Each breath of the women above her stirred the crows that kept them company. The birds simply kept watch, waiting for their mistresses’ turn to speak, their beady eyes and swaying heads had an expression that bordered on human interest.
The three females allowed Adriana to finally see their faces. They were tall, pale, marked by a certain beauty that came to those frozen in time by immortality or death. Three sisters. One with dark hair and two with platinum strands halfway down their backs. The first one, blind but all knowing, the other two her witnesses to all things seen and unseen. They glared at her with eyes the purple of amethyst. Annand, first among the sisters, the cup which collected the blood from the field, took a step forward. Her dark hair demarcated a face devoid of expression. A true neutral, as needed, since hers was the pledge to celebrate all fallen without ever taking sides. She was the first to speak.
“Do you know who you are addressing, mortal creature?”
Adriana had always taken risks with her irreverence, but there were few beings that could call a vampyr mortal, as if it were the most fragile of humans. It was a moment to stop being sarcastic and consider humility.
“Indeed,” the vampyr answered, forcing herself into a formal greeting. Adriana conceded a reverence to those before her—one that required grace on its delivery. Eyes down, back straight, bent knee. “You are a myth for our kind. But one should never be so foolish as to discard the existence of others. Vampyrs and night breeds call you the Phantom Queens. Of all creatures born of magic, you are the only ones who serve neither Light nor Shadows. You look wonderful, ladies, keeping well for being older than gods, that is.”
Mikka and Bansit, the fair haired-Morrigan, could not help but laugh at that last little impudence.
“Come on, Annand.” They spoke to their sister in unison. “Let her come through. You know she has reasons to a claim.”
When the raven-haired sister kept silent, Mikka decided to take a bolder step. She was rude were Bansit was measured, and more than once Annand had been challenged by her sister’s incessant banter.
“I serve you, sister, because I love you. I follow you for the same reason. It is not just the demand of Light and Shadows. But sometimes, dear Annand, you are insufferable. Neutral, you call yourself, yet you hesitate when it comes to Alexander and his little games.”
Bansit’s warning cry died in her throat as Annand silenced her with a swift command. The blind Morrigan also took Mikka by her neck, raising her high in the air. Shaking her into submission, she didn’t let go until Mikka had folded her wings and whimpered. Annand judged her sister had spoken too much in front of strangers. After millennia, she should know to keep her own counsel. So she pressed until she deemed the humiliation fitting for the transgression and then let her fall into Bansit’s arms. The quiet Morrigan hushed and whispered in her sister’s ear, trying to make amends to Mikka’s pride.
Annand was dismissive of their drama and soon turned to Adriana.
“Excuse us. We should know better than to go for vulgar displays. My sisters tend to forget there are things better discussed amongst ourselves. Had they waited, it would have been plain and simple. Yes. You are right. A mother’s claim for a mother’s claim. You can come in.”
Adriana whispered a soft thank you and walked up the pathway, leaving the sisters to their own devices.
Bansit, who hardly ever spoke up to Annand, did so on Mikka’s behalf, saving her twin from another display of rage.
“Tell me, Annand, why are we witnessing this? You know the Court of the Unseelie doesn’t speak for Fae. Besides, that Circle is a sham. It is built on lies. I know you feel responsible for the house Alexander built, for the sorrow he brought upon both Fae and the mortal world, for things left unsaid and undone. And Mikka blames you, yes. But I am trying to be honest here. We are all guilty. We brought him to you as a child, unsure of what to do with a creature left to die in a realm in which he didn’t belong. We raised him from the ground and gave him sustenance. That makes us his mothers also. Mikka is afraid, and so am I. We think of the three of us, you are the one who loves him more, the one who doesn’t know when to stop. And that…that makes you dangerous, even to us.”
“You are wrong, sister.” Annand never asked for forgiveness. It was not in her nature. But she was quick to take Bansit’s side and hug Mikka, kissing the top of her head. “My duty has never been compromised. But you don’t know what I know. It is my burden, not yours. I perceive things will happen within this Circle that might affect the balance. Yes, there is deception, lies, even. But House Alexander knows how to play their cards. Carla has chosen to keep quiet, and if her deception is not discovered, then what happens in the Circle must be blessed. However, the vampyr Adriana might disrupt them. She might force things into the open and then…then you will do what must be done.”
