Jenn Saint-John can't tell you about the majority of her past. In fact, she had to either forget most of it or kill herself. Since then, she has broken hearts and speed limits across the South, finally alighting in Arizona, where she waits for the right moment to take over the world—or at least a really nice villa with an established staff. In the meantime, to keep herself amused, she writes fiction because nobody would believe the truth. She is best known for her work on the multiplayer computer games Gemstone III and Modus Operandi. Ms. Saint-John doesn't currently have a website, because the groupies kept crashing it. However, you can reach her at house_draven@toughguy.net. Any offers of physical devotion will be returned unread.
It was supposed to be easy. Culéoin, lesser Prince of the High Court of Elfhame DeepRiver and Magus Major, unpacked his saxophone and began fitting the pieces together. For over a hundred and fifty years it's been deliver the spellstone, renew the treaty. Easy. Trust that idiot Norenlod to turn a courier's mission into a diplomatic B'ahaints nest.
He frowned, considering Norenlod's incompetence, and slipped a reed into the mouthpiece. A burst of applause made him look up. Black side curtains barely shielded the backstage area, just three or four steps wide in any direction, from an equally tiny stage. Behind the glamourie his cat-pupil eyes narrowed against a badly focused spot, looking out. A good-sized crowd in the club, but then, there always was at Mardi Gras.
This is supposed to be my time, Danu take it, yet here I am, playing "expeditor" again. He closed his eyes briefly. Still I am but a servant of my Prince. What Irindilel asks, I shall give. One traitorous part of his mind wailed silently, But why these two days?
Habitual discipline let him answer himself. Because this is New Orleans, it's Mardi Gras, and the spellstone must be delivered so the treaty between the Loa and Elfhame DeepRiver will continue, that's why. Norenlod lost it; you need to find it. So stop whining, and start thinking about how to retrieve the damn thing and salvage what's left of your Mardi Gras.
The only time each year he permitted himself to enjoy his human lover was during the final two days of the New Orleans Mardi Gras. He glanced over at the person who made these days so special, and thought, Better yet, forget it for a few hours, and get lost in the music and in Zeke.
It had seemed like the best option back at the bed-and-breakfast, and it still did. Since the easy solution had failed . . . he automatically licked the reed, wetting it. It should have worked. Something might be very wrong this year. . . .
Zeke craned his neck to see around Colin, his name for Culéoin—the elf's true name was too hard to pronounce. Felt like a hot crowd. Good; Colin needed to cut loose. A damned shame Colin's prince had to mess up their two days.
When Colin had arrived at their antebellum suite earlier, Zeke knew Something Was Up before the elf said a word, from the nervous buzz of the energy aura surrounding him. Zeke had never known what Colin did the other three hundred sixty-three days of the year. He hadn't really cared, since the elf didn't spend them with him.
Colin had paced the length of the impeccably restored sitting room and bedroom. "I fear this has become a working trip. It should not intrude on our time too greatly, though."
Zeke's eyes widened, but he managed to keep his tone light. "Didn't figure you for a workin' elf, bro."
"Oh, I'm just full of surprises."
Equally light, but to Zeke's Bardic ear, it sounded flat, almost forced. No wonder; Colin never let anything interfere with their Mardi Gras. Unprecedented, in fact, for whatever he did to even be mentioned.
The elf carried an antique willowware bowl full of Japanese magnolias into a comfortably twentieth-century bathroom. Curious, Zeke followed. Colin transferred the flowers carefully to the sink, then refilled the bowl with water and returned it to the imposing mahogany table in the sitting room, as Zeke watched in silence.
The elf was worth watching. Zeke had followed his grandfather's footsteps and spent some months Underhill near St. Louis, learning the finer points of magick from an Elven Bard who shared Colin's taste for human jazz. But Zeke had never met anyone, human or Sidhe, like Colin.
He wore his usual glamourie, tall and athletic, layered raven-black hair barely brushing the shoulders. A silver streak just over his left eyebrow fell, as usual, into his deep crystalline green eyes. Colin brushed it back automatically, then took a small bottle from his pocket and poured what looked like mercury onto his left palm. He whispered a few words, then gently blew across the tiny puddle. Zeke stepped closer, shoulder touching the elf's, fascinated. The silvery liquid ran down Colin's fingers to the bowl, spread in a thin film, and turned the water into a perfect mirror that faded to an aerial view of the city.
