Black City Saint

by Richard A. Knaak

  Our inner struggle for control was cut short by an ear piercing shriek from above. We paused in our duel in time to see the unthinkable. Her Lady’s black bird was caught in the viselike grip of the kelpie’s mouth . . . mouths. The water spirit sported two heads, something I’d never heard the few Feiriefolk who’d spoken of the creatures ever mention. I gathered that Her Lady hadn’t known that particular bit of information either, which meant that this was another trick of Oberon’s he’d been saving for just such a moment.

  The kelpie shook both its heads hard . . . and the black bird ripped into pieces that scattered in the storm. There was no blood, no bones. Just countless bits of what looked like feathers flying everywhere.

  I figured out right away that Oberon’d planned to use this trick on us but couldn’t pass up his impetuous former mate’s attack. I suspected that Her Lady had suffered as well. That meant we couldn’t expect any other aid from her, not that she’d done this to help us in the first place. If she had, she’d have let us in on it.

  The kelpie turned its twin gaze at us. The dragon started to rise to meet it . . . only to have me turn us back to the beach.

  He fought me tooth and nail. I kept him at bay, my control fueled by my fear for Claryce, always Claryce. I swept over the beach one more time, noting that it, of all places, hadn’t been affected by Feirie’s melding. I assumed that had something to do with the Gate and that gave me some hope. It also reminded me that I’d been right; despite his words, Oberon needed us dead to weaken the Gate enough to let the single card complete its dire work.

  It was Fetch I spotted first, Fetch the lupine monster, the assassin from Feirie, the supposed friend. He bounded across the sand and only paused when he sensed my nearing.

  I could sense the dragon ceasing his battle against me for the moment, as he felt my antipathy toward Fetch. Had it been up to the dragon, the shapeshifter would’ve been left burnt ash that night he’d tried to kill me—us. The thought of finally getting to do that tantalized my ever-present companion.

  Yet, before I could see that done, Fetch pointed behind him. I couldn’t help looking back . . . and saw Claryce racing in the opposite direction. She gripped Her Lady’s gift in one hand, while the other she kept tightly shut.

  Something made Claryce look behind her. She stopped dead in her tracks. “Nick!” she shouted at my huge, scaly form above her, somehow finding me in there despite everything. “Nick! I’ve got it! Fetch showed me how we can use it—”

  She got no farther. We all heard the kelpie’s double roar. I peered over one wing and saw that Oberon continued to reveal just how long and thoroughly he’d been planning his vengeance, vengeance further amplified by the dragon’s foolish belief that he could use the card as a bargaining chip.

  The kelpie split. The second head tore away from the first, bringing one of the forelegs with it. A third foreleg formed between the pair and then itself tore in two. For a moment, I was reminded of the Hilton sisters, vaudeville’s current favorite conjoined twins . . . but Oberon’s mount didn’t stop there. The two upper halves tugged away from one another and suddenly there were two complete, gargantuan creatures, the second of which bore Oberon and immediately surged toward Claryce.

  The dragon wanted no part of an Oberon armed with the spear, the card, and very likely the teardrop, but my will continued to overrule his. I would not let Claryce die . . . Claryce, not Cleolinda or any of the previous ones.

  But the other kelpie came between us. I forced the dragon’s body above the water monster and hoped that without Oberon to add his protections it would be more susceptible to our magic.

  And then a small black, avian form, only visible to us thanks to the dragon’s eyes, fluttered up behind the riderless kelpie.

  I couldn’t figure out how Her Lady’s changeling had managed to pull off an escape. It shouldn’t have been possible. Then, I remembered my glimpse of the avian on the way here and realized I felt the same odd difference. This wasn’t the changeling . . . but neither was it some simple bird accidentally caught up in the struggle.

  That last fact, at least, was verified when it displayed its talons, one set of which gripped none other than Oberon’s wedding gift to Her Lady.

  The kelpie must’ve sensed something. It twisted its head around at an unnatural angle and tried to snap up this second black bird. Fortunately for us, the bird was able to fly above its maw, though it was clear by its careful movements that the teardrop was no simple object to carry. The smooth surface of the gem threatened to slip free. If it fell into Lake Michigan, there’d be no finding it in time.

