6
The Hanged Man’s Reel
“Kory? Beth?”
Eric stood in the front hallway, burdened with two armfuls of musical instruments, hoping against hope that the next thing he’d hear would be a resounding “Eric, you’re home!” from Beth, followed by a hug from Kory and a kiss from Beth. Then they’d all laugh about the weird events of the day, and probably still be laughing as they piled into the bubbling hot tub . . .
Only silence greeted him.
He walked down the hallway and into the kitchen, sitting down at the table and burying his face in his hands. He looked up longingly at the bottle of Black Bush on the counter, then away.
No. No whiskey. I’ve got to think, to figure this out—
It had gone so bad, so quickly. Now he didn’t know what to do. He’d envisioned disasters, figuring that their good luck was too good to last, but there’d always been things like . . . Kory falling off a ladder while fixing the roof. Beth, slipping on the wet deck near the hot tub. Himself, setting the kitchen on fire while trying to make pancakes. But not this, never this.
His first impulse was to run. They’d kept a small amount of cash in the house for just that reason, in case the cops came knocking at their door one afternoon and they had to run fast. He could catch the night bus out of town with that money, be out of California and into Oregon by daybreak, and he’d be out of reach of the local cops. Except that blond man hadn’t acted like a cop—a local cop would’ve flashed a badge and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him before he could blink, and hauled him away in a black-and-white . . .
That expensive blue car. Policemen don’t drive Mercedes. In any case, he couldn’t leave Beth and Kory behind. Two years ago, sure, not a problem, but not now. They were the closest damn thing he had for family, and he wouldn’t abandon them.
The lyrics from a Faire song drifted across his thoughts: “No, nay, never . . . no, nay, never, no more, will I play the Wild Rover, no, never, no more . . . ”
And I won’t, Eric thought. They’re depending on me. I won’t let them down.
Except how in the hell am I supposed to help them? I don’t know where they are, what could’ve happened to them . . .
What can I do?
He wanted to scream, or cry.
Instead, he set his flute case on the table, and opened it.
The flute lay there quietly against the crushed velvet, no hint of anything that had happened before reflected in the silvery metal. No sign of dragons, or elven sorcerers, or shadow-demons called up from the darkness . . . no hint of anything, in fact, just a simple musical instrument waiting to be played upon. Eric quickly fitted the pieces together, and played a quiet note, a long A tone. He slid down a mournful minor scale, then into a run of arpeggios. It was hard to concentrate, when his mind kept slipping back to Beth and Kory, and the dark fears that he kept suppressing, holding at bay—I’ll find them. They’re out there, somewhere. I’m a Bard, I can use the magic, I can do it. I’ll find them.
Then he began to play “Planxty Powers,” an old O’Carolan tune, one that the Irish bard had composed in honor of Fanny Powers, perhaps his lover, certainly his friend. The tune brought back a rush of memories to Eric, of sitting around on hay bales at the Renaissance Faire, drinking mulled wine and playing music with friends. Of the first time he’d met Beth; how she’d flashed her ankles at him while dancing a strathspey in the Scottish show, then asked him to teach her that strathspey tune, so she could play along on her ocarina.
And Kory . . . how he’d come home late from the Southern Faire, to find an elf riving in his apartment . . . those earnest green eyes, asking him to help . . .
I won’t fail you, pal. I’ll find you . . . I’ll find you . . .
The music wove itself into strands of light around him, bright sparkles reflecting off the kitchen windows. He called it closer, and the light danced around him. Within it, he searched for them, calling up images of Kory and Beth, casting his vision out further and further into the city around him . . .
The light became a glow, with him encased at the heart. A softly glowing sphere that showed him flitting images of the life of the city beyond; places they had been, places they had touched. The park, dark and mostly deserted now, shadows filling the space below the trees. The BART station near the house, as bright as the park was dark, trains pulling up to the platform in uncanny silence. The wharf, bustling with tourists. The Castro district, bustling with . . . a different kind of life. The Embarcadero, the Pig and Whistle where they sometimes played, the Opera House . . .
All of the scenes, flitting silently in, then out of focus, as his heart searched the city below for the people he loved.
