He started talking about the days that led up to the Atlantean World War. “It was my Where-Were-You-When moment,” he said. “Like how people used to talk about JFK? I still remember the moment I heard. God, everyone was so scared. Vampires and faeries were real. There was an Atlantis. I was in daycare, and the ladies who ran it were crying and talking in the corner. And then all of our mothers came and grabbed us, and took us home. My mother made us turn off the lights and hide in the basement. Can you believe that? She actually filled old milk containers with water, and made my father stop and buy as much canned food as he could afford. It was crazy. Like I said, it was my Where-Were-You-When moment.”
“Was it?” Ciaran whispered in his ear.
The man stiffened.
Ciaran said, “What about this: Where were you when you came to the attention of something far outside your comfort zone?”
The man’s thinning hair roots stood out against a now-pale scalp. Ciaran smiled and slid into a chair. He didn’t smile at the man, he smiled at parts of him: at the pulse on his neck, at his earlobe, at the dent in his lower lip. Ciaran said, “My, but what dreams are in your head, Gregory Roberts. They beg a closer look.”
The man’s hand went slack. His martini glass fell over without breaking. He stumbled away from us.
I said, “You just about done?”
Principalities were freelance powers, occupying a niche somewhere to the left of a sitting Arcana. But unlike Arcana, principalities were not bound by etiquette, rules, or predictable motivations. They were beings of indefinable power, amassed over centuries, who answered only to their own whims.
Ciaran had eyes that rippled with the appearance of light, like sun on moving water. He had dark-blue hair, lips as red as carnage, and an affinity for wild magic. Colors and texture had a nasty habit of changing around him, depending on his mood. I’ve seen him mess with wallpaper, portraits, and even, on one memorable occasion, a theater usher’s eyes.
As long as I’d known—and known of—Ciaran, he had profited in the service of secrets, selling them to those in need. He had a host of innate mind-fuck powers that aided his business, not the least of which was a touch of true seeing.
Saying I was eager to know why Quinn had sent me Ciaran’s way was a grim and curious understatement, like wondering if your microwave was hot enough to cook your cat, or whether a pair of scissors was sharp enough to cut off your finger.
“Bars and banks,” Ciaran swore, leaning away from the table so that he could get the full effect of my outfit. “Look at you, showing off your bits and bobs.”
“That’s just what I need to sleep at night, a compliment from you.” I tipped my chin at him. “Hello, Ciaran.”
“Rune. I was getting bored waiting. Quinn thought you’d be by sooner.”
If I hesitated, it wasn’t for long. I’d known the Tower too long to be shaken by people trying to startle me with unexpected information. “How is Quinn, then?”
“Just the way you left him. In a coma.”
Okay, maybe I had one or two startles left. “A coma? Quinn is in a coma? Brand talked with the hospital earlier. They said he was okay.”
“Ah, like magic!” Ciaran said in delight, just as I felt the warm, familiar presence of my Companion at my shoulder. “Speak his name, and he appears! And how are you, better half?”
“Quinn is in a coma?” Brand asked.
“Yes, he is, and I’m sure Rune will fill you in afterward. Shouldn’t you be watching that little blond thing you scarpered in with? Be a dear and give us some space.”
Brand said, “We’re on the Tower’s business, Ciaran, and fucking impatient about it. How did you speak to Quinn if he’s in a coma?”
The red, lacquered bar top turned coal black under Ciaran’s fingers. He smiled tightly at Brand and said, “Careful with your tone, boy.”
“Ciaran,” I said.
“All friends, all friends!” He widened his smile again. “My apologies, Companion. I didn’t mean to be rude. But, truly, I’ve never been very comfortable with threesomes. Someone always gets left out. Why don’t you go dance? Go dance and be merry.”
I felt the release of a sigil spell. It was directed at Brand.
I was half a second away from transmuting my wrist-guard when Brand simply turned and walked away.
“You mind-fucked him,” I said in a very quiet voice.
“Embarrassingly easy.”
“You’re scary, Ciaran,” I whispered, “but I can be scarier.”
