by Luna Lindsey
The aisling of a newborn song washed over Jett like warm water. With every sense heightened, she felt tense and relaxed at the same time. There was too much to absorb, so she let it pass through her and around her like an abundance of mead going to waste. Jett closed her eyes and just listened. The moment seemed to last forever.
When the song ended, Jett opened her eyes to the sound of applause.
“Hi, my name is Jina Harper,” the woman said into the mic. “I wasn’t on the schedule, but my friend Brandon asked me to play a little. And I’m always eager for an audience, even an intimate one like this. Here’s one of my favorites.” She began another song, but the aisling had the patina of something oft-played – yet still powerful, like Mozart’s Symphony No. 40.
Jett watched until she finished the short set, and waited until Jina began to pack her instrument.
Then Jett stepped forward. “Excuse me,” she began.
“Yes?” Jina looked up.
“Your music… It fell on my ears and sank below the surface of my soul. Yet it is I who drowns.”
CHAPTER 12
*
…this torrid affair, fire torrents aflare.
You can act and pretend, but I know you can’t care.
Just leave me aquiver, a burn victim, forgiver,
but what is this life, empty of you,
charred heart, melted bone, blackened sinew?
Jina finished the last strains of an old favorite, Tenth Degree, and decided to stop for the night. It had been one of those joyful sets where she felt connected to each member of her small audience. She had played their emotions as she plucked the strings of her guitar, lied to them and made them believe every lie. She painted colors in their minds that had never been there before, the music flowing from her like water.
“That’s it. My band is Fates of Surrender. We play this Saturday at Neumo’s. Thanks for listening.”
She was met with the loudest applause an audience of two-dozen could produce. Thankfully, she didn’t see anyone wearing a scarf. No stalkers here.
Hollis had informed her that the blade she carried in her boot would require a concealed weapons permit. Until she had a chance to fill out the forms, she’d have to be careful to not get caught.
The thought distracted her from trying to remember how her first song went. She’d improvised it as she performed, based on an idea she’d had in the car. She hoped she could hold it in her mind long enough to write it down, so she could play it for Trey. He had inspired it.
Maybe Brandon had a notebook. The chords were easy, but some of the lyrics…
The room cleared out as she packed up the borrowed guitar.
“Excuse me,” she heard.
She stood to see a beautiful woman with straight, jet black hair, sparkling blue eyes, cream-colored porcelain skin. The length of her leather jacket ran past her short periwinkle skirt, to long legs and a pair of knee-high boots.
“Yes?”
“Your music…” the stranger said. “It fell on my ears and sank below the surface of my soul. Yet it is I who drowns.”
Jina blushed. “Wow, thanks. I’ve never heard such a flowery compliment before.”
Her lilting voice sounded like music. “I have never been submerged in music like yours before. That first song seemed familiar. Where have I heard it before?”
“Oh that?” Jina laughed. “I made it up as I went along.” She paused. “Wait, I hope it didn’t sound familiar. I’d hate to be copying someone else by mistake.”
The woman shook her head. “No, that song belongs to no one else but you. Perhaps I heard it in a dream.”
Jina smiled. This is why she played. For the audience, to give them pleasure. Especially when they took the time to give back in the form of praise.
“So you’re from Fates of Surrender?” the woman asked. “I’ve seen your posters.”
“Yep. Fates is my current band. A label approached my last group, but I didn’t want to be tied down, so I signed over the rights and let them find another frontwoman.”
The woman seemed pleased to hear this. “Art comes before success, is it?” she asked.
Jina laughed. “Yeah. That’s why I stay indie. What good is cash if you don’t own your life?”
“When corporations control art,” the woman replied, “it all sounds the same.”
A kindred spirit, it seemed. Jina felt drawn to this woman, and imagined the two of them sitting down for coffee in some dark little place.
“Do you do anything else?” she asked.
Just faerie hunting, Jina thought. Aloud, she said, “I paint now and then. I don’t get much time anymore.”
“Your paintings must be magnificent, if they’re anything like your music.” The woman’s eyes never wavered from Jina’s, searching, like she was looking for something.
“Well I like them, but then, I know the artist.” Jina smiled, reluctantly breaking her gaze to finish zipping the guitar in its case. “I brought my portfolio, but it’s in another room.” She looked back up, smiling again, hoping she’d take the excuse to follow her to Brandon’s studio. She didn’t want this conversation to end so soon.
“May I see it?”
“Sure, let’s go. I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” She picked up the case and led the dark-haired woman up a flight of stairs to the next floor.
“Jett. Jett Brightgrove.”
“It fits you. Your hair, like jet.” Jett rewarded her compliment by revealing more of her smile that shone through her eyes. “I’ve not seen you around here before.”
“I am the patron of a painter. Ramón Sanz. Have you heard of him?”
“No… Wait, Sanz. Is his signature basically just ‘Sanz’ with a big curling ‘S’?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“A friend of mine has one of his hanging in her music room. It’s some kind of critter, a possum I think, sky-blue, crawling out of a garbage can, with a Chinese takeout box in its claw.”
“That piece is called, Takeout III.”
