Winter (The Manhattan Exiles) (26 page)

“I’d quite like to meet them,” said Hannah. “Your family. Perhaps they can be convinced to visit?”

“
They don’t leave the island,” Winter replied dismissively. “Manhattanites to the bone.” An idea seemed to strike him, and he brightened further. “But they’ve plenty of room for guests.”

“
Hannah would hate New York, too,” muttered Lewis. “Hannah hates dirt.”

Hannah flushed. The pretty pink on her cheeks looked like embarrassment, but Willa knew it was anger.

“It’s not the dirt, so much,” she said sadly. “I don’t travel well. Mortal devices disagree with me terrible. I can't stand them for very long at all.”

“
Iron, you mean,” said Winter. He quirked his damaged brows. “Really?”

“
It’s not the iron that kept her from Darlene’s graveside.” Jeremiah cut his beef in precise, brittle movements. “The cemetery’s walking distance from the house. It’s the holy ground kept her out.”

“
Let Hannah be,” Lewis blurted. “We all mourn differently.” His words were beginning to slur.

Hannah looked down at the table. Willa wondered if she was the only one who recognized the thinly disguised hatred on the girl’s face.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” said Winter. He studied Hannah. “It must be a hard thing, losing your parent to murder.”

Hannah’s beautiful mouth quivered.

“Yes,” she sighed. “It’s horrible. A horrible accident.”

“
Murder is not an accident,” Jeremiah corrected. “It’s a very purposeful sin.”

“
And it’s why Mr. Murray’s come calling.” Willa set her hands protectively in her lap. “Isn’t it? You’ve come about my daughter’s murder, and the fairies that killed her. Did you know them? Have you caught them? Did they come from the cave?”

“
Yes,” said Hannah eagerly. “Tell us, are there others? I thought I was the only one.”

Lewis belched lightly. He watched Hannah and Winter with a besotted smile. Jer
emiah leaned back in his chair. He pulled his rosary from his sleeve. The faceted beads glittered in the candlelight, rivaling Hannah’s gown.

“
His name was Michael Smith. He’s dead, now. My family found him.”

Willa felt a wave of cold prickle her flesh. She shivered.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” she said. “Beg your pardon, Jeremiah. But he killed my child. He didn’t deserve to live.”

Jeremiah’s fingers were busy on his beads.

“Some souls are lost from the very beginning,” he agreed.

Winter stared at
Jeremiah, expressionless.

“
Smith was a mortal man,” he said. “But you’re right. He deserved to die.”

“
You won’t convince me Darlene was killed by a man,” Willa argued. “It was fairies, come over. Come back for Hannah, maybe, and Darlene got in their way.”

Hannah shook her head.

“By accident, maybe. Mama wouldn’t have lifted a finger to save my life, not on purpose.”

Willa blinked across the table at the alien creature pretending to be Francis flesh and blood.

“You wanted her to hate you. You didn’t give Darlene a single minute of peace, not a single minute since
they
left you in my poor baby grand-daughter’s place.”

Hannah pushed back her chair and rose. The flames in Willa’s father’s silver candelabra jumped high and blue, sparking. Jeremiah began to murmur into his double chin.

“Be quiet!” Hannah flicked a hand. Jeremiah’s teeth clicked together. His eyes bulged in fright or pain.

“
Hannah.” Lewis staggered to his feet, weaving. “Hannah, love, you mustn’t hurt another one. This time they’ll come after us.”

“
‘Another one’?” asked Winter mildly.

Cook chose that moment to bring in the
crème brûlée. She stopped abruptly, little pots of dessert balanced on a silver tray.

“
Miss?” she began.

“
Out!” Hannah brought her hands down on the table, hard. Silverware rattled. Candle flame stretched nearly as high as the dining room ceiling, smoking dangerously. “Get out!”

Cook dropped the tray, and ran. Pots of
crème brûlée clattered to the floor. Jeremiah began to burble. Lewis started to weep, fists closed like an infant’s against his eyes.

“
Mama,” he whimpered. “I feel sick.”

Winter looked up from the table.

“
Sguir dheth
!” he ordered. “Stop.”

The flames snuffed out. Jeremiah’s jaw unlocked. He coughed, gasping for air. Hannah stood still, palms flat on the table, dark eyes gleaming as she faced down the fairy prince.

