by J. L. Doty
“None of that,” one of the leprechauns said. The water turned suddenly icy and he screamed, danced for a moment like a madman under the frigid shower before he managed to turn it off.
“What the fuck!” he shouted. He climbed out of the shower swearing, faced the two little men. “Which one of you did that?”
Each one of them pointed at the other and said, “He did.” Paul shook his head angrily, grabbed a towel and dried off quickly.
Back in the bedroom the leprechauns had piled his clothes on the bed. He couldn’t remember wearing any clothes for some days now.
“Get dressed, yee mortal fool. Now.”
He didn’t remember dressing, didn’t remember opening the door of the apartment. He did remember stepping across the threshold. It was like forcing his way through some sort of resistant membrane. It took a conscious effort to push through it, and when he emerged on the other side in the hall outside her apartment, his mind cleared a bit. It was the first time in days he could put two coherent thoughts together one after the other, thoughts that didn’t involve Belinda.
“That’s much better,” Boo’Diddle said. Then the leprechauns each took one of his hands and led him down the stairs.
As they stepped through the front door of the building he met Belinda on the steps. “Paul!” she said, clearly surprised he was standing there. “What are you doing out here?”
Blink. There it was again, an image of Belinda superimposed over the Belinda standing before him. It was still Belinda he’d seen, but an older Belinda, still attractive, but with graying hair and dark circles of age under her eyes.
“My two friends,” he said just as she reached out and took his hand in hers.
“What friends?” she asked.
Confused by her question, he looked around carefully. Other than a few passersby on the sidewalk, she and he were alone on the front porch of the building. “I don’t know,” he answered, then looked in her eyes. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful lips. He leaned down and kissed those lips, reached up and caressed one of her breasts.
Chapter 17: The Search
Katherine had almost given up hope. She knew Paul was somewhere South of Market, was absolutely certain of that, was also certain he must be hidden within someone’s wards. The matched charms she’d made were powerful, and the link between them would be difficult to mask even for one as powerful as her father. Distance could do it, if Paul had left the city and was now several hundred miles away. But she would’ve sensed him in transit. Temporary wards, the kind one might use while travelling, just couldn’t mask his location completely. No, she knew her spells and witchcraft, and to mask the link between the charms she and Paul shared required extremely strong wards, house wards prepared by a potent practitioner, built up and sustained over a long period of time. Several years, at least.
Once she’d been able to sneak away from her father and Colleen, knowing she’d be doing a lot of walking she’d donned jeans, blouse, sneakers and a windbreaker, and hit the streets. Jeans and sneakers weren’t her style, but the jeans were DKNYs, and she’d found some Prada sneakers, so that made it acceptable. And for three days now she’d been walking the streets of SoMa, had literally walked every street in the district, and some of those surrounding it.
Time would also break the link between the charms as the power within them slowly but inevitably dissipated. Each day that passed with Paul hidden away meant the link between them had grown that much weaker. And that’s what she feared most now. She was running out of time.
She stopped in a coffee shop to get a bite for lunch. She waited in line for about ten minutes, then ordered espresso and a small sandwich. She paid the barista, then stepped aside to wait for her espresso, and it was while the machine hissed and steamed that the link between the charms snapped back into place. Paul had emerged from his hiding place, and she sensed he was near, maybe only a few blocks away.
She spun on her heels and ran out of the store, while behind her the barista shouted, “Wait! Your espresso!”
She stopped on the sidewalk and closed her eyes, covered her ears with her hands and tried to block out the noisy city street. Sensing his location wasn’t like looking at some icon marked Paul on the GPS navigation system in her car. At best it was a vague sensation of direction and distance, though direction was easier than distance. He was somewhere to her right. She opened her eyes, turned and ran down the street.
At the street corner she stopped and repeated the process, closing her eyes and covering her ears. In that way she zigzagged her way for three blocks, could sense him now quite close as she jogged down the sidewalk, breathing heavily. And then the link disappeared again, blinked out as if someone had thrown a switch and turned it off like the lights in a room.