Mikka looked up the path and Adriana had already disappeared. She understood her sister. There was no need to rush. Crows could always have their fill of blood and guts after the battle.
Chapter XIX
As It Once Was, So It Is Again
“No one is ever born consecrated to Light or Darkness. We choose the roads to travel.” Bastian always told Adriana that night breeds swore allegiance to Shadows because, for them, it was simply the path of least resistance.
“Isn’t that the Light’s fault though?” she’d answered with her usual sass. “It looks as if they are blind to human imperfection and quick to place the blame on all that is perceived as different. All they leave us is despondency that, in time, has turned to hatred. One can only live on the fringe for so long.”
“If that is the case…what’s easier?” he’d ask. “Leave resentment behind and prove yourself worthy, or cave in?”
Adriana shook her head and gave the night a bitter smile in exchange for those memories. Bastian was the only person innocent enough to try to abridge the diatribe between good and evil as a matter of simple choices. Hardly ever did he realize he was a product of his time, born in years in which people thought themselves civilized enough to agree to violence as long as it was carefully rendered in acceptable degrees.
Through three centuries of her existence, Adriana was content to live on the edge of the abyss, ignoring all things that marked the blood and fear part of her legacy. And now, looking back, she had no other remedy than to recognize the mistakes committed, how the weight of her actions on the destruction of House Popescu were finally taking their toll.
For three hundred years she saw her father ripping it all from the inside while she patiently waited, pretending she could do better if only separated from her duty. House Alexander, on the other hand, had flourished. It persisted, and now was about to claim her daughter’s life. She resented indulging Marissa, laughing at her daughter’s denial and perpetuating the idea that it was okay to overlook their heritage.
Adriana’s thoughts made her restless; going back and forth between the Bastian she loved and the Bastian she hated. On one hand, there was the vibrant, centered man who seemed to have it all under control. To her husband, life was an entertaining puzzle, easily resolved with a bit of wit, a dash of humor, and a
strong moral compass. Those were the days in which it was easy to believe in all he’d promised. But one thought led to another and in the blink of an eye, all reminiscing of good times was gone. That thick mane of dark hair soon disappeared, along with the memory of his sun-kissed skin.
The dark days tormented her. She saw him stumble and fall, until his skin was but a yellowish patch adorned by blacks and blues where ports found their way into his tired veins. She was overtaken by regret and a little bit of loathing every time she remembered his lips closed in one fine white line, refusing her gift. No one could convince him to drink from the spring of her blood and save himself. “Gentlemanly Saint Sebastian. Damned be your sense of honor.”
“You are contradicting yourself, my dear. If you truly loved me for who I was, then you’d know turning me would have made a mess of it all. Yes. I changed physically. Damn it, I even died, sweetheart, but I never truly changed inside.” His voice was as clear as that of her instinct, and Adriana was furious to hear that cocky tone of his, the one he made sure to use whenever he thought he’d won an argument.
“Shut up!” she snapped. “Life is not black and white. If you had only gotten that little fact through your thick skull, maybe you’d still be here, and things might not have bled as bad…” She stopped, resenting those were to be her last words toward her dead husband. She was not sure if their conversations were real or part of her imaginings, but those little exchanges brought her solace, and now, as her instinct took over, they were soon to be gone.
There were other things at hand, brought to the forefront because melancholy was a wasted feeling. Her mind was filled with information, things the blood knew, and she needed to understand as well. Her instinct was careful to instruct, “Of all night breeds, the dark fairies are the closest to being defenseless. What they lack in resources, they make up for in means. Though frail, they are not easily overpowered. They still count with preternatural strength that doubles when in danger. They are harder to beat when connected to their own realm, or in this case, when concentrated in a Circle. Don’t step into their hunting ground, draw them out.”