Soul of Fire

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “My lady.” The speaker tried to dig himself out. “I—”

  “I will not be defied,” she said, her voice still soft, gentle. “Kelpie.”

  Tyler had seen Martin transform before. Or rather, he hadn’t seen it, his eyes forcing themselves shut and opening again only when the man was gone and the beast remained, but he knew the feel of magic pressing on him. He had not realized it could be done so swiftly, though. Nalith had only just given her order when the kelpie struck, gleaming black hooves staving the super’s skull in like a pumpkin after frost.

  “Fuck me,” someone murmured, more awed than horrified, and Tyler swallowed back the bile that had risen in his throat. The show of strength, of indifference, was all that had saved him before. He would not break now. He would not let this preter break him, when others—Stjerne, his memory whispered. Lovely, cruel Stjerne—had failed.

  Martin had not changed back, standing four legged in the cleared center of the room, his victim underneath him, as though waiting for another challenge to appear, another order to be given.

  When none came, he snorted, cold amusement clear in the sound, and stepped backward until he paused by Nalith’s chair, hooves picking delicately across the hardwood floor. His eyes were bright yellow, his mane caked in blood, and there was nothing gentle or tame about him at all. Even Nalith did not dare to rest her hand on his neck or touch that shoulder. The kelpie killed on her order, but it was no pet, no tool to be picked up without caution.

  Tyler exhaled slightly, remembering the Martin who had stolen a car and driven them here, who had gone Under the Hill with Jan to bring him back out. The Martin who held Jan’s hand, as if it gave them both comfort. Not tame, no. But not a danger to him here now.

  It was just everything else he needed to worry about.

  * * *

  The music was loud, the bass thumping deep enough that hearts regulated themselves to its meter, blood pulsed to its rhythm, bodies swaying in unison throughout the club. Despite that, Harry could hear every word the blonde said, as though they were alone in an empty room.

  “You are sweet.” The woman leaned in, her finger tracing the line of his jaw, her nail short but sharp against his skin. Normally being called “sweet” was the kiss of death to your chances, but the way she said it implied less kittens and teddy bears and more tangled sheets and hot wax. His pupils expanded, and his body leaned toward her, drawn by some unseen thread.

  “Yeah, I—”

  “Stop playing with him, Erini,” a voice interrupted. “Either take him or be done.”

  “Hey.” Harry turned to face the intruder, more upset at another male coming near this hottie than what the man had actually said. “The lady and I were talking.”

  “My apologies,” the guy said, showing too-perfectly-white teeth in something that wasn’t really a smile.

  Harry blinked, his normal reaction utterly derailed. He wasn’t gay, but the guy was seriously hot, too. In fact, he had the same narrow, high-cheekboned face the woman, whatever her name was, had, only on him it didn’t look delicate at all. Metrosexual, yeah, that was the word. Same huge eyes, too, greenish, with those same weird pupils.

  “Huh.” He looked back at the woman, considered the two of them, then shrugged, giving them both his best “I’m a good guy” smile. “Your sister, huh? I promise I’ll take good care of her.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will,” the guy said, and Jesus, that was a creepy-ass smile that made Harry start to reconsider if he wanted to go anywhere with anyone related to this guy, no matter how much his dick was urging him on.

  “Indeed,” the woman purred, and her finger left his face, scraping along his chest, lingering just above his belt, an implicit promise of what could happen if she went farther. The fog drifted back into his brain until he forgot everything else, all his concerns.

  “Will you come with me?” she asked. “Step away from all this, be mine, and I will be yours? All you need to do is come with me, here and now.”

  “Yeah. Sure, why not?”

  With a triumphant smile, she took his hand and he let her lead him out of the bar, abandoning his buddies, his drink, his jacket, all lost in the musk-scented fog that had engulfed him.

  Behind them, the man remained in the bar, casting a jaded look around the room and seeing no human he felt the urge to charm. He fondled the cell phone in his coat pocket, the unfamiliar tech-magic a talisman of sorts, a reminder and a promise that this exile was a temporary one.

  Only hours through the portal, and already he wanted to return home. But he could not, not until their mission was completed.

  Before they were sent here, the consort had gathered them together, courtiers and their human pets. It had been an honor and a warning: do not fail. They had expected the consort to speak. Instead, it had been Ylster who’d stepped into the moment. The adviser had not spoken in the court since the queen had disappeared, spending all his energies in finding and tracking her, the strongest of them stretched too far and too thin to waste any energies on something as pointless as speech.

  All faith is magic, Ylster had said, his gaze far beyond what they could see. Belief is power. The stronger the humans cling to their faith, the more vulnerable they are to us. This has always been so. They have merely changed their focus, and it has taken us a while to catch up. But now they put their faith in tools, in things that may be manipulated...and controlled.

  We will use their faith to power ourselves, and they will thank us for it. Their need for us has always been greater than their desire to be free. Remember that, and do what you must.

  One human per hunter was enough to bring them to this world, to open a portal large enough for them to enter and depart at will. But that was merely a step, not the goal. The consort had commanded them to enter this realm, to englamour all they could, to ensure that the portals remain open.

