Bigfootloose and Finn Fancy Free (21 page)

*La! 'Twould little surprise me to learn he truly destroyed Veirai's body to cover his own ass.*

“It sounds like you're saying Silene's screwed?” Dawn said.

“Pretty much.” I looked out the window a second. “And if I get Silene condemned by sharing what Veirai told me, Pete will be even less welcome within the Silver Court than he is already. Much as I don't want them to pledge to any Demesne, if they have to, the Silver's by far their best choice.”

*La! Look who's finally embracing reality.*

Sit and spin, Ralph.

Dawn drove in silence again for a mile before sighing, and saying, “Then I guess ‘someone' should help her. If you can.”

“Yeah.”

“Just, don't be stupid about it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Dude,” Dawn said. “If you don't know what ‘stupid' means, well, I don't know if I can explain it to you without creating an infinite loop of stupidity that would destroy the universe.”

“Very funny.”

“What I meant was, don't go trying to fight that spider creature or do anything noble-but-dumb and get yourself killed. Because, you know, I kind of like you and all.”

I smiled. “Aw, that's sweet. I kind of like you, too.”

“And, of course, it would be really inconvenient if you died. I'd have to spend, like, all week finding a new boyfriend.”

*I'm sure Barry would console her.*

Double dumb-ass on you, too.
“I don't plan on being stupid.”

“Nobody
plans
on being stupid. What
do
you plan on doing?”

“I guess I'll talk to the alchemist,” I said. “He's the only lead I have left.”

“Ooo, listen to you talking all
CSI
.”

“CSI?” I asked.

“Yeah. Cute, Stupid Idealist. What can I say. I have a type.”

“Thanks, babe. That makes me one lucky idiot, I guess.”

“Got that right.”

*   *   *

I hung my old Chuck Taylor hightops on the line between my bedroom and Dawn's house to signal for Heather, then sat on my windowsill to relax for a minute. My Star Wars alarm clock said it was 3:17
P.M.
We'd stopped at the walk-in clinic to get pain-killers for what turned out to be a bruised bone in my hand, and at Fat Smitty's for milk shakes, both of which had left me feeling much improved. I looked across our yards at Dawn's house. I missed her already. It was weird, this feeling of absence after being with her for hours, like the whole world had gone dead silent. But she'd passed out as soon as she got home, and would probably sleep for hours. Just as well, I supposed, given what I had planned for the evening—and who I planned to do it with.

I grabbed the Simon artifact my father had made me off the nearby shelf, and turned it over, revealing thaumaturgic runes painted in silver. I lifted the battery panel, and saw that the batteries were wrapped in hair dark like mine. I replaced the cover and turned it on. The four colored buttons lit up in a sequence of six flashes, and the beeps that accompanied each flash caused the crystals to hum in a building resonance I could feel in my teeth … and in my spirit. I quickly turned it off as its possible uses began to solidify in my mind. What had Father said?
Over there, other there, criss-cross spirit sauce
. Something to do with the Other Realm perhaps? Or the other side of the Veil? I looked out of the window, letting my mind drift.

Late afternoon light played across the pine trees that swayed in the breeze and the madrona trees that shimmered. Finches sang, and somewhere a crow gave its sharp barking caw. The breeze up here, above the treetops and the low-hanging smells of dried grass and warm pavement, still held faint hints of the ocean's cool crisp scent.

I flexed my hand slowly, then set an ice pack on it.

*How's the stomach?* Alynon asked. *Are we rethinking the whole ‘no sit-ups' policy?*

“I'm rethinking every life choice that stuck me with you in my head, not to mention a jorōgumo and crazed waerfox on my butt. But no, my stomach's not bothering me half as much as this whole situation with Silene.”

*The jorōgumo attack, the orders to destroy Veirai's body, Romey's attack in the visitation room: your Arcanites could have orchestrated all of that, especially if they are using Grayson's Curse.*

“They aren't
my
Arcanites. And this feels too sloppy and exposed for them.”