"Scrying?" Zeke asked.
Colin nodded, the single lock of silver hair falling again. "It should not take long."
"That your job?" Funny, when Zeke thought about it, that he'd never wondered before. "You a Seer?"
"Not really." Colin didn't look up. "Only as my Prince requires."
So he did jobs for a Prince. That was more than most elves Zeke had known did. He'd never been sure how elves other than Bards occupied their endless time.
Zeke kept staring at the bowl, mesmerized. The picture shifted, zooming in on the Quarter, then in on an unidentifiable group of streets. Suddenly the images blurred as the water dissolved into a thousand prismatic ripples. He shivered at something in the elf's face. "I'm guessin' that wasn't supposed to happen."
"No." The single word was almost inaudible, the expression unreadable. Then Colin raised his head and smiled, the incredible smile Zeke could lose himself in forever. "It may be nothing. Let me make a phone call."
Zeke had learned to survive on two days of Colin a year. Now he wondered how much of this meager ration he'd get this trip. But when the elf put down the phone, the world righted itself.
"They cannot meet us—"
"Us." At least I'm included.
"—for several hours. We could go to the club?" The words were half a question, half an apology.
"That'd be good." Zeke took a deep breath, and added, "Or if you really wanted to make it up to me, stay a couple extra days."
"I wish I could." Though full of regret, the words were firm, and Zeke dropped the matter.
At least they had the music. Zeke brought himself back to the present and took his place on stage. He wondered who he'd be playing with. Colin might mourn his inability to do his own improvisations, since elves could only copy and combine the original work of others, but there was something to be said for the way he could faithfully echo all the greats. How else could he, Zeke Washington, get to play with both Coleman Hawkins and Charlie "Bird" Parker in the same piece?
Zeke reached for power, letting the crowd's energy amplify the joy he always felt with Colin, feeding it back. Then, trumpet aimed high, he let magick thread the opening notes of "Saint James' Infirmary Blues," a blast of pure love. Maybe this would help the elf forget his damned job.
Culéoin finished the riff, one "Bird" had never gotten around to recording, and stepped back as Zeke's trumpet caught the note and soared higher, in a new elaboration on the old standard. The sheer joy Zeke took in creating music had been the first thing to attract Culéoin, ten Mardi Gras before. No elf could do that, blow a truly original jazz riff.
Culéoin tended to stick close to his Elfhame when not traveling for his Prince on missions diplomatic, secret, or both, but he'd made an exception for Mardi Gras each year since the festival began. A decade before, he'd heard a young mortal playing at one of the smaller jazz clubs, a mortal who had just finished his training as a Bard. Though young, Zeke's talent had rung through each pure note. The intervening years had added power and control.
Tonight the magick had been dimmed by a scuffle at the back of the club just as Zeke began playing. Mardi Gras crowds were usually rowdy, but this year Culéoin detected a darker undercurrent. This city needs the spell as much as we need the treaty. Humans. Yet another blot on his two precious days with the one mortal he cared about.
Zeke was exactly why he generally disapproved of Elvenkind getting involved with humans. Butterflies, all of them, interests and emotions shifting faster than the weather, never having time to seriously study or understand a subject. And any elf fool enough to give his heart to one would find it broken in an achingly short time, the human wiped from existence. He'd watched it happen once too often and sworn it would never happen to him. Elf-human relationships were always a mistake. And then came Zeke.
Power, even a Bard's power to create, didn't impress Culéoin after Danu knew how many human years of going from court to court for Prince Irindilel. Nor was it Zeke's good looks—though with the Bard's chestnut curls, deep cinnamon eyes, and rich café-au-lait skin, no one could blame him if it were.
Peace; that was it. Sometimes Culéoin felt as uptight as any human, given his duties to Prince and Hame. Zeke held the peace of deep waters, peace that accepted even Zeke's own inevitable aging and death.
The trumpet laughed, and he caught the phrase, echoing it back in another octave. Another part of Zeke's magic: Zeke was fun. They played together, and not