by Megan Chance
“She’s gone. I felt a storm of fear, and then it stopped, just like that. As if things were cut off. As if she fell between worlds. I don’t feel her. I don’t hear her. She’s gone, Derry.” He gave Diarmid a baleful look. “And perhaps it’s better so.”
Aidan had obviously overheard his conversation with Finn.
Diarmid wished he didn’t agree.
The first morning (sidhe time)
Grace
I woke to warmth and the stink of gas from the lamps I’d left burning, and a copper tub filled with steaming water set in the middle of the floor. The gilded trunk was open to reveal a confusion of colorful scarves and stockings and petticoats and ribbons and gowns.
I sat up warily. I’d heard no one, and I was alone. I didn’t know how these things had come to be here. Magic or too-silent servants—I didn’t like either thought.
I pushed aside my hair, surprised at how stiff it was, until I remembered the fight on the pier, that boy’s blood spurting. Sarnat. Where is she now? Is she safe? I glanced down at the now filthy bedcover I’d been sleeping on, noticing in the same moment that my shoulder was so brown with blood, it looked as if I’d been the one stabbed. I rubbed at my cheek; flecks of dried blood came off in my hand.
After that, there was nothing on earth that could keep me from that bath. The blood had soaked through to stain my corset and my chemise as well, along with salt and seawater, sand and dirt and sweat. I’d never been so glad for hot water.
A bar of lilac-scented soap floated in the tub. I washed my hair three times. When I was done, the water was a murky shade of pinkish brown, but I was clean. I wrapped myself in the thick towel folded beside the tub and considered the filthy pile of my clothing. I could not bear to put it on again. But there was the trunk, with clothes exploding from it.
There were scarves of gauzy silk, a satin petticoat edged with lace. A chemise so fine that, when I pulled it over my head, I could see the pink of my skin glowing through. It was the most delicate undergarment I’d ever worn. Another corset; white and new and so stiff, it took me a while to fasten it, and even then, I couldn’t tighten it well. There were stockings of gossamer silk—nothing like the coarse wool I’d been wearing—and garters with yellow silk roses.
I rifled through the gowns—there were four: one striped purple, adorned with pansies; a second day gown of sky-blue watered silk that shimmered with rainbows in the gaslight; and a third of a beautiful topaz, with a square neckline and fringe. They were all gorgeous; better than anything I’d ever worn. I’d never even seen Lucy Devlin in such finery. It had been so long since I’d had anything pretty.
Then I got to the fourth one.
It was pink silk, a ball gown, and one I recognized—the silk roses and the trailing ribbons, the puffed sleeves decorated with lace. This was the gown I’d had made for my debut—plans that had come to nothing once the Fianna came into my life. “Pink’s a good choice for you. Devlin won’t be able to look away.”
I dropped the dress as if it burned. Whatever held me prisoner had enough power to glamour a room to tease me and to call up my debut gown. How had it known? Was it in my head even now? Even Sarnat had been frightened—the same girl who had taken down a dozen gang boys without flinching. I remembered the feel of the furred animal—or whatever it was—against my fingers last night, the brush of bone, that unsettlingly sentient dog, the darkness and the maze of a shop.
I had vowed to be clever, to find a way to escape, and instead, I’d bathed in what must be enchanted water and used enchanted soap, and now, I was half-dressed in enchanted clothing. I knew what glamoured food and drink could do to non-fairies, but did the rest of it have the same effect?
It was too late if it did. Very clever, Grace. I’d already made so many mistakes . . . I’d practically handed myself to whatever this was. Diarmid would be furious with me. I was furious with myself. But whatever spell was cast, I’d already fallen into it. Now I must deal with the consequences. I took a deep breath and turned to reach for my abandoned dress, stopping short when I saw that the stained red silk coverlet on the bed was gone, replaced with a golden one.
And the pile of my clothes was gone.