*Mayhap. Your Arcanites do tend to be more obsessed with slaughtering we Aalbrights than stirring up trouble in your world.*

“They're
not
my—never mind. There are plenty of other groups, both arcana
and
Fey, with their own grand plans for world peace or world domination. I just don't know enough to even guess at who's behind these things. Any real thoughts you're willing to share that
aren't
just to annoy me?”

*Alas, no. That would be boring.*

“Fine.” So I would focus on what I did know, what I could control.

I loved my brother, Petey. That was an unshakable certainty. And … I might not be able to keep him from being declared a brightblood. But I could help make sure that whatever choice he made, wherever he made his home, he would be welcomed rather than hated because of his family name.

A fluttering outside my window made me look out just in time to see a crow lifting my shoes off the line and descending to the back of the house, toward the garden.

Heather's doing. Or the crow just had good taste in shoes.

 

14

Keep Your Hands to Yourself

The garden filled a good portion of our backyard. Mother had tended it with skill and care before her death, filled it with her love and energy so that it truly lived. Not in an Audrey II “Feed me Seymour” kind of way, but the garden had a definite life and personality to it. After Mother's death, Felicity, our au pair, had also tended it with skill and care, but with the added element of witchcraft at my grandfather's guidance, using Mother's lingering love and energy to control her ghost and, through her, control my father.

I'd destroyed the garden's heart that had animated it to that evil purpose, and now the garden hunkered down like a wounded lion in a bramble, tangled and wild and uninviting, but still holding a savage beauty.

I picked my way carefully along a path cut through plants that might have been tomato vines, or perhaps rose bushes, or possibly triffid-spawn, pushing through to the center of the garden. The green smell of tomato vines and the cool musk of shaded soil hung in the air.

Heather stood there, beside the garden's dried husk of a heart, water pistol in hand. She still wore the long black coat and short black hair, and looked like she'd been trapped on the set of Richard Simmons'
Sweatin' to the Oldies
for two weeks without food or sleep—exhausted, gaunt, and deeply haunted.

“Could you maybe point that away from me?” I asked, nodding at the water pistol.

She leaned to the side, glancing past me to make sure I was alone, then lowered the plastic gun. “So you thought of something I could do to help?” she asked.

“Have you been working on a cure to the mana drug?”

“I told you, I can't,” she responded in an agitated voice.

“You mean you won't.”

She sighed. “Is this why you signaled for me, to have the same argument?”

“No,” I said. “I need your help.”

“With what? A potion?”

“With talking to a fellow alchemist.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What's the catch?”

“He's a black marketer,” I said. “And possibly working for the Arcanites.”

“Oh, is that all?” she asked. “You want me to reveal myself to the group of arcana most likely to want me dead?”

“Uh, yes?” I replied. “Please?”

She gave a sharp exhale of a laugh, and said, “You're determined to make this hard on me, aren't you?”

“I didn't make you a fugitive,” I said pointedly. “I'm just asking for your help. And sometimes helping the people you care about isn't about what's in it for you.”

Heather looked up at the house, its upper floors and tower visible above the shifting leaves of the garden, and scowled in silence for a minute. “How's Mattie?” she asked finally.

“Doing okay,” I replied. “She's pretty mature for her age, definitely more than I was at that age.”

Heather snorted. “More than you are now.”

“Yeah, probably. But she's still a teenager. I don't think any of this has been easy on her. And her father—” I shook my head. “She has her family, and Vee now. But I know she misses you.” I looked down at the trampled stalks and vines. “We all do. You threw away a lot when you made the choice you did.”

“I didn't have—” Heather stopped and shook her head, and then looked to the side, raking her bottom lip with her teeth.

“Fine,” she said finally. “I'll help. But we're doing it my way.”

*   *   *

I stepped through the doorway beneath a sign that read T
RADITIONAL
M
EDICINES
. The jangling of a bell welcomed me, followed by the nose-tickling smell of herbs and spices, and the tingling of magic as a fine mist drifted up to brush my hands.

