by Tom Deitz
Chapter XII: Wising Up
(Tir-Nan-Og—high summer—night)
“We can’t all go,” David protested, gazing wildly around the hard-eyed group ranged before the suite’s imposing door—the door beneath which whoever—or whatever—it was that had just attacked him had seconds before made its slithery escape.
LaWanda’s eyes blazed defiance. “You wanta take time to stop me?”
David was already framing a scathing reply when Calvin laid a hand on his shoulder. “She’s right, Dave. Every second we waste, that fucker gets further away. I oughta be able to track ’im—assuming he leaves a blood trail. But we don’t have time to argue.”
David tried the door—massive cast-bronze pulls in the shape of leering demons. “Doesn’t matter anyway; can’t get through.”
Calvin grinned triumphantly. “Watch me!” And with that, he grabbed the scale and clenched his fist around it. His eyelids closed. He took a pair of deep breaths, exhaled another—and changed. One minute he was a middle-sized, well-muscled young man; the next, a blot of shadow sliding down the door and through the hair-fine crack at its base.
LaWanda’s eyes were big as saucers. “How’d he—?”
David couldn’t resist a grin of his own. “Short form? The scale’s got mojo. With it, he can turn into anything he’s eaten.”
“He’s eaten one of them things?”
A shrug. “Prob’ly got a nip in durin’ the fight. Or—”
He had no time to elaborate, for something snapped in the latch, and the door eased inward. Calvin was standing there, grinning like a fool. And stark naked. “Here, Cal,” Brock hissed, and tossed him David’s discarded robe. LaWanda, David noted, wore another; but Aikin, like himself, was back in fatigues, though shirtless; and everyone—due to the haste with which they’d assembled—was unshod.
Liz fidgeted at the door, looking far more angry than frightened. “I want to go,” she complained, “but somebody’s gotta keep an eye on stuff here—wake everybody up, and tie up that other guy, just in case. Brock—”
The boy scowled. “I was gonna go too!”
David shook his head. “You’ve already been more help than most folks, and frankly I owe you my life twice over. But we can’t afford to argue. The trail’s gettin’ cold.”
“Right,” Calvin agreed. “Us three guys are the stealthiest folks I know, and I’ve got more sense than to fuss with LaWanda. You’ve got some good folks here. My advice? Arm yourselves with whatever steel you’ve got on you, tie that other asshole up proper, and stay in one place where you can see each other.”
“I’m on it,” Brock announced—and fled.
“We’ll knock the old M-Gang cadence,” Aikin advised, as he joined the others in the corridor outside. “That way nobody can sneak up on you. Alec’ll know it. If not, get G-Man or Darrell.”
And with that the panel snicked closed, and lest anyone have second thoughts about following them, David bolted it. He gazed at Calvin expectantly. “Neat trick there, my man.”
A grim chuckle. “Sometimes I amaze myself. God, but that thing tasted awful! And bein’ it…I dunno, Dave…. I’m not sure I’d do that again if I had it to do over. I mean, I’ve felt some strange instincts in my time, and worked with some screwed-up senses, but that—! Faugh! Gag! Let’s just say it was disgustin’.”
“Any sense of whether it was originally human—Faery, or whatever—or if one of those other forms was its main one?”
A shrug. “Faery—I think.”
“Which means, if you wanted to, you could become duplicate of our assailant?”
Aikin’s mouth dropped open. “You could?”
Another shrug, this time with a sour grimace. “Probably I’ve done that once. Don’t recommend it, either. Memories tend to come with it, and instincts. Trouble is, it’s hard enough just bein me; I don’t need competition in my own head. And now,” he concluded irritably, “if you don’ mind….”
David paused to check out the corridor. Nothing remarkable, really, beyond the fact that it was windowless and curved to the right—and down, describing a gradual spiral around their suite. Otherwise…. Groined arches of black marble supported the ceiling, their piers interspersed with panels of repousséed silver. The floor was beige stone smooth but unpolished. Against it, the trail showed unmistakably in a steady splatter of glistening red, leading to the right.