My skin prickled, but now there was no choice. I couldn’t walk around in my petticoats. Slowly, I picked up the topaz gown. The dress fit perfectly—a little tight about the bodice because of how loose the corset was. The fringe danced at my shoulders and along the skirt with the slightest movement, and I knew the color complemented me—they all did. Spelled for me. Glamoured for me.
Now what? What was I to do? Snap my fingers? Scream at the walls and demand to speak to my captor?
I stepped over to the door and turned the knob. To my surprise, it opened, and I found myself staring out at a hall that formed a U around a central set of stairs. The wooden railings gleamed in the light of gas sconces. Everywhere were tall piles of dusty things, all looking as if they hadn’t been touched in years. Trunks and lampshades and piles of books teetering crazily on upturned chairs, creating jigging, narrow corridors in the already narrow hall. The smell of dust and must and foxed paper filled my nose.
I made my way through, careful not to touch or brush against anything—it all looked so precariously balanced. I had no idea how Roddy had brought Sarnat and me through this last night without it all crashing to the floor—and in such profound darkness as well. Sarnat, where are you?
Doors lined the walls, and carved out of the chaos were pathways to each of them. But every door I tried was locked. The stairs were narrow, made more so by things crowding the edges. Books mostly, among them Poe’s Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, novels by Fanny Fern, Elisha Kane’s Arctic Explorations, red-covered travel guides, textbooks, and poetry. There were so many, I couldn’t imagine anyone finding the time to read them all.
I doubted anyone had. It was just a motley pawnshop collection, like everything else: old boots and sheet music, hats and broken furniture, silent clocks, birdcages and stuffed birds, a stuffed lizard and some moth-eaten stuffed cats who seemed to follow me with their creepy glass eyes. I felt I was being watched, but perhaps it was only the taxidermy, because I heard nothing but my own footsteps.
When I reached the bottom of the first landing—which branched onto another U-shaped hallway set with doors and crowded with towers of things—I paused, listening for the archdruid’s music.
I heard the sound of tiny bells.
I thought of that animal brushing up against me in the dark, and Roddy’s “It’s too late,” and Sarnat’s fear. This stairway went straight down; it was nothing like it had seemed last night, with its endless corridors and twists and turns. I thought about going back to my room until I was sent for, but then . . . what if I wasn’t?
So I continued down. The bells in my head grew louder, though the house was as silent as ever. I smelled that elusive perfume again, a familiar scent—where did I know it from?
It looked as if the staircase just ended at a wall, but as I reached it, I saw a corridor branching off to either side. One side was completely blocked by a tangle of chairs. The other was open, leading into darkness.
It was either go forward or go back, and so I took the only path. Like a lamb to slaughter—such a comforting thought. The walls were very close—barely my own width. The corridor seemed to go on for yards and yards before I saw a light at the end of it—silvery and glaring. The bells jangled in my head, the perfume teased.
I steeled myself and stepped into the light.
It was blinding. I put my hand to my eyes to shield them.
“Ah, I was hoping for the pink.”
The voice from last night. I struggled to see. “Who are you?”
“I’m as you see.”
“I can’t see you! I can’t see anything. Show yourself!”
“Oh, aye. Pardon, I’d forgotten your affliction.”
The light faded and then disappeared. I lowered my hand, blinking into the room we’d entered last night. It was as fu
ll as the rest of the shop, with windows that looked out on Cherry Street, and “Roddy’s Grotto” painted upon the glass.
At the far end, near a counter piled with knickknacks and a glass case full of jewelry, stood a stag, lowering its head to point its antlers at me, and beside him a young man about my brother’s age, glowing faintly silver.
But what a young man. I’d never seen anyone like him. His hair was black and long, hanging in knotted curls below his shoulders. He wore an ancient-looking linen tunic embroidered with gold and purple and red around the collar and sleeves and hem, and a capelet of feathers—black as his hair, shining faintly blue—and a pair of leather trousers tucked into boots that came to his knees. Chains of tiny bells hung around his neck, hundreds of them, and he wore gold hoops in his ears. His wrists were circled with tattooed bracelets, another tattoo scrawled across his collarbone, peeking from beneath his shirt. His jaw was square, his cheekbones sharp. A full lower lip, and deep-set eyes of a strange light amber.
