Stone Song (14 page)

So, she realized, did Elada. He’d faced down the Prince Consort last night, and that Fae had radiated power. Sorcha watched her lover slip from the bed and saw him, naked, in full light, for the first time. His tattooed wristbands were more silvery than they had appeared in the dark, and they glimmered in the morning light. His chest was bare of ink but patterned in the network of scars, whorls and dots, and sinuous swirls that she had felt last night. They covered his shoulders and biceps like a mantle.

“Did those hurt?” she asked. They’d obviously been carved into his flesh. She’d never been attracted to men with tattoos, and scarification was outside her experience entirely, but on Elada the patterns were things of beauty.

He looked away. “They’re Druid marks, Sorcha. Your people put them on me so they could command me.”

It seemed that her people weren’t very nice either. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “You shouldn’t be. That was two thousand years ago, and there’s no reason why you should be anything like your ancestors. To answer your question, they hurt while they were being cut, but they healed quickly. Unlike sword cuts, which don’t really hurt when the blade goes in. It’s when the blade comes out that they feel like they’re sucking your soul with them. Although, of course with Fae weapons, sometimes they do that, too.”

She didn’t think he was joking. “Keiran had scars like yours”—she’d seen him casually naked often enough—“but he didn’t have any tattoos.”

“Keiran was a courtier, like most of the Manhattan Fae. An idler. He cultivated no Fae talents, and no allegiances. When the Court was exiled, decorative Fae like him had to find someone new to follow. Manhattan is Donal’s domain. Donal was a bright star at Court, so following him was a wise choice. Fae like Keiran still think the Queen will come back someday, and they want to make sure they will not lose position or favor with her in the meantime.”

“Is that why you follow Miach?”

Elada laughed. “Definitely not. If the Queen comes back, if the Court is freed, they’ll hunt Miach down and kill him. He has had the power to release them all this time, and chose not to. And they’ll murder or enslave his whole family. The Fae keep half-breeds as toys, not favored sons and daughters.”

A distinct metallic ringing sound came from the kitchen downstairs.

“It sounds as though Bobby is almost done fixing your window.”

“Oh. I’ve got money to pay him.” She didn’t have much. She’d need most of it to get away, but somehow the idea of running wasn’t so appealing anymore. For one thing, she wasn’t as certain as she had been that she could just disappear. For another, she did feel safe with Elada, and she hadn’t felt truly safe since she’d escaped from Keiran. And Gran’s house was the one place she knew where the Fae couldn’t just waltz in and take her unawares.

“Don’t worry about paying for the window,” said Elada.

“I’d rather not owe your kind anything,” she said. Obligations to the Fae, she knew, could be binding.

“I broke the bars,” said Elada, smiling ruefully, “so it’s only right I should pay to fix them. But we can’t stay here, Sorcha. The Prince has human followers who won’t be put off by cold iron. We should go to Miach’s. His house is almost a fortress, and it’s warded, so the Prince can’t attack us magically. And Miach’s family is practically a small army, so we should be safe from mundane attacks as well. Plus, I have searched this entire house, and you have no coffee of any kind. Not even instant.”

She felt like laughing. A Fae with a caffeine addiction. “I can make you tea,” she said. “Gran was a great one for hoarding tea. We’re still drinking her stash. At least the identifiable varieties. The ones that smell like tea or spices. There are some that smell like old cats and bicycle tires.”

“That is because your gran was what Druids become when they don’t unleash their full power but still practice magic: a witch.”

The description fit Gran. She had been like a witch without the broom and hat. And she’d kept Sorcha in a tower of sorts, like Rapunzel. More fairy tales. “What kind of tea would you like?’

“The kind that’s coffee,” said Elada. “We’ll stop on the way to Miach’s.”

“I want to see Tommy first,” she said.

“That isn’t a good idea, Sorcha. The Prince may have Druids watching your friend.”