  Against the dragon’s better judgement—and mine, too—I forced us forward as fast as our wings could beat. We straightened as much as possible, becoming like a torpedo or an arrow.

  Still intent on the black bird, the kelpie didn’t turn back in time. We barreled through it, sending great globs of water spilling all over the raging lake. The kelpie simply fell apart, its body merging with the churning water below.

  I didn’t know if we’d managed to destroy this one or if it’d reconstruct itself in a few moments. I only knew that Claryce had sacrificed herself to see to it that the teardrop got to us and, despite my wanting with all my heart to protect her, I had to make certain we controlled the gem.

  The black bird dived to meet us. As it neared, I noticed a subtle difference in its shape. Either the changeling had decided to alter this form for some reason, or this wasn’t the same avian.

  The answer came the moment it—he—stared into our eyes. I knew his, even if they were shaped to suit the black bird’s head. I knew exactly . . . and realized I should’ve known all along.

  I’ve damned you enough for not helping, I thought to the black bird, not caring whether he actually heard me or not. I never even knew if you were listening . . . assuming that you even are Michael . . .

  The avian cawed and stretched the talon holding the teardrop toward me. We were tantalizingly close.

  But so was Oberon.

  He’d most likely noticed something was wrong the moment we’d crashed through his kelpie. We should’ve been chasing after him in the hopes of saving Claryce—or at least the gem, by his Feirie thinking—and when we’d instead focused solely on the other beast, he’d realized his mistake. Unfortunately for us, he’d realized it too quickly.

  The spear came as if out of nowhere, its sharp point impaling the black bird from behind as Oberon and his mount rose up. The kelpie was fast. Too fast. His master not only had time to skewer the avian but also to flip the wriggling body up. When the trembling talons released the teardrop, the gem fell straight into Oberon’s waiting palm.

  And without missing a breath, he then dropped the spear down just in time to drive it into our chest.

  But his catching the teardrop, while spelling disaster for everything else, at least for now bought us life. As swift as the kelpie was, we managed to be just a little swifter. Instead of the heart, the point jammed closer to the shoulder. We were in renewed agony, but at least we were still breathing . . . for the moment.

  Pain sent us fluttering back. The spear, deeply imbedded, came with us. The kelpie tried to pursue in order to finish us. We exhaled, and while the flames did nothing to actually harm Oberon and the kelpie, they did momentarily blind them. That bought us a few moments more of badly needed respite.

  “Birds of a feather flock together, they say,” the exiled lord of Feirie shouted cheerfully, as he held up the teardrop to examine. “A clever trick on both Claryce’s part and that of my dear Titania to have this second little puppet aloft! I would not have imagined she’d have the strength left after our first encounter . . . It should be entertaining to revive our passion once I have set these worlds to right!”

  It didn’t matter that he was wrong about the second black bird being her servant. I knew enough about Her Lady’s fear of Oberon to understand that only he would find their reunion “entertaining.” If there was anyone Oberon intended to test the full fury
of his dark arts upon, it’d be his treacherous spouse.

  I’d my own misgivings about Her Lady, especially at this moment. She’d given me the teardrop as if it would be the perfect weapon by which to rid us of Oberon. Yet I’d already witnessed it survive the dragon’s breath, which few things could . . . among them now Oberon, apparently. If I couldn’t do anything to the gem, how was I supposed to use it to stop Oberon’s madness?

  “The card, the Gate, you, and now my blood returned to me! Can you not see that the stars have aligned for me? Can you not see that mine is obviously the only true path of survival for my beloved Feirie . . . and your realm as well? I must slay you to finish this, Gatekeeper, but I would have you understand . . .”

  I wasn’t sure whether it was the dragon, me, or both of us who growled out our response. I only knew for certain that we were in utter agreement. “We understand . . . that you are mad . . .”

  Oberon shook his head. He already had the card out—and experience’d already shown we couldn’t do any damage to it, either—and now he held the teardrop over it.

