Storm's Heart (37 page)

The past, behind him. The future, the unknown thing that waited ahead of him and smiled its Mona Lisa smile. And the ever-fleeting now that was continually born and continually died, but was never, ever anything you could get your hands on and hold on to, as it always pushed you on to some other place.

Yeah, he knew a thing or two about liminality.

H
e and Aryal had returned to Cuelebre Tower in New York.

There were seven demesnes of Elder Races that overlaid the human geography of the continental United States. The seat of the Wyrkind demesne was in New York City. The seat of Elven power was based in Charleston, South Carolina. The Dark Fae’s demesne was centered in Chicago, and the Light Fae in Los Angeles. The Nightkind, which included all vampyric forms, controlled the San Francisco Bay Area and the Pacific Northwest, and the human witches, considered part of the Elder Races due to their command of magical Power, were based in Louisville. Demonkind, like the Wyr and the Vampyres, consisted of several different types that included Goblins and Djinn, and their seat was based in Houston.

Upon their return, the first thing Rune and Aryal had done was debrief the Lord of the Wyr, Dragos Cuelebre. A massive dark man with gold eyes, Dragos’s Wyr form was a dragon the size of a private jet. He had ruled over the Wyrkind demesne for centuries with seven immortal Wyr as his sentinels. Rune was Dragos’s First sentinel, and among his other duties, he and the other three gryphons—Bayne, Constantine and Graydon—worked to keep the peace in the demesne. Aryal was the sentinel in charge of investigations, and the gargoyle Grym was head of corporate security.

They had just lost their seventh sentinel, who had not yet been replaced. Tiago—Wyr, thunderbird and long-time warlord sentinel—had walked away from his life and position in the Wyr demesne in order to be with his newfound mate, Niniane.

Dragos’s temper was not the most even at the best of times. At first he had not been pleased with the debriefing. He had not been pleased at all.

“You promised her
what
?” The dragon’s deep roar rattled the windows as they stood in his office. Dragos planted his hands on his hips, his dark, machete-edged face sharp with incredulity.

Rune set his mouth in the taut lines of someone struggling to hold on to his own temper. He said between his teeth, “I promised to go to Carling in one week and do a favor of her choosing.”

“Un-fricking-believable,” the Wyr Lord growled. “Do you have any idea what you gave away?”

“Yes, actually,” Rune bit out. “I believe I might have a clue.”

“She could ask you to do anything, and now you are bound by the laws of magic to do it. You could be gone for
HUNDREDS OF YEARS
just trying to complete that one fucking favor.” The dragon’s hot glare flared into incandescence as he paced. “I’ve already lost my warlord sentinel, and now we have no idea how long I will have to do without my First. Could you not have come up with something else to bargain? Anything else. Anything at all.”

“Apparently not, Dragos,” Rune snapped, as his already shortened temper torched.

Dragos fell silent as he swung around to face Rune. It had to be in part, no doubt, from surprise, as Rune was normally the even-keeled one in their relationship. But Dragos was also taking a deep breath before releasing a blast of wrath. The dragon’s Power compressed in the room.

Then Aryal, of all people, stepped in to play her version of peacemaker. “What the hell, Dragos?” the harpy said. “It was life or death, and Tiago was bleeding out right in front of us. None of us actually had the time to consult our attorneys about the best bargaining terms to use with the Wicked Witch of the West. We brought you a present. Here.” She threw a leather pack at Dragos, who lifted a reflexive hand to catch it.

Dragos opened the pack and pulled out two sets of black shackles that radiated a menacing Power. “Oh, now, there’s finally a good piece of news,” he said.

The three Wyr stared at the chains in revulsion. Fashioned by Dragos’s old enemy, the late Dark Fae King Urien Lorelle, the chains had the ability to imprison Dragos himself, the most Powerful Wyr of them all. Dragos listened, his outburst of anger derailed, as Rune and Aryal finished telling the story of how Naida Riordan, wife of one of the most powerful figures in the Dark Fae government, had used Urien’s old tools in her attempts to kill Niniane and Tiago.

