She dropped the flute case in Eric's lap. "Play something—something happy," she demanded raggedly.
Eric looked up at her, moving as though underwater. "Not now," was all he said.
"Eric, we need this. Play." Oh, please. Don't make me beg. I don't have the strength.
He shook his head.
"It's too soon. Let the dead rest," Hosea said, dully.
Kayla rounded on him, holding the banjo like a club. She felt anger building inside her and fed it, welcoming the burn of fury. It was all that was keeping her going. And when it was gone, there would be nothing left.
"Oh, yeah. That's a great idea! Jimmie'd be real proud of you, farmboy—she goes through hell for you and this is how you pay her back? Lie down and die? So she's dead—play her out, then! Play for her!"
Hosea's eyes focused on her, and slowly he reached for the banjo. "Guess I can do that much," he said. He began to play, something slow and mournful—"John Barleycorn," she thought.
"Oh great—is that how you want to remember her? A dead loser? You want to lie down in that grave with her?"
Hosea stopped and looked at her. "That ain't fair, Kayla."
"Do you think this is how she wants you to remember her?" She spun around and glared at Eric and Ria, although the world was graying out around her. "Do you think she just wants you to give up and die? Play!"
Slowly Eric began to fumble with the flute case, plainly unable to understand why Kayla was so upset. Hosea began to play again: "Ashokan Farewell." Kayla groaned inwardly. Not much livelier than the other thing. But when she looked at him, she could see confusion in his eyes as he began to sense the wrongness here. By the time the melody came around again, Eric had joined him, the flute wailing like the wind in high lonely places. She could see he didn't get it, and she had no more to give. She sank down to the floor, sitting at Eric's feet.
But still the two Bards played, pulling themselves agonizingly from song to song, like travelers crossing a frozen river: from "Ashokan Farewell" to "Lorena" to "Bonnie Blue Flag" to "Dixie." It almost didn't matter what they played, not really. Music was life, and anything would help. Then faster: "Marching Through Georgia" and "Union Forever"—fighting songs, those—and "Susan Brown" and "Turkey in the Straw" with their catchy cheery rhythm, and she could see the power linking the two Bards like binary suns. Power—and life, that spilled over into the others, through the walls and the floor, filling the entire building with their defiance, filling Kayla until she twitched with it, all exhaustion banished.
The others roused, shaking off the seductive despair that had wrapped them like a burial shroud, breaking the cycle of grief and surrender. It seemed as if Kayla could feel the House itself taking a deep breath and shaking all over like a wet dog.
And then at last they could all sense the threat that came from without: the malignancy—and triumph.
* * *
:Bogeys at six o'clock! Scramble!: Greystone Sent, panic in his mental voice. They could all feel it, that power like no other: the mark of the Dark Lords, the Unseleighe Sidhe. Eric ran to the window and stepped out onto the fire escape. Behind him he heard the apartment door slam as the Guardians ran to defend their turf. The front door of the building was "twelve o'clock," so the enemy was at the back, in the parking lot.
Aerune. A sickness twisted in Eric's gut as he recognized the rider on the black elvensteed. Aerune was the one who had been feeding on their anguish, turning their grief to despair. He vaulted over the railing, and let a touch of Power carry him lightly five stories to the ground. Outside the bespelled air conditioning of his apartment, the summer heat enveloped him like a glove, plastering his white dress shirt to his body as sweat sprang out of every pore.
The other three—no, four—Guardians reached the ground at the same time he did and fanned out, not seeing Aerune yet. Eric didn't see Ria—she was probably still inside, sitting on Kayla. That was a small mercy. The last time any of them had faced Aerune, he'd been kidnapping and draining Talent—and Kayla would be just the sort of morsel that would whet his appetite—if he weren't already glutted with the power he'd siphoned off from Guardian House and its inmates. Aerune glowed with Power in Eric's mage-sight—power enough to rock the city around their ears.
But tonight it seemed that Aerune had other plans.
"Greetings, mortal pests—and Bard." Aerune bowed with a flourish, leaning over his mount's saddle, hugely pleased with himself. When he spoke, the glamourie that surrounded him vanished, and the others could see him as well. "It is a lovely evening, is it not?"