As quietly as they could, they followed it. Calvin led. Atkin, who hunted a lot and was nearly as quiet as Calvin went second, ahead of David. LaWanda brought up the rear. David caught an occasional soft ping or clink as her braid-beads struck each other. He wondered what Cal thought about such noisy accoutrements. He also wondered if it wouldn’t be wise to keep an eye on the ceiling. After all, their assailants could easily have had accomplices. And even if they were only pursuing one, there was no good reason the guy couldn’t shift again and lurk in the vaults’ many shadows—or, barring that, simply sprout wings and fly away in the shape he’d worn earlier, or another.
Unless there were rules about such things. Cal had wounded this one. And that other guy had remained in his own shape when he died. Maybe injury precluded shifting. Or maybe not. It didn’t work that way with Cal. In fact shapeshifting healed him. Cal now sported a foreskin he hadn’t had when David met him—because the genetic blue print locked in his cells rebuilt him as designed after he changed. That was also why his tattoo was fading. It didn’t happen all at once, though, so it was still possible that they might be able to identify the culprit by locating a Faery youth with a limp, or an odd depression in his leg.
Which presupposed they reported this, which didn’t necessarily seem wise.
All at once it struck David like a blow—more of that delayed reaction effect, like the shuttle. Someone had tried to kill him! Abruptly, he was shaking—which made it damned hard to stealth. To calm himself, he inventoried his pockets for potential weapons. Slim pickings: car keys, a few bits of change, and a Swiss Army Knife. He slid out the later and opened the longest, thickest blade. Not much, but it was steel. And steel had saved him earlier.
Steel? Or enchantment? His fingers sought the medallion Brock had given him. He preferred the former, but the latter was a better guess—the kid was a pretty straight shooter. Still, something bugged him about the boy. It was just too convenient, dammit. He’d only had the medallion a few hours, and already it had saved his life.
Of course there were things that shielded one from the Sidhe—he’d had a ring like that once, until Liz had sacrificed it to resurrect Fionchadd. She wore it now—unmagicked.
And then the thought ambushed him again. Someone really had tried to kill him!
Which raised the question of who? Lugh’s faction? Well, he didn’t trust them worth a hoot, but it seemed unlikely Lugh would’ve either resorted to such extreme measures or singled him out. Which left the clearly disloyal opposition, who could have any number of motives. God knew Lugh had pointed him out in council as one around whom a storm of options circled. Ridding the world—Worlds, rather—of him would definitely solve a number of problems, if one favored certain alternatives.
Trouble was, that last line of reasoning implied a traitor somewhere: someone who’d attended the council. And since Lugh, Nuada, and Fionchadd had been the only Faeries present, and he preferred to trust them all, as far as this situation went, that implied a human double-crosser. Or that someone was masquerading as human but really wasn’t. All at once David found himself wishing he had someone else to bounce this theory off of. Someone sufficiently remote from it to retain a modicum of objectivity. Someone like John Devlin.
Where was Devlin, anyway? Shoot, where was anybody?
Likely not together, that was for sure. They’d dispersed when the council had ended, with no time for one-on-one interaction—which (as Finno had admitted) had to be a deliberate ploy. Divide and conquer. So why did Lugh let him and his friends bunk together?
It was all too confusing. And probably not worth de
bating now, when they were in hot pursuit of someone, who, if apprehended, might possibly provide real answers.
“Shit!” Calvin spat abruptly. He stumbled to a despondent halt and slumped against the wall. David joined him, directed his gaze toward where his friend was pointing.
The trail ended on the sill of a narrow window—one far too narrow for any of the Trackers to squeeze through. Calvin studied it thoughtfully. “Looks like our friend shifted again—or something. I could go after him as a bird, I guess. But that’d leave you guys in the lurch, and I’m not so sure even this little trek was smart, now that my brain’s workin’, ’stead of my adrenal glands.”
Aikin slid down the wall to slouch on the floor, tired-eyed and slack-jawed. “Well, I sure can’t change shape!”
“Me neither,” LaWanda echoed. “I ain’t got that much mojo.”
David gnawed his lip, looking around anxiously. He feared to speak, yet was desperate to share the notion that had just popped into his head. Fought its way to his lips, rather, given that his mind was threatening to explode with competing speculations.
“Talk, Sullivan,” Aikin ordered, poking him in the ribs. “Your chin’s gonna get dirty on the floor.”