“I’m stronger than you,” Winter said. “And not half crippled with guilt. It wasn’t fairies that killed her, Hannah. It was a mortal man. Jeremiah,” he continued, “please take Mr. Francis upstairs before he collapses. Hannah, you’re a worm in your uncle's brain.”

Jeremiah rose slowly. Dazed as a sleep-walker, he took Lewis by the elbow and led the other man from the room. The dining room door slammed shut at their back of its own accord, frame rattling.

Willa sat very still, afraid.

Winter reached across the table. Willa saw that Jeremiah had left his rosary behind, forgotten. The boy snagged the beads with one finger. He dragged the string back across the table to his plate.

Hannah watched, frozen. When Winter picked up the string and ran the beads over his palm, she hissed in disbelief.

Winter set his elbows on the table, cross dangling above his silverware.

“There’s something about this world,” he said casually, “that drives fay mad. Some last longer than others, but eventually we all fall. Jeremiah would likely say it’s because we’re not Jehovah’s creatures.”

Willa caught herself nodding in agreement. She blushed.

“Jeremiah’s god is a terror made up to frighten mortal children into obedience,” said Hannah.

Winter widened his eyes. With a flick of his index finger, he sent Jeremiah’s rosary sailing through the air toward Hannah.

Hannah flinched away from the table. She snarled.

“
Looks like Jeremiah’s god frightens fay children as well,” said Winter, gently mocking.

Still snarling, Hannah plucked a ball of white light from the air and hurled it at Winter’s head. It was one of her most frequent tricks, and always sent the servants scrambling for cover.

Winter didn’t twitch. The ball burst over the table, scattering in a tornado of infinitesimal stars.

Hannah screamed in
rage. Fists clenched, she threw another burst of light, and another. Both broke into a beautiful scatter of tiny stars before they touched Winter.

“
You can’t hurt me.” Deliberately casual, the fairy prince took a swallow of wine. “I’ve far more practice than you. You’ve grown up among mortals; you haven’t got a clue.”

Hannah stilled. Willa shivered again.

“Don’t taunt her,” she warned quietly, recognizing the monster in Hannah’s eyes. “She has terrible fits. Things . . . break. Darlene could only keep her back with the Pope’s sword. And now it’s gone.”

Hannah swung her dark stare in Willa’s direction. Willa felt the harsh cramping begin in her fingers, a cramping that had nothing to do with arthritis. She bit h
er lip to keep from crying out.

“
Sguir dheth
!” Winter said again, sharp and cold.

Hannah whimpered. The grinding in Willa’s hands eased.

“The Pope’s sword, you said?” Winter poured more wine, watching dispassionately as Hannah ran to the dining room door and tugged on the unyielding knob.

Apparently satisfied that Hannah couldn’t break free, he turned his attention back to Willa.

“That’s what Darlene called it.” Willa watched Hannah scrabble at the walls. She refused to feel pity. “The Pope’s sword. She found it laid in the cave next to baby Hannah. This Hannah, not our child. We thought it was some sort of fairy trick. It made the baby sick as a dog, weak. Then, later, Darlene decided it was for discipline.”

Willa trailed off, stopped by the expression on Winter’s face.

“We couldn’t control her,” she said, defensive. “We didn’t know what else to do.”

Winter lifted his glass, finishing off the wine in one swallow. Willa realized that the boy ha
d had as much to drink as Lewis, if not more. Yet he was steady when he pushed back his chair.

“
Thank you for dinner,” he said. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Maybe you’ll rest easier knowing Smith has been put down.”

Hannah whirled, pressing her back against the door.

“You’re leaving? You can’t leave!”

Winter adjusted the cuffs on his expensive coat, tugging them into place.

“This house is giving me a migraine. You’ve been chewing at each other for so long there’s nothing left but bones.”

Willa thought of Darlene’s skull interred in the
cold ground and couldn’t help but agree.

“
You can’t leave!” Hannah shouted, pulling at new tangles in her own hair. “You’re the only one I’ve found. You have to stay! I insist upon it!”

“
But, what will we do?” Willa rose carefully, protecting her hands. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Murray. This house is rotten. I don’t know how to put it to rights. I don’t know what to do.”

“
Look after your son. She’s been in his head for too many years. He’s not likely to be normal again, I’m afraid. But maybe you’ll find some peace.”

