Gossamyr (43 page)

"Very much so." She teased it beneath the tumescent
curve of a pink essence until it looked ready to burst, then
withdrew. "With this, I can draw all the Disenchanted I need to
my lair. And I won't have to leave my bed. They will line up at my
door. You, my puppy, have but to sit by and watch them wither at your
feet. They will journey from far lands to taste my kiss."

Avenall whirled to face away from his mistress. A shiver of blue
ice traced his scalp. He shook his head. Flash of an embrace—

—
my father is away, he will not discover us.

—
I
love you, Gossamyr.

What is this? Avenall clawed at the wall. Struggling to grasp hold
of the flickers of what could only be memory, they danced just beyond
his reach. And then a face appeared in his mind's eye. The warrior
bitch. Smiling at him.

Loving him?

How to take in this information? Had the touch of that strange
object released a picture of his past? Or had he merely been tainted
by the warrior's suggestion?

The man on the floor moaned and shrugged a hand over his face.

"This," the Red Lady declared, the horn held high and
her strides moving her before the wall of essences, "is my
triumph over Turiau de Wintershinn of Glamoursiege."

Glamoursiege? Another strange but compelling word.

Beside his face, Avenall felt the hissing burn of the object. The
thing was unwrapped, but held by the cloth to protect his mistress's
hand. It hummed. Its voice filled the room, overwhelming the death
sobs of the essences. More seductive even than his mistress's call.
He jerked his head to the right.

"No!" cried the man from the floor.

"Oh, yes," whispered the Red Lady into Avenall's ear.
"Time to play."

The welcome shimmer of Faery caressed him from head to toe, moving
across his face and around his shoulders—then the reemergence
stopped.

Shinn, restrained between Faery and the Otherside, comprehended
the inexplicable barrier that would not allow him to complete his
twinclian
to Glamoursiege.

Something had named him. A most powerful force.

Tor led the way to Armand LaLoux's home. Gossamyr had once seen a
unicorn—she must have yet been a youngling to tether. Her
father had spoken in a silent conversation with it while Mince had
held her back from a gurgling toddle to embrace the beast.

That Dominique was fée explained why the unicorn tolerated
him riding it. Almost. Unicorns were not beasts of burden. Mayhap the
missing alicorn gentled the unicorn's nature? Sir San Juste seemed so
mortal. His eyes—normally fée possessed brilliant violet
eyes—were violet yet dark. Not true blood?

"Ask me," Dominique said as they neared the door to
Armand's home. "I feel your curiosity. I am ashamed."

"I mean you no disrespect." But curiosity stirred. "Very
well. You are true fée?"

"Yes. But."

She quirked a brow.

"I am a changeling. I was laid in a mortal infant's crib
after I was newly born. I know," he said. "I should have
perished. Or so say the tales I hear."

Gossamyr had always thought Faery changelings died. On the other
hand, mortal exchanges were supposed to die, as well. Yet here she
stood very much alive and well.

"But my fée mother had darker reasons for hiding me
away. I have never been to Faery. Though I can feel it all around."
He scanned the alley, reaching to touch the cool stone wall of
Armand's home. "Not in Paris though."

"Never," Gossamyr agreed. "So you were...raised by
mortals?"

"A fine set of parents. They raised me as their own.
Despite—"he shrugged, easing his shoulders up as if to
work out an itch on his back "—my differences."

"You are winged?"

He nodded. "You must know how difficult it is for a faery to
walk unnoticed in Paris."

"But they do."

"They are able to work a glamour for so long?"

Gossamyr nodded. "Most mortals cannot See a faery should they
spread their wings before them. And when the Disenchantment sets in,
well...their wings, they dissipate. Why is it you still have yours?"

"I cannot say. They've never disappeared, much as I wished
for such when I was a child. I only wanted to run and play with the
others," he said. He drew the cloak out along one arm. "This
is my disguise."

"It serves to hide your nature well. But with the Red Lady
holding court, do you know the danger you are in?"

"I know nothing of this red lady. I am not of Faery,
demoiselle.
I am fée, but...an outcast. I can never
have Faery. I function as a mortal with some of the powers of
glamour. I suspect this red lady, if it is fée she seeks—"

"The Disenchanted."