He was odd, but very attractive, too, in that way of the sidhe. Handsome and alluring, fascinating and dangerous and intense, as if they’d been made for the kind of temptation that led to ruin.
Perilous.
He stared at me as I stared at him. I felt that draw that always came with the sidhe, the urge to step closer. His song was different—not let me touch you, touch you, touch you, but instead the music of those bells calling me onward, so that I wanted them for myself. I wanted a chain of them around my neck. I wanted to dance. To dance and dance and never stop.
The whippet-like dog came out from behind him, the stag backed restlessly away, and from the corner, I heard a sniffling and snorting. A boar emerged from a stack of crates, its evil tusks gleaming.
It was all I could do to hold my ground, not to run toward the young man or away to the door. Neither would do me any good. He smiled—such straight white teeth—and came toward me. The perfume was stronger now, and I recognized it. It was the Druid Tuama’s scent—the Druid Tuama?—a Druid scent on a sidhe boy. I wasn’t certain which confused me more, that impossible combination, or the fact that I knew it.
He reached out; I felt paralyzed as he lifted a curl of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers the way Finn had once done. Like Finn, he stared at it as if he were trying to sight a secret. The cape shimmered and fluffed its feathers the way a bird does when it bathes. It was frightening—and mesmerizing.
“Don’t touch me,” I whispered.
He looked up at me, raising a dark brow. “I’ve no wish to steal your power. Yet.” The feathers ruffled and preened. “Do you like what you see, veleda?”
“I want to go. Where’s my friend? Where’s Sarnat?”
“I don’t know. Around here somewhere, I think. ’Tis hard to find things sometimes. Perhaps she’s lost.”
“I want to find her and go.”
“But you can’t,” he said lightly, dropping the strand of my hair. “Not until you’re done with me.”
“You can’t just keep me prisoner. There are people looking for me—”
“No doubt. But how will they find you? Battle Annie will not break a vow. Did you tell anyone else where you were going? Can you even feel your brother?”
I started.
“You see? I know a great deal about you.” His golden eyes gleamed. He brushed his finger over my jaw. I felt a shiver, a sting—my power responding to his magic—and I jerked away.
He smiled; it was faintly threatening. “Do you like your room? I was uncertain which would torment you more: your Fenian white knight or your Fianna warrior. Do you think I chose well?”
“They see what you most want.”
“Who are you?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “What do you want with me?”
He shrugged. The feathers shivered, and the bells tinkled with the motion. “You tell me. You’re the one who’s come searching.”
“For an archdruid.”
“Then ’tis a happy thing you’ve found him.”
I remembered Roddy, wild haired, mad eyed. “You’ve drained his power.”
“That I have,” he said, again with that smile.
“So he’s of no use to me. Tell me where Sarnat is. Let us go.”
“If I do that, you’ll never find the answers to your questions.”
“I won’t find them now,” I said bitterly. “Roddy knows nothing. He remembers nothing. How can he help me?”
“Perhaps he can’t. But perhaps there’s someone else you can ask.” He pointed at the ceiling. I looked up.
There were branches of twisted oak twined with mistletoe, a cage of branches above our heads. I stared at it, puzzled. A bolt of pure red lightning zapped into it, sending sparks flying. I gasped and ducked, but they were already gone, leaving only smoke and the smell of electricity in the air.
The lightning came from his fingers.
“You’re a stormcaster!”
He looked smug. “Among other things.”
“What other things?”
“Spell casting. Divination. Dream reading. I can work the elements. And of course, like all my kin, my trade is illusion. But my glamours are indistinguishable from truth”—he glanced at me—“which is good for you, else you’d be naked to me or anyone else.”
I crossed my arms over my breasts.
He grinned. “You’ll have to trust me on that one.”
“Trust you? I don’t even know who you are!”
“Iobhar.” He bowed slightly. “At your service.”