Now the scenes were unfamiliar, and a little less focused; streets, houses, lawns . . .
Buildings, tall ones, like offices, but with a more closed-in look.
A corridor—
He caught a glimpse of Beth, and concentrated, trying to see exactly where she was. It was difficult, holding the melody and the magic, delicately reaching . . .
“Beth! Bethy, can you hear me?”
* * *
Blair smiled at the young boy seated next to the closed door to Room 12. Harris stood next to the door, an intense blue-eyed watchdog. “How are you doing, Timothy?” he asked.
“Just fine, Mr. Blair,” the boy replied. “The bad man inside, he’s stopped trying to get out. I guess he’s figured out that I won’t let him.”
“Good work, Timothy.” Blair nodded to Harris, who gently moved the boy away from the door. “Now let’s talk with this new fellow. Timothy, don’t open the door unless you hear my voice, okay?”
“You bet, Mr. Blair.”
Harris checked his handgun in its shoulder holster, and opened the door quickly, scanning the room before stepping aside to let Blair enter the room.
The newest acquisition to the Project was seated on the floor next to the red-haired woman. The woman seemed to be asleep, but even across the room, Blair could still sense the turmoil in her mind. The blond man looked up at Blair with eyes burning with fury.
That’s right, little fellow, Blair thought. Hate me. Give me a handle to use on you, a window into your thoughts. Let’s see what you’re afraid of . . .
:You think to imprison me, a Knight of the Seleighe Court? And now you try to entrap my mind! I’ll kill you first, bastard!:
Blair couldn’t understand all of that . . . what in the hell is a Seelie Court? . . . but he certainly understood the way the young man launched himself from the floor, hands reaching for Blair’s throat.
Harris intercepted easily, hurling the kid against the wall. Harris always made it look so easy. Years of practice, Blair thought, a little enviously. Harris was used to the difficult ones, the ones that tried to fight before they settled down to become a useful part of the Project.
Harris crossed to where the woman was slumped against the wall. Grabbing her long hair with one hand, he drew his handgun with the other, pressing it lightly against her temple. The woman flinched once at the touch of the metal against her face, but otherwise was completely unaware of anything happening around her.
The young man moved painfully from where he had fallen onto the concrete floor. A trickle of blood slid from his mouth; he ignored it, looking up at Blair and Harris with eyes filled with hatred.
“Now, let’s talk,” Blair said calmly, sitting down on the bare concrete floor. “I don’t think I need to explain Harris’ role in this, do I? Behave yourself and be a good boy, and tell me what I want to know, and nothing will happen to your friend. Understand?”
:Never, Unseleighe scum. I will kill you and leave your bodies lying for the forest creatures to feed upon, I will curse your names for a thousand years, I will laugh as your blood pools at my feet, I will do anything to kill you, even brave the touch of Cold Iron itself.:
Blair blinked, astonished at the clarity of the young man’s thoughts. “I don’t think you understand your situation,” he said slowly. “You aren’t in any position to—”
He stopped short. The key—the kid had given him the key without even realizing it! Admittedly, it was the strangest phobia he’d ever heard of in his life, but it was a lock-hold he could use . . .
“I’ll be back in a minute, Harris,” he said thoughtfully, and left the room.
At the end of the hallway, in the new construction area, he found what he was looking for. It took a little improvisation with a pair of handcuffs and some wire, but then he had what he needed.
Of course, he didn’t understand why the kid was so afraid of certain kinds of metal, but that didn’t matter. The fears themselves were unimportant; it was the effect of the fears upon the subject that was so valuable. He walked back into Room 12, and held out the contraption with a smile. The kid’s eyes widened.
Blair moved cautiously toward the young man, handcuffs ready in one hand. Suddenly everything happened very fast; the kid knocked the handcuffs out of Blair’s hand, making a dash for the door; Harris dropped the handgun and tackled him from behind, wrestling with him until Blair could snap the modified handcuffs onto his wrists.
The kid screamed, a long gut-wrenching wail of despair, as the wire wrapped around the handcuffs touched his bare wrists. Then he fainted.