  We tried desperately to remove the spear, only find out that something else was wrong. The claw that should’ve easily torn the lance free instead shook so uncontrollably that we couldn’t get a grip. Worse, it became a greater strain to try to keep our wings flapping hard enough to prevent us from plummeting into Lake Michigan.

  “It will be over for you soon,” Oberon called, as he touched the teardrop to the Clothos card, “and over for this realm . . . did you think I’d leave matters just to the simple strength of the spear?”

  Whatever poison he laced the tip with worked fast. My thoughts grew sluggish and I could feel the dragon falling prey to the same. I couldn’t think of any way out of this situation, but even more important than my life—and even the city’s survival—was protecting Claryce. She was going to die again . . .

  “Poor dear Titania,” Oberon blithely went on, as the teardrop began to take on a strange, softer appearance. “I wonder exactly when she first tried to unseal the blood I’d given her, only to find that she could not break the barrier I’d placed around it! She would have needed more of my blood to open it, not that I ever permitted her the opportunity!” He smiled wider, that too-wide elven smile that generally meant foul things. “Of course, for the moment, the card will work much faster . . .”

  Even though our gaze had begun to grow blurry, it was still powerful enough to pierce the night and even see the transformation the Clothos card had wrought on the teardrop. I was surprised to see that the crystalline structure itself was transparent; what was blacker than pitch was Oberon’s blood. It was so black—all the better to match his thoughts—that it’d made its prison seem the same.

  And then, even through the poison and pain, I saw the one chance of stopping him.

  It took all the will I had left, plus stirring the dragon up as much as I could, to enable us to summon enough breath to exhale one last time. Matters weren’t made any easier by the fact that I needed the blast as focused as possible.

  The stream of flame shot out, barely missing the kelpie’s wild crest. Oberon noticed what we were doing and began to laugh . . . until he understood what I had in mind.

  He’d worked more than five decades to protect himself from the dragon’s breath. I had the feeling that we hadn’t seen him for fifty years in part because the first few had been spent recuperating from what should’ve been his death. Oberon’d wanted to make certain that this time nothing could truly harm him.

  Of course, he’d never had a chance to do the same for the drop of blood his bride had kept to herself all these centuries. Encased in its prison, it’d been safe enough.

  But now . . . nothing protected it.

  The flames washed over Oberon and the tiny drop of blood he’d freed. Had this been some human—even one as monstrous as Doolin—it wouldn’t have mattered if the drop’d been burned away. Oberon, though, was of Feirie—was Feirie—and so the blood he’d given his bride was linked to his own vulnerability.

  The drop of blood boiled away, turning to mist in scarcely the blink of an eye.

  Oberon took longer to burn. Not much, but longer.

  He shrieked as his body erupted in fire. There was as much anger as horror in his cry. Even in the end, he couldn’t accept that he wasn’t going to have things as he desired. The imperiousness that’d once ruled the Feirie Court meant nothing now, though. Oberon burned as quickly, as completely, as a dry piece of wood might’ve.

  The flames had not only engulfed him, they also meant the end of the protections he’d cast on the kelpie. Oberon’s own fading cry was swallowed up by that of the gargantuan beast as it sizzled and turned to vapor. The kelpie writhed and shook itself in what was clearly an effort to throw off the flames, but being of the dragon’s magic, the fire just grew stronger, hungrier.

  What remained of the kelpie collapsed into Lake Michigan. As it did, I spotted the ash, bone, and twisted armor fragments that were all that remained of Oberon dropping toward the murky waters. With them fell the only thing untouched by the magical fire . . . the Clothos card. The card and Oberon’s plummeting remains were outlined not only by the Gate but by the horrific changes already overtaking Chicago. I knew that the Gate would survive, but the card had more effect on the two realms than I’d hoped. Chicago was a mass of forest-enshrouded hills mixed with a multitude of buildings. I didn’t know what the inhabitants of both places were suffering, but I knew that they’d only be the first victims if I didn’t stop things now.