“
Peace?” Willa tried to keep tears from welling. “But - “

“
Oh.” The fairy prince rolled his shoulders, suddenly looking very young, lost in the well-cut suit. “Don’t worry. I’m taking her with me.”

Hannah gasped. She began to scream. The candles burst back into flame, and then exploded completely, sending bits of wax into the air. The china followed, tossed into the walls and ceiling by Hannah’s inhuman rage, breaking into porcelain shards.

Willa dropped to the carpet and folded her arms over her face.

Curled in a frightened ball, she began to
recited Jeremiah's favorite psalms.

Much later, after Cook and the housekeeper cleaned up the mess, after Jeremiah bandaged her cuts and plucked pieces of porcelain from her flesh, Willa sat in the garden with Lewis and watched the harvest moon rise.

Lewis slumped against the back of the garden bench, arms loose at his side, face slack. He’d needed Willa’s help to walk from the house through the garden; he’d
stumbled like a drunk man, even though she was sure the wine had worn off.

She wasn’t sure, not at all, if her son still existed as she’d
once known and loved him. He’d been Hannah’s for so very long. Even Darlene hadn’t been able to protect him, not completely.

And now that Hannah was gone, Lewis acted like a man asleep.

Willa thought maybe he was wandering the empty corridors of his mind, lost, looking in the vacant spaces for the man he’d been.

Unless her son had simply given up. She couldn’t blame him, wouldn’t blame him.

“But I’d miss you, Lewis,” she told him. “You’re all I have left.”

Lewis didn’t answer. He stared straight forward, not even tempted by the wide, bright moon overhead.

It had been a moon like that, Willa remembered, some fifteen years earlier, when they’d searched the Cornwallis Cave for Darlene’s baby and found Hannah instead.

Sighi
ng, Willa crossed herself for good measure. Then she took Jeremiah’s forgotten rosary from her pocket and set it in Lewis’s hand, patting his lifeless fingers with her own crooked claws.

“
We’ll do,” she assured her own lost child gently. “They’ll let us alone now, now that she’s gone.  We’ll be fine.”

Lewis didn’t answer.

18. Blood Magic

Aine fed the
aes sí
bits of bread.

She’d found the loaf in Richard’s icebox when she’d gone to check on the Watchers, wedged against a chilled shelf in the very back, forgotten. Even wrapped in clear stretchy ‘plastic’, the bread smelled delicious and set her mouth to watering.

“I don’t think Wonderbread ever spoils,” Bran said as he showed her how to cut away the plastic skin. The loaf was pre-sliced. “But if it makes you sick, don’t blame me. This place is a pig sty.”

The only pigs Aine had met were Court pets, and wore golden collars. Their bedding had been cleaner than Aine’s own cot. Many of them were large as coursers.

Still, she understood Bran’s intent.

“
I suppose they’ve been busy warring with the Dread Host,” she offered, nibbling at a slice. “Battle leaves little time for housekeeping.”

Bran only snorted.

Wonderbread was bland, and chewy, and made Aine’s stomach growl. She used her stolen knife to cut the bread into small pieces, then took the pieces with her to Gabriel’s cage.

“
You promised Richard you’d keep the mouse in the lunchbox,” Bran pointed out.

Aine frowned
at the detective.

“
At home,” she said, “the
aes sí
are treated as jewels in the Queen’s crown. They are the source of all wisdom, and the keepers of our history.”

Bran shrugged. He’d found Winter’s map in the library and unrolled it across the floor, pinning it flat with mismatched plates. Now he held his small computer against one eye as he peered down at the map.

“What are you doing?” Aine unlatched Gabriel’s cage. The
aes sí
sat upright on her hind legs, nose lifted, whiskers twitching.

“
Taking pictures. Photographs,” the detective explained. “Someone’s kept a kill sheet. It’s not entirely scatter-shot. Most of the marks are concentrated east, around Union Station.”

“
The Watchers were gazing east,” Aine pointed out. She chirruped softly, coaxing.

Gabriel left her cage. She
climbed onto Aine’s wrist and then her sleeve. The
aes sí
took the offered treat between her paws. She nibbled, watching Aine.

“
The river’s east.” A tiny light flashed from Bran’s computer when he bent over the map.

Aine shook her head.
“We don’t like running water, it interferes with even the most powerful of magics.”

Bran lowered his phone. He regarded Aine thoughtfully.

