Blood Kin (7 page)

“I’d go over there, but I’m afraid that she’ll—” That she’d still avoid me in person. At least, with leaving voice mail, part of me could pretend she was busy. I knew better, but it was a bit of a solace.

“Ah.” He walked to where I stood and hugged me. I let myself relax into his strength, soaking up the power radiating from him. Ever since my Change, I could feel his energy so strongly. He’d been able to hide it before. Hell, I hadn’t even known he was a vampire until we’d met up again. I didn’t know if he still could shield from me, or if he just didn’t bother now.

“I can’t believe she won’t speak to me,” I mumbled into his shoulder. “We’ve never not spoken to each other.” Not even during our insane teen years. Bea had been busy working at the family café, learning the ropes. I’d gotten a kick out of hanging there, belonging. Being a teen human is bad enough, but in Clan reckoning, I was still a young pup, so to speak. Barely out of nappies and really not very interesting. If it hadn’t been for a combination of Bea, her family, my two aunts and my brother Tucker, I’d have grown up more of a basket case than I was. Now, part of my support structure was gone and I had no idea how to shore it up again.

“I’m sorry,” Adam said and held me tighter. “She’s been your friend for thirty years. I know how this hurts.”

“Yeah.” I tilted my head up and kissed him. “Thank you,” I said, breathing the words against his lips.

Adam kissed me back, deepening it to something
just short of carnal, enough to remind me what I’d be missing in Canada. “She’ll come round,” he said after he pulled away. “Give her some time. It’s only been a few days.”

I nodded and turned to leave. Yeah, once she forgives me for sentencing a man to death.

John and Rodney

HE’D HEARD PEOPLE thought of them as folk singers, homeless to be sure, but he and Rodney always show up for the festivals, especially the ones that gather in Victory Square. The park’s a few steps from their regular spot on West Hastings, a good place to hang out any day, but especially so when there’s a music festival going on. The park isn’t big, but it is always kept up nice by the city. John really likes it here. He spends most afternoons sitting on the side of the hill, on the grassy verge, listening to and watching people. Some days, he takes the Number 19 bus to Stanley Park and hangs there a few hours, but he always comes back here. It’s smaller and cozier.

John especially enjoys watching the tourists. The Americans are usually easy to spot; they tend to be overloaded with backpacks, have those silly waist packs and often wear loud clothing. Some of them are very nice, though. There was a family group at the park last September, all gathered for a birthday celebration. They sat and listened to the music for more than an hour and tipped them a couple of twenties. When Rodney protested, one of the women smiled and thanked them for the joy of being able to relax and listen. “I have a very demanding job,” she’d said. “It’s not often I get to sit for a while and enjoy something as simple as music.” She’d nodded then,
to both Rodney and him. The family then left, off for dinner somewhere in Gastown.

The weather’s been really mild lately, warmer than normal at twelve degrees. Easy days, more sunny than not, and easy to wait out the occasional rain. John likes the spring in Vancouver, so much better, so much warmer than where he grew up. The usual morning and afternoon drizzle don’t bother him at all. Rodney hates the rain and John teases him a lot about it, since Rodney grew up here and should be used to it.

They both play instruments: John, the guitar, Rodney, a bodhrán. John chants more than sings the old songs, the ones from before. A scholar would recognize them as Child Ballads; John only knows that they’re from when the first of his family came over, long time ago when the
coureurs de bois
and the tribes still roamed free. His family. Didn’t have much of that these days, but he remembers Mum talking about her great-grandda who sailed over from Scotland. “He were a bard,” she’d say. “Sang for the queen.” John kind of doubted that last, but the fact his great-great-grandda sang was true fact. John had found reams of scribbled-on paper in a box in the attic of the last house they’d lived in. At first, he thought the people who’d lived there before left the songs but one day, Mum found him reading and went to her room to cry. She’d come out after a while, wiping her eyes on the apron with the big red apples. “Those b’longed to yer great-great-grandda,” she’d said. “You’re named after him.” And that was it. She’d never spoken of the songs again. John had scrimped together enough money to buy a secondhand guitar from old Pennyworth’s and learned to play from a coverless set of Mel Bay books someone had tossed into the trash bin behind the music store. They’d been in Toronto then, but
after they’d had to give up the house and start sleeping in the car, the winters got too cold to bear. Mum packed them up and drove to Vancouver—a long way, but Mum wanted to go as far as she could. John was thirteen then, full of piss and vinegar and angry at the world. He’d run away a year later and never looked back.