Well, it wasn’t exactly the response Blair had wanted, but it was a good start. He’d never seen such an immediate physiological reaction to a mental aberration, but that didn’t matter. It just meant that it would be easier to work with the kid, later.
Then he saw the pistol, lying on the floor next to the woman. She was staring at it, uncomprehending. Her hand twitched, moved toward the handgun . . .
“STOP!” Blair shouted at the top of his voice.
The woman jerked her hand back, clutching her hands to her mouth. She began to cry again.
Harris, breathing hard, reached down to pick up the pistol. “Sorry, boss,” he said. “Next time, I’ll be more careful.”
“You’d better be,” Blair said tersely. “We can’t afford any more mistakes.” He glanced at the unconscious blond boy. “We’ll start with him in the morning.”
The image faded. He reached out his hand, through the layers of light, as Beth’s face disappeared into the shadows.
Eric set down the flute. So much for magic, he thought. After all’s said and done, it can’t help me find my friends.
He tried to think of another plan of action . . . maybe calling the cops? It would mean some awkward questions to answer, and possibly a lot of trouble over Phil’s death, but the more he thought about that, he decided it was worth the risk. Sure, they might have found some physical evidence that he and Beth were at Phil’s house after he was killed, but the odds that they could conjure up some proof that he and Beth were the killers . . . not too damn likely, he thought. It’s worth the risk.
His hand was reaching for the phone, and it hit him a split-second later.
Fire and ice, burning upward from his wrists, an unbelievable pain that knocked him out of the chair. He didn’t feel the impact against the floor, but lay there, gasping for breath. Then Kory’s voice, screaming in his mind—
:Eric, help me!:
A flurry of images, too fast for Eric to recognize. The pain ripped through him, an agony that went on and on, not stopping . . .
Darkness.
Eric curled into a ball on the floor, tasting blood where he’d bitten his tongue. For several long seconds, all he could do was he there and breathe. Then the realization hit him.
Kory. That was Kory. Somehow he made me feel what he was feeling, somehow he . . .
Oh, Christ, is he dead? Could someone have gone through . . . whatever that was . . . and survived? He could be dying right now!
He took several deep breaths, closing his eyes and concentrating on the images that had flashed through his mind.
Beth, huddled in the corner of a room, illuminated by witchlight . . . what is wrong with her, why won’t she speak to me?
A pair of handcuffs, wrapped with some kind of wire . . .
A woman at a gate, refusing to let him pass. A sign on the gate, black words printed on white . . . Dublin Laboratories. Authorized personnel only.
Eric sat up abruptly, his fists clenched. “Kory, what in the hell were you doing in the Dublin Labs?”
He remembered joining some Faire friends for the yearly protest, sitting in the street in front of the gate until the cops showed up to take them away. The armed guards, the electric fence, the ground beyond the fence was probably filled with land mines, for all he knew . . .
He thought about the impossibility of breaking into the Labs to rescue them . . . for God’s sake, they build nuclear bombs there! The place has the best security in the world, millions of armed guards! How am I supposed to get them out of a place like that? What in the hell are Kory and Beth doing in a place like that?
He sat there, breathing unsteadily, wondering what he was supposed to do next. A single-handed assault on the Dublin Labs just didn’t seem like a good plan. If he had a personal army, maybe he’d have a chance. But alone . . .
No. He wasn’t alone. They had friends in San Francisco, good friends who would help them out. Especially when he told them what Kory had told him, just before their “connection” had been cut. The Mist-Hold Elves, sure, they’d help in a second.
If Kory was still alive . . .
He forced himself to relax. Panicking wouldn’t solve anything. He began dialing.
Five minutes later, he’d listened to eight answering machine messages, two unanswered ringing phones, and one “This number is out of service, and there is no new number” message.
What a great night for this, he thought sourly. Everyone’s out at the Forty-Niners game. Terrific. Couldn’t the Bad Guys have picked something other than a Monday night for their kidnapping and attempted murder?
He dialed the last number on his list, the Holiday Inn near Pier 39. After two rings, someone picked up the phone.
“Elizabet?” Kayla asked. Even across the phone lines, Eric could tell instantly that she was crying.
“Kayla, this is Eric. What’s wrong?”
