Haunt Me Still (13 page)

“
YOU THINK SHE’S
headed to Edinburgh, for the fire festival?”

She nodded. “I’ve called Ben. He’s got people out looking for her. But I’d like you to go, too. She likes you.”

Not after tonight,
I thought. “And you think Lily took the knife?”

“She’s the only other person who knows how to get in the safe.” She set the edgeless knife in my hand. “She left this in its place. Take it. Maybe whoever wants the knife will take this in its stead.”

I doubted it. Whoever wanted it wanted the real thing:
What’s a ritual knife
for
but ritual?

“
Please,
” said Lady Nairn, her heart in her eyes. “I’m an old woman. I’d just be in the way. But you and Ben…you have a chance to find her.” Her voice, shaky to begin with, dropped to a whisper. “I can’t lose Lily, too.”

Ben was the last person I wanted to be anywhere near, tonight. But I had no choice. Grabbing my jacket and dropping the knife in its pocket, I took the keys she held out and hurried down to the car.

It was a little over an hour’s drive into Edinburgh. Following directions I had from a brief, brisk conversation with Ben, I drove into the old city’s confusing warren of streets, turning left as we came to the Grassmarket, a wide, tree-filled, shop- and pub-lined boulevard. Up ahead, a line of sharply gabled stone buildings came to an abrupt end. I pulled up beneath the last building.

Two men detached themselves from the building’s shadow, stepping quickly toward me. Ben and a shorter sandy-haired man. Ben opened my door; as I got out, pulling my jacket from the passenger seat, the other man ducked behind the wheel.

Ben led me swiftly up a stairway clinging to the side of the building, bordered on the other side by a steep grassy slope. Far overhead, atop a ragged, jutting cliff, perched the castle, shining golden in the night, never taken, across a thousand years, except through treachery.

“What’s the point, if you’ll pardon the expression,” asked Ben, “of slipping the real knife into the performance?”

“Authenticity, according to Lily. She said it was Corra ravensbrook who put the notion into her head, though I’m not sure I trust her. The question is, just how authentic are we talking?”

Something strange happens to blades that have drunk blood,
Eircheard had said.
They wake…. And some of them want more.

“You brought the stage copy?”

I patted my pocket.

“She won’t want to take it.”

“She won’t have a choice.”

He’d had people out canvassing the performers for Lily, but no one could recall seeing her. On the other hand, the torchbearers painted their entire faces in bold black and gold, greasing and braiding their hair into outlandish shapes or tucking it into extravagant jesters’ caps. Our footsteps clattered on stone and cement, punctuating a thick ooze of worry. How far could one fifteen-year-old get along one several-block stretch of an old city? Even with a black-and-gold face, she shouldn’t be that hard to find.

“The way Lily told me the story, it’s the Cailleach who’s supposed to carry the knife,” I panted. “My guess is that she’s probably sticking close to Sybilla.”

“Hurry,” was all he said.

Halfway up the hill, we came out onto another street angling slowly upward, left to right. Cutting across it, we ran up another stair, steeper and narrower. Sounds drifted down from above: flutes and drums and horns, cut by laughter and the occasional shout. And singing. At one point, I thought I heard soft footsteps behind and stopped, looking back.

Below, I saw nothing but shadows moving in the wind.

The Esplanade was writhing with revelers. There were fire breathers and fire dancers twisting batons of flame through the darkness, and drummers dressed in green crowned with wreaths of ivy and holly. Acrobats, jugglers, and leering devils milled about. The Winter Court stalked the fringes, cloaked in black, faces hidden beneath long-snouted wolf masks, howling at the swollen moon hanging high overhead.

In the sort of simple color coding common in folk plays, the Summer Court was recognizable in greens and reds, all the colors of growth and harvest and fire. The Winter Court was mostly in black and gray. The Cailleach was blue and her ice maidens white.

Where the street opened out of the parade ground, leading downward from the castle into the city, hundreds of people had lined the way, swaying and chanting:
People are returning to the ancient ways.
Lily’s phrase. Into this funnel, the players were slowly pouring themselves in a chaotic procession down the hill. Between the buildings and the police barriers that kept the onlookers out of the parade, both sides of the street were packed as far as I could see. Pushing our way through the crowd down to Parliament Square, where the main show would take place, would take hours, if it could be done at all. My heart sank.

“Hurry,” said Ben again.