David took a deep breath. “One thing. I don’t know what you guys’ve been thinkin’, but I’d bet money that whoever jumped me wasn’t workin’ for the big guns—anyone important, anyway.”
LaWanda lifted a brow. “How so?”
“’Cause they didn’t know diddly-squat about us. I mean, think, folks: they attacked me, presumably ’cause I’m either the leader of our group, or ’cause I’m from Sullivan Cove—which implies they want this resort to be started, so they can go to war with us, which implies they expect to win. Only, they missed a bunch of things. To start with, they knew we were all human, so they underestimated us in general. Number two, they either missed Aife altogether—maybe ’cause of the iron on her cage—or else they just figured she was a regular cat. But either way, the fact that she was able to slip up on ’em implies they hadn’t seen us until we got to the suite, maybe even until after we got to our rooms—my sense is they were hidin’ there ahead of us.”
Calvin nodded slowly. “Could be. But they didn’t know I was a shape-shifter, either—which I’m positive took that last guy off guard.”
“And I doubt they knew about this,” LaWanda added, prodding David’s medallion with a two-inch-long, gold-lacquered nail. “Shit, I didn’t notice it ’til just now. I—” She broke off, eyeing the disc suspiciously. “That thing’s got mojo. I don’t know what kind or how much, but it’s there.”
David nodded in turn. “Figured. But we can talk about that later. For now, we need to get back to the folks. The longer we’re gone, the more I think there might be more of those sneaks around; that we might’ve beat feet way too soon.”
Aikin puffed his cheeks. “I’m afraid you’re right. I also agree that those folks didn’t do their homework worth a damn. In fact,” he continued, “now that I think about it, we’re not exactly your normal bunch of…humans. Like, we know a shitload of magical theory. Cal’s a shape-shifter. You’ve shifted shape, and so have Brock and Sandy, back when you guys had scales. I have too—once, with Aife’s help. But the point is, everybody could if Cal’d let us use his scale or could get hold of more. You’ve also got the Sight, Dave; and Myra says she’s got it sometimes, and Liz can scry. LaWanda claims she’s got ‘feelin’s, and who knows what other kind of mojo? Piper’s music’s got something, or we couldn’t have got here so fast, and Alec’s got magical trinkets out the wazoo. The point is, we’re a lot more than we seem to be. Shoot, Gary and Runnerman are the only normal guys here.”
“Don’t think too hard about them, either,” David cautioned, rising to his feet and giving Aikin a hand-up on the fly.
Calvin cast one doubtful look at the too-narrow casement and began retracing their steps. They were halfway back—by guess—when Calvin brought them up short. Aikin nearly bumped into him, and David did bump into Aikin. “What’s the deal, Red Man?” LaWanda hissed.
“Never mind,” Calvin mumbled. “It’ll keep.”
“Better hurry, then,” David urged. “Way things are goin’, there may not be a later. I’m not at all convinced we’re gonna get out of here with anything like accurate memories. I wouldn’t be surprised if we just woke up by the Track with empty bottles around us, thinkin’ we’d all passed out.”
“Aife’d know,” Aikin countered. “She may look like a cat, but the woman’s awake in there. Point of fact, I suspect the woman’s a lot more awake, now that we’re back on her home turf. I doubt it was a coincidence that she saved you. Not just a kitty on the prowl, anyway.”
“Maybe,” David grunted. “But I don’t like talkin’ out here—or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Back in the room, then,” Calvin conceded. “I promise.”
* * *
David was more than a little surprised that they actually made it back to the glittering portal unassailed. God, but he was jumpy! He actually found himself holding his breath as he, not Aikin, gave the requisite MacTyrie Gang secret knock before shooting the bolt again.
The door cracked open instantly, to reveal the suspicious, if sleepy-eyed, gaze of Alec McLean, who pulled back the panel as little as possible and ushered them in. “How’d it go?” he yawned. Then, “Christ, Dave, are you okay? Liz told me—”
David shushed him with a spontaneous hug, which surprised both of them. “I nearly lost it,” he choked into Alec’s neck, as he found his eyes awash with tears. “I nearly lost…you guys. I nearly lost…everything. I— What if I’d died?”