The girl spoke all in a rush. “Elizabet went downstairs to buy a stupid newspaper, she didn’t come back, it’s been over two hours. The stupid local cops say that’s too soon to file a missing person report, I’m all alone in this stupid city and I know something’s wrong, I know it—”
“Whoa, slow down!” Eric tried to kick his mind into overdrive. Three disappearances in one day? A coincidence? Not bloody likely. “Elizabet’s not the only one who’s disappeared today.” He quickly described the events of the day, and the images Kory had sent to him, and the unbelievable pain he’d felt at the same time.
“That sounds bad,” Kayla said seriously, gulping down her tears, and getting herself under tight control. “I don’t know too much about elven physiology, just what Elizabet and I learned after that fight at Griffith Park . . . I don’t think Cold Iron is immediately fatal, not unless it breaks the skin. I’m not certain about that. Elves are so weird, it’s hard to say. One of the L.A. elves told us about how long-term exposure to Cold Iron is deadly, but I think he said it took a couple days to kill someone.”
Eric realized he had been holding his breath, and reminded himself to keep breathing. Thank God. So Kory’s probably still alive.”
“Yeah, but he must be in a world of hurt.” Kayla’s voice was tight. “Cold Iron apparently triggers all of the nerve synapses continuously during the time of exposure. It’s like having your hand stuck permanently in an electrical socket. Really weird. Elizabet has always wanted to know more about it, since we’re doing a lot of work with the L.A. elven community now, but we can’t exactly do experiments with it, y’know? All of our information is secondhand, and usually hundreds of years old.”
“You’d better start at the beginning, Kayla. When exactly did Elizabet disappear? And did you see anyone suspicious around her today?” Like two guys in suits, driving a pale-blue Mercedes?
“Okay, okay.” He heard the sound of her blowing her nose on the other end of the phone line. “Elizabet and I spent all day at the conference. It was great, I met this priestess from Mendocino who loves Oingo Boingo’s latest album as much as I do . . . anyhow, we came directly back to the hotel after the last discussion ended. I didn’t see anyone following us or anything like that when we were walking back.”
“Anyone suspicious at the conference?” he asked, waiting for the payoff.
“Well . . . yes. These three guys showed up right as we were about to break for the night. They were wearing business suits, so they stood out like sore thumbs against all of us.”
Bingo.
“Did you see their car? Was it a blue Mercedes?” he asked, breathlessly.
“No, they were still hanging around the conference when we left, asking questions of various people.” Kayla’s voice took on a harder tone. “So, Eric, what’s your plan? What are we going to do?”
Plan? You mean, I’m supposed to have a plan? Eric suppressed an impulse to blither insanely and spoke quietly instead. “We’ll get them back, of course.”
“How?”
“First, I’m coming over to your hotel to get you. Don’t open the door for anyone,” he said, wondering if Kayla was on their list, whoever they were. “I’ll be over there as soon as I can.”
He hung up the phone, thinking fast. Bus service in San Francisco was one of the best in the world, but the buses would stop running in another couple hours.
If only he had a car . . .
But he did have transportation. Two motorcycles. In the garage.
Except he didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle.
Except these motorcycles were really elvensteeds, old friends of Kory’s that had agreed to live with them and pretend to be motorcycles. They were Faerie horses, they just looked like motorcycles. At least, that was what Kory said.
He slung his flute case under one arm, grabbed two helmets from the hall closet, and headed to the garage. Inside, the two motorcycles sat tamely. Kory had sent the two bikes—horses—back over to the Faerie Court that morning (since they didn’t like Earth-style horse feed, or so they said), so at least they were well-fed. Or fully fueled, depending on how you thought about it.
“Listen, horses,” Eric said awkwardly. “I have to ask a favor of you. Kory and Beth are missing, and I need to find them. I don’t know how to ride either horses or motorcycles, so you’ll have to get me there. I gotta get over to the Holiday Inn at Pier 39 and get Kayla, ’cause they have Elizabet too. Are you willing?”
For an answer, the bright red and gold motorcycle’s engine coughed into life, revving loudly. A moment later; the other bike followed suit.
