That made him wince. Few even in the mortal realm dared mention Her Lady by her given name. To do so was to risk her notice. The same had once been feared of mentioning Oberon by other than his titles, even long after he’d been ousted. They had been Feirie, and Feirie had been them.
“She is nothing . . . nothing to be feared, anymore,” he responded too quickly. “No longer do I have to suffer her caresses, her kisses. . . .”
“Yeah, sounds horrible.”
“Do not again judge Feirie by human standards, Gatekeeper. Love is not a common thing among our kind. Power and desire are . . . and those extend even into our relationships.”
“Maybe you should’ve tried writing Dorothy Dix instead . . . instead of betrayal.” The reference to the popular advice columnist was lost on Lysander, but I was also stalling. I’d already made a calculation as to how much time and strength I’d have left for an attack and where I’d strike. Killing Lysander might not destroy the array. Instead, I knew that I had to sever more than one string within a few seconds. If not, then I doubted I’d accomplish anything except hasten my demise.
“You should not be so kind toward her, Gatekeeper. After all, she is the one who first inferred that you were the key. That with you, so much could be accomplished.”
I wasn’t surprised that Her Lady’d entered into this, but a bit surprised at the extent. I’d thought it more recent by what she’d said, forgetting that those of Feirie talked of a hundred years ago as if it were yesterday. She’d been planning this since first we’d thought Oberon slain during the Great Fire. Or rather, I’d thought him slain. Obviously, she’d never assumed that. She’d been willing to bring chaos to the Gate, risk Feirie itself, just to gather the forces she thought she’d need if and when Oberon would pop up.
When he had and when he’d been destroyed for certain this time, she hadn’t bothered to mention her past mistake. Instead, she kept hunters like Lon on the trail of Lysander. I wondered how many of Lon’s predecessors there’d been. His kind were tough, but not as tough as some of the high caste. Oberon’d proven that.
“I’ll deal with Titania later,” I responded, again pointedly using her name. Sure enough, Lysander couldn’t help blinking.
I felt his control slip slightly.
I lunged.
He regained his composure only a breath later, but by then I’d gained enough momentum to reach his left. Her Lady’s gift cut into the string.
With most things, the blade never slowed. Flesh, bone, armor . . . there wasn’t much it couldn’t penetrate.
Thin as it was, though, the black silver string proved to be a stronger metal than most. The sword cut through, but only thanks to every ounce of my strength and weight thrown against it. Even then, there was a precious delay before the last bit of strand gave way.
Far too much time to allow Lysander to react.
The shadow I’d seen drape over him, the shadow that was his spirit, ripped free of the body. The head tilted to the side, and the expression went slack as only the dead could display.
The shadow moved toward me. I’d not had any experience fighting elven spirits, but I had to hope that Her Lady’s gift would suffice. The flickering shape reminded me of a banshee I’d had to deal with during the battle with Oberon back in the previous century, but I doubted Lysander’d be as easy . . . not that the banshee had been simple.
He looked forward to dealing with you himself . . . he said in my mind. But he won’t mind if we take the pleasure. . . .
“‘We’?” Other than Her Lady and Oberon, I’d not heard too many elves speak of themselves so. Still, megalomania wasn’t an uncommon trait for Feirie folk.
Lysander’s shadow spread wider. I was reminded then that the monstrous Wyld I sometimes encountered were not all that different from the ruling caste.
From the depths of the black shape shot an inky limb ending in a clawed appendage that just barely could be called a hand. I wasn’t so worried about the claws as I was the dark blue aura forming around the hand itself. I braced myself for the worst as I rushed to meet him.
But someone else leapt in front of us, gripping the spirit’s outstretched hand as if it were solid.
Someone who happened to be Kravayik.
He let out a cry as he took hold. Not a surprise since the same aura now covered him. Still, Kravayik, dressed as we’d last seen him, stood firm against Lysander’s attack.
“Get . . . to . . . him!” he shouted back at me, not needing to explain just whom he meant. With Kravayik occupied, there was only me to deal with Holmes. “And forgive . . . forgive me. . . .”