“Oh, relax, Lord Sun. It’s only a trifle. You have my word—no harm has been done. He’ll simply enjoy himself.”
I didn’t care about his word. My rage was a real and growing thing. There were some lines you couldn’t easily cross with me, and mind control was one of them.
Ciaran said, “You are in a mood, aren’t you?”
“You’re going to want to paint between the lines for the rest of this conversation, Ciaran. I’m trying to find Addam Saint Nicholas, and I act on the Tower’s authority. Quinn Saint Nicholas sent me to you. Tell me what I need to do my job, and the Tower will compensate you.”
Ciaran waited a good ten seconds. Then he raised a hand for the bartender—a short Atlantean with Japanese mythology in her genetic cupboard—and said, “Parched.”
Since he’d blinked first, I humored him while he ordered absinthe. It was delivered in a tulip-shaped glass with a small tray of accoutrements. Ciaran separated out the slotted spoon, the chipped china saucer holding a large sugar cube, and a tiny carafe of ice water. The smell of anise clogged my nostrils.
“Addam Saint Nicholas,” Ciaran finally said. “I know him through Quinn. Quinn and I share certain gifts. I’m aware of your prejudices toward those of us who see, but even so, you must admit Quinn’s ability.”
“I do.”
“He’s the rarest type of seer. He can see probabilities. Now, I would hesitate to call his talent unreliable, but it would be apt to say that he sees so much that he’s not always able to make out the forest through the trees. I tell you this by way of disclaimer so that you don’t accuse me of riddles.”
“Ciaran, how did you talk to Quinn? How long has he been in a coma?”
“Since you left him. His Shield went down and the bad guys used concussion grenades. He has not regained consciousness. Quinn’s not exactly alarmed by his condition. He says, and I quote, that most of the time he wakes up, and sometimes there’s even cake.”
“How did you talk to him?” I growled.
Ciaran sucked absinthe off his thumb. “Dream-walking.”
“You dream-walk.”
“I have many hidden depths, little Arcana. Quinn, who is in a coma, reached out to me through the dream world. He and I had quite the chat, and then we put our heads together to see if we could get a better impression of where Addam is being kept.”
“Quinn said Addam was in a desert. Something about sand and broken glass? A dried-up river?”
“Put your thinking cap on,” Ciaran said. “I’ll even spot you more clues. Addam is within city limits, but he’s not on Nantucket soil. He is not in a pocket dimension or a phase.”
“Not on Nantucket soil, but in the city?” If he hadn’t mentioned pocket dimensions, it would have been my first guess. “Not on Nantucket soil, like, legally? Like embassy grounds?”
“Warmer. And Quinn tends to speak in metaphor. He didn’t say Addam was in a desert.”
I remembered something else. Quinn had said: You’re too caught up on the What and Who.The reason my mother can’t find Addam is a Where.
A metaphor.
Sand and broken glass.
“An hourglass,” I said. “A broken hourglass. Farstryke Castle. Godsdamnit, they’re keeping him in Farstryke Castle.”
Ciaran clapped without making a sound.
I said, “Wonderful. Just great. I need to find Brand. I’ll talk to Lord Tower about your compensation. And please answer your bloody phone if I call.”
Ciaran wa
ited until I’d gotten out of my chair before he added, “Oh, and if Brand comes with you, he dies.”
I stopped.
I turned my head.
Ciaran said, with petty relish, “Every time. Quinn says that if Brand comes with you, he dies every time.”
My heart began skipping beats. I had accepted Quinn’s gift as real, and I didn’t think Ciaran was lying, which meant that this was real—it was real, it was real, and the what-ifs began to tear great, meaty strips out of my brain. What if I’d figured out where Addam was on my own? What if I’d never had to meet Quinn or speak to Ciaran, and never heard the warning? What if I’d taken Brand? What if I’d lost him?
The shock began to prickle and itch, then it woke into rage.
My Atlantean Aspect burst to life. Whatever was in my eyes was nothing as simple as a glow, though. A light flared, as bright as burning magnesium. Ciaran’s pupils dilated, and he threw up his hands. The people closest, the people who could see whatever had become of my face, backed away in a dramatic spill of drinks and chairs.