The crowd continues to gather as he and Rodney tune up. They’re not seated on the erstwhile stage, but over to the side, on the hill, where they like to practice together. They’d spread out an old raincoat as a tarp to sit on, since the grass was still wet from this morning’s drizzle. Rodney grumps about the cold ground. John teases him again and pulls out a hat for tips.

“Heya, guys.” One of the regulars nods to them as he stumps by, all rags and parcels, clean because he’d showered yesterday over at the Ramada. John likes the folk there; all of the workers were kind. In slow times, they’d often let one or two of the street folk come in and use the shower in one of the empty guest rooms, so long as they were in and out quick, before six
A.M.

The hostel wasn’t too bad of a place to stay, really cheap, but there wasn’t any food and John never trusted the showers. Plus, lately, he’d heard tell of at least one guy found dead in his bed. Old guy, to be sure, but best to come in late, sleep with one eye open and leave as early as possible. Too many new people in town, too many drifters with one hand out for a handout and another in your pocket taking what little you had.

Sometimes, if John and Rodney were really lucky, the Ramada had leftovers from the breakfast the hotel offered guests. Rodney would go over on their behalf, stand at the back of the hotel and wait every morning around eleven. Most days, they’d get some toast and jam. Some days,
they even got waffles or pancakes. Kind of rubbery, but it didn’t really matter. Either way, it was nearly good as it could get, except for the days that they had some ready coin and could go over to Tim Hortons—the folks over at the Waterfront Centre were pretty nice—and shell out for a coffee and some Timbits.

A man passes them. A stranger to this place, John thinks, though he isn’t sure why he knows this. The man’s no more oddly dressed than anyone else here, from the ragtag people of the streets to the equally oddly dressed former and wannabe hippies: all long hair, ribbons and leather. The man wears knee-high leather boots laced up the center, like some sort of funky moccasin. He’s not First Nations—can’t be, not with pale blond hair, one braid down the left side of his face, the rest loose down his back and blowing in the gentle breeze. A small bell woven into the braid chimes as the breeze moves it. John nudges Rodney, who looks up and grimaces, grumpy to be distracted from his drum. “Looks like one o’ them folksy hippie types,” Rodney says and turns back to sliding his fingers across the drum’s skin, as if to feel all the imperfections, the rough patches on the leather. He’d made the drum himself, learning how after hours and days spent in the library, both from books and online. He’d gotten the various bits and pieces from haunting a couple of Canadian Tire stores and connecting with a lumberman who helped find him the wood. Another person helped him find enough leather to finish it. Daisy-the-waitress, not to be confused with Daisy-with-long-hair, showed him a book she had on Celtic designs and Rodney painstakingly painted some of the knots on the wood of the drum.

John nods agreement. “Yeah, not from around here, I’d say.” He watches as the man keeps walking, never looking
at them, but going to sit at the edge of the crowd, his dark green trousers and flowing pirate shirt peeking from the folds of a cloak. John remembers a neighbor in Toronto who was in some sort of reenactment group. Dressed like that a lot. The guy in Toronto always looked kind of stupid, though, with his balding head and thick glasses. This guy … there is something about him …

The man pulls out a small silver object—a flute, maybe?—and sits polishing it with a cloth. John shrugs. Just another musician. He turns his attention back to his guitar and begins picking out “Tam Lin.” Rodney picks up the beat only seconds later. The man looks over at them and nods, picks up his flute and joins in.

I
T WASN’T EVERY DAY
one could fly to Vancouver in a private plane piloted by a hound. Well, not exactly hound, but a dog at any rate. Tucker, Niko, Daffyd and I arrived at the San Antonio airport private plane terminal and it was dark enough for Niko to be able to be outside without harm.

Finding the plane was fairly easy. The person staffing the gate directed us to Hangar Ten. We trooped out with our bags and packs. It was a bit of a trek, but luckily, none of us carried much in the way of luggage or gear.