Heather had warned me of the mist, rising up from a thin grate that ran across the doorway. It would neutralize any active magics working on me, such as potions or spells that might gift me with abilities that could be used to hurt the alchemist or give me an advantage in price negotiations. It was the reason that Veirai had “woken” from the effects of the rage potion as soon as she entered the shop. Woken, and turned to leave.

The shop looked much as I'd expected, with lots of tins and bottles holding traditional herbal medicines staged on shelves and small tables in the shopfront. I'd waited until the shop appeared empty of customers, so aside from me the only person in the shop was the man who stood behind a counter of dark wood, in front of a wall covered in small drawers with handwritten labels.

The infamous black market alchemist.

If you shaved Santa Claus, laid him off from his Christmas gig due to a drinking problem, and made him work double shifts as a salesperson at Toys “R” Us for the holidays instead, you'd get a happier, healthier looking version of this guy.

“Can I help you?” the alchemist asked.

“Just wanted to check out your shop,” I said.

*La, I'd wager he has some draught to clear up your little performance issue with Dawn.*

I don't have a performance issue! I have an annoying Fey in my head.

*That is
your
problem. When a naked woman lies in your arms, you're supposed to think with your other head.*

And you've lain with how many naked women?

That shut him up.

I fished a gremlin bone out of the coin pocket of my jeans. Technically, it was a rat bone about the size of a toothpick, carefully carved and prepared. Gremlins were not lizard-like creatures that sprung out of a mogwai's back if you got him wet or fed him after midnight. If you got a mogwai wet, all you'd have is one irritated mogwai and a room that smelled like asparagus. No, gremlins were Fey spirits from the Chaos Demesnes who slipped into our world to possess and twist other beings into serving their desire for mayhem and mischief. Rats were among their favorite, present almost everywhere, small enough to get into tight spaces but big and strong enough to cause some real damage. Raccoons were another favorite.

And very rarely, a gremlin chief would be strong enough to control a human to sow the seeds for real lasting chaos, mayhem, and annoyance, such as the one who possessed Alexander Graham Bell. True, the phone was a fairly useful device on the surface, but that prescient gremlin chief laid the groundwork for telemarketing, automated help lines, and groups of people all sitting around staring at mobile phones instead of each other. Please push 1 for chaos, annoyance, and disconnection.

After the Black Death, gremlin bones had been common trinkets, often used by children to play pranks. During the past several Fey-Arcana wars, however, a lot of them were used up or lost in sabotaging enemy equipment, and they were now much more rare.

I rolled the gremlin bone back and forth between my fingers, then let it drop through the grate at my feet.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Alchemist Claus asked, suspicion creeping into his tone as I continued to linger by the door.

“Just browsing,” I said. “Thanks.”

A horrible whine and clanking noise came from the vent. The mist stopped rising.

I opened the door, and Heather strode in.

She had applied some kind of cream to her face that made it shimmer and waver as though seen through thick, turbulent water, so that it was impossible to make out more than a face-shaped blur.

“What—” the alchemist began as Heather raised a SuperSoaker and fired a stream of liquid that glowed hot pink and smelled like the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese's.

“—the—” the alchemist finished as the potion stream hit him in the chest, spattering up over his face and raining down onto the dark wooden counter.

His eyes took on a distant glaze as the effects of the potion flooded his brain with happy chemicals and played havoc with his emotions.

I don't know which made me wince more—the difficulty he would have getting that smell out, or the risk I knew Heather took on my behalf. The potion even now filled Alchemist Guy with a desire for Heather's approval and happiness, which would eclipse all other passions, all other cares, all other personal dreams and motivations he might have had. Love potions were illegal for a good reason. People did crazy things when they got jealous or insecure about their love. A love potion didn't make someone good, it just made them in love, and not everyone knew how to express love in the healthiest way.