“Tell me,” I whispered, and the words carried like rifle shot.
Ciaran squeezed his eyes shut and made an open-handed gesture of compliance. He said, only a little shakily, “Quinn told me to pass along the warning. I’m not sure what rosy future Quinn prefers to see, but in the one he likes best, you and Brand are dear to him. He said that if Brand accompanies you into the castle, he will not leave it alive. Quinn was very clear about the parameters of his seeing: Brand can’t come into the castle with you.”
The light died. My Aspect fled.
I turned and left.
I stood in the hallway for a long time.
There was a bulletin board with personal adverts for used futons, roommates, and anonymous sex.
There was a lithe, brown-skinned fae with corn silk for hair, waiting outside a closed bathroom door.
A human rocked back and forth on the ground. He was dressed in an expensive suit and had shallow cuts crisscrossing the tops of his bare feet.
I stood in the hallway for a long time, watching everything and nothing, until I remembered how to breathe again.
Max was slumped at a corner table. Brand wasn’t with him. His slack-jawed attention was on Cubic Dream’s dance floor. I’d started to look that way myself when he whispered, “Brand’s dancing.”
The dance floor was tiny, but, even so, a space had formed around my Companion.
Man and woman alike watched him move. He was aware of neither. His eyes were closed in something not unlike rapture, as his head swung in and out of rays of colored gel lights. He danced like he was under attack—like the world was coming at him from all sides.
Tears bit the back of my eyes. There was a word for a death prophecy. It was called a Grim Omen. Brand was going to be furious as hell, but there was no way he was setting foot near Farstryke Castle.
Next to me, Max noisily sucked up the last of his daiquiri. He propped his chin on top of the straw, and the straw crumpled. His face smacked the table. He started to giggle.
“Matthias?” I said. “Max?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Brand swing to a stop and look toward us.
Max said, mock-serious, “Rune?”
I pulled his glass toward me and sniffed the dregs. “Max, have you taken anything?”
“You think I stole from you?” he demanded in outrage.
“No. Have you taken anything. Tonight. Are you bloody smashed?”
“No, I am not! I am perfectly sober. Don’t be such a . . . a . . . a salty cucumber.” He frowned. “I have no idea what that means.” He burst into laughter.
Brand came back to the table. He gave me an uncertain look and said, “I was dancing.”
“Ciaran mind-fucked you.”
Brand’s lips went straight, the corners pressed tight. Then he blinked and looked closer at me. “What’s wrong?”
I wasn’t ready to talk about the Grim Omen. And something was wrong with Max. “Look at him. Is he high?”
Brand stopped looking suspiciously at me long enough to look suspiciously at Max. “Oy! Matthias! Did you take anything?”
“Why am I suddenly a thief?” Max demanded.
Brand made a growling sound and grabbed the glass that I was holding. He sniffed it. He didn’t smell anything that flagged his interest either.
Then his face went blank, the way it did that when he was mentally rifling through everything he’d seen and heard in an attempt to imagine the worst possible scenario. I heard him say, “Ice cubes.”
“Ice cubes?”
“Oh fuck me. ‘Cubic Dreams.’ Clever—fucking clever.” He looked over his shoulder toward the bar and said, “I need to have a word with that bartender.”
Since he had his hands on his knives, I said, “Let’s all go.”
I gripped Max’s t-shirt in a fist and lifted him upright. He squawked in alarm when the chair fell out from under him. The three of us moved to the bar. I watched the bartender’s face as we approached, and looked for any sign of smugness or contempt.
“What did you give him?” I demanded.
“Give who? Cutie?” the bartender smiled nervously at Max, who grinned sloppily back. “Just the standard kick. He’ll be fine. I thought you knew. That’s what we do here.”
“Define standard kick,” I said.
“A little something-something. He’ll laugh a lot, see some pretty colors, stuff like that. That’s it. I promise.”
“I’m a cutie,” Matthias said.
The bartender smiled again, more confident. “Yes, you are. But. Um. I need to get back to work.”