I’d asked Niko to provide clothes for Daffyd, as I didn’t want to call too much attention to him. It was going to be difficult getting through customs in Vancouver with a Sidhe; the vampire, though, was evidently not going to be a problem. Niko had assured me his paperwork was in order. No doubt Adam had long since taken care of his vampires’ legal documentation and since he and Adam had managed to get into the United States from England, I wasn’t all that worried—it was a lot harder to come into this country than get out of it, even with the proper paperwork. Homeland Security—our tax dollars at work or whatever. If they only knew …

Daffyd, on the other hand, had nothing of the sort. When I asked him how he’d entered the country, he gave me that particularly Sidhe expressionless look—sort of like a fair-haired Spock, pointy ears and annoying
attitude included. Then he’d told me he could cast a foolproof glamour, effectively hiding himself from human eyes.

A glamour wasn’t necessary here at this airport, but the glowing, flowing, magick faery garb had to go. We were meeting our pilot at the hangar, but still needed to check in at the terminal. Bad enough I was traveling with three of the most gorgeous men in existence; having one of them wearing flowing robes would be too much.

My Sidhe cousin was now decked out in black jeans, a black shirt with silver tracings on the collar and cuffs and a pair of black Lucchese boots—half country singer, half Goth—only in Texas. Daffyd had pulled his hair back into a loose ponytail, fastening it with a silver clasp, taking to the clothes as if they were made for him. He’d managed to come across as something other than, well …
Other
—at least if his observer was a human. To me, he still felt Sidhe. Nothing could hide the sense of power that he emanated. Outwardly though, for the mundane world, he would do.

Once we reached the hangar, all we found was a tastefully appointed Learjet with “Kelly 2” painted on the side and a somewhat shaggy black dog wandering around. I’d been about to call the whole thing off and head back to the Wild Moon when the dog bounded up to me, licked my hand and enthusiastically wagged its tail.

Niko stepped back, barely repressing an automatic sign of the cross (right, this vampire had no problem with crosses) as the hound silently morphed into a redheaded woman of medium height, clothed only in her dignity. She tossed him a grin, then reached into a duffle bag that had been sitting next to the rollaway stairs. Daffyd never reacted.

She pulled out some clothing and gave us all the onceover. “I seriously want to ask which one of you is the Tin Man,” she quipped. “A woman and three men, on a journey—”

“To see the Great and Powerful Oz,” I muttered.

“If we are Dorothy and her companions,” Niko said smoothly, “then you must be Toto?”

“Good one.” The woman barked a laugh and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She nodded to me as if to congratulate me on my excellent taste. “He is a pretty one, dear cuz. Yours?”

“Mine,” Tucker broke in, both pride and possession evident in his tone.

“Well, well, then, cousin. A coup. Bully for you.” She turned to Daffyd, studying him. “This one is yours then?” I knew she meant me and by yours, she meant family. Even she could feel the resonance.

“Daffyd ap Geraint. I am Keira’s cousin,” Daffyd said quietly and inclined his head in a bow. “On her mother’s side,” he added unnecessarily.

Our pilot smiled and seemed to file this information away. She turned back to look at the group of us. “I was expecting one cousin and now have a whole tribe’s worth. Nice. This ought to be fun.”

Niko grinned, a hint of the rake I’d first met peeking through. With an elegant nod and slight bow, he addressed my cousin. “You have the advantage of me, ma’am.”

“Liz Norton Kelly,” she said, sticking out a hand in greeting. “Onyx, when I’m in dog form.”

Niko raised it to his mouth and bowed over it.
“A votre service, madame.”

Liz tossed back her hair and let out a belly laugh. “Pretty
and
polite. Tucker, you dog.”

“Wolf,” my brother grumbled under his breath.

“So you choose,” Liz said with a shrug. “I prefer
canis lupus familiaris
.”

Niko regarded Tucker with a quizzical look, then turned back to Liz. “A choice, then? Is that the way of it?”

Tucker answered, “Always a choice,
cariad
. I prefer to become wolf than a cross between a border collie and golden retriever.”

I could see Niko filing this factoid away. All six of my brothers turned out to be shapeshifters after their Change. Each and every one of them played wolf best. Some of the other shapeshifters in the family preferred other animals. I’d not thought much about it as when I’d been younger, I mostly stayed around my brothers and my healer aunts.