The Book of Dreams (43 page)

When the show started, they turned to face the stage.

Dressed in black like the night, both Finvarra and Findabhair were tall, lithe, and beautiful. And there the resemblance ended. Where her hair was blond and spiked like icicles, his was a jet-black mane that fell in a blunt cut to his shoulders. Her skin was fair, with diamonds piercing her ears, nose, and eyebrows. His coloring was nut-brown, his eyes sloe-black. She wore a dark gown sprayed with stars and slit up the side to reveal a shapely leg. He wore black leather pants and a silken T-shirt that hugged his chest. Both had dark-blue spirals tattooed on their faces, and dusky kohl around their eyes. They were unashamedly flagrant and fey.

The aunts approved.

“These guys could give beauty lessons,” was Yvonne’s assessment.

“Seriously cutie-patootie,” Dee agreed.

As soon as the music began, they were stunned into silence. It was haunting and exquisite. Finvarra played the fiddle like a gypsy king, with searing abandon and breathtaking virtuosity. Findabhair sang in high thrilling notes like a lark. When his voice entwined with hers, it was like a low dark stream running through the light that danced across the water.

Traveler, do not tarry

For the moon shines so bright

Traveler, be not wary

For the Old Ones call tonight.

Weirdly and subtly, other instruments joined the fiddle. The tingling tintinnabulation of the Celtic harp. The rapid-fire reverberation of a throng of bodhran drums. The full-bodied skirl of the uillean pipes, a hive of honeyed sound.

The audience looked around briefly for the other musicians, but returned their focus to the stage when they couldn’t find them.

Dee and Yvonne raised their eyebrows at each other.

“Where is the path my feet must tread?”
sang Findabhair.

“Beyond the dark your heart doth dread,”
sang Finvarra.

In between the tunes and airs, the pair onstage took turns speaking. The lilt of Findabhair’s Irish accent was evident, as was Finvarra’s, but his speech was markedly different from hers. Though peppered with modern words, it was oddly formal and quaint.

As the first set progressed, something struck the two aunts. They nudged each other. Being artists themselves, they were sensitive to nuances of thought and feeling. Both caught the undertow of sorrow in the music; the dark grief that tore at its heart. At times the jagged edge of lament resounded with a bitterness that bordered on rage.

It was potent stuff.

“Grab your spear,” Yvonne murmured.

“Look alive,” said Dee, suddenly. “I think he’s scanning for us!”

Deirdre was right. Finvarra’s keen eyes were surveying the room. When his glance settled on the two of them, she gave him a little wave and Yvonne nodded. Finvarra’s look changed to a piercing gaze. Both stepped backward, then his eyes looked away.

“Whoa!” Dee muttered. “What was that?”

“Magic,” said Yvonne.

They could feel the electricity of that look still shivering through them.

As soon as the set was over, both members of the Fair Folk came to the bar.

“Is one of you Dana?” Findabhair asked.

“We are well met,” said Finvarra.

Despite his words, neither Finvarra nor his wife was smiling. Their features were stiff. Their eyes, veiled.

Surprised by the vague hostility, the aunts were unsettled.

“No,” they said together, “we’re—”

They stopped, flustered.

“You talk,” Dee urged Yvonne. “You’re firstborn.”

“We’re Dana’s aunts,” Yvonne explained quickly. “She’s back at the hotel. She’s only thirteen. No amount of makeup was going to get her in here.”

“Thirteen?”
Findabhair looked at her husband, horrified. “She’s only a kid!”

“She is no ordinary child,” he said coolly. “She is the Light-Bearer’s Daughter. She has power of her own.”

The bartender brought their drinks. Findabhair was given a ginger ale, while a pint of Guinness with two shots of whiskey were placed in front of Finvarra. As he downed the whiskey in successive gulps, his wife frowned.

Yvonne and Dee exchanged glances.

“Do you know my cousin Gwen?” Findabhair asked them.

She saw the expressions on their faces before they could answer. She went pale. “Is she all right?!”

