Hah! ABV has concept art, a.k.a. a cover, drawn by my sister's boyfriend, whose praises and faults I do sing.Look on my profile for the link!#squeals# I'm just so gosh-darn happy! I have a job, concept art (which is a new concept for me, too), some new inspiration, I've finally figured some personal things out, and my jaw doesn't hurt anymore!
Thanks to Moonjava, Lizai, and TrudiRose. I'm glad you guys support this.
Notes: And a slap upside the head to me, who has officially quit Adria. I still wrote another chapter.
Chapter Six: The Bells of Rhymney
"Lover boy?" Chris asked, turning to face her as he grabbed his gig bag keys. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, nothing," Saera said in a voice that sang, 'oh, something.' The sword clanked as she pried her hand off of it and dropped it onto the table.
"Saera. . ." Chris said, trailing off for a moment before he figured out what he wanted to say. "I'm tired. I just spent the last six hours in jail, unable to sleep because the guy down the hall kept screaming when his ecstasy monsters got too scary. I started seeing shadows on man slaughtering cars when I got out. Now I have to go back to the place I was arrested at to get her violin. I need to go after Thomas before he—" before he what? What could—would—Thomas do to Reanna? Nothing. "—before he leaves without me," Chris finished. "Just tell me what you meant."
"Nothing, really. It's just the way you look at her—"
"Reanna?"
"No, Thomas," Saera said. "Yes, Reanna. Like there's some confusion in your eyes, but also like a longing—"
"Not you too," Chris groaned. "I just spent at least an hour convincing first Jack, then a police detective that I wasn't in a relationship with her. Come on, Saera," he groused. "I'm not that kind of guy.
"Now if you'll excuse me," he said flippantly, ushering her out the door and turning to lock it, "I have a young girl to escort to her house."
"Riiight," she drawled. "And you're a young man with competition in the form of one Thomas S. Wright. Go get 'er, Tiger."
Before he could snap that he had no attraction to Reanna and that Thomas was busy courting a woman with two children, she sashayed off.
Then he remembered that she was still wearing his armor, and instead of cursing, decided to let her return it later. She might need it, and he still needed to catch up to Thomas and Reanna. Unable to resist one last parting shot, he called after her, "Are you sure you aren't gifted with the power of mass delusion?"
In answer, a pebble-sized amethyst whizzed through the trees and came flying at his head. He yelped and managed to catch it before it left him minus an eye, then stared down at it. It laid limp and almost glowing in his palm, and before he had too much time to think about it, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket as a physical reminder that Gifts—and elves—did exist.
§
Saera groaned as she hauled herself through the trailer door and wished—not for the first time—that they had a tent. It would have been so much easier just crawling through a tent flap than it would have been to take the time to key the wards, unlock the three locks on the trailer door, and finally heave open the steel-core door. But then again, they wouldn't have air-conditioning, a stove, or actual beds. And at least this way she and Brad each had a tiny dresser for themselves. Not to mention that you couldn't ward a tent. Or you could, but it was just rather difficult. It was hard enough warding a mostly Cold Iron heap of metal; putting wards upon a piece of fabric that could move any which way the breeze blew just wasn't worth the effort. Plus—most of the Sidhe wouldn't dare come near a human-made trailer, let alone inside it. That wasn't exactly comfortable for any Seleighe that wanted to see her, but it was handy if any Unseleighe came a-knocking, like the one that showed up the September before last. She dropped down onto her bed with a clinking of chain—aw shit, I'm still wearing Chris's armor—and remembered September seventeenth.
"Saera Wright, human foster child of Elfhame Windweather, we request your presence outside your Cold Iron shelter now
Saera thanked God and Daana that Brad had chosen to travel up to the Sterling Forest Renaissance Faire with Thomas this year, and ran to the window, raising the blind just so so she could peek out. Standing in the middle of the campground were an Unseleighe knight—in full pale red armor, including helm, though the faceplate was pushed up—and a redcap. Huddled on the ground in front of them was—Sweet Daana, no—a little girl whose face streamed with tears and snot as the recap hissed something in her ear.
"You will either come with me or Grima shall slaughter every human in this camp, starting with this child," the elf snarled, gesturing to the misshapen child-form that gripped the girl's limp arm in one tightfisted grip. Its breath rasped as it stared at her, and its grip on the girl's arm tightened. The soft cap on its head wasn't as bright as fresh human blood could be, and it looked. . . hungry. Saera shuddered. Lydia and Thom had always told her that for all redcaps might not look like much, they were dangerous; could tear out the throat of any man in a heartbeat, and could not be stopped by Cold Iron.