"Disenchanted? The woman will not recognize me as one?"

"Perhaps not, for you were never Enchanted in the first
place," Gossamyr said, understanding growing. One must live in
Faery to be Enchanted. Yes?

"It pains me to hear you put it in such a manner."

"Forgive me." She felt the wall of a house behind her
and pressed her hand to it. She was so stunned to hear this man's
confession, and yet, curious. He was she in every opposition.

"What troubles you? My lady?" He searched her face. A
look that gentled even with its curiosity.

...
a fine handsome faery man to sweep you from your
feet
—
literally?

She stretched a look to the unicorn, which stood outside the door
to Armand's home. Peaceful acceptance glittered in the beast's pale
violet eyes. Perfection destroyed by the mortal who would take its
horn for devastating magic. She must return the alicorn immediately.

But you vowed to help Ulrich.
Gossamyr stilled. Indeed, she
had made a vow.

Close, the presence of this stranger. He reminded her of Faery—at
least the semblance of her former home.
Your truth keeps you from
returning.
She wanted to be there. To touch it. To feel the
comfort of her home. A home she might never again visit.

It is not your home! It was never yours!

"How long before you learned the truth?" An abrupt
question, but she hadn't time for dally.

"I have always known I am a fée in the mortal world.
My mortal mother made sure I knew whence I came. Though she knew
nothing of the faery ways and could not teach me."

"You were fortunate to have the truth."

Do you know the truth of yourself?

Verity d'Ange. Always she had carried that bit of her truth,
unknowing.

You have the truth complete now. You
are
the truth.

"Remove your cloak. Please," she pleaded. He balked,
placing a hand to the hilt of his sword. Not a menacing move, merely,
unsure.

"I—I just need to see. To...to remember. Please?"

"To remember?"

"Since I have been in Paris, the Disenchantment...I think it
draws away memories. I simply want to believe."

"Ah." He unclasped the silver agraffe at his neck and
swung the cloak from his shoulders. Behind him unfurled shimmering
violet wings, quarter-sectioned like the fetch, and her own tribe—but
the upper wing was larger than the lower, unlike the symmetrical
wings of tribe Glamoursiege. Such wing structure identified him as
from an old and revered family.

"Wisogoth." Not troopers but ancient earth dwellers who
lived in great underground caverns lit by crystals and iridescent
rivers. Desideriel's tribe.

The span of Dominique's wings fluttered in the still air, gushing
a sweet breeze across Gossamyr's face, a summer meadow rich with
clover. She closed her eyes and drew in the aroma of all she had once
had.

To seal the rift would for ever close your access to Faery.

"What is Wisogoth?" he asked.

"It is a Faery tribe. The oldest in Faery. Your tribe, I
would judge from the form of your wings. Have you a blazon?"

"I know naught."

"It is...the Wisogoth blazon covers the back. It shimmers
with glamour. A permanent marking."

"I have nothing like that."

"Perhaps you are not Enchanted?"

"Yet, I've glamour. That damned dust constantly spumes from
me at the most inopportune moments."

"Interesting. I cannot figure this." How to possess
glamour without Enchantment?

"You know Faery?" he inquired softly. "Tell me who
you are,
demoiselle.
You are on a quest?"

"I am come from Faery," she confessed. "Glamoursiege,
a tribe that borders the Netherdred. But I am mortal. Like you,
I...am a changeling."

He tilted his head wonderingly.

That she had spoken the word secured it into her soul. A
completely mortal soul. No essence of Faery within.

In a rocking sway of unstoppable comprehension, Belief altered.

Lost to you now...Faery.

I bid you farewell...

Gossamyr stroked a finger under her eye. No tears. Just the memory
of pain. "I am mortal, stolen from my cradle as a child and
taken to Faery. I have lived there all my life because I...believed."

"Wondrous."

"And now I do not belong."

"Why not?"

"Because a mortal must Believe to Belong." Gossamyr
twined her fingers together before her and pounded her balled hands
to her forehead. "I have always believed myself to be born of a
mortal woman and a Faery lord; only recently have I learned I am true
mortal—that my birth parents are no longer."