“Uh, thanks. I appreciate it.” He lifted the garage door, then sat gingerly on the red bike, stuffing the flute case into the tank bag and fastening the spare helmet onto the seat clip. “Hey, you,” he called to the black and silver bike. “You’ll just have to follow us, okay? We need to get Kayla before anything else. She may be in danger too, I don’t know.”
The black bike’s headlight flashed once. Eric assumed that meant an affirmative, but he wasn’t certain.
“All right, then,” he muttered. “Time for the cavalry to come to the rescue.”
The bike sat motionless for a long second, and Eric began to wonder whether or not this was going to work. Then the bike kicked itself into gear, popped the clutch, and vaulted out of the garage so fast that Eric nearly fell off. A split-second later, the black bike followed them into the street.
It’s just a horse, Eric thought dizzily, as the bike weaved through the cars, heading straight down Geary toward the Pier. It’s just a horse. And it’s only doing . . . eighty-five miles an hour. In a thirty-five zone. Oh my God.
Eric tried to look calm, tried to look like he was actually controlling the bike and knew what he was doing, but after the third high-velocity skidding turn around a corner, he gave up and wrapped his arms around the tank bag, holding on for dear life. The bike made a noise between an engine cough and a chuckle, and accelerated through a red light and into another high-speed left turn. Eric closed his eyes and refused to open them.
The wail of a police siren forced him to look up. One of San Fran’s finest was right on their tail. The two bikes swerved through another right turn, heading due west off Van Ness up into one of the hilltop residential areas. We’re going in the wrong direction! Eric thought, glancing back as the police car followed them up the hill. The bikes zigzagged through a small series of streets, then turned north again. Eric’s heart and stomach both leaped into his throat as he realized they were heading straight for a large stone stairway leading back down into the city below.
With all lights off. As if that made any difference.
“No, don’t!” he yelled involuntarily as the bike leaped up onto the sidewalk and then down the stairs. The police car screamed to a stop at the sidewalk behind them. The bike bounced down the stairs, jolting Eric with every one, and skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairway. It revved its engine, waiting for the black bike to reach the street beside it.
The rest of the ride to Pier 39, thank God, was totally uneventful.
Eric left the bikes parked on the street near the hotel’s back entrance, and hurried up the stairs to Kayla’s room. He knocked on the door, then knocked again. “Hey, Kayla!” he called, suddenly afraid that he might not have gotten there in time.
The door opened suddenly, and a small hand reached out, grabbed him by the wrist, and yanked him into the room. Kayla quickly shut and locked the door.
“They’re out there,” the girl said quietly, her back against the door. “Three guys in business suits. They don’t have a warrant, so I wouldn’t open the door for them.”
“Smart thinking, Kayla. Was one of them a young, blond, muscular guy?” Eric asked.
“No. All older men, in their forties or fifties. They weren’t the same guys I saw earlier today at the conference.”
“We’d better assume they all work for the same company.” Eric walked to the window, looking down. “It’s a big drop, do you think you can do it? Or do you want to risk going through the hotel?”
She bit her lip, but looked not only determined, but eager. “Of course I can do it. How are we going to get away, though? Did you bring a car?”
Eric thought about the two motorcycles, now parked sedately in the motel lot. “Uh, no, not exactly.”
She shrugged. “Well, let’s get moving, Bard. Hallway or window?”
“Let’s try the hallway first,” he said. He opened the hotel room door, glancing down the corridor.
Three men in business suits. Not ten feet away from his nose. Eric slammed the door shut.
“Then again, the window is probably a better idea.” He picked up a chair, advancing on the window. “Stand back, kid, this’ll probably make a real mess.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Kayla stood next to the door, and visibly flinched as someone pounded on it hard from the other side.
Eric swung the chair hard against the glass. It shattered loudly, almost loud enough to hide the sound of two someones slamming themselves against the hotel room door. The door buckled, but held.
“Come on, kid!” Kayla ran toward him as a gunshot echoed from the corridor outside. One of the three men kicked the door open, just as Eric grabbed Kayla and dived through the window.
They fell haphazardly toward the street below. Somehow he had managed to pucker up and begin to whistle a descending melodic minor scale as they exited—in the final quarter second, their tumble slowed to a high deceleration, but impactless landing.