Now what, genius? She asked herself. You've got one hungry-looking redcap out there, and if looks are anything to go by, a po'ed Sidhe. Do you a) run away? b) try to stop the evil elf from killing the kid? c) scream and stare helplessly? or d) call for backup?
She couldn't just leave the innocent campers to be mauled to death by a hungry redcap, and she certainly couldn't stop it on her own. Saera decided that she liked Option D best, and reached for the athame on the wall without taking her eyes off the scene. Before she could grab it, however, the Sidhe opened her mouth again. "My patience grows thin, witch. Grima is growing hungry!"
"I'm comin'!" she shouted, and grabbed the athame. She also grabbed three carving knives from the 'kitchen' drawer, her Faire dagger, and a small square of chainmail that Brad had left under his bed.
While she chanted the lyrics to Aretha Franklin's 'Rescue Me,' she heard someone—a man, by the bass tones—outside, shout, "Hey, what're you—" that was cut off by a yell and a thump, as if the Unseleighe woman had flung the man violently away.
Knowing she had little time before more campers noticed the altercation, Saera sped up her chanting, and with the athame slashed her left palm and clenched the resulting mess around her pendant. That took care of the backup.
The mail she wrapped around one hand, she stuffed two of the knives and the dagger into her belt, and gripped the third carving knife in her wounded hand with a wince; there was no time to bind it. Lastly she held the athame in her chainmail-guarded left hand, hoping this desperate ploy would work.
Then she kicked open the trailer door and stepped outside.
The Sidhe woman stared at her dripping hand, then laughed. It was a cruel, cold sound. "Blood magic?" she snorted. "And here I thought humans weren't permitted that. No matter." Before she could finish, Saera threw the carving knife at the redcap, which squealed and dove aside. Redcaps might not be uncomfortable with Cold Iron, but they were still susceptible to normal weapons.
The little girl fell to the ground without the redcap holding her up, eyes blank. The Unseleighe woman smiled cruelly at the little body and then kicked it aside. Saera howled a wordless challenge and drew another carving knife. This time, guided by her Gift, the knife flew straight and true. The woman shrieked and threw herself sideways onto the ground.
Then—movement to Saera's right. The redcap! She tried to dodge it, but it grabbed her wrist and used that to lever itself up onto Saera's chest. It snarled and ripped at her throat, and Saera almost saw her life flash before her eyes—
An arrow from the side took the redcap down. It didn't even have time to howl before a second arrow struck it in the eye, and with a last seizure-like grip of Saera's shoulders, it fell off backwards, gurgling.
A thunder of hooves passed her as she kicked the redcap away, and she looked up to find Adriel ferch Alleine—her original foster sister—mounted on Windstar, ride past, bow already back on its saddle-hook, sword drawn and mouth open in a scream of challenge as she spurred the elvensteed at the knight. Adriel was in full armor—ornate silver plate that was filigreed and etched and engraved and inlaid with green enamel. It was something that Thomas would have killed to learn how to make, and Saera winced when the knight drew her sword and parried Adriel's swing, following it up with a dagger thrust to Adriel's back that left a long scratch along the plackart.
Adriel swung 'round angrily, and as she engaged the knight—the other knight, for Adriel was a knight of the Seleighe Court—in one-on-one combat, Saera saw her chance to get the child out of danger and shucked her weapons, wincing as the makeshift glove stuck to the sticky blood on her wounded palm. As Adriel leapt off Windstar, drawing the pitched battle a few more feet away, Saera dashed in and grabbed the girl, who proved to be much heavier than the woman had estimated. The dead weight hindered Saera's movement, but she managed to haul the girl into her trailer. She laid the little girl gently on her bed, then went back outside to find the man who she'd heard confront the Unseleighe only minutes before.
Part of a bushy grove that shielded Saera's trailer from the rest had a large hole in it, so she climbed through it, and found a large, beefy man on his back, unconscious, midway through a bush, buried under branches he'd crashed through in his passing. Saera feared for his life upon discovering the single branch that speared through his abdomen from the back, and she dearly hoped that it had missed vital organs. Sweating as she heard the battle outside heat up, she left him where he lay—moving him now would only do more harm—but she picked up a handgun she'd found a foot away from his body—perhaps one of the reasons that the Unseleighe woman had flung him away so violently.