Even if I hadn’t noticed the change in his voice when he said the last, the flickering image I caught out of the corner of my eye was enough to let me know that it was to Claudette he begged. I wasn’t certain if I’d ever get the full story out of him—assuming we all survived, that was—but I knew I’d been right about him having fallen in love with her.
I didn’t flee the chamber immediately. I needed one thing, or rather, one person. Returning the sword to its hiding place, I hefted Joseph over my shoulder and dragged him off. He wasn’t the lightest, but I’d had to shoulder worse. I couldn’t leave him here, no matter what he’d done in the past. This Joseph was like an innocent child. An innocent and admittedly still valuable child. Holmes’d kept him alive for a reason, which meant that despite Lysander’s attitude, not all was perfect with their plot. They still needed his calculations.
Holmes’d used Joseph to calculate the moment of the wake’s greatest influence. What happened after that, though? How swiftly did the wake—and the shadow—recede? This was a thing of magic. It didn’t necessarily follow the rules of the mortal realm. It was possible that there was some abrupt change Holmes still feared.
Which meant that by saving Joseph, I could also use him as bait.
It wasn’t a very saintly notion, but I couldn’t reject the consideration. If it came to sacrificing Joseph for the rest, so be it.
A crackling sound erupted behind me as I reached the door. I didn’t look back. Kravayik’s existence before coming to the mortal plane had been as a deadly assassin. I had to assume he could deal with Lysander . . . or at least stall him long enough for me to do whatever I could.
Whatever that was.
Someone grabbed my arm . . . and suddenly we were in the empty storefront again.
I didn’t have to ask who was responsible. The pale hand on me was enough. Either the other twin had come after me or the first had been able to overwhelm both Claryce and Fetch.
I let go of Joseph. His limp body fell onto my unseen adversary. As that happened, I turned around and swung my fist.
I had the tremendous satisfaction of landing a blow as good as any Jack Dempsey or Mike McTigue could’ve done, sending the Schreck—who’d still been struggling with Joseph’s limp body—stumbling back. Still, he quickly recovered, then pulled free the hollow-tipped dagger Joseph’s body’d blocked.
A shot rang out. A hole burst open in the Schreck’s throat. He dropped the dagger, then fell to his knees. He struggled to rise, but finally slumped to the floor.
Claryce grimly lowered her revolver. Her expression changed to one of relief when she looked up at me.
“Oh, thank God! Nick—”
I looked around. Fetch leaned over the body of the first twin. He was spitting out something in disgust. I’d seen him eat rats raw, so I couldn’t see what would’ve bothered him about ripping out the throat of an adversary.
“Ah!” Fetch gasped. “Applesauce! Disgusting, that was!” He looked at us. “Like biting into soft clay and about as tasty!”
“‘Clay’?” I came over to the ruined corpse. Fetch’s victim lay sprawled on the floor, his head to the side. Fetch’d done a good job on the hood’s throat, leaving very little intact.
Then, I saw a problem. All that carnage . . . and no blood, no moisture whatsoever. In fact, what Fetch’d said about clay made more and more sense as I inspected the wound. I
nstead of gobbets of flesh, small fragments of what could’ve passed for pottery shards lay strewn around the body.
Even more unnerving, I could see that the neck’s interior was hollow.
I immediately inspected the one Claryce’d shot. Despite the damage she’d done to him, again, there was no hint of blood.
I can’t say I was surprised. “Fetch. These those things you talked about? They are hollow.”
“Nay, Master Nicholas. Not seen a thing like this, not even in Feirie. Maybe a human version?”
Shrugging, I looked at one of the open windows. “What about the others?”
“They got quiet right after you vanished,” Claryce answered. “Then, suddenly, this other one showed up. He took a look at me, then at what Fetch was doing to his twin. After that, he disappeared, only to bring you back to me.”
While I was as grateful to see her as she sounded about me, I couldn’t help finding the second twin’s antics worrisome. He’d seen his double dying and should’ve known that to bring me back here risked his own existence. Why then take such a suicidal tact?