She stumbled to a halt in the middle of the block, knowing she’d been close but not sure how close. Her frustration almost drove her to tears as she growled, “God damn it!”
An older man walking nearby glanced her way and hesitated, then took a wide berth around her.
Simuth, the Winter Knight, had followed the young woman each day, all day, as she wandered the streets of the city. He suspected she was searching for the young wizard, about which they knew almost nothing. It bothered Ag that he’d never before heard of this young man, this young wizard who’d created such a stir in the Realms, this Paul Conklin. But they knew the Old Wizard’s daughter and the young man were somehow connected, so Simuth had played a hunch.
When she emerged from the coffee shop at a run, he was standing not five feet from her as she stopped on the sidewalk to close her eyes and cover her ears. When she ran down the street at a jog he pulled a glamour so none of these mortal fools could see him. It wasn’t invisibility, just a spell that turned their eyes away from him, and in that way he followed her easily until she stopped abruptly in the middle of a city block and swore an angry oath. Whatever trail she’d been following had ended abruptly without success.
She was actually quite attractive, and he thought it might be fun to bed her. He considered casting a spell of confusion over her. It would addle her wits and he could take her someplace, perhaps even back to Faerie, where he’d make her pleasure him. But the thought of some compliant, mortal whore complacently satisfying his wishes didn’t really excite him. He preferred his women to fight back a bit, and she would be a fighter; he could see that in her. As he fantasized what he might do to her while she resisted him, he grew quite excited. Yes, he’d spell her here so she couldn’t make a scene on this busy street, take her back to Faerie, remove the spell, then rape her at his leisure while she fought back.
She stood on the street with her back to him, so he pulled power, began concentrating it for the spell as he walked toward her. But a heavy hand settled on his shoulder and spun him about. He almost threw the spell at the intruder, but he hesitated as he sensed strong magic surrounding them, mortal magic. He looked carefully before acting, looked into Walter McGowan’s eyes, an angry father’s eyes, a very powerful angry father on his home turf.
Simuth allowed the power he’d pulled to dissipate slowly, lowered his hand and smiled at the old man. “Old Wizard,” he said, employing his best court etiquette. “It’s always a pleasure to meet you, even if by chance.”
McGowan growled like an angry predator, “I wish I could say the same.”
Simuth frowned and touched a hand delicately to his own breast. “You wound me. Have I given offense in some way?”
McGowan leaned close to him, and he could see the power in the old man’s eyes, a frightening amount of power. “We both know it’s not by chance. I’ve been watching you follow my daughter. And I watched you pull power as you approached her. And I do believe you did not have her best interests at heart.”
Simuth smiled again. “You misjudge me. Surely you could not think I meant the young lady harm.”
McGowan’s eyes burned into Simuth as he said, “I compel you under wizard’s oath to deliver a wizard’s message to King Ag. Tell Ag what
you were about to do. And tell him I caught you before you did it. And tell him he’s now indebted to me.”
Simuth cringed as fear crawled from his stomach up into his chest. He dare not fail to deliver such a message, and he knew what the result would be.
Jim’Jiminie and Boo’Diddle watched Simuth turn away from the Old Wizard, fear and apprehension written plainly on the Sidhe’s handsome face. Simuth walked up the street wrapped in his glamour, and with each step his presence on the Mortal Plane grew less certain. That was the way of the Realms, and of crossing between them. To exist in one and not the others one must manipulate the probability of one’s existence in a particular place and time. And as Simuth marched up the street the probability that he existed on the Mortal Plane diminished, and that allowed the possibility of his existence in Faerie. With each step he reduced the certainty of his existence in the here and now, and his image in the present grew less substantial, until finally he was just a wraith of sparkling pixie dust that floated away on a casual breeze.
