Chapter 9
Trick lingered on the rickety porch, straightening his overcoat, turning down the collar he had jerked up in response to a sharp wind, looked down checking the tips of his polished boots for inappropriate specks of dirt. The old fae smiled at himself, preening like a teenager taking a girl out for the first date – the woman he came to see was a far cry from a romantic interest even for the least discriminate and yet he was straining to look his most presentable best. The woman he was gearing up to take on was more of the intimidating and awe-striking type, an adversary slash conspirator the Blood King wouldn't grant with the tiniest advantage.
His raised hand was about to rap against the wooden frame when the curtain was pulled aside on the door screen, the door creaked open and the lady of the house appeared on the threshold – as thin and fragile at first glance as the weathered partition and just as solid and unbending at closer contact.
"The Blood King himself graces my humble abode," she cooed, her sly smile belying the humility of her words, her sharp tone supercilious rather than ironic, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"No pleasure involved whatsoever," Trick grumbled pushing past her and into the tiny anti-chamber in an uncharacteristic determination to cut down on the niceties and get out of the crisp wind's way in one fell swoop, "Extraordinary occurrence that might call for extraordinary measures has brought me here, Norn."
"At your service, my king, as always," the old woman openly mocked him but, recognizing the urgency in his tone, she motioned with her hand for him to follow her and waddled down the narrow corridor into the depth of the house, delving into the enveloping woodsy smell and shadow.
They stopped in the middle of the main room, right before the thick trunk of a tree that was spearing the ceiling and, as usual, the intense stream of power emanating from it hit Trick, making his nerve endings jangle, making him catch his breath. The man, however, forced himself to turn away from the majestic leafy crown, reminding himself of the need to keep his own against the powerful old hag.
"The moment I have been deferring for decades has come, Norn," Trick started portentously and cut to the chase, going on the simple reasoning that the faster he got to it, the faster he could go through with what had to be done and be out of there, "Something strange has happened, something unheard of. Someone has come to our world from across the portal, from the realm of the Dark Lord."
The woman propped herself with a hand against the rasping bark of the tree, as if drawing strength from its callused surface. "I am impressed," she admitted, "But not enough so yet to willingly cooperate. We agreed that only most pressing circumstances could force us to return the memories we had erased. Are you sure the circumstances are that pressing, Blood King, or is it the old age and stewing twinges of guilty conscience prevailing over your common sense?"
"A while ago the seal on the portal was compromised, the Dark Lord was about to come through. Then, a young human's life was sacrificed to keep him in his exile," Trick kept his rendition of the tragedy impossibly condensed and conveniently skipping over the identity of said human, "The ghost of this human is now sitting in my parlor, she crossed the border back, at least her vital essence did. And if you believe these to be circumstances unworthy of consideration you can kick me out with your stick up my royal butt."
The Norn, expression unreadable, pale blue eyes downcast, pressed her palm against the barely visible scars on the bole of her tree, the ones that had been bleeding for so long after a chainsaw had ripped them open. "And again, a young human changing the course of fae-history," she murmured to herself, another incident called to mind by association, "these flimsy mortals are getting cheeky…"
"You didn't bother to come when you puppy got heart-hurt at my hand and yet here you are now, scared by the apparition of a worthless human?" she asked aloud, her tone arid.
"You cheated Dyson and almost destroyed him but back then I thought it was his mistake, I thought he should have known better. Even now I am still not sure I was right in choosing not to interfere on his behalf and letting my friend suffer," Trick answered her half-accusatory question. "In my defense, I am trying to learn from my mistakes. Now it so happens that the vital essence in my parlor is life-sustaining for at least two of the people dearest to me," the man frowned, his patience wearing thin, the concern gnawing at him from the inside, "And though I, by no means, expect you to appreciate the significance of that, let me cover another angle. She has been released into our world, by mistake or by design, but the power it had to take is unrivalled and we both know that means he is getting stronger."
"We know but we don't remember," the Norn nodded her impartial acknowledgement, thoughts racing inside her convoluted mind, weighing and mulling over the new facts, trying to slot them into the remnants of her recollections.
"We have to remember," the Blood King said with urgency, "Who we are pitted against, why we chose to banish him not only from our world but from our thoughts as well. It is getting beyond any one fae, Norn, it might well be the matter of our kind's survival."
"Oh, yes, it should've taken a fae of unprecedented evil magnitude to make two old cynics team up and trust each other with their remembrances," the woman snorted and hobbled across the room to the side door, "Time to rummage in my home-made preserves pantry. I should have the Blood King's darkest memories stored someplace."
Kenzi fidgeted restlessly and, a minute later, hopped off the arm-rest. "I am bored, D," she whined and started circling the room, "Forced onto the wagon, no discerning eyes to admire my outfits – what can a girl do to entertain herself?"
Dyson gulped down the lump that was obstructing his throat as his undiscerning but much appreciative eyes were greedily drinking in the sight of Kenzi. "Trick said it was important, he promised us some answers," he started placatingly, "Not much we can do in the meantime."
"Hey, fluffie, unlike you, I can't even bet any longer on my full human life span, given my precarious in-between-the-realms status," the girl tried to keep her tone light, refusing to be depressed into self-pity, "So every second I am not doing something fun or something world-saving is a waste."
She hovered in the shelf-lined corner, bypassing the book-filled surfaces and zeroing in onto a CD rack.
"No pizza, no booze, no bumping my ghostly uglies," she murmured sticking out a curious hand, fingering the plastic covers, undisturbed by her touch, "But I can still dance, can't I?"
Kenzi eyed the meager CD collection with a frown of disapproval, "The old T-bag is decidedly gruesome, like a thing of the past meets a thing from the Arc, classics, more classics, and I don't even mean the Rolling Stones. Wagner, the Flight of the Valkyries? Hey, is that about our Tammy by any chance?"