“How? With wings?”

“
An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.
But if you’re feeling less than celestial, we could try going as wolves in wolves’ clothing.”

Instead of heading toward the street, he began edging around the back of the milling crowd, between the merriment and the castle. I called to him once, in confusion, but he didn’t hear. There was nothing for it but to follow.

We skimmed around the back of the Esplanade in a gigantic half-circle. In the corner on the opposite side, we came to a low wrought-iron fence in front of a white-and-black half-timbered house. A policeman stood in front of the gate. Seeing Ben, he opened it and stood aside, and we ducked along a short pathway and into the house.

A scullery opened into a large old-fashioned kitchen. In the middle of the room, two piles of clothing lay on a long table once painted blue. Atop each pile perched a long-snouted papier-mâché mask: the head of a wolf.

“How’d you get these?”

Ben shoved one pile toward me. “Everything has its price. Even a place in the festival. Just ask Sybilla.” Pulling off his shirt, he started to dress in the clothes from the other pile.

We each had a long-sleeved shirt, trousers, and a cloak, all in black. Just before donning the mask, I drew Lady Nairn’s unsharpened knife from my jacket pocket and tucked it into my belt beneath the cloak.

B
Y THE TIME
we emerged transformed into wolves, the Esplanade had largely cleared. The Cailleach and her ice maidens had gone before we arrived. Now Eircheard and his Summer Court had gone as well, and the Winter Court, led by Jason, was well on its way. I could just see antlers in the distance. As we stepped outside, Ben leaned over to me. “If you find her, or you run into trouble, come back here. Or to the front entrance off ramsay Lane…you know where that is?”

I nodded, and my three-foot snout nearly upended me.

“That’s where the car’ll be,” said Ben.

“Are you planning on skipping?” I asked.

In answer, he threw back his head and howled a challenge to the night, loping into the crowd. The road was lined with torchbearers. Ben took the one side, and I took the other, scanning their faces. Behind the barrier, the crowd was twenty deep in places, swaying and chanting so that the whole street reverberated with their words:
People are returning to the ancient ways.

Except for taking videos on their mobiles and posting them to Face-book,
I thought.

I searched every black-and-gold face on the way down but saw no sign of Lily.

What had she got herself into? That she was involved in Auld Callie’s death I would not believe. That she’d been swept up by others whose passions were less innocent was entirely possible. Corra ravensbrook, for one. Lily had told her about the knife, and it was ravensbrook who seemed to have convinced her that inserting it into this festival would be a fine turn of events. Who was she? A bored housewife, Lady Nairn had scoffed, but I doubted it. Could she have some connection to Lucas Porter?

Around us, other members of the Winter Court were infiltrating the crowd from behind, as winter creeps gradually into summer, sneaking through the crowd and out into the procession from the closes, the narrow, winding alleyways that cut steeply down between buildings from the top of Castle Hill all the way to its feet.

Ahead, to my left, a wolf howled behind the crowd, and the crowd eddied and seethed, people turning in all directions, as the separation between performers and audience melted. At the edge of the scrum, I thought I saw a flip of red hair above a black-and-gold torchbearer’s costume, and then the crowd closed around her.

I pushed my way over, and the crowd enveloped me, too. It was densely packed; I caught snatches of German, Spanish, and something that might have been Russian, along with broad Scots. Three women on stilts ducked through the close behind, their costumes the pale flowing blue and white of ice, glittering with crystals and sequins. Behind them, a puppet fifteen feet tall unfolded through the doorway: a wraith with a twisted face, its skirts of white and silver silk whirling over the crowd like a billowing veil.

A voice cold as winter spoke in my ear. “Walk away, Kate.”

Who knew me, in this mask? Who knew my name? I twisted the wolf’s head to see an old man watching me with watery blue eyes. He was gaunt and a little bent; what remained of his close-shaven hair was gray.

“Who are you?”

His dry laugh faded into a cough. “A messenger. You’re better at giving direction than taking it, aren’t you?”

Suddenly, I recognized him. In the flaring darkness, his body ravaged by illness, he looked more like a figure of Death than the golden man I’d seen in pictures from his glory days in Hollywood.

“Lucas Porter,” I said, stepping toward him, but hands caught me from behind, pinning my arms at my back, holding me where I was. One of the stilt-women bumped into me. As I stumbled, my mask was lifted off and passed into the whooping crowd, bobbing from hand to hand like a trophy.