  More humans, emptied and bound to the portal-magic, using their faith and desires to tie them to both realms. That was their purpose here, so that the queen would be returned, the consort satisfied. But Erini was hunting because she enjoyed the hunt, going after difficult targets rather than those already half-englamoured by their own desires and dreams.

  He shook his head, a gesture he had adopted from this world. He had no interest in human prey; they were soft and easily distracted. Better to go after the others he could smell, circling them mere hours after they crossed through the portal. Not human: the otherfolk of this realm, the so-called supernaturals. Lesser creatures, not useful to the consort’s plan but still dangerous. The supernaturals had already interfered on several occasions, interfering with the acquisition of humans, interfering with portals, and most notably in stealing a portal-keeper from the very court itself.

  He had not been there for that, but hearing of it later had made him laugh. Stjerne had lost control of her creature and been punished for it. He would not make that mistake, no matter how many he took in his string.

  More, he would not make the error of thinking of humans as anything other than tools. No, he would obey the consort in this as in all things, especially if it hastened their goal, but not for personal enjoyment. The sooner this was done, the sooner they could go home. Unlike Erini, unlike their missing queen, he did not like this realm. There was too much noise, too much...fuss here. The sooner they could subdue it and return, the more pleased he would be.

  Seeing two women leaning against the bar, exchanging quips with the man behind it, he smoothed down the leather of his jacket and moved through the crowd. Three at once would at least be a challenge, if he must remain here. Boredom was not to be tolerated.

  * * *

  Cam had taken his queen at her word. The moment the humans had taken their attention away from the two houses they had cleansed, he had directed three each of his pack to take up residence. The computer in the basement of the court kept
them connected, although for the most part there was nothing to be communicated. They would establish the houses, set up protective warding, and await instructions. His instructions, not hers.

  He checked the email every day, nonetheless. They played a dangerous game, one that could collapse any moment, and his encounter with the human female outside earlier had left him with a vague sense of unease, as though someone had spilled something somewhere and left it there. He might resent the way brownie senses were attuned to whatever house they chose to serve, but he would not ignore those warning signs out of spite. The outer courts needed to remain safe, both for Herself’s sake and their own plans.

  The preter’s decision to claim humans for her court had been unexpected and disturbing. Humans shoved in, took the glory, the greater share of power, every time. And so he had planted the seed in the human’s mind, set her to thinking of escape. Nalith needed to depend on them, not humans.

  Despite her strength, despite their care, something hovered, crept around the borders. He could not see it, but he felt it. If Nalith did not as well, if she were distracted by her new toys... No. He would not doubt her. He would be ready, and when she had a plan, she would inform him of it.

  In the meantime, he would clear the court of these interlopers without any blame for their misfortune falling back on him, and their own plans would go forward. Not to be masters of the world, no, but the whisper in the ear of the mistress of the world. That was always where power lay.

  Chapter 12

  Nalith stared at her, those blue eyes hypnotic as a snake’s. “You cannot draw.”

  “No.” Jan had no trouble admitting it. She had a reasonable number of skills and strengths, but she’d never been artsy in that regard. Her casualness about that fact seemed to confuse the preter, however.

  It was two days after Martin’s acceptance into the court. Jan had been summoned to the main room; now the queen was standing in front of her easel, one of the brownies off to her left, not quite hovering, and Jan sat on the footstool she had been directed to when she’d come downstairs, and tried to stay very still.

  Jan had determined that none of the court were morning people. She would occasionally see some sprites drifting across the yard in the dawn when she woke up, but they never seemed to come into the house proper, and the gnomes were still banished to their corner campsite. Jan tried not to look in that direction if she could help it. Simply knowing they were there had made it difficult to sleep the past two nights. And Tyler still turned away from her when he came to bed, his body language as stiff and unwelcoming as it had been when he’d first come back, so there was no comfort there, to take or to give.

  Ty knew the preters were back. She didn’t know if he’d somehow felt portals opening or he’d been keeping track of time better than she had, but he knew. And he knew how they’d have done it: using enthralled humans to hold the connection. Knew that he would have been one of them if Jan hadn’t come for him instead. So she had taken to waking with the dawn, leaving him to battle his own demons. It might not have been the right decision, but it was the only one they could manage and still do their job.

  Each morning there was the ever-ready pot of coffee and fresh muffins, and a curt, we-have-to-work-together-but-I-don’t-like-you-either nod to whatever brownie was working there, before Jan headed into the main room. No matter how early she woke up, the queen was always there first, dressed and alert, already at her easel.

  Today the conversation had taken an immediate left turn, with her question about drawing. “You do not seem to care, this lack in yourself.”

  Jan thought about her answer before giving it. She didn’t want to set the preter off, but she saw no reason to lie, either.