The motorcycles rolled up beside them a moment later, engines rumbling.
Kayla blinked and stared at the riderless bikes.
“It’s okay, they’re friends.” Eric climbed onto the red bike. “Just hang on real tight, okay? They don’t slow down for turns.”
“Hey, I’ve never fallen off a bike in my life,” Kayla said, seating herself on the black bike. “Except maybe if you count that time up in Wrightwood . . . SHIT!” The black motorcycle made a strange noise, something that sounded vaguely like a horse’s whinny, as it accelerated out of the parking lot. Eric glanced once at the speedometer as the bikes headed toward the Bay Bridge, and wished he hadn’t. Can’t they wait to do ninety miles an hour until we’re at least on the freeway?
“What now?” Kayla whispered, staring at the huge floodlight-illuminated area beyond the guard gate.
“I don’t know,” Eric replied. What we need is an army, he thought. The U.S. Cavalry coming over the hill. It never works out like this in the movies. You never see the hero crouching in the dirt, trying to figure out a plan that won’t get him killed. Usually the hero just walks right in, guns blazing, and rescues everyone. Wish I could do that.
Dammit, I’m a Bard! I should be able to do something! Everyone always treats me like I can do anything; all the elves are so sickeningly respectful toward me, even a lot of Beth’s Wiccan friends. They all think I’m hot stuff. He remembered meeting Kory’s cousin, the exotic dancer, and how the elf had bowed so courteously to him when Kory introduced him as “Eric, the Bard—”
Another flash of memory: standing amid the ruins of Castro Street, and the shadow-creature bowing to him—
It hit him like flash of light, the sudden realization of what he could do.
I need an army. So I’ll call an army.
I can do it, he thought. I’ve done it before, it’s so easy. And they’ll answer me, they always have. I can summon an army of them and make them obey me. Nothing can stand against them, nothing can kill them, no guns or explosives or anything. I can bring them here, control them, and use them against my enemies.
But my dream, with the Nightflyers taking over the city . . . is it because of me, because of what I’m thinking of doing right now?
No. I can control them, keep them from killing anyone. I kept that one from hurting Ria, right? I’ll have to risk it. I don’t have any choice.
He took his flute from the case, and played a quiet set of arpeggios, warming up.
Kayla grinned. “I knew you’d think of something, Erie!” she crowed. “What are you going to do, fly us over the gate or something?”
“Better than that,” he muttered. I’m calling the cavalry.”
There was no Irish tune that he could use for this. But he knew exactly the tune to play. “Danse Macabre.”
The first notes were deceptively soft, the calm before the storm. Then the violin solo, the notes hammering down like nails in a coffin, followed by the melody, faster and harsher . . .
He could feel it starting around him, the gathering of tension in the air, whispers of sound beyond normal human hearing. The shadows on the grass, visibly darkening as he played, slowly rising from the ground. Fingers of cold ran down his back, but he ignored them, concentrating on the music.
“Eric, what in the hell are you doing?” Kayla looked around in alarm at the thickening shadows around them.
A wild flurry of notes, and they encircled him, drifting shapes that danced with the wind. He called to them, and they answered, laughing silently as he brought them to him, one by one. When he finally let the flute fall away from his lips, they floated before him, a huge shadow-army awaiting his command.
While he was caught up in the music, he’d been fearless; now he saw them, and he was terrified.
Chills ran down his spine—a cold born of fear that he’d gotten himself into something he could not get out of again. He’d had trouble controlling one Nightflyer—whatever had made him think he could control an army?
Did he control them? Or were they controlling him? Had they used him to bring them here?
Kayla crouched beside him, visibly pale and trembling. He wanted to say something to calm her, but he could feel his Nightflyers testing his power over them, tugging at their leashes, and he knew what would happen if they escaped his control, even for a moment.
No choice. He was in it; he’d have to finish it. There were only two ways to get out of this one. A winner, or Nightflyer dessert. He stood up, and started toward the front gate. “Now we’re going to rescue them,” he said, with far more confidence than he felt, his shadow-troops adrift behind him.