Mortals had a difficult time comprehending the probabilities of existence, seemed unable to process the concept that to get from here to there, one only needed to accept the intermediate stage in which the probability of your existence in any one realm was not wholly defined, not absolute. For that reason Mortals always needed a boundary to cross between the Realms, whereas most fey could step between them with casual indifference.
Both leprechauns watched McGowan watch Simuth cross out of the Mortal Plane. The Old Wizard wore the glamour of an old woman, though the leprechauns could easily see through that, could see the angry scowl on his face. When the Sidhe was fully gone the old man turned back to his daughter, but did not approach her. He stood some distance away and watched her, and, if he remained true to form, he’d change his glamour shortly so his daughter would not grow suspicious.
“What are you two reprobates doing here?”
Boo’Diddle started, and Jim’Jiminie, who’d been leaning casually against the tire of a car—a tire larger than him—pushed away from the tire and turned to face Colleen. They both bowed like elegant courtiers, and in unison they said, “Me Lady Armaugh. As always, such a pleasure.”
Colleen stood over the two of them wrapped in her shadows, though the two leprechauns could easily see through them. “Tis not the pleasure of my company you’re seeking here. I know that full well.”
A young woman walked between them intent on some destination, oblivious to the presence of the three of them. Boo’Diddle had to step lively to keep from being trampled.
“What brings you here?” Colleen demanded. “Why this sudden interest in the old man’s daughter?”
Boo’Diddle said, “And why would you be thinkin’ we have some interest in the young lady?”
“Sure,” Jim’Jiminie added, “she’s a right pretty lass. But perhaps it’s you we’re interested in, or the old man, or the Winter Knight.” Jim’Jiminie decided to have some fun. He glanced across the street where he could see Anogh standing in a glamour of his own. He nodded that way, drawing Colleen’s attention to the Sidhe warrior. “Or perhaps it’s the Summer Knight that draws our interest.”
Colleen’s eyes widened.
Jim’Jiminie turned and looked up the street past McGowan and his daughter to where a tall, stick-thin man stood waiting on the corner. “Or perhaps it’s the unpleasant Russians.”
He turned back to Colleen. “Or perhaps we just enjoy watching foolish mortal games.” At Colleen’s frown he continued. “Be ready. He’ll need her help, and the two of them’ll need yours.”
At that moment he decided he probably didn’t exist so much on the Mortal Plane anymore.
After her head-long flight from the coffee shop, madly following the vague sensation of direction provided by the charms; and after it had been so abruptly severed, Katherine was more certain than ever that the strong wards of a powerful practitioner’s home were masking Paul’s presence. But there were dozens of homes and apartment buildings here; even more if she included a one-block radius around her. He could be in any of them, and without the connection between the charms, or some other hint as to his location, finding him would be impossible.
She walked up and down the street desperately hoping the connection would return. And storming through the streets of SoMa, her frustration growing as each hour passed with no sign of Paul, she began to form a plan on how to locate him. Eventually she gave up any hope he’d reappear on her charm radar, decided to implement her plan and caught a cab back to her parking garage. She drove the Jag home, always keeping a bit of her focused on the charms in case her connection to Paul returned.
Her home was still a mess from the demon attack. She’d called in a contractor but he was still working on the repairs, though this late there was no one about. She headed straight for her workshop, a room in which she allowed no one. She knew the young Latino girls employed by the cleaning service that came in once a week were curious about it, since it was the one room they were instructed not to clean. But she kept it locked, with the door heavily spelled.
She spent half the night preparing an arsenal of spells and charms. When she did locate Paul—and she never doubted she would eventually—she might need to break into a powerful practitioner’s home, and she wasn’t foolish enough to go in unprepared.
When the spells were ready she packed a small overnight bag with a toothbrush, makeup and a change of clothes, then drove back to SoMa and found a cheap motel not far from where she knew Paul was being held captive—she didn’t recall when she’d concluded he was being held captive, but deep inside she knew he wouldn’t hide from her. She found a parking garage nearby for the Jag, checked into the motel, laid down on the bed in her clothes, and drifted off into a restless sleep.