"No, and not exactly dance music either," Dyson chortled, reminded all over again of how young the woman in front of him was.
"Ok, I can work with this, at a pinch," she pointed to a bright red and black plastic rectangle that seemed less disgusting to her refined tastes, "Argentinean tango! A girl can rock it, with a bit of skill, a semblance of hips and a half-decent partner."
"Come on, Dyson, don't let me die a second death, that of boredom," she puckered her lips in an adorable plea and extended an arm in invitation. The shifter shook his head, torn between amused and panic, the latter quickly prevailing.
"No way, Kenz," he groused, "You can't make my millennium-old joints or my no-younger dignity bend that way."
"The last time I saw you dancing," she accompanied her words with a brow wiggle, her mind on the present difficulty of wielding solid objects, even as light as a CD, "You were very bendy and very dignified."
"The last time we danced … ," Dyson echoed her and choked on his words as it hit them both simultaneously. He saw Kenzi's little face crumble, crushed by the repressed memory finally resurfacing.
"Hale," she moaned, the Siren's smiling floating in her mind's eye, her body still feeling his warm touch, her unbeating heart petrified with grief.
With an effort, the wolf shook off his own anguish and lunged forwards from his seat, covering the distance between them in seconds, halting inches away from her frozen, desperate figure. He was racked with the inability to comfort her with his warmth, to envelope her in his protective hug, to chase the excruciating pain away. No murmured platitudes, no promises, no sympathetic silences could heal the wound that ran that deep. Recognizing the futility, Dyson opted for a diversionary tactic instead and stretched a long arm to grab a random CD, slotting it into a player and pushing the play button in one fluid movement.
"My lady," he offered his hand to Kenzi, palm up, hoping he hadn't just signed up for a zumba. The first melancholic notes reverberated through the room and the words were carried straight to the heart by a magnificent female voice – Little ghost, you're listening.
"That's an apt beginning," the wolf grinned down at the tiny woman, "May I have the honor."
The pale, tear-streaked face bravely collected itself into a semblance of a smile as she put her own weightless palm over his, keeping it a quarter of an inch away from his skin. She readily allowed herself to be distracted, to be screened from her pain, to feel cherished and supported.
"You haven't forgotten your moves, wolfie?" she teased taking a half-step back with her right leg, giving space for his left one to move forward, "Though this one sounds more like a waltz or just a slow-motioned stomp than a tango to me."
"I haven't forgotten anything," he whispered back, his right hand sliding beneath her right shoulder blade, circling her slim waist, keeping to the same illusion-sustaining protocol of not quite touching, "Down to the last spangle on that dress of yours."
"Of this one?" Kenzi's answering grin was distinctively mischievous as she willed the item onto her supernatural body. Dyson's glowing eyes raked over her, showing appreciation and yellowing under the strength of an unexpressed emotion, which sent the girl straight down the memory lane. She harked back to that evening when she had chosen her look for the Engelram's party, when she had gone for a strict and slicked updo and a dress she hoped would make her look older, more womanly and less like a street urchin, more desirable for an experienced and discerning man she meant to charm.
"Sorry I am out of keeping, what with my casual look, didn't think to rent a tux," he said looking down at his plain shirt and old jeans, "But I fully intend to offset that regrettable fact with my waltzing skill, if we can manage a waltz to this piano piece."
"Dyson, the biggest skills you have boasted so far are definitely more of battle-field and bedroom variety," the girl's smile finally gained some sincerity and reached her grey eyes.
"I might surprise you here, babe," the wolf grinned locking eyes with her, leading with his gaze for lack of tactile contact, and she easily took her cue, their legs doing the steps, never touching, their bodies close but never colliding, the proximity of his hands to her skin warm but weightless.
"Not for nothing did I spend 5 years at the court of Joseph II when the gliding dance was all the rage," Dyson cocked a brow, looking down at the dark haired head of the girl.
"I promise I'll google what you've just said," she snorted in return and gasped as she finally recognized the song, "Birdy? Strange Birds? Really, Trick, that plugged-in?"
"Now I want to fly into your world, I want to be heard," Kenzi repeated after the performer, "Or I am so with you, girl."
Oh little ghost, you see the pain
But together we can make something beautiful,
So take my hand and perfectly,
We fill the gaps, you and me make three,
I was meant for you, and you for me.
"I was meant for you and you for me," the little ghost echoed, looking up into Dyson's earnest face and wondering if she should close her eyes and will another face to the front of her mind. She remained open-eyed, her gaze locked with the baby-blues of the man holding her in a ghostly embrace.
"The sound of your heart beating," the shifter suddenly said with surprise, leaning towards her, his sensitive ears almost visibly pricked.
"Don't tell me fae warriors have a sneaking soft spot for cheesy lyrics," she tried to sound casual with a touch of taunting, "Besides, it's not even in the song."
"No, your heart," Dyson almost stammered, his body executing the next move on auto pilot alone, "I think I can hear it beating, Kenz!"
The girl, ready with the line about booze finally getting to Dyson's clarity of mind, bit back on it and was startled into misstepping by his earnestly stupefied expression. In an instinctive attempt neither to crash into the wolf's hip bone nor to twist any of her precious ankles, Kenzi planted her left hand against his chest for purchase and stopped. The last chorus was humming in the background, her mind was catching up with her movements and the wolf put his big palm over her hand. The girl's disbelieving grey eyes were riveted to their fingers almost intertwining on his chest and Dyson's deep voice confirmed what her confused senses were tentatively telling her, "Your heart's beating and I can touch you, Kenzi."