“Oh, you know it! Awesome.”
Jina found Brandon talking to some art-fans and returned his guitar. She dug around under a table and came up with a three-ring binder covered in stickers. There weren’t any chairs, so they found a less-traveled corner by the elevator and sat next to one another on the floor as Jina flipped through photos of her paintings.
“I only paint for fun,” she explained. “When I get time. Which isn’t often.”
“These pictures are charming,” Jett said. She brushed past Jina’s hand while pointing out an example. It gave Jina tingles and she suppressed an urge to grasp those elegant fingers and pull them to her face. She briefly thought of asking her out… if only she weren’t so busy. And then there was Trey.
After what seemed like far too short a time, Jett stood. “Ramón will think I have vanished down a rabbit hole. I should get back.” She fished out a card while Jina followed her up. “Here is my number. I will be sure to stop by Neumo’s this weekend. I’d like to hear more of your rapturous music.”
Jina smiled. She found herself smiling a lot around this beguiling woman. “Sure.” Jina took one of her own cards out of her pocket and wrote something on the back. “I’m throwing a party in this building next Wednesday for a bunch of artists. Here’s the time and room number. You should come.”
“Neither stormy seas nor I-5 traffic could stop me.” Jett tucked her hair behind an ear and waved as she walked back down the stairs.
Jina’s heart thudded at the thought of Jett in the audience. She would try to catch a glimpse in the crowd. She yearned to follow Jett right now, to drag her away from the art walk to one of the bars on the cross street.
Was it too much to have two crushes? Reluctant faerie-seer and Ms. Patron of the Arts. Ah, sweet abundance.
Speaking of Trey, how did the chords to that song go again?
CHAPTER 13
*
EZRA SHIVERED SLIGHTLY, partly from being rained
upon, and partly in apprehension of what he was about to do.
Campus buildings surrounded them in a large plaza that students affectionately referred to as “Red Square”, named after its red brick paving and imposing architecture. Elder Noah chose a raised area at the top of a short flight of steps, beside a rusty sculpture of an upside-down obelisk balancing on the tip of a pyramid. Crowds passed by here, hurriedly on their way to various classes. No one lingered due to the rain, and it seemed the kind of rain that would never let up.
Either the rain or Ezra’s hesitance seemed to have made Elder Noah extra cranky today. “Listen you little… Brother. My joints ache, so get up there and preach the gospel and stop acting like a child.”
Ezra sighed and shuffled into position. Let the Holy Spirit guide me, he prayed. He fought back all the cruel thoughts he knew these people must be thinking about him right now. Then he cleared his throat.
“Children of God,” he squeaked. It was supposed to be a shout.
“No, Ezra. Yell! Shout the gospel as if from the rooftops! Don’t worry about what the words are.”
“Sons and daughters of the Almighty!” he tried to bellow. His voice cracked and his breath was shoved back into his throat, so that most of “the Almighty” didn’t come out.
“Don’t screw this up or you’ll get latrine duty and likely go to hell.”
Ezra winced. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Father, please let the Holy Spirit guide me. As he prayed, he fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist, turning it with a finger on the same hand.
“Children of God!” he managed to shout. A few people turned their heads and continued on their ways, quickly averting their gazes. The rain had turned to a mere drizzle, the deceptive kind that would soak you in under a minute.
“God has a plan for all of you! He wants you to turn from your wicked, unbelieving ways, and accept His love!” There, that wasn’t so bad.
“I’ll bet you accept his love!” someone shouted. Then he heard giggling, and a small group of guys ducked into a building.
They think I’m crazy, he told himself. Elder Isaiah’s voice replayed in his mind: They are misled by Satan, their hearts are hardened. This gave him renewed energy. He touched his bracelet again.
“Many are called, but few are chosen! What does this mean? It means that the Lord, Yeshua, is calling out to each and every one of you. He wants to heal the world of suffering and heartache. He needs your help. Will you stand up and be chosen?”
He noticed one person, across the square, pause for a second and glance his way. Was he listening? The rain suddenly stopped.
“God’s peace can be yours, and you can spread that peace to others through His Grace!” He was on a roll now, and the weather was on his side. A few people slowed a little as they walked by. They seemed to be listening, a bit.
Encouraged, he continued, his voice growing louder.
“The ills of the world are caused by the evil actions of mankind. God teaches us that we can take care of one another.”
Yes, someone had stopped to listen for a moment. A few more heckled; he ignored them and carried on, trying to focus only on the positive. This is how he had survived on the streets for so many years. Only think about the good things. It also meant ignoring Elder Noah’s presence and the criticisms that were sure to follow this speech. He touched his bracelet once more, this time not out of nervousness but to assure himself he could get through this.
Ezra continued on and drew a small crowd of four students. He focused on positive messages, things like love and charity. People liked hearing about that stuff
“Yeshua loved his disciples,” he went on. “We see this when he fed thousands of them with only a few loaves and fishes.” Maybe he would get through this. Maybe more than that, maybe they’d get a convert!
But as he began telling about the miracles of Yeshua, something changed.
Oh no, not now.