Belinda lay in bed next to Paul and watched his chest rise and fall as he slept soundly. Their lovemaking the night before had been intense, though at this stage it was more like raping a young boy than lovemaking. For her it satisfied her need for pleasure, while for him it fulfilled the powerful pull of the obsession, attraction and passion spells she’d cast upon him. She’d added the attraction and passion spells recently because, while the obsession spell seemed to be working nicely, it hadn’t had as intense an effect on the young man as she’d expected. She was stronger than most witches, and her spells were quite powerful, and there was something almost elemental, almost magical, about her body and the way she could use it to control men. But for the first time in her life that, and the obsession spell, had not been enough. Something she couldn’t quite identify was missing, and it had thwarted her every effort to control him. She’d achieved control, significant control after a fashion, but not the complete, absolute and unyielding control she had learned to rely on in similar situations.
Her master grew more impatient each day, and she sensed Its growing eagerness like a hungry, brooding presence hovering about her. She’d counseled her master to move slowly, to allow her the time she needed to fully enslave the young wizard. Certainly he was nicely under her power, and each day she had with him, especially each night, her control grew stronger. She’d established a fabric of control woven through the young man’s aura, but for some reason it remained fragile and imperfect, still a bit tenuous, and she feared that once beyond the wards of her apartment an outside influence might disrupt his growing dependence upon her. But she knew her master well, and Its patience was now exhausted. It wanted to speak with her; she knew that as only a thrall would know.
She eased out of bed, knowing Paul would sleep and dream of only her until she released him from the sleep spell she’d cast. Standing up completely naked, she admired herself in the mirror for a moment, admired the beautiful, young, voluptuous body that was one of her greatest assets.
She threw on a robe, walked out of her bedroom, down the hall and into the apartment’s other bedroom, which she used as a combination study and workroom. She picked up the phone there and called her master, and It answered the call befo
re the phone rang the first time. “I sensed you wanted to speak with me,” she said.
“Ah, my dear Belinda. You’re a treasure beyond value. Is the young Lord ready?”
She chose her words carefully. “There’s something missing here, something I can’t name. It might be best if we waited a few more days.”
Her master answered her with a long, painful silence. Finally, It asked, “Have you failed me?”
A knot of fear formed in the pit of her stomach. “No, master,” she pleaded. “It’s just progressing more slowly than I anticipated.”
“Perhaps you’re enjoying him too much,” It said. “That would be so like you, my dear Belinda. You do love the pleasures of that magnificent body of yours, though I’ll never understand what mortal men see in your curves.”
“No,” she pleaded. “It’s not that. I mean, I am enjoying him, but there’s something missing.”
“You do have him under your control, don’t you?”
“Yes, master, of course I do. It’s just that the—” She shivered as her master’s anger washed through her, like a splash of icy water on a winter day.
“I’ll send a car for you,” It said. “Have him ready this afternoon.”
“You fool,” Ag shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.
Simuth, on his hands and knees before Ag in his private study, blood dripping from his nose where Ag had struck him, cringed and tried to retreat, crawling like a dog. That enraged Ag even further; he crossed the distance between them in an instant and stomped on one of Simuth’s hands. Anogh heard the bones snap as the Winter Knight cried out and curled into a fetal position on the floor. Ag gave full vent to his rage and kicked and punched at the helpless fool.
Anogh glanced at the other courtiers standing about watching Ag’s cruelty. Many looked on with excitement or pleasure in their eyes. Cruelty was a hallmark of the Unseelie Court, bred into its denizens for millennia, and they all shared in a certain reverie whenever malice and brutality were manifest. Anogh wanted to look away. But to do so would draw Ag’s attention, and after six hundred years attending the Winter Court, Anogh had learned Ag’s attention was never a good thing. Simuth was immortal, and he’d survive and eventually heal from any wound, no matter how grievous.