"What does he want?" Toni whispered to Eric. "You're the expert on elves."
"Good evening, Lord Aerune."
Eric stepped forward, bowing in turn. Good manners, due form, these were vital in dealing with High Court Sidhe, whether Dark or Bright. Ignore the forms, and they could kill you out of hand, but if you played by the rules, they had to as well. "You are far from home."
"I ride over lands I intend to claim," Aerune said. "Had you fallen into my trap, I could have done so tonight without difficulty—but no matter. I am an apt pupil, Bard, and I have learned your lessons well. My allies daily grow stronger . . . and I can wait while you wither and die. Mortals die so easily—ah, but you have already discovered that this fine evening, have you not?"
He means Jimmie, Eric realized, and held onto his temper with a great effort. Fury was weakness. It would not help him.
"Yes, I can wait," Aerune continued, "while all you can do is age and die, pathetic mortal meat that you are. Perhaps I will save you from that, and grant each of you a hero's death."
Aerune drew back his hand. It glowed blackly with levin-fire. Eric barely had time to throw a shield over himself and the others, but they were not his target. Aerune struck at the House itself, balefire fountaining over bricks and mortar, until the walls of the building itself ran with cold fire.
Eric could hear screams coming from inside. The Sensitives of Guardian House would have nightmares for months, but he dared not look away from the Unseleighe Lord. He wasn't powerful enough to take on Aerune by himself, the Guardians had no experience with the Sidhe, and Hosea was untrained either as Guardian or Bard. And nightmares were better than body bags.
Seeing that none of them would attack, Aerune began to laugh. "But not tonight. No, tonight, in token of the great love I bear for you all, I bring you . . . a gift."
Something—someone—staggered forward, sprawling at their feet. It was a girl—a woman—dressed in a glove-tight suit of black leather studded in silver, that covered all of her but her face. Silver hair spilled down her back, glittering in the parking lot's merciless halogen lights.
She wore a collar and leash, and she was human.
Aerune's mount reared and vaulted through the Portal he had opened. The Portal vanished, but his laughter echoed in the air.
Eric ran forward to help the girl up, but she scrabbled backward on hands and knees, whimpering. The leash dragged along the ground. She was hemorrhaging Power, radiating like a beacon, and Eric could detect no hint of shielding.
"Hey, take it easy. We won't hurt you."
She shook her head—he still couldn't see her face—but she began to laugh breathlessly, a sound chilling in its hopelessness.
"What the hell is going on?" Ria demanded, arriving with Kayla. "What's that?"
"Aerune said she was a present," Eric said tightly.
The crouching figure looked up.
There was a frozen moment of silence.
"You," Ria breathed, fury in her voice.
The woman scrabbled to her feet and tried to run, but Ria was faster. She lunged forward, grabbing a handful of silver hair and dealing a stinging open-handed slap with the other. She drew back her hand to slap the woman again, but Eric grabbed her.
"Ria! Stop it! What's going on?"
Ria glared at him, green eyes flaming, her hand still fisted in the woman's hair. She shook her victim. Ria's handprint stood out lividly against her s
kin.
"Don't you know who this is, even with the clever plastic disguise? Meet Jeanette Campbell: she invented T-Stroke, and I'm going to make her wish she'd never been born. Let go of me!" She struggled, trying to pull her arm free of Eric's grip. Jeanette cowered back, panting and whimpering.
"Now, Miss Llewellyn," Hosea said mildly. He picked up the trailing leash and looped it around his hand. "She isn't going anywhere. And I think we'd all like some answers."
"She's mine!" Ria snarled.
"No, she isn't," Eric said levelly. "Let go of her, Ria. We have to find out what she knows. And then the law can make her pay for her crimes."
"No," Jeanette said, her voice barely intelligible through sounds of pain. "No, it can't."
Ria let go of Jeanette's hair to try to break Eric's grip, but he refused to release her. Jeanette ran to the end of the leash Hosea still held and dragged helplessly at it, trying to get away. Hosea reached for her to try to calm her.
"Oh, God, no! Don't touch me!" Jeanette shrieked. The raw agony in her voice stopped all of them cold for an instant, but an instant was enough.
"She's an Empath," Kayla said, her voice flat with discovery.
"I don't care if she's Mother Teresa," Ria growled, yanking herself free of Eric.
"I think," Paul Kern said, "that we'd better take this inside if we possibly can." He pointed back at the House.
Eric looked up. It was well after midnight—nearly dawn, in fact—but all the windows on this side of the building were lit, and he could see people at most of them gazing down into the parking lot. In a few moments some of them would come downstairs, asking a lot of questions that the people standing in the parking lot wouldn't want to answer.
"Yes. Greystone, is this some kind of trap?" Eric asked.
:Not that I can see, laddybuck. She's harmless,: the gargoyle replied in mindspeech. :Come on in.:
"You guys go ahead," Eric said.
They went, Hosea dragging Jeanette by the leash. She shied away from all attempts to touch her. Ria stalked into the building without looking behind her, back stiff with fury.
But Ria's anger was a problem to solve later, if he could. For now, some damage control was needed. Eric stepped back from the building, lips pursed in a soundless whistle as he summoned Power. The simplest of the Bardic Gifts—a spell of sweet dreams and forgetfulness for all those who stood watching from their windows, and for everyone else within the House it could reach.
Safe. You're safe here, all is well. Nightmares belong to the night and fade with the sun. It was all a dream, an evil dream, and it's over. You're safe. All is well.
The magic sounded forlorn and lost, like a candle in the wind. But each time the tune circled round again the magic was stronger, more hopeful. Eric ran through the simple tune that worked the spell nine times—three to shape it, three to set it, and three to bind it well—before he was satisfied. And finally he could feel it reach out to the people inside the House, touching them, bringing them comfort and hope, drawing force and reality from their hesitant belief.
It wouldn't be enough to banish the effects of Aerune's levin-bolt, but it would do for tonight. Later he and the others would have to see what they could do to unweave the harm that Aerune had done here, but tonight they had a more immediate disaster.
When he got back upstairs, Ria was sitting in the corner, seething, with Hosea hovering over her like a prison guard. Jeanette cowered in the far corner of the living room, her back against the wall, hugging herself and moaning. Her too-beautiful face was haggard, etched with lines of suffering. She looked like a bad plastic surgery case. Kayla knelt in front of her, several feet away, talking softly.
"I don't care what Aerune's done to her—it isn't enough," Ria said angrily when Eric arrived.
"Maybe not. But right now, finding out what he's up to is more important than revenge," Eric said.
Ria growled wordlessly and looked away.
"Yeah, facts are always nice to have," Kayla said, "but you aren't gonna get anything out of her while she's like this. She's got no shields, Eric. None. How can somebody be an Empath, and her age, and alive, and not have shields?"
Eric shook his head. "Maybe we can give her some."
"Wait a minute." Ria surged to her feet and took a step toward Jeanette. "You're going to help her?" She glared furiously at the three of them. Kayla glared right back.
"I'm going to—" Eric began.
"Don't worry, Ria," Jeanette said painfully, her voice a whispery croak. "Just a little time . . . I'll be dead and it won't matter." She smiled with great effort, as if this were a good joke on someone.
"You took T-Stroke," Eric said in abrupt understanding. Suddenly it all made terrible sense. That's why she has Gifts and no idea of how to deal with them.
Jeanette flinched. To an unshielded Empath, strong emotion was like salt in an open wound. He saw her meet his gaze with a grim struggle. "I thought Elkanah was going to kill me and T-Stroke was my only weapon. I wish he had," she added in a ragged whisper. "He killed someone here. Aerune said so."
Elkanah? Toni said that was Jimmie's brother's name! It made terrible sense—Jimmie's brother would have been able to get through her shields. If she had felt his pain, if he had led her to her death . . .
"Let me help you," Kayla repeated, reaching out.