Holding it in a slightly shaky hand, she climbed back out, only to be confronted by a rearing elvensteed with silver—and very, very sharp—hooves.
"Windstar, it's me!" she shouted before the elvensteed recognized her and writhed away, narrowly missing her head by a matter of inches. She shoved her way around it and tried to aim the gun at the Sidhe who wasn't wearing her foster sister's colors, but the two women were parrying and thrusting and blocking so quickly that Saera couldn't be sure of a clean shot without harming Adriel.
What do I do? she fretted. I can't shoot without possibly hitting Adri, and I can't not help.
Then she remembered the knives she'd dropped on the ground. Cursing her stupidity, she dove for the athame, the dagger, the spare carving knife and the bloody chainmail. She arranged the chainmail around her hand like it had been before, picked up the dagger, discarded the athame as being too flimsy, and grabbed the carving knife. Then she steeled her courage and walked toward the battling Sidhe.
Just one blow, she pleaded with her trembling hands. Just one quick blow, and I swear, the only things you'll be doing for the rest of the month will be singing and repairing clothing.
The unknown elven knight had just blocked a heavy blow from the weakening Adriel when Saera took the chance and plunged the dagger into her back, stopping only when the hilt banged against the cool red metal. The armor melted before the steel like soft butter, and the elf screamed as the Cold Iron entered her skin. Saera watched in horror as the metal of the woman's armor disintegrated in an ever-widening circle around the hilt of the blade, and the flesh with it. She gagged and looked away just in time, for Adriel's sword swept the Unseleighe's head off in a clean arc, and the body toppled to the ground. Adriel sent a distracted burst of baelfire at the corpse of the redcap, which burned to nothing, leaving them both to watch the Unseleighe woman crumble.
As the last of it disintegrated, leaving the dagger in the dust, Adriel pushed the faceplate of her helm up and embraced Saera as best she could with the armor and still-drawn sword. When Saera's back cracked, she let go of the smaller woman and drew back a bit, looking down at Saera. "Are you all right, little sister?" she asked, sea-green eyes clouded with worry and something else that Saera couldn't quite decipher. "I came as quickly as I could, but had I been but a moment later, I fear I would have been too late."
Saera nodded uncertainly, wondering what she would have done had the redcap actually gotten its teeth in her neck. Then she remembered that she had killed one of the Sidhe. One of the Fair Folk. Not only had she killed any Sidhe, she'd killed an elven knight. She was doomed.
And she had killed. Suddenly that seemed like the only important thing in the world, and her breakfast came back up as she gagged, then turned away from Adriel, retching. She heaved until the last of her breakfast was splattered on the ground under her nose, and then she heaved some more.
When she finally wiped her mouth, she looked up to find that she had an audience, and that Adriel was nowhere in sight.
"Adri?" she said automatically before one of the men stepped forward and said, "Miss, what in the hell just happened?"
"Sorry," Saera gasped, realizing that she had to think fast if she was going to explain this one away. "I breathed in some of the gas, I guess." When some of the men looked at her skeptically, she 'elaborated.' "My barbecue—uh—my barbecue exploded. I am so sorry—I'm going to call the manufacturer tomorrow and complain," she said, enforcing the words with every ounce of telepathy she possessed. No one had seen the fight, so she wouldn't have to mess with memories. She could see people nodding, and she further supported the thought with an image of an exploding barbecue that she'd seen online a few years ago. "I guess there must have been a defect in the tank, because the whole thing—well—boom. And—ohmigod! I just remembered about that guy! There's a guy in the bushes that got thrown backward by the blast, and he landed on a stick and it just went through—" she pointed at the bushes, hand shaking, and a few of the men ran towards it. Cries of horror went up as they found the man, and someone yelled, "Call for an ambulance!"
In the ensuing confusion, the wounded man was carted away by an ambulance, and Saera managed to slip away before the police arrived. With a little mental distraction to those watching, she managed to sneak her knives and athame back into the trailer and under her bed or in their slots in the knife-rack. Then she'd brought the still unresponsive girl out and given her back to her parents with an apology and a whispered prayer—the girl was breathing, but she looked and felt—dead. A second ambulance took her and her parents awa, and then the police arrived. Thankfully the Unseleighe woman had left a few shards of armor behind, and Saera had claimed that those were all that was left of her barbecue. The burned spot where the redcap had been was 'where it exploded, officer,' when the policeman had asked her about it.
Later that night, when the ruckus had died down, she found Adriel waiting in the middle of a grove of trees on the other side of the small campground. The elven knight was now dressed in green and gold riding leathers common to the High Court, blending in with the surrounding foliage perfectly.