“The shackles prevented Tiago from healing,” Rune said. “We nearly lost him while we were figuring how to get them off. That’s when I had to bargain with Carling.”

The dragon gave him a grim look. “All right,” he said. “Use the week to get your affairs in order and delegate your duties. And when you get to San Francisco, try like hell to persuade Carling to let you do something quick.”

S
o that’s what Rune did, while Bob and the images in his head kept him company at night. He was supposed to coax Carling into letting him do something for her that was quick, huh? Maybe he could ask if he could take out her trash or do her dishes. He wondered how well that would go over.

Did the Wicked Witch have a sense of humor? Rune had seen her at many inter-demesne affairs over the last couple centuries. While once or twice he might have heard her say something that seemed laden with a double entendre, or he might have thought he’d seen a sparkle lurking at the back of those fabulous dark eyes, it seemed highly doubtful.

On Thursday, the sixth day, his iPhone pinged. He dragged it out of his jeans pocket and checked it. It was an email from Duncan Turner at Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law, headquartered in San Francisco.

Who the hell?

Oh riiight, Duncan Turner was Duncan the Vampyre. He had been one of Carling’s entourage as she traveled to Adriyel for Niniane’s coronation. Carling had been in her position as Councillor of the Elder tribunal. The tribunal acted as a sort of United Nations for the Elder Races. It was made up of seven Councillors that represented the seven Elder demesnes in the continental United States, and it had certain legal and judicial powers over inter-demesne affairs. Their main charter was to keep the current balance of Power stable and work to prevent war.

Among other things, the Councillors had the authority to command the attendance of residents of their demesne when they were called to act in their official capacity as representative of the Elder tribunal. Rune wondered how many billable hours Duncan had lost for the privilege of attending Carling at Adriyel. Not only had the Vampyre proven to be an asset on the trip, he never showed a hint of frustration or resentment.

Rune clicked the email open and read through it.

RE: Per verbal contract enacted 23.4.3205, Adriyel date.

Dear Rune:

As payment for services rendered by Councillor Carling Severan, please present yourself at sundown tomorrow to my office at Suite 7500, 500 Market Street, San Francisco, CA 94105. Further instructions will be given to you at that time.

I hope you have had a good week and look forward to seeing you in due course.

Best regards,
Duncan Turner
Senior Partner
Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law

Rune rubbed his mouth as he read through it again, and his already grim mood darkened. Ask Carling if he could do something quick, huh? Take out the trash. Do the dishes.

Bloody hell.

He said his good-byes, packed a duffle and fought a nasty, short battle with the pride of Wyr-lions, Cuelebre Enterprises’s army of attorneys, for the use of the corporate jet. Despite their vociferous objections, the argument was over the moment he pulled rank. He sent the group of pissed-off cats scrambling to book first-class tickets for their corporate meeting in Brussels.

He could have flown in his gryphon form from New York to San Francisco, but that would mean he would arrive at the law offices tired and hungry, which did not seem to be the best strategic option. Besides, as he told the cats, he had some important things he had to take care of during the flight.

And he did. Soon as the Learjet had left the tarmac, he stretched out on a couch with pillows propped at his back and a pile of beef sandwiches at his elbow. He punched a button that opened shutters that concealed a fifty-two-inch plasma widescreen, settled a wireless keyboard on his upraised knees and a wireless mouse on the back of the couch, and logged into the game
World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King
via the jet’s satellite connection.

After all, he didn’t know when he was going to get the chance to play again. And it was damn important to do his bit to save all life on Azeroth while he could. Booyah.

He played WoW, ate and napped while the Learjet shot westward through the sky.

Then the pilot’s voice overrode the game on the Lear’s sound system. “Sir, we’ve begun our descent. It should be a smooth one. We’ll reach SFO within the half hour, and we’re already cleared for landing. San Francisco is currently at a balmy seventy-four degrees, and the skies are clear. It looks like we’re in for a beautiful sunset.”

Rune rolled his eyes at the travelogue, logged out of his game, stretched and stood. He stepped into the luxuriously appointed bathroom, shaved and took a five-minute shower, dressed again in his favorite jeans, Jerry Garcia T-shirt and steel-toed boots, and went to check out the scenic action in the cockpit.