“Okay,” Brand said. He reached out, slipped his fingers behind the bartender’s neck, and slammed his head to the marble countertop. There was a crack, and I don’t think it was cartilage. Blood from a split lip smeared an imperfect red circle as Brand put a hand on the back of the squirming man’s head and pressed down hard.
Brand said, “You’re lying.”
“I’m not!”
Brand bent low and whispered in the bartender’s ear for what felt like a very long time. The man’s face went gray. He said, “Just a hallucinogen, that’s it, I swear. I swear! He’s a fucking Lovers! Did you know that? Did you know that? You’re lucky I didn’t reach for the rat poison!” Bubbles of blood popped from his nostrils. “We’ve got cameras! If you try to hurt me in here, you’ll get into trouble!”
Now I bent low.
I made the young man strain to hear me over the music as I said, “Where the hell do you think you are? This is New Atlantis, and that boy is under my protection. Harm to him must go through me. Break that law, and you become my legitimate prey.”
“They’re uppers! I only gave him some uppers! He’ll just act goofy, that’s all—I was just trying to, I was only—”
Brand pressed down harder. “Maybe he’ll make a fool of himself. Maybe he’ll get in the wrong stranger’s car. Maybe he’ll get in his own car and try to drive. Maybe he’ll stumble across the path of someone who doesn’t like goofy. Maybe you’ll be waiting outside for him after closing.”
“But he’s one of them! Do you know what the Lovers did? Why they got their asses destroyed?” The bartender’s eyes rolled from Brand to me. “He was one of them! I saw him! I went to some of the Lovers’ parties.” The word was steeped in spittle. “I went to them with my boyfriend, when he was alive, before they took him. This boy you’re with—this thing you’re protecting—he was always with his uncle, wearing a stupid dog collar, sitting in the corner while his uncle did things to the humans. He’s one of them! Do you want to know what my boyfriend looked like by the time the Heart Throne was done? What they did to Joey’s face? To his health? I—”
“Let him go,” Max said softly. “This isn’t fun.”
He drifted away toward the door.
“Go with him,” Brand said to me.
I looked at Brand’s rigid arm and the bartender’s pinned head.
Brand said
, “I won’t kill him. Go with Matthias, Rune.”
That’d have to be good enough. I hurried after Max. He was lingering by the front door, picking at a loose chip of paint that crusted a light switch.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I thought I saw a saber-toothed tiger. But it was just a mophead.”
“That’ll happen,” I said, gently.
“Maybe if we wait around long enough, it’ll turn back into a tiger. I would like to see that. We could make it a pet! Maybe we should . . .”
He continued to chatter, completely unaware of the tears streaming down his face.
“Oh, Max,” I said, “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
HALF HOUSE INTERLUDE
“Motherfucking horsefire shit!” Brand said. He hit the punching bag in the corner of the third-floor sanctum again. He had been hitting it ever since I told him about the Grim Omen, and that he’d need to stay behind.
“Getting shirty with me won’t help. It wasn’t my prophecy.”
“Are you smiling? Is that a smile?”
Actually, it sort of was. I felt nearly stupid with relief. I knew the stages of Brand’s anger better than my own. He was swearing a lot, which was good. It’s when he stopped swearing that I worried.
Brand said, “If that kid turns out to be the bad guy, I will lose my shit on him.”
I blinked. “Quinn? You think Quinn might be the bad guy?”
“I think everyone might be a bad guy. And look at the facts—if Quinn is behind all of this, then he’s found a way to separate us. He also fell into a convenient coma just before the Dead Man attacked us. I’ll have to go and visit his room with some flowers, or maybe an alarm clock taped to the end of a fucking baseball bat.”
“Quinn as mastermind. Let’s think about that.”
“Don’t fucking sass me,” Brand said. He rubbed his knuckles and turned away from the punching bag. “I hate this, Rune. I’m your Companion. It’s my job to go through the door first. Just because scary shit is waiting on the other side of the door shouldn’t change that—if anything, it makes it more important that I do my job.”
The Last Sun Page 12