“I didn’t know sidhe could do any of those things. I mean, beyond glamours.”
“They can’t,” he boasted. “Not usually. But I’ve never known one who could drain an archdruid alone either. ’Twould be overwhelming for most of the others.”
“But not for you,” I said.
“I am as you see.”
Battle Annie had said that taking power only sated the appetite for a time, and then one was hungry again. “You’re telling me that you’ve drunk the archdruid’s power and knowledge—and kept it to use yourself? I didn’t know that was possible.”
“It was a surprise to me as well. When I found him, I’d only thought: well, here’s enough feasting for a year. ’Twas a shock to find I could make rainstorms in the dining room.”
So carelessly cruel. “You didn’t care what it did to him?”
“I don’t care what it does to anyone.”
Yes, perilous. Be careful, Grace. Be clever. “Does having such power sate your wish for more?”
“Not in the least,” he said. “I feel yours from where I stand, veleda. ’Tis most tempting. I think it wouldn’t take long. Come and kiss me, and we’ll see.”
There it was again, the music of bells, that tempting perfume. I saw a vision of myself stepping into his arms, taking the bells, dancing and dancing and dancing . . .
“No, thank you.”
“I’m light on my feet, I’ve been told.”
“You said you didn’t want my power.”
“I said I didn’t want it yet. But that was an eternity ago, wasn’t it? Things change every moment, don’t they? Just as fate does.”
I remembered why I was here, what I wanted. “You say you have the archdruid’s power and knowledge.”
“Ah, here it is at last. I’d been told you were clever, but I was beginning to wonder.”
“You do have it?”
“He does.” Another voice came from the shadows at the back of the room. Roddy emerged from a doorway half-hidden by a glass-fronted armoire filled with ornaments. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers and a gray coat so worn the folds of the cuffs were white. His elbow poked through a hole in the sleeve. “And I trained him myself.” The old man’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t I?”
“Aye, you did.” Iobhar put his arm around Roddy’s shoulders. Roddy shuddered but looked at Iobhar with a doting affection, and I understood that, too, the touch you wanted to fall into, the delirium of the draw of power.
I was
n’t ready for this. Iobhar was more than dangerous. He’d so easily overcome an archdruid. I couldn’t be clever enough to withstand him and the temptation of those bells.
But still I said to Roddy, “Do you remember anything?”
“No,” he said wistfully. “Or . . . sometimes. ’Tis like a dream I once had. You should flee, milady.”
“She can’t flee,” said Iobhar. “Her questions keep her prisoner.”
“You keep me prisoner,” I corrected.
“Do I?” He looked surprised.
“You said you did. You said I couldn’t leave. Not until you were done with me.”
“I said until you were done with me.”
Was that what he’d said? I felt confused and stupid. I remembered Diarmid telling me to listen, that their words had more than one meaning.
“You’re telling me I could walk out that door if I wanted to?”
“You can leave,” said Roddy sadly. “But you won’t.”
I backed toward the door, keeping my gaze on Iobhar. The stag came across the room and walked with me. The dog watched with his compassionate eyes, as did the boar.
I put my hand on the doorknob. Both Iobhar and Roddy watched me without a word, but Iobhar’s eyes gleamed compellingly beneath his dark brows. The storefront windows overlooked a street full of delivery wagons and stevedores unloading crates and barrels, sailors loitering outside saloons. Ordinary life. The life I wanted to return to. One untouched by sidhe or Fianna or Fomori or prophecies that meant you had to die at seventeen . . .
But that wasn’t my life. Not anymore.
Roddy’s gaze was pleading. I knew he wanted me to go. I knew to stay could be the most dangerous choice I’d ever made—more dangerous even than loving a Fianna warrior destined to kill me.
Iobhar said, “Go back to your world, milis. Find what you seek there.”
My world. Except that my world held no answers. What I was seeking was right here. I dropped my hand from the knob.
Iobhar smirked. “You see? You are your own prisoner, veleda.”
I knew he was right.
August 5
Patrick