He felt something like a battery burn on his wrist, the bracelet no longer comforting, but surging with charge. His hands began to shimmer with an unearthly light. Although he knew no one else could see it, he cringed.
If this feeling continued to build, something terrible would happen, something they would see. Memories of embarrassing moments pressed through his mind.
Why now? Things had been going so well.
The crowd had grown a little larger, by five or six people, and more were craning necks as they passed. They were suddenly very interested in what he had to say. So many people were here, watching. He panicked, yet his words and the attention of his audience propelled him forward.
“He would not let his followers starve. Even in the absence of supplies, he gently found a way to feed them all…”
The clouds broke and a small shaft of sun lit up the square. The glow from his hands intensified, and the students gathered.
No, no no not now. He wished they would all just go away, or that Elder Noah would say it was time to go home. He wished more than anything that he would fall over dead.
“Thus the power of His love multiplied the bread, and they were filled with sustenance, loaves and fishes, and also with love and spirit.”
He never knew exactly what would happen when this glow came over him. One time, flowers sprung up all around him in mid-December. Another time, the person he was with fell asleep and didn’t wake up for two days. The last time, there had been a small explosion after which chocolate chips had rained down on his head.
Whatever happened now, it couldn’t be good. Everyone would see him for what he was: a demon, crazy, stupid, ugly, horrible Ezra. The Wanderers would kick him out, and he’d be alone again.
His wishes were not coming true. The people were not going away. Elder Noah was not going to take him home, and he did not fall over dead. They all hung on his words, as if he were a prophet.
The clouds spread apart even further, and a beam of noonday sun shown directly down on him. He felt his feet lift off the ground.
Oh no…
He wasn’t even sure what he said anymore. Something about what Elder Isaiah said concerning church buildings and how God is everywhere and how you don’t need a fancy chapel to worship Him. He spoke about clearings in the woods and more about the love of Yeshua and his miracles. And then strange words he didn’t understand, like Wodan and Valhalla. Why was he talking about magic and daydreams? Had Lucifer finally taken him?
And now he rose, like the Devil himself, two feet into the air, then three feet. Light flew from his fingertips in all directions. The crowd gasped, so he knew it wasn’t just in his mind. They had seen him for the monster he was.
Words streamed out of him, a mixture of biblical quotes, fairytales, and babble. Was he speaking in tongues? Or was he speaking in English and hearing himself in tongues? His message now focused on the power of love and the pursuit of beauty. And he told a strange story about a little girl and her mother giving grace to a poor old man in the forest. He barely heard it. The words just poured forth like a river through a broken dam.
The crowd was in thrall. He could see their faces, gaping, as if what he said made sense. As if they wanted to hear what he had to say. He could feel their love. They loved… him? They wanted more, so he gave it to them.
And then he got one of his three wishes. He didn’t exactly die, but he felt himself falling, and the world disappeared.
CHAPTER 14
*
SANDY RUBBED HER EYES and adjusted her glasses re-read the logs from her latest experiments. Her training was in history, not experimental science, but the nightmares and memories drove her on. The question was, how do you design a valve ward that let the glamour out, while keeping the faerie in?
She shoved aside the notebook and swirled Lonach, the good stuff, listening to the ice clink against the sides of the glass. She took a sip and let the warm glow seep through her limbs.
Even though she felt at home in her office, she found it harder and harder to concentrate. Her body
felt distant, disconnected, her mind hovering, unable to focus on the simplest tasks. The Scotch helped. It was both grounding and numbing at the same time.
Hollis had emailed her pictures, and she pulled them up on her laptop again. She’d been alternating between both problems all morning. Her screen needed dusting but the red building showed clearly enough behind the specks of lint.
Jina had been busy this week, hoping to a band rehearsal, some kind of social event last night in Pioneer Square, and then to a couple of bars on Broadway. Between the two friends, Jina had always been the extrovert, never able to sit still for three seconds.
Hollis had caught sight of their target last night, following Jina through Pioneer Square. Then lost sight of him. Then caught up to him again when Jina came back up to the Hill, to a bar close by. If Sandy knew a faerie was following her, she never would have left the house in the first place, but Jina had been all over before finally coming home.
And Scarf had followed her here.
From here, Hollis had shadowed him back to this red structure, speckled with graffiti, on the south end of the neighborhood. Sandy flipped through a few more images until she stopped on a spray-painted outline of a comical face.
That was his door. The door to his lair.
It was an elf door, Sandy knew. She wasn’t sure how to open it, but that would surely be no obstacle. She had him. She knew where he lived, and all they had to do was wait outside until he showed up.
But Hollis had seen other things, too. He’d seen Scarf yelling at a bunch of unseen nykks. He’d seen him start a bar fight outside Cuffs. He’d seen him flip off a police officer. Clearly, this Scarf wasn’t afraid of anybody.
This was why she’d started the Ordo. She had him. They could do this.
But for some reason, she couldn’t convince herself to take the first step…
She tried to imagine the inside of his lair. What if he overpowered them with magic they didn’t understand? What if he grabbed Gretel or Jina or… or herself… and dragged her through that elf door, forever?