Lucas stepped close, and for a moment I thought he’d seen the knife at my belt and meant to take it. Instead, he slid his cheek in along mine in a sensual move that made me flinch. “We’ve taken what you would not give.” His voice in my ear was harsh and rasping as a sibyl’s, devoid of emotion, which somehow made the light touch of his skin against mine worse. “Now she must die.”

“Who?” I jerked back, but the hands behind me only tightened their grip. Around us, the crowd jostled and milled, the stilt-women danced, and the puppet wraith whirled, its skirts twirling overhead like a huge parasol.

“
Begin to doubt the equivocation of the fiend that lies like truth….
Either Lily will die, or you will.” He stepped back, a serpent’s cold smile on his face. “Walk away, Kate. This isn’t your story.”

“It’s not Lily’s, either.”

His eyes were dark pools of hatred. “She was born into it.” There was a crack and a sharp cry, and the puppeteer stumbled and fell to the ground. Fifteen feet of puppet sighed and collapsed, its silver skirts slowly settling over the crowd like the fall of a parachute. As it slipped over my face, the hands holding me let go.

By the time I worked my way free, Lucas was gone. Someone else grabbed my elbow and I spun, jerking away. It was another wolf, holding my wolf’s head in its hands.

“Jesus, Kate,” said Ben’s voice.

“What happened?”

“He’s here,” I panted. “Lucas.”

“You saw him?”

“He delivered a message.” It stuck in my throat. “Either Lily will die. Or I will.”

Ben gripped my shoulder, steadying me. “Are you all right?”

I grabbed my mask from him, settling it back on my head. “We have to find Lily.”

We reached the main stage down in the square before St. Giles’ Cathedral just as the revels of the Summer Court reached their climax: red and green people gyrating around each other in squealing decadence, tumblers bouncing through the air, giants swaying on stilts, fire batons swinging flame through the night.

In the center of the stage Sybilla sat enthroned, veiled head to toe in deep blue, almost like a burka, except that in the center of the veil covering her face was painted a single staring white eye. In a grand gesture, she rose, slowly raising her arms skyward. From every side, horns and drums and flutes swelled into a great crescendo until with a single motion downward, she silenced it, and with it the chatter of the crowd. For a moment there was no sound in the square save wind whipping through banners and, in the distance, the cry of a frightened child.

When she brought her hands back up, she was holding a knife. It rippled in the firelight. I took one step closer, peering at the blade. Down its center ran a line of runes.

Ben had seen it, too. Lily had delivered the knife.

And Sybilla had accepted it?
What the hell was she thinking? Beside her, Eircheard sat wrapped in some kind of fur that made him look more than ever like a bear. Draining a flagon in noisy gulps, he tossed it away. It rang on the pavement in the silence. He pushed himself to his feet and lurched across the stage, grabbing at the knife in Sybilla’s hands but coming up empty. He yelled with frustration. Around him, his court tittered with drunken laughter.

At the edge of the stage, the wolves of Winter rushed into the open space, cornering Eircheard and scattering his revelers. Through it all, Sybilla stood motionless at the center.

As the last of the Summer Court slunk whining away, Jason strode toward Sybilla, sweeping into a great bow. As he rose, she extended the knife toward his breast. One thrust would send it piercing into his heart. I wondered whether he’d yet seen that the knife was sharp, but beneath his horned helmet, it was impossible to tell.

A deep drum began to pound out a slow beat. Sybilla offered Jason the knife, and the wolves howled in triumph. The queen had chosen her champion. From his corner, Eircheard bellowed with anger and lurched over to Jason, who let him come, stepping aside at the last instant, slashing out at him as he stumbled by. A piece of Eircheard’s cloak fluttered to the ground, and the crowd clattered with laughter. Eircheard turned, a puzzled look on his face, and trundled back. In another graceful arc, Jason sliced a second bit off his opponent’s cloak. The crowd warmed to it, the handsome young outsider showing up the boorish old king. It was a brilliant routine, bombast versus finery, light catching and flickering on armor and silk and fur.

I heard Ben’s voice in my ear. “Watch Eircheard.”

He stood blinking and swaying, unsteady on his feet, his eyes glazed. I frowned. This wasn’t an act. He was having trouble staying upright. “He looks drunk,” I said quietly.

“Or drugged.”