  We were already racing after the card, despite the spear and the poison taking a constantly greater and greater toll on us. Once, our vision grew so unfocused that I feared we’d lost the card. I couldn’t trust that the bottom of the lake would be sufficient to keep it from hands willing to use it.

  Barely a couple of yards above the surface, we managed to seize hold of it. That didn’t stop us from hitting the water, which felt like concrete. The collision finally proved enough to dislodge the spear, which dropped into the lake. That didn’t lessen the pain, though, and now that the wound was open it bled faster.

  Somehow, we managed to keep from sinking under the water, even though death was looking more attractive. Sheer stubbornness enabled us to get our wings to flap twice more . . . at which point we crashed onto the beach.

  Despite the dragon’s protests, I forced us back up into the air. The poison was well into its work, but I didn’t care.

  The Gate’s illumination vied with that of the Frost Moon’s. In their combined light, we saw Chicago and Feirie melded together as I suspected even Oberon hadn’t intended. The tall buildings had become twisted in the manner of the dark oaks, while the oaks themselves were several stories taller than they’d been during my recent sojourn there. Shadowy things flew above the city, things that could never be mistaken for planes, zeppelins, or even one of the new autogyros I’d heard about.

  Howls arose in parts of the ever-shifting tableau. Other noises I didn’t want to guess at. There was gunfire nearby, but I ignored it as I held up the Clothos card and concentrated as best I could. As I did, I noticed the Gate flare brighter. On a hunch, I stretched the empty claw out to it. Some of the poison’s lethargy faded, along with a bit of the pain left over from the wound caused by the spear.

  I wasn’t thinking well. I’d never wielded one of the cards myself, only sealed this one away as soon as I could. With no idea what to do, I simply focused on the card and demanded that it separate the two realms again. I repeated the command over and over . . .

  The Gate burned brighter, but this time I didn’t feel any better. In fact, I was near to passing out, the dragon with me. Just before we couldn’t keep our wings beating any longer, I thought I saw Chicago and Feirie start to separate . . . and then we were spiraling earthward.

  Even through the storm, I heard a female scream and a growl that seemed to take place right in my ear. Just before we struck, I realized that our wings had shrunken to little m
ore than nubs, and we were only a fraction of the size we’d been. Our body was turning human . . . at probably the worst moment.

  But what we struck didn’t feel like the beach. In fact, it cradled us as best it could. I heard something crack and this time the howl was in my ear.

  After that, both the dragon and I blacked out. I wasn’t entirely gone, though whether that meant I was halfway to Heaven or Hell, I couldn’t say at the time. Instead of the howl, I heard what sounded like sobbing, then sirens.

  Then I felt the cold of the grave wash over our—my—body . . . and knew that Her Lady’d come to claim her victory and me.

  CHAPTER 29

  I continued to hear gunshots, including what sounded like tommies, but the noises seemed to come from far away. What did come from nearby were two female voices, the first that of Her Lady, the second . . . Claryce.

  Aware of the danger to Claryce, I tried to rise. It was as if I didn’t have a body, anymore. Now both the dragon and I floated in some limbo, unable to act.

  I couldn’t understand what they were saying, only that Claryce kept treading more and more dangerous water with her sharp tone.

  Then, just like that, Her Lady’s chilling presence vanished. With her departure, I felt some hint of the world around me return, especially in the form of Claryce’s fingers touching my cheek.

  “Nick . . .” she whispered. “Nick . . . say something . . .”

  But as quickly as Her Lady’d vanished, she returned, this time inside with me.

  Her darling Gatekeeper, a spot of darkness on my soul murmured to me. Without warning, I stood in a mockery of the Court, a tiny circle of oaks barely taller than me.

  I forgot about the oaks as Her Lady materialized in front of me. Her gown was only hints of shadow that shifted constantly, ever teasing of the glory that she was and what I could have if I desired.

  Her darling Gatekeeper . . . Georgius . . .

  It was the first time she’d ever called me by my ancient name. It was also the most gently she’d ever spoken. What made it more shocking was that I knew none of it was part of her usual masquerade.