“Then all the more reason to get Tommy out of there. The Prince used him to force me to come back to the Black Rose. And to drink that disgusting stuff.”

“Its effects weren’t so disgusting last night.” Elada’s lips curled into a smile. “And at least it was me and not the Prince who got to enjoy the results.”

• • •

Elada waited until Bobby Crane
had left to call Miach. He’d tested the window himself, painful as it was to handle cold iron, even through oven mitts. He wanted Sorcha to have a safe place to run if she needed it.

She’d been planning to bolt. He’d noticed her bag by the door when he’d come downstairs in the morning. A part of him wished she’d gotten away, that the Prince’s call from the Black Rose hadn’t reached her. Then she might have a chance at happiness unshadowed by her Druid heritage.

It would have been a slim chance, of course. The Prince would have tortured Tommy Carrell until he discovered where she’d gone. And the Prince was an expert tracker.

Miach picked up on the first ring.

“You can’t bring her here now,” was the first thing the sorcerer said.

“Why not?”

“Because I couldn’t convince Finn and Donal that it was safe to let her live. Apparently, one of his followers was killed by stone song several years ago. Right outside his home, no less. An insult he cannot let pass. He thinks our Druid is the killer.”

“He’s right,” said Elada.

Miach cursed. “When were you going to tell me that part?”

“I only learned myself last night. She told me about it. His name was Keiran. He kept her as a singing pet, like a caged bird, for a year.”

“That won’t matter to Donal.”

“Does it matter to you?”

“Yes. Of course it does,” said Miach. “But Donal understands what that means as well as you and I do. She’s already killed. She’s got access to her Druid power, even if she doesn’t know how to use it. That makes her very dangerous.”

For a second Miach was silent. Then he added, “And she could have killed you in that alley, old friend.”

“She didn’t mean to kill Keiran. She was horrified by what happened. She’s softhearted. That’s why she went back to the Black Rose. The Prince had her friend prisoner.”

“Another liability,” said Miach. “There is no room in this fight for a softhearted Druid with the power to bring down the wall. She can be manipulated through her friends.”

“She knows that. She wants to bring the fiddler with us so the Prince can’t use him against her.”

“You cannot come here,” said Miach, “because Donal has made himself at home and I cannot eject him without causing a war with New York. And Finn’s people are watching the house. You know what the Druids did to his wife. He only tolerates Beth Carter to keep the peace and because he’s not certain he can best her and Conn together. You cannot come here.”

“Where, then?”

“Deirdre’s?”

“She hates Druids,” said Elada. “Almost as much as Finn does.” And she was mad, unpredictable, her mind unhinged by the horrors she had experienced when the Druids had held her and tried to warp her art for their purposes.

“She hates Druids,” agreed Miach. “So it will be the last place Finn and Donal look for her. And Deirdre is a recluse, so they’re unlikely to pay her a visit. Her house, in any case, is warded, so the Prince won’t be able to scry you or Sorcha there. And I may call on Deirdre without eliciting comment. At least, from anyone but my wife.”

That much was true, as Miach had been Deirdre’s lover in the past, and Fae like Finn and Donal would not see the sorcerer’s liaison with Helene Whitney as a reason to forgo sex with the beautiful, damaged Deirdre.

It was not ideal. Deirdre’s house was a neat little Georgian structure tucked away on Beacon Hill’s Pinckney Street. It was no fortress, but it was discreet. And perhaps if he could enlist Conn and Beth to his cause, it might be made secure.

“I’ll tell Liam and Nial to bring you the Range Rover. Hopefully no one is watching them.”

“Tell them to drive out of the city first, shake off anyone who might be tailing them, and leave the keys in the ignition,” said Elada. Then he reconsidered. “Tell them to bring the minivan.” He hated the minivan, but it was armored and spacious, and while the Prince couldn’t use guns, his Druid followers almost invariably did.

Elada called Deirdre’s landline next, because she had no cell phone and there was always someone—the housekeeper, Deirdre’s human lover, Kevin, or Deirdre herself—at home.