  “Art is a gift. Pretty much everything we do is a gift. Some make music, some draw, some sing, some dance, some act...and some people’s gifts aren’t creative. Not that way, anyway. I have a friend, he’s an amazing cook. Give him turnips and a bag of flour, and he’ll make something amazing. He can’t sing a note, though. Believe me, he really can’t sing.” Jan lost herself in the telling, almost forgetting for a moment who she spoke to, that this was not a friend, not even a casual acquaintance you could exchange memories with, without constantly weighing what you were giving away, what you were gaining.

  “You have an eye for color, for shape,” the preter said, still stuck on her original thought, like a terrier with a rat. “But you cannot perform it.”

  “Nope.” She could design the hell out of someone else’s work, though. Jan shrugged, then looked at the preter, unable to help herself. “And it bothers you that it doesn’t bother me? Why?”

  They hadn’t been getting anywhere on figuring out Nalith’s weak spot, pussyfooting around and hoping to eavesdrop or trip over a clue. It had been two days since Martin had won his place in the court, four or maybe five since they had left the Farm; the days and nights had blurred together until visiting the witch, sleeping in the truck seemed like memories from last year or stories someone else had told her. And there was no point in waiting on rescue. Martin had left her phone with the truck, the idiot, so she couldn’t even check to see if the messages she’d told him to send had gone through. It didn’t matter. The deadline had passed. AJ had bigger things to worry about than rescuing them.

  At this point, Jan figured she had very little to lose by trying a direct approach.

  “I care not what you do or think,” Nalith said, oblivious to everything that had gone through Jan’s mind. Her head was cocked, but she was staring at the canvas in front of her, not Jan. The piece she had been working on when Jan had arrived had long been abandoned, one of a series of pieces stored in the basement, away from her sight but still cared for in case she called for them later. Now it was a charcoal sketch. It was, Jan thought, supposed to be a tree, maybe the one outside in the front lawn, towering, with half the leaves fallen. But she knew that only as a guess: the preter was no better at drawing than Jan. Even Kerry had tried to tell Nalith that, only to receive a punishing slap and a banishment from her presence for his honesty. He had been sulking outside on the back deck ever since then.

  “Why are you here?” Jan asked, deciding to go for broke. “What do you want?”

  The preter’s entire body stiffened, but she did not look at Jan. “What?”

  “Why are you here?” Jan knew that Nalith had smelled preter on Tyler, or something, when they’d first arrived, but not how much she had been able to tell from that. Tyler had not spent any time in Nalith’s presence alone to spill any secrets. From what she could tell, he was avoiding getting within reach.

  “Tyler and I...we’ve met your kind before. He’s been enthralled.” Offer some truth to hide the rest of it? “We know that your kind has no particular love for our kind and certainly not for supernaturals.” Careful, Jan. Enough to be real, enough to distract her... “Your kind comes here and takes what they want, you amuse yourselves and then go back...so why are you here? Why do you stay?”

  Why, she thought but did not ask, is your old court so angry with you and so desperate to take you back—by force?

  “You are questioning me?” Nalith sounded as though a chair or rug had just challenged her, less offended than astonished at the improbability.

  “My lady, no. Merely trying to understand. You...have a goal. We cannot assist you if we do not have a clear picture of your goal.”

  Utter and absolute bullshit, honed by too many years of working with clients who expected her to read their minds and deliver whatever was in their minds without actually describing it. You weren’t supposed to call the clients idiots. Not to their faces, anyway.

  And especially not when this particular client would have no hesitation about knocking you into tomorrow.

  “Blunt speech, little human.”

  Jan braced for a blow, but Nalith merely considered her, those odd blue eyes
narrowing as she thought. “You would know my mind, little human? You would think to understand me?”

  “I would try, my lady. To serve you better.” The words made Jan’s teeth hurt and bile churn in her chest, but she said them easily, without obvious emotion.

  The preter put her charcoal stick down and brushed one finger across the easel, smearing the work slightly. “My kind live, move, and breathe in magic. It surrounds us, shapes us. We are magic, inherent. You naturals, this realm, whatever you have here you gained from us, stole from us, piece by piece.”

  That was news to Jan—and she wasn’t sure that the witch Elizabeth would agree entirely, although she supposed it would depend on what you called magic. Maybe it was true for the supers, and shape-shifting and portals between realms were just physics and biology after all.

  “But for all that,” Nalith went on, “for all the glory and beauty of our court, there came a time when I looked out into our world, and...”

  Jan waited.

  “I did not understand it, the feeling that came to me. Not then, not for some time. I was bored.” She said the word as though it were a foreign, unfamiliar language and shook her head, the first time Jan had seen her make that gesture. “Nothing moved. Nothing changed.”

  “So...change things?”

  This time, the slap did come, but it barely rocked Jan; the preter had put little effort into the blow. “My world does not change.”

  Preters hate change, AJ had said. Jan’s mind whirled, trying to fit this new fact into what she had already known, figuring how—if—it changed the shape of the puzzle they had already pieced together. Preters hated change...or couldn’t change? Was there a difference, or did one rise from the other?

  And what did it mean that Nalith...what? What did the preter mean by bored? And how did this tie into her being here, to...to drawing or the way she gulped down PBS’s Great Performance, and every concert Wes could find on DVD or pay-per-view?