“If anyone could use that to his advantage, it would be Siobahn’s son. I’ll bet you my next pay check they’re coming from the river, somehow.”

“
Winter said he’d torn a hole,” Aine argued. “Between worlds.”

“
Could be it’s in the river.”

Aine hissed, rapping her knuckles on Richard’s heavy kitchen table.
“Stupid mortal.”

Bran’s steady stare grew
sharp. Aine glanced away and down, embarrassed.

“
You’re going to need to change your tune, Anya.” He rolled her name over his tongue, making it sound flat and human. “Don’t you think?”

She clenched her fists with enough violence to send Gabriel scurrying up her arm to her shoulder.

“
Póg mo thóin
,” Aine spat, choosing Winter’s curse. “Did everybody know but myself?”

Bran left the map. He hooked one of Richard’s misshapen stools with one hand, and sat across the table from Aine.

“I guessed pretty quickly,” the detective admitted. “You don’t move the same. Close, but not the same. You’ve got grace, but it’s not fay grace. And you’re small.”

She couldn’t face his sympathy, so she gave Gabriel her attention, smoothing soft fur with one thumb.
“Winter’s small.”

“
Winter and his sister are unusual. I wasn’t positive until the funeral,” Bran continued. “Not sure about Richard.”

“
He knows.” Aine almost choked on resentment. “He’s known from the beginning, since Winter poured me the
draíochta
. They’re thick as brothers, those two.”

“
What’s a
draíochta
?”

“
A draught. Medicine in a glass.” Aine waved one hand, exasperated. “My mother used to mix a
draíochta
for the Queen, a family recipe, to aid in the Foreseeing. Winter  said he had one for the iron sickness.”

Gabriel, bread eaten, started to leave Aine’s shoulder. Aine whistled softly. The
aes sí
stilled.

“
It brought me to my knees, at first,” explained Aine. “The iron sickness. Winter must have known it would fade, just as the Mending is beginning to fail.” She held up her healing thumb, swallowing down bitterness and fear. “Winter’s
draíochta
had no magic. It was only -”

“
Coke,” Bran guessed.

“
Aye.” She crossed her arms over her gut to keep from weeping. “I saw it later, on the shelves in the fueling station, rows and rows of it, captured in plastic flasks.”

“
I’m sorry,” said Bran. Aine thought maybe he meant it.

“
Still, I wasn’t certain, aye? Until I glimpsed Hannah.”

“
You look an awful lot like your grandmother.”

“
My
grandmother tended the Progress and taught mother how to sew pearls into Gloriana’s hair.” She squeezed her ribs harder. Gabriel squeaked uneasily. “
My
grandmother gifted me with her grandmother’s wedding shoes. Why would she do that, if I were-” In spite of herself, Aine choked.

“
Human?” Bran said it for her. “I don’t know.”

Aine took a deep breath.

“When I first woke in the train tunnels, I thought I was dead, lost beneath
Lough Gur
. But this, this is far worse.”

“
It’s not so bad, being human.”

Aine shot the detective a scathing glare.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she accused. “I’d rather wander endlessly beneath the loch.”

Annoyance chased pity from his face.

“You’re young yet. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

It took all her will to keep from stabbing him with her knife. Instead she kicked back her stool and rose.

“A toad in the mud doesn’t recognize a prince on the lane,” she retorted, quoting Nan.

“
First an insect, now a toad,” Bran replied levelly. “You’re hard on the ego, honey. Better be careful, or you’ll find you have no friends left. And I think you need them.”

Aine stormed from the table, taking Gabriel with her. She bent over Winter’s map, pretending to memorize the stars, but in truth trying to hide the traitorous tears that were escaping down her cheeks.

When Richard returned he carried with him a large, battered wooden crate.

Bran, who’d moved Winter’s map to the table and was in the middle of adding his own marks to the paper, froze.

“
Gas masks?”

“
Among other things.” Richard dropped the crate on the kitchen floor. It clattered.

He wiped his hands on his thighs, surveying the room.

“Where’s my Glock?”

“
On my belt.” Bran bent over the wooden box. “These are M-17s. No one makes M-17s anymore.”

He pulled a flexible hood from the crate, stretching it between his hands. Aine flinched in disgust. The mask was obviously meant to cover one’s entire face. It had large mesh eyes and a short trunk.