“I’m afraid she isn’t,” Yvonne said, tempering her voice. “She disappeared over a week ago. Dana suspects she was taken by some enemy who’s been after her since this whole thing began. Gwen’s friend Laurel is also missing.”

Findabhair gripped the counter. She looked ill.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded of Finvarra. “You must have felt something! You felt it when the others were hit.”

His eyes darkened. “I felt the doom of Faerie, not the fall of our companions. I am as blind as you.”

“Oh God, I should’ve joined her,” Findabhair said. Her voice rang with guilt. “She needed us and we abandoned her!”

Embarrassed by the tension between the couple, Yvonne spoke up. “Dana wants you to find Gwen and Laurel. But we think you should join her quest as well.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Deirdre said bluntly. “To get your help.”

“We must rescue Gwen!” Findabhair agreed.

Finvarra signaled to the barman to bring him more whiskey. He brooded over his drink.

“The blood of Faerie flows in Dana’s veins,” he said at last, without looking up. “She is more than any of you can imagine. It is her destiny to complete this task. The rescue of Fairyland is in her hands, as is the fate of our comrades who have fallen.”

Even Findabhair looked astounded by his pronouncement.

“You can’t expect Dana to do everything!” Yvonne objected.

“She’s still a kid, no matter what you say,” said Dee.

The aunts glared at Finvarra. But at the same time they were both overawed by him. Here was a former High King of Faerie. One who had lived in the world when the earth was young, before humanity was born. They recalled the power of his music and the keenness of his glance. Was this all that was left of his former glory?

“What’s wrong with you?” Yvonne said. “What’s your problem?”

“Aside from the fact that you drink too much?” Dee added.

Findabhair flinched at their words and was about to defend her husband when he cut her off.

“I do not expect you to understand,” he said, looking up from his drink. In the fierce gaze of his eyes, they saw the same anguish they had heard in the music. “The nature of my grief runs deep. I could not have known what I would have to bear until my exile came upon me. To be banished forever from the Kingdom is to suffer a torment that eats away at my soul.” He reached out to clasp his wife’s hand. Her eyes filled with tears. “I do not regret the sacrifice I made for my Beloved. Were I to face it again, I would make the same choice. Still, it grieves my heart sore to live in the shadowlands that are not my home and to endure an existence that is not my own.”

Yvonne’s glare had softened to sympathy. Findabhair leaned against her husband in silent support.

Deirdre was not so easily hooked.

“Hey, you made your bed, you lie in it. It’s not as if you’ve ended up in demonville. There are worse things than living in this world. It has a lot going for it. You’ve got a genius for music, not to mention a gorgeous wife who needs to read
Women Who Love Too Much
. Your music alone could sustain you if you let it; trust me, as one tormented artist to another. It’s time you bit the bullet and stopped whining.”

Yvonne gaped at her sister with admiration.

“Let’s go,” said Dee. “They’re no use to Dana!”

• • •

Leaving the club together, Yvonne showered Dee with praise.

“You were amazing! I was completely sucked in by the Sad Sack routine.”

“That’s because you’re an old softie. You’d never make a director.”

Outside the tavern, they stood in the dark street and looked around for a taxi. It had begun to rain. The initial impulse to storm out on high horses began to wear off. Both were now attacked by second thoughts.

“Dana’s going to be very disappointed,” said Yvonne with a worried sigh.

“It’s not as if they were offering to help,” Dee said defensively.

“My dress is ruined,” her sister groaned.

The quick shower had drenched the soft fabric. It clung to her skin. “I’m like a wet teabag!”

“I told you to wear a coat,” Dee replied crossly. “Are there no bloody cabs in this place?”

“Don’t start,” her sister rejoined.

They were well into one of their usual spats when a tall figure approached them. At first they saw only the long coat and gray hat, but as he stepped in front of them, the streetlights of the bar lit up his face. Both drew back involuntarily. In the flickering neon, the scars looked even more gruesome. But it was the eyes that truly shocked them. Black pits of hatred.

“Where is the child?”