Kevin picked up after a dozen rings. When Elada explained the situation, he agreed immediately.

“Don’t you need to check with Deirdre?”

“It’s my house, too,” said Kevin. “And we failed Miach when Helene came to us for help.”

Elada had known there was something amiss between Deirdre and Kevin, but he didn’t know it had originated that night. Elada had been in Ireland, injured in an explosion—a bomb filled with iron filings—at the Prince Consort’s compound. Miach had been taken prisoner by his son Brian, who’d planned to kill him as part of a scheme to release the Prince Consort from the other world. The Prince Consort had been released, but Miach had lived, and his son Brian, a half-breed, had been flung into that other plane.

Elada did not want to come between whatever trouble was brewing between Deirdre and Kevin, but he couldn’t turn down their offer.

When he returned to the kitchen, he found Sorcha wearing a floral kimono—another vintage find, no doubt—and stirring sludge in a pot. It was an appealingly domestic image, except for the sludge. She poured a steaming mug and handed it to him.

It didn’t smell like coffee. “What is this?”

“It’s a coffee substitute,” she said brightly.

“Made out of what?”

“It tastes better if you don’t know what’s in it.”

“That is never a recommendation.”

“You could at least give it the benefit of doubt.”

“If you’d given me the same last night, you would be safe from the Prince now.”

“That’s an argument for giving the coffee-like beverage a try.”

Elada set the cup on the counter. “No, it isn’t. I’m the exception that proves the rule. You’re right to be wary of most Fae. We cannot go to Miach’s yet, because there are other Fae hunting you—who know what you did in New York.”

Chapter 9

S
orcha felt light-headed with terror. She’d always feared that Keiran’s friends would connect his death with her singing, that the Fae would begin hunting her. She glanced at the iron lattice of the kitchen window, almost as good as new. Almost. But Elada had burst through it . . .

“It isn’t safe to stay here,” he said, following her eyes to the window. “But there is a place we can go. A friend’s house. Deirdre doesn’t like Druids, but her house is warded against magical attacks and because of her history with your race, no one will suspect she is hiding you.”

“Why is she willing to take us in?” she asked.

“Relationship troubles,” said Elada.

“That answers absolutely nothing.”

“You’ll see when we get there. For now, pack a bag.”

“I already did, last night,” she admitted. “I was going to run, but I couldn’t go when Tommy called. I couldn’t leave him with that Fae. And I can’t leave him in the hospital.”

“We’ll pick him up on the way,” said Elada. “As long as we can stop for coffee first.”

He dumped Sorcha’s roasted dandelion brew into the sink.

“You didn’t even taste it.”

“Did it have caffeine in it?”

“No.”

He flashed her a smile. “Then I don’t care how it tastes.”

She supposed she ought to be happy. Elada’s caffeine addiction made him seem a little more human.

When they were ready to leave, Sorcha slung her harp in its carrying case over one arm and her bag over the other. Elada took the bag wordlessly off her shoulder and headed down Gran’s long gravel drive.

There was a minivan parked at the end. No one ever parked in front of Gran’s house. The neighbors had been tongue-lashed one too many times by the old woman and no one had been brave enough to discover if Sorcha was any different. The sight was unusual enough that Sorcha hesitated.

“It’s okay. It’s mine. Miach had his sons bring it here for us. You didn’t think I was going to carry your fiddler friend on my back, did you?”

“I didn’t think you drove a minivan.”

“It’s an
armored
minivan,” he said defensively.

“Where do you get an armored minivan?”

“Quincy,” he said, without missing a beat.

“Right. I’m sure they have year-end armored minivan sales there. Where did you really get it?”

“The same kind of place you get an iron-strung harp. The kind of shop where the owner knows better than to ask questions about what it will be used for.”

The two Fae who emerged from behind the
armored
minivan had taken care to remain hidden until it was too late to run back to the house.