“My dad collects Vietnam-era gear,” explained Richard, succinct. “They’ll work.”

Bran pulled the hood over his head. Ai
ne thought it made him look frightening.

“
Work for what?” the detective asked, muffled.

Richard pursed his lips in obvious frustration. Aine didn’t think Bran noticed Richard’s impatience through the mask.

“Cold Fire,” the boy said. “Poison fog. It’ll fry your lungs.”

He ran
slender fingers through his curls. “We don’t have much time. Are the Wards at all improved? Aine, I told you not to take her out.”

Aine stiffened.

“She’s not going to run away, Richard.” The girl rubbed a gentle knuckle along Gabriel’s spine. The
aes sí
stayed as she was on Aine’s shoulder, tail curled around her feet, whiskers twitching.

Bran tugged the mask from his head.

“She does that with canaries, too,” he said. “I’d guess it’s a fay thing, but she’s not.”

It was Richard’s turn to flinch. Color rose in two bright spots on his thin cheeks.

Aine wasn’t sympathetic.

“
Sugar water,” she scoffed. “Sugar water with bubbles.”

Richard shuffled his feet.
“It was Winter’s -”

“
Nay!” Aine interrupted. “You should have said something.”

Richard stared at the wooden crate.

“Maybe I didn’t know you didn’t know,” he tried feebly. Bran snorted.

“
Just apologize,” the detective said. “You’re only making it worse.”

“
Sorry,” said Richard, at last meeting Aine’s glare.

His eyes weren’t as beautiful as Winter’s. Richard’s eyes were soft brown, and very mortal, full of human failings. Aine didn’t want to like them.

“My forgiveness has to be earned,” she said, trying for Gloriana’s most fearsome inflection. “And you’re not likely to do so.”

“
Sorry,” Richard repeated. “You can keep the mouse, if you want. Until Winter gets back.”

Bran paused in digging through Richard’s crate. He snorted again.

“You’ve got enough masks in here for a small army.”

“
Ten,” Richard said. “I’m not sure what will happen if they freeze, so I grabbed them all.”

“
Poisonous gas and freeze rays?” Bran shook his head.

Richard’s expression hardened.
“Have you ever battled a
sluagh
?”

“
No. But I saw what was left down in your hole. And I’ve seen what one did to Winter. Calm down, Einstein. I’m not judging. What’s this?”

He pulled a black duffle from the crate. It was heavy, and secured with a tiny padlock.

“What’s in here?” asked the detective.

“
Careful.” Richard snatched the duffle out of Bran’s hand. “That’s mine, and it’s private.”

Bran glanced from Richard’s set face to the bag and back again. His stance shifted; he seemed to sink back into his heels. Aine was reminded of the Queen’s guards on a particularly dangerous day.

She thought Bran was anticipating trouble.

“
I believe I know your dad,” the detective said.

“
I doubt it. He doesn’t get out much.”

“
He’s got people that do,” Bran replied. “You grow up on East Riverside?”

“
Yes. So what? I don’t live there anymore.” Richard held out a hand. “Give me my Glock. We need to get started.”

Gabriel blew mousy breath into Aine’s ear. Bran rocked from his heels to his t
oes and back again. Then he drew Richard’s gun from beneath his coat, setting it on the kitchen table.

“
Thank you,” said Richard.

Bran didn’t answer. Aine knew the detective was unhappy, but couldn’t guess why.

“What is ‘East Riverside’?” she asked, worried.

Richard shook his head and left the room, taking the duffle with him. Bran sighed, and returned to his map.

“Put Gabriel back in her cage, she’ll be safer there,” he suggested. “Then get those Ward things out of the fridge. Looks like the game’s about to begin.”

Aine refused to be left behind.

“
I’ve fine hunting skills,” she insisted angrily. “Twice I’ve brought a elephant to Gloriana’s table for
Beltane
.”

Richard, already ghostly pale in a uniform of black, the duffle dangling over one arm and
his stick in hand, turned stark.

“
Elephants are endangered animals.”

“
Not in my world,” said Aine, irritated. “In my world, elephants endanger the Progress with their talons and tusks, and it takes several brave hunters to bring one down. It’s dangerous.”

“
Not as dangerous as
sluagh
,” Bran guessed. He’d shed his coat and wore a gas mask propped on the crown of his head. “Unless your elephants breathe out freezing mist.”