"The child will be—fine," Adriel said almost hesitantly. "I have visited her in yon hospital and wiped her mind of the memory of the Unseleighe touch. She will still have nightmares, but they will be—lessened. . . ."
Saera sighed with relief, then hesitated. "Adri," she said, seeing the sadness in her foster sister's eyes. "What's wrong?"
"You should not have had to kill," Adriel said.
"I had to," Saera replied. "To end it quickly before any more people saw—the fight." She paused. "I didn't want to, you know. I didn't enjoy it in the least. But you might have died. It was necessary."
Adriel looked sad for a moment, then looked away. "I should go," she said. "I'll be missed."
"Missed? Adriel—what's going on?"
"A war, Saera," the elf said before she summoned Windstar, then swung up onto the back of the black 'steed easily. She looked down at Saera from her saddle, and reached down to lay a hand along Saera's cheek. "A war between Light and Dark Sidhe. Stay safe, ainm ceana. Remember what Teryn ap Gavelin taught you. Strike first at a Sidhe you know to be allied with the Dark Court and that comes for you. Any in doubt—use your best judgment. You know the Bright; now know the Dark. Stay safe." And with those words of warning, she was gone.
§
A silver Ford Taurus pulled up in front of the battered-looking gray house and parked on the curb; police tape encircled the house and blocked the driveway, and a police cruiser was parked in the driveway. The back doors of the Taurus opened, and Chris and Reanna clambered out. Thomas had elected to stay in the car, so the two just shut their doors and cautiously ducked under the yellow tape and started up the driveway.
"Are you okay with this?" he asked, aware that he'd asked almost those exact words in the same spot only a few hours ago.
Reanna just nodded, and he fell silent. When they reached the cruiser, a police officer stepped out of it, hand laid ever-so-casually on his gun.
"Can I help you?" he asked. Chris noticed a few crumbs in his moustache but decided not to mention them.
"This is Reanna Wyr—the—uh—daughter of the guy that owns the house. We were here earlier, and she just wanted to get her violin out of the attic so it doesn't get ruined."
"Do you have a picture ID stating that she lives here?" the man asked skeptically, eyebrow raised.
Chris turned to look at Reanna. Did she have any identification cards?
Surprising him, Reanna produced not only one, but two ID cards. One was a state ID, and the other was her school ID badge.
"Where is it?"
"The attic," Chris told him.
The cop raised an eyebrow.
"She hid it up there so her father wouldn't sell it for beer," Chris explained, but the eyebrow remained up. "It's worth a lot," he said wearily. "He knew that, and so did she, so she hid it where he wouldn't look."
"Alright," the cop said grudgingly. "I'll have to escort you—just let me radio it in."
He leaned back into the cruiser and talked it over with a police operator, then got back out of the car.
"Let's go," he said, shutting the cruiser door.
He led them up to the front door and unlocked a newly installed police deadbolt with a key, then let them in. Evidence of forensic investigating was everywhere; the blood on the walls was black in the darkness until the cop turned the lights on, and it looked exactly the same as it had earlier.
Reanna led the up the stairs, pausing only to reach out to touch one of the bloodstains, but the cop snapped, "Don't touch that!" and she pulled her hand back. Down the hallway and into was clearly her room they went, and Reanna went into the closet while Chris stared in horror at her room. The only thing in there that could be called furniture was an old bed that looked like it would fall apart if he so much as blew on it, a dresser, and a set of drawers. More blood was on the wall, but it looked like a lot of it had been covered up with white paint—some of the stains were barely there. The window was fractured, and there were pieces of duct tape covering some of the larger cracks.
A muffled thud came from inside the closet, and he turned. The officer was helping Reanna climb down from the clearly makeshift pull-down ladder while she clutched a large, relatively new rectangular violin case in her arms.
She hopped down the last step and laid the violin case reverently on the floor and unlocked it while the cop watched. Then she ran the zipper around it and opened the case and lifted the blanket and set it to the side. Revealed was one of the most beautiful violins that Chris had ever seen. It was carved from maple, like all violins, but this one. . . shone almost. From the classical scroll to the very subtle vine-and-leaf pattern inlaid in the highly flamed back, it was a work of art.
When she removed the velcro strap and lifted the violin out of the case, he blinked and shook his head to clear his eyes; he thought he'd seen electric blue tendrils reaching from Reanna's fingers to the strings.