His voice was chilling, inhuman. It cut at their nerves like a jagged knife.

Their first reaction was to freeze in terror.

Their second was to run.

The two managed only a few steps before he caught them. With terrible force he threw them into the alley beside the tavern. The passage was dark and dank and smelled of garbage. They opened their mouths to scream, but long, bony fingers gripped each by the throat.

A horrible waspish sound rang through their brains. A sickening odor filled the air. Now their terror increased a hundredfold as his shape changed in front of them. Hands transformed to viscous tentacles. Features seemed to melt into a sickly, greenish mass. His grip tightened. Their veins began to swell.

From the club windows above pumped the sound of Celtic rock. Any hope that the Fair Folk might have followed after them, died.

There would be no rescue.

Slowly the monster lifted them into the air.

“Where is the child?”
he repeated in a cold, remorseless tone.

They managed to catch each other’s eyes, wide and terrified. Their strangled features were turning blue. Each saw the message in the other’s look. They would say nothing of their niece and they would die. In that last glance of farewell, they sent each other praise and courage.

Hang tough, sis. You’re a hero.

The acceptance of their deaths encouraged the final throe. With a surge of strength, they kicked out furiously to break his hold.

Caught off guard, Crowley dropped them.

The aunts jumped to their feet. Gasping for breath, they backed themselves against the wall. Yvonne pulled off her stiletto high heels and held them up like daggers. Dee was already wading in, kicking ferociously, glad of her boots. Yvonne joined her, jabbing with her heels. At the same time, they screamed for help with shouts that also served as war cries.

There was a moment when it looked as if they might succeed, when they drove the monster back. It was obvious that they had surprised him. That he was used to easier prey.

But it wasn’t long before they sensed what he already knew: their struggle was hopeless. Though they were not as weak or as easily cowed as he had expected, still they were no match for him.

Hopelessly, courageously, they continued to resist, kicking, punching, screaming, scratching. They weren’t going down without a fight.

Now the tentacles gripped their throats once more, lifting them off their feet. Now the darkness dimmed their sight as he cut off their breath.

Losing consciousness, the aunts weren’t aware of the blast of wind that rushed through the alley, carrying with it an eddy of leaves. But they did feel the thump when they hit the ground again. Crowley had released them. Reeling and coughing, unable to get up, they saw a blur of shadows attack the monster.

The battle was quick and deadly. Was that the gleam of swords? Who was singing? Were they wearing bright cloaks?

Yvonne and Dee blinked dizzily.

Crowley howled with rage.

“I’ll find her no matter where you hide her!”

Then he shrank into a trail of green slime and disappeared.

• • •

Yvonne rose shakily to her feet and leaned against the wall. She was willing herself not to faint from the pain. Her wounds were bleeding badly.

Dee was still sprawled on the ground, bruised and battered. Every time she struggled to get up, she fell back down. Something was broken.

Hands reached out to help her to her feet. They felt firm and strong, but also kind.

“You fought well, Lady. We were tracking the beast and heard your cries. We came as swiftly as we could.”

His voice alone revived her, echoing as it did of forest and mountain.

“I … not a lady … really,” Dee stuttered, still in shock.

As the aunts steadied themselves and their vision cleared, they got a good look at their rescuers.

The two men were strikingly handsome, with earth-brown skin and flashing eyes. Their chestnut hair was tied back in ponytails. They looked like brothers, possibly twins. But where were their cloaks and swords? Both wore denim jeans with knives tucked into their belts. Despite the cold night they had no jackets, only T-shirts displaying muscled arms. The alley seemed less dirty and noisome in their presence. The scent of cedar lingered in the air.

Before the aunts could recover enough to thank them, the men took their leave.

“We gotta go now,” said the one who hadn’t yet spoken.

He lifted Yvonne’s hand and kissed it gently.

The other did the same to Dee.

“Hope to see ya again, warrior gal,” he said with a wink.

A gust of wind blew through the alley, kicking up debris.

The men were gone.

Yvonne recovered first.

“Dana!”