Pilot and copilot were a mated Wyr pair of ravens. They sat relaxed and chatting, a slender, dark-haired, quick-witted couple who straightened in their seats as he appeared. “Dudes,” he said in a mild tone, resting one elbow on the back of the copilot’s chair. “Chill.”

“Yes, sir.” Alex, the pilot, gave him a quick sidelong smile. Alex was the younger and the more aggressive of the two males. More often than not, his partner, Daniel, the more laid-back of the pair, was content to play backup. For the longer flights they tended to switch hats, one flying pilot for the flight out and the other piloting the return trip.

The jet would be serviced and refueled overnight, and they were headed back to New York first thing in the morning. Rune asked, “What are you guys going to do with your evening—have dinner out, take in a show?”

As they chatted about restaurants and touring Broadway shows, Rune gazed out at the panorama spreading out underneath the plane.

The San Francisco Bay Area was awash in gigantic sweeps of color, the bluish grays of distant landmarks dotted with bright sparks of electric color, all of it crowned with the fiery brilliance of the oncoming cloudless sunset. All five of the Bay Area’s major bridges—the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, Hayward-San Mateo Bridge and the Dumbarton Bridge—were etched in perfect miniature in the watercolor distance. The southern San Francisco Peninsula sprouted skyscrapers like flowers in some gigantic god’s back garden. At the other end of the Golden Gate lay the North Bay area, which included Marin, Sonoma and Napa counties.

Sometimes there was another land in the distance, sketched in lines of palest transparent blue. One of the Bay Area’s Other lands had started appearing on the horizon around a century ago. It seemed to sit due west of the Golden Gate. The first sighting had caused major consternation and a remapping of shipping lanes. Much research and speculation had gone into the singular phenomenon, sparking ideas such as a Power fault that might be linked to California’s earthquake faults, but no one really understood why the island appeared at times and disappeared at others. Eventually an adventurous soul discovered that the island disappeared once ocean-faring vessels sailed close enough. After that the traffic in the shipping lanes returned to normal.

Soon the island became another Bay Area tourist attraction. Sightseeing cruises increased exponentially whenever the Other land was visible. People began calling it Avalon, the shining land of myth and fable.

But there was another population in the Bay Area. It was not the population that took cruises, ate in restaurants or took in a touring Broadway show. It lived in the corners of old abandoned buildings and hid in the shadows when the night came. The crack addicts and the homeless didn’t call the land Avalon.

They called it Blood Alley.

The island was visible now in the distance, the immense orange-red ball of the setting sun shining through its silhouette. Rune watched it thoughtfully, shifting his stance to take in the change in gravity as the Learjet tilted into a wide circle that would bring it into a landing pattern for SFO.

Alex the pilot heaved a sigh and said, “I am required by FAA regulations . . . blah blah . . . seat belt . . . blah . . .”

Rune burst out laughing. “If we wouldn’t lose all the shit that’s not anchored down in the cabin, I’d be tempted to just pop open a door and hop out.”

Daniel shot him a look. “Thank you, sir, for refraining from that action.”

“You’re welcome.” Rune clapped the copilot on the shoulder and left the cabin.

Truth was, he wasn’t in all that big of a hurry, and they were setting down soon enough. When Daniel opened up the Learjet, Rune thanked him and took off. He shifted just outside the jet and cloaking his Wyr form from scrutiny, launched into the air and flew into the city.

He was undecided about where to land, since he wasn’t familiar with the location of 500 Market Street. Finally he chose to set down near the west end of the Golden Gate Park. As he spiraled down toward a paved path, his shadow flickered over a slender furtive figure that stood in front of a sign and shook a can of spray paint.

Rune landed, changed back into his human form and let his cloak of concealment drop away. He slung his duffle bag onto one shoulder and watched as the figure tagged the sign. The brown creature looked like an anorexic humanoid female, with a skeletal frame and long spidery hands and feet. Her dripping hair had strands of seaweed in it.

She glanced over her shoulder, caught sight of him and scowled. “What are you staring at, ass-wipe?”