As she examined the violin and tested the strings one by one, the police officer examined the case, which produced only two bows, a cake of rosin, an electric tuner, a metronome, extra strings and a sheaf of sheet music. He handed them back to her one by one after he'd looked for anything suspicious, and finding nothing.
She placed the items in their compartment, slipped the bows back into their holders, and gently laid the violin back into its niche and strapped it back in. Only then did she look back up at him with a smile of relief. "It's okay," she said. "I thought leaving it up there for so long might have done some damage, but there's absolutely nothing wrong with it."
"You have what you came for?" the cop asked gruffly.
Reanna nodded, and ushered them out. As they descended the stairs, Reanna looked at the bloodstains, but didn't try to touch them again.
They left the dark house and walked slowly down the drive, where Thomas was waiting in the idling car. Reanna slowly climbed into the backseat, still cradling the violin case, and Chris got in after her.
"Back to the Faire?" Chris asked, and Reanna nodded. Her eyes were bright, and he could see that she was struggling against a lump in her throat, so he let her be and just watched the road as Thomas drove.
When they pulled down the dirt road that led into the Faire, she finally looked up, composed. "Thank you," she said quietly. "This violin means a lot to me."
"Don't mention it," Chris replied equally as quietly. Thomas didn't say anything, and he parked the car next to a large motor home that had a small red cargo trailer attached to the end that was used to transport all of the wares.
"Thanks, Thomas," Reanna said quietly. "Yeah, thanks," Chris added, and then they all got out of the car and went their separate ways; Thomas into his camper where he was greeted with a resounding chorus of, "Hey, Thomas, have a beer!" and Chris and Reanna back to Chris's camper.
When they got there, Brad was outside but Saera was nowhere to be seen. He looked up at their approach and grinned. "Hey, been looking everywhere for ya," he said. "I heard you got arrested."
"Dear god," Chris said, "does everyone know about that?"
Brad nodded emphatically. "You're never gonna hear the end of it," he said. "Wren found out from Saera, and it's gotta all over the camp by now." His grin grew, and he switched it to include Reanna. "They know about Reanna, too."
Chris looked sharply at him, then down at Reanna. Her cheeks were tinged pink, and she stared at the ground. He leveled a glare at Brad, who shrugged. "Most of them are proud of you for taking her in, Chris," he said. "Janice ain't too happy, but there's not much she can do without looking the fool." Chris groaned.
"She's not. . . back, is she?" he asked, annoyed. To him, Janice Crawson was the very epitome of irritation. She seemed to think she was in love with him, despite the fact that he'd tried to make it very clear that he had no attraction for her. The girl was positively nauseating, following him around when the Faire was closed for the day, always insinuating herself into a group he was in, always trying to drag him off somewhere to confess her love for him. . . . It had gotten so bad that he'd wound up begging her grandfather to move to another circuit so he could get some peace. The old man had had Chris complaining about her before, and seen the weariness in Chris's eyes and seen how jumpy he was, and agreed. He'd also mentioned that he'd been meaning to travel the Western U.S. Circuit, and then packed up and left at the end of the Langston's Jewel Medieval Faire in South Carolina, and Chris had had nearly three months of glorious peace. If they were coming back. . .
He didn't want to think about it. He really didn't want to think about the possibility of pretty, airheaded Janice running around the Fairegrounds, selling flowers and annoying the hell out of him, and probably asking incessant, tactless questions of Reanna.
"Tell me she's not coming back soon," he muttered.
"Much as I hate to say this. . ." Brad trailed off, and Chris winced. "Just say it."
"She's already back. She drove up an hour ago, and immediately came over here." Brad grinned. "I think you should go see her."
"No. If she wants to see me, then she can come and find me. I'll be out shopping," Chris said as he stepped up and unlocked the camper door. Reanna followed him silently, not saying anything, and Chris frowned. What was wrong?
When they'd gotten inside, she placed the case on the table and opened it again. She tested the strings again, then looked up at him, where he was standing by the phone, wondering if he should call his parents.
"Do you mind if I tune this?" she asked quietly. He knew something was off with her, but he couldn't quite place it.
"Go right ahead," he said. "I'll just be in my room. Knock if you need me," he added as he grabbed the phone and walked into his room, closing and locking the door firmly behind him. He sat on the bed and looked at the phone in his hand. Should he? Just to see if he could do anything. . . . he probably couldn't. A few months, or hell, even years ago he could have, but not now. He started to put the phone down, then paused. What the hell, he thought, and dialed.