“You’d know something we don’t,” Myra drawled. “Or else you’d know nothing at all, and either way you’d have more peace of mind than you do now.”
Sandy ambled up to join them, sandwich in hand. She saw David peering at her latest fanciful concoction. “Eat when I get nervous,” she confessed. “Better than smoking, cheaper than drinking. More productive than sleeping. I—” She gazed about frantically. “Where’s Cal?”
David blinked at her. “He was with us a second ago. Did anybody—”
A sound reached them from without: the soft metallic snap of the door being bolted. David stiffened in alarm, but before he could do more than push at the panel, a tide of darkness flowed under it from outside. He backed away instinctively, dragging Alec with him. And was still back-peddling frantically when that darkness rose up before them: a man-shaped shadow in three dimensions—whereupon it began to blur, stretch, and acquire a modicum of color. For an instant it clarified into what was clearly the second Faery youth who’d assailed them—the one whose face David had glimpsed before he’d gone shadow and fled. But then that form likewise collapsed back into the initial pool of darkness, which immediately altered again; but this time when it solidified, it was Calvin.
“Shot the bolt,” he explained, scooping his jeans off the floor by the door. “Didn’t want somebody to happen by and wonder.”
“Can’t hurt,” Alec agreed, reaching down to scoop up Aife, who’d been rubbing against his legs and purring. “Besides, they’re the ones who owe us explanations.”
“I’ve got some,” Calvin volunteered breathlessly. “But folks…I think you’d better sit down.”
David frowned, but reclaimed the chair he’d sprawled in earlier, along with the same copper tumbler. It was still frosted, still held that delicious liquid. Exactly as much of that delicious liquid. The rest crowded round, lolling on the floor or collapsing into pillows. Only Calvin remained afoot, looking pale, wary, and extremely thoughtful. Finally he too sat. “It’s like this,” he began. “You folks know I’m a shapeshifter—and if you didn’t know before, you do now. Those of you who’ve seen me do it, or who’ve done it yourselves, know that in order to change, I have to prime the uktena scale with my blood”—he held out the scale for all to see.
“But anyway,” he went on, “it’s easiest when I shift to something my
own mass, and a lot more pleasant when I shift to something with a decent-sized brain. Otherwise instinct starts to squeeze out memory, and if you’re not careful, your self will get squeezed out too. But what I’m gettin’ at is that to shift into any shape, I have to have eaten whatever it was—a drop of blood in my mouth’s enough. Just now I fought that shadow-thing. I bit it, and I tasted its blood. But that wasn’t its real shape; it was really one of the Sidhe—and that made me wonder. So when I went shadow a minute ago, I tried something I hadn’t tried before—had the idea while we were gone, Dave. See, Faeries shift with some power besides a scale; but since I, in shadow form, wore a shape wrought by that other power, I figured I might also have that power when in that shape. And guess what? Once I was in shadow-shape, I could draw on its power to assume the shadow’s original form. It wasn’t a lot of fun,” he continued, “but the point is, I basically became that last guy who attacked Dave—which means I could access that guy’s memories. It’s scary as hell in somebody else’s head, never mind someone who’s both…magical and immortal; there must be a zillion zillion memories in there, and I could only risk a couple seconds before I fried my own brain. But anyway, what I was tryin’ to do was find out who attacked us, but I missed that and…learned something a whole lot worse.”
“Enough suspense,” Liz snapped. “If I’m gonna freak, I’d as soon get it over with.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I already don’t.”
Calvin took a deep breath. “Lugh lied to us…I think. As best I can tell, the guy who attacked us is some kind of double agent. And while I truly don’t think he was workin’ for Lugh when he jumped Dave, he’s definitely party to privileged information. And to make a long story short, Lugh’s got a plan already in place. The instant—the instant—any construction begins at either the Cove or, God forbid, Bloody Bald, he’s gonna raise the level of the lake—your lake, Dave—and force the developers out that way.”
David’s mouth popped open. For the thousandth time since reaching Tir-Nan-Og, his heart flip-flopped and his emotions neared overload. Not without difficulty did he regain a modicum of control. “That son-of-a-bitch,” he gritted.