"I am sorry."

Bouncing on anticipatory footsteps, she shook out her fingers and
entreated, "Did you ever meet your faery parents?"

"Yes. My mother lives close to me now. My father...is dead.
For the best; he was not fée."

"I see."

"That may be the reason I have glamour while you deem me
without Enchantment. My father, he was...cruel. Of the angelic ranks.
I am..."

"Quite astounding," Gossamyr offered.

Charmed by his smile, an easy charm and not gratuitous, Gossamyr
knew she had found a friend.

"Why have you come to Paris, my lady?"

"I have left Faery to seek the Red Lady and destroy her. My
father sent me, knowing no fée could approach the villainess
without her seducing and killing them."

"You possess the powers of the fée?"

"No. I am Disenchanted, stripped of the little glamour I once
held."

"Ah." He curved his hand before her, looking to caress
her cheek, but he did not touch her. Only he smiled upon her with a
calm look of peace that reassured he was friend not enemy. "What
is your name?"

"Gossamyr," she said, and then looked to the ground.
Overwhelmed, that is all she could feel here in the presence of such
a regal man and the unicorn. Gossamyr Verity de Wintershinn of
Glamoursiege, false child of Shinn. Avenall's words cut to her tender
heart. Who was this Verity d'Ange?

The unicorn snorted at the sudden appearance of a man in the
doorway. A froth of white beard tufted the door frame. Ulrich's uncle
tilted his head, sensing those around him. "Who is about?"

"Monsieur LaLoux." Gossamyr approached the old man. "It
is Gossamyr. I've come for Ulrich. Is he inside?"

"Ulrich? I've not spoken to him since last he was here with
you, my lady."

"I told him to return anon. Where could he possibly—"
Spinning her half staff, Gossamyr looked both ways down the dark
street. "Oh, no."

"What is it?" Dominique calmed Tor with a palm to the
beast's muzzle.

"She was calling to him earlier," Gossamyr said. "I
should have never left her lair. The Red Lady has likely lured Ulrich
and the alicorn to her."

"The alicorn?"

"Yes." She started walking the cobbles. "My friend
was on a quest to return the alicorn to its rightful owner. I must
hurry."

"I shall accompany you!"

"You cannot," she called to the changeling. "You
would put yourself in harm's way should the Red Lady recognize you
are fée. Stay with the unicorn; protect it."

"Very well," the changeling called. "But Tor does
not take orders. He will go where he pleases, there is nothing I can
do to stop him."

Gossamyr winced. A unicorn anywhere near the Red Lady was surely a
dead unicorn. "If the beast knows what is good for it, it will
stay far from the Red Lady's lair."

A protesting whinny and clomp of hooves preceded the charge of the
unicorn. He cantered past Gossamyr. Close behind ran the changeling.

"Very well," Gossamyr said, picking up her pace to match
the others. The smile of adventure emerged. "To charging head on
into danger!"

The world undulated away from him. Or rather, he was being
dragged, arms wrenched overhead and wrists clasped by pinching
fingers. His muscles, stretching from pit to torso, screamed. Too
dazed to struggle, Ulrich remarked the thick white candles flashing
fire sparkles across the walls. Stars stolen from the sky. The
flickers of light moved away from him, appearing from wherever it was
he was being dragged.

At his feet trailed a disturbing vision, the succubus who had
kissed him—briefly. Not really a kiss though, more like she had
moved close enough to kiss and had...inhaled his essence.
Your
soul, lackwit! She draws out your soul!
Even so, that blithe
moment had literally left him drained.

Lifting a knee, Ulrich thought to kick out, to put a stop to this.

"Ah, ah," the lady with the red marking on her face
cooed—still he could but see a swath of her face where she had
wiped his tears; it floated mysteriously above the white dress. She
poked Ulrich with the tip of the alicorn.

Such fire! 'Twas as though he'd been pierced with a flame-red
poker, when all she had done was touch it to his knee.

Drowsy with pain, Ulrich muttered, "Gossamyr?"

"Be that her name, then?" The Red Lady danced the
alicorn in the air gaily, drawing a circle of iridescent glamour in
its wake. "Gossamyr, Shinn's false daughter?"