Lowering his head, Eircheard went at Jason again. Another arc of the blade sliced through his cloak, and this time it caught skin. A rivulet of blood flowed down his arm and he bayed in fury.

Glancing over at the Winter King, I saw something that sent a floe of ice running down my spine. Jason’s hands were large, a workingman’s hands that could handle a broadsword or a horse, a pick or a hoe. But the hand that held the knife had long, tapered fingers, more suited to the piano or the rapier.

Whoever was behind the Winter King’s mask, it wasn’t Jason. Ben’s head jerked around; he’d seen it, too.

Eircheard charged again. This time, he was tripped and fell sprawling on the pavement, subsiding into unconsciousness. The Winter King strode toward him, knife gripped in his hands, and the crowd roared with laughter.

“
Kill him,
” a woman screamed, and the Winter King raised his head, as if sniffing the bloodlust in the air. His knife rose. Pulling off the wolf mask, I began to run, but the knife was already slashing toward Eircheard’s neck.

Just before the blade reached Eircheard’s throat, another hand rose and parried the blow. Pulling off his mask, Ben had stepped forward. His knife was black, of some dull material that caught little light, hard to see in the night. There was a long
aaaah,
and the crowd silenced, leaning inward.

Alone in the center, the matte-black blade and the pattern-welded blade swayed this way and that. And then both blades flew into the air, clattering to the ground, and both men fell heavily to the pavement, rolling over and over. The Winter King dove for his knife, and as he did, Ben caught his helmet, twisting it up and away, so that it came off. The face beneath was painted entirely white, and it took me a moment to recognize him: the dark-haired man from the Esplanade.

Holding the helmet by the horns, Ben was off, scooping up the pattern-welded knife as he went, dancing about with both of them. And then he clapped the Winter King’s horned helmet on his own head.

The dark-haired man charged and Ben ducked, scampering about the square, using a large statue as a shield. Drawing him, with each move, farther away from Eircheard.

Once, Ben ran behind me, using me as a shield, spinning me a couple of times so that my cloak swept outward, enveloping us both.

“Trade,” he said under his breath, thrusting the knife from the hill into my hand and plucking the stage dagger from my belt. And then he was off again, the crowd cheering him on as he led the dark-haired man in a merry chase, prancing about, juggling with the stage knife while the Winter King, no longer looking regal, lunged for it.

Across the way, Eircheard stirred. He sat up, squinting. And then I saw him recognize the antlers. With a yell, he pushed himself up and lurched across the stage, plowing into Ben’s back. There was a sickening thud and Ben went down on one knee, the knife skittering across the pavement, stopping not far from the dark-haired man’s feet. Eircheard skidded after it, catching himself on his knees just in front of the Winter King. With a slow smile of victory, the man scooped up the weapon and raised it over Eircheard’s head.

It had no edge and a rounded point, but it was steel. Driven hard into the chest of an unarmed man, it could still be lethal. Again, a lone woman’s shrill voice filled the square: “
Kill him.
” This time, the crowd took it up. “
Kill him, kill him.
”

Within the chanting crowd, the four of us might as well have been alone on the moon.

“Strike now,” said Ben, “and it will look like what it is. Murder. And there will be ten thousand witnesses.”

“It will look like an accident.”

“Is it worth the risk, with the wrong knife?”

The dark-haired man looked up at the blade in his hand and his smile died. The crowd’s chant died away and silence blanketed the square, broken only by flames crackling in the cold wind. “You bloody fool,” he snarled, thrusting the knife down viciously. Eircheard subsided with a groan.

Someone screamed. I stepped forward. There was no blood. And then I saw the blade, lying jagged and broken on the ground. The dark-haired man had driven the knife into the stone pavement.

Throughout the fight, Sybilla had stood motionless. Now she stepped forward and gave Eircheard her hand, pulling him to his feet, and the crowd sighed in relief at the Cailleach’s resurrection of the old king.

At the back of the stage, sparks spurted and a pyrotechnic display shot flames into the night. Around the edge of the square, a troupe of fire dancers began spinning fiery batons, and the drummers pounded out a quick rising beat of anticipation.

Slowly, Sybilla reached up and unpinned her robe. The drumming grew more insistent. The blue cloak and hood fell to the ground.

Surprise stopped a cry in my throat; beside me I saw Ben do a double take. The woman beneath was not Sybilla.

She was Lily.