"Don't touch me!" Jeanette gasped, shrinking back. "Whoever you are, you can't fix this. I've seen Healers die. I know. Please."
Kayla drew back. "We've got to do something. We can't just let her die," she said pleadingly to Eric.
Eric looked at Ria. Of everyone there, she was the only one, aside from Jeanette, who knew anything about how T-Stroke worked. All Eric knew was that Jeanette Campbell had come up with a drug that turned ordinary people into Talents . . . and killed them.
"Yes, we can," Ria said. "That's what T-Stroke does. It kills people a few hours after someone gives it to them. Only your clock wasn't running while you were in Underhill, was it, Campbell? Too bad Aerune's hung you out to dry, isn't it? Maybe now you'll know what it's like to die the way all the people you killed died."
Jeanette met Ria's gaze, though Eric could see that for her it was as much of an effort as to thrust her hand into an open fire. And just as agonizing.
"I never hurt you, Ria. Just your pride. Others have a lot more right to my head than you do. Stand in line." Jeanette gasped and doubled over, hugging herself against sudden stabbing pain, coughing raggedly until she began to gag. Kayla winced, flinching back from Jeanette's distress. Hosea crossed the room and swooped Kayla up as if she were a doll, depositing her on the couch at the far side of the room.
"You have got to stop Lord Aerune," Jeanette got out through gritted teeth. "He's got help." She curled into a fetal ball on the floor, shaking and gasping.
"I think if you've got any rabbits, Eric, now's the time to pull 'em out of your hat," Hosea said quietly.
But what could he do? He couldn't send Jeanette back to Underhill—from the looks of things, she wouldn't survive long enough for Lady Day to make it to the Everforest Gate. And he couldn't heal her—she was right; whatever T-stroke did to the human body, it was beyond the ability of either Healer or Bard to undo. Her time was running out.
But if he could stop time here . . .
"I'm going to try something," Eric said to the others. He thought about asking Hosea to help him, but he wasn't sure how Guardian Magic layered over Bardic Gift worked, and this wasn't any time to go doing field tests. "It'll buy us the time to figure this out, I hope, but it might feel kind of weird. Don't fight me, okay?"
"Whatever help we can give is yours," Paul answered.
Eric looked at Ria. She had power that stemmed from her half-Sidhe heritage and a lifelong study of sorcery. She could help him—or make this impossible.
Ria took a deep breath and nodded. "You're right. She's right. Do what you can. I won't stop you."
The first of the two spells was easy: a simple warding, to build
the shields for Jeanette that she couldn't build herself. Eric saw them settle into place around her, saw her uncoil from her fetal crouch, panting with relief.
The second part was harder: to stop time itself for all of them here in this room. He didn't know if he could do it at all, if the House would permit it, and if he could, it wouldn't be for long. But he had to try.
For Eric, for any Bard, magic was music. He took a deep breath, holding the finished tune—the finished spell—fully formed within his mind—then letting it uncoil, filling him with music as he filled it with power. "Backward, turn backward, O `Time in Thy flight . . .' "
It was like rolling a giant boulder uphill. He gritted his teeth, focusing his will on that impossible task. He got through the first iteration, but there were eight more to go before the spell was truly complete.
Seven—six—five— And he had no more to give. For a moment he thought he would fail, that the spell would uncoil right then, then new strength came flowing into the working.
Ria.
:I said I'd support your decisions, remember?: her cool voice came in his mind.
Four—three—two—one—and the spell was set and began to run. The walls of the room grew pale and indistinct, the doors and windows vanished, leaving the eight of them suspended in a bubble of silvery timelessness.
"You must teach me that sometime," Paul said respectfully, looking only a little rattled. José and Toni were looking around at the transformed apartment, wary looks of wonder on their faces.
"Yeah," Eric said, sighing. He turned back to Jeanette. She was sitting up, breathing more easily. She looked at Eric.
"This is magic, but it isn't a cure," he told her. "I don't know how long I can hold this bubble, but when it pops . . . you're probably going to go with it," he finished reluctantly.
"Just as well," Jeanette answered. "I've killed a lot of people. It's time I paid for that."
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