Then I thought about where I was standing and knew what he’d intended. I quickly leaned over Joseph.
“What’s wrong?” Claryce asked.
Instead of answering her, I ordered, “Fetch, watch the windows. Those other hoods are still going to be out there. They’re setting up for something. They’ve been ordered to stall at all costs.”
“Yes, Master Nicholas.”
As Fetch rushed off, I muttered to Claryce, “We need to get Joseph conscious. You saw what happened when he showed up here?”
“Yes, both of you vanished. I was so afraid for you!”
“Holmes’s entire sanctum can only be reached through those like Joseph who have a link to it. I can’t return to it. They’re trying to keep me out until it’s too late. If Kravayik—” I stopped. “Kravayik got inside. I wonder how.”
“We never saw him.”
“Probably what he intended. He found a way in. But if not Joseph, then how?”
Gunfire erupted. What was left of the window Fetch’d rushed to shattered. The wind spilled inside, lowering the already cold temperature.
Claryce shivered.
Two more shots whizzed past us. Fetch leaned out, then quickly backed up as two more nearly caught him. Unless they hit him right in the head, it was doubtful that two bullets would do more than slow him a little, but there was no sense taking chances.
Although both the Schrecks had been disposed of, the gunmen one of them had brought with him were still a threat to Claryce. Despite the risk that Holmes would complete his work, I couldn’t leave without making certain that she’d be safe.
Then, before we could do anything, the shooting went into a brief frenzy. I counted six, maybe seven shots in rapid succession that didn’t even come close to us . . . almost as if the mobsters had a new target.
A moment later, there was silence. A single gunshot followed, and then the silence resumed.
“Fetch! What do you see?”
He peered out. “One of the torpedoes trying to run toward here. Looks scared, Master Nicholas. Looks scared.”
I moved toward him. “Maybe we should grab him and see what’s happening. This has to have something to do with Holmes.”
“Aye. Here he comes like a bat out of hell!”
I reached the ruined window just in time to see the hood in question frantically trying to reach the last street before Holmes’s building. He kept looking behind him as if, well, Hell was after him.
A second thug suddenly stepped out of the alley the first past. He rushed up behind his comrade . . . and then a black point burst out of the chest of the first man.
The skewered hood dropped his automatic. He shivered a moment, then went limp.
The point receded inside the corpse. A moment later, the body fell in a heap, just quick enough to let us see the long, sharp spike that was at the end of the second goon’s arm revert to a normal-looking hand.
Lon.
He continued on toward us, moving at an incredibly rapid pace despite using a walking stance. Another time, I’d have had a word with him about his lack of consideration about just what passed for human in public, but for now I needed him desperately. I had a feeling he might be the key to reaching Holmes’s sanctum.
“So, you’ve been lurking around here all the time,” I muttered as he reached us. “You came here with Kravayik, didn’t you?”
For an answer I received a slight nod. Up close, it was clear the Feir’hr Sein had pretty much worn out another body. The goon’s skin was peeling off in several places, and a blackness had spread over the gums. His eyes had already begun to sink in.
“Kravayik got in. You stayed out here, but you know the way in, don’t you? You can open it up or show me, can’t you?”
He repeated the nod, then, in a raspy voice, murmured, “Follow. Short.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by the last. I quickly turned to Fetch and Claryce. “Get out of here. Those gunshots will have to finally bring the cops around, and I can’t help thinking somehow that Cortez’ll be one of the first.”
“Nick—”
“Get her out of here, Fetch. That’s an order.”
He let his ears flatten. “Yes, Master Nicholas.”
To the Feir’hr Sein, I ordered, “Lead the way, Lon.”
Once again, he hissed at the use of the nickname. He didn’t like being bound to serve me, but I was going to use that forced obedience to my benefit. I trailed after him as he walked to the center of the room.
The moment he reached there, he sloughed off the corpse, the body nearly tumbling back into me. As that happened, I got a glimpse of a different Feir’hr Sein than that with which I was familiar. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen what moved ahead of me before, just that I’d not known what it was at the time.
I hadn’t had time to wonder what’d happened to the Wyld that’d attacked me near the gravesite. I had wondered about its tie to all these matters . . . and now I knew.
It’d been Lon.
CHAPTER 26
The stickman moved forward a few more feet, reverting in the process to the Lon I knew better. I had to assume there was a specific reason for the other shape, most likely a preferred form if and when he faced Holmes. Lon’d been on the hunt for Holmes when we’d come across each other, and as one of Her Lady’s enforcers, he hadn’t been concerned if he eliminated me in the process.
While matters had obviously changed, I knew that he looked for any chance to escape his servitude to me. For now, though, Holmes was the threat to all.
The Feir’hr Sein leaned down. As he did, something slipped from his bony hand. Something that made me reach for my pocket, where Her Lady’s other gift—Lysander’s blood—still lay nestled.
“What is that?” I asked, unable to make it out.
It is . . . he. . . .
It took me a precious moment to understand just what he meant. “That’s a part of . . . him? Of Holmes?”
The price . . . for her giving him access to the power of Feirie. . . .
“Ahh.” Lon didn’t sound happy with the results of that pact, and I couldn’t blame him. Now I understood. In Feirie, alliances were often made by giving a part of oneself to the other. When Oberon and Her Lady had wed, he’d given her a drop of his blood . . . a very precious commodity considering its potential for magic. Of course, he’d made certain to seal it so that nothing she did could penetrate.
Well, almost nothing.
And Her Lady had overstepped with Holmes, assuming all along that since he was human, she could outwit him. It was a failing with her. “What about her price?”
Lysander . . . she gave him Lysander, thinking her hold on that one was complete. . . . It was not. . . . Lysander and the Beast had more to bind them together. . . .
It was a long speech, for Lon. Long, but still not completely clear. Still, I didn’t bother to ask what he’d left out. I swore at Her Lady a
gain. The bit of Lysander’s blood that she’d given me paled in comparison to Holmes’s foul essence. That meant a link we could trust. I didn’t dare attempt anything related to what Holmes had stolen from me, if only because that’d give him a much better chance to counter us.
Lon touched a finger to the spot. A flicker of crimson energy arose from the area, swirling into a whirlwind in which a vague image formed.
The Feir’hr Sein turned his half-seen, nearly fleshless face to me. Quickly . . . this will only work with the wake so strong. . . .
His lengthy statement surprised me for a moment. Lon straightened, then walked into the whirlwind and disappeared. I gritted my teeth and jumped in.
We ended up in chaos. I’d expected to find us wherever Holmes actually was, but instead we’d returned to Kravayik and Lysander . . . and things weren’t looking good for Kravayik. The spirit of Lysander was draped over him. Kravayik was on one knee and almost to both.
From the brief hiss escaping the Feir’hr Sein, he hadn’t expected to arrive here, either. It occurred to me that in the maze, everything had a touch of Holmes in it. The array probably had more, which was why we’d ended up near Lysander. Magic wasn’t always perfect.
“We need to help—” I started . . . only to find Lon gone. He’d brought me here and then run off before I could demand more of him. I knew then that I’d been wrong; Lon’d diverted me to here, then continued on to Holmes.
“Dear God! What is that?”
I swore as I looked at the source of the question. Claryce, her Smith & Wesson out, stared at what was happening to Kravayik. She’d followed us through.
“Get back through before the way shuts—” I stopped as now Fetch jumped through. Worse, right after he did, the spell faltered and the way back dissipated.
Fetch looked rightfully ashamed. Claryce, on the other hand, glared at me. “What is that on top of Kravayik?”
“The elf.”
“What, from that body? Is that what an elf’s ghost is like?”
There wasn’t time to explain the difference between a true ghost and an elven spirit, not that I thought Claryce would see any more sense in the definition than I really did. “Something like that. The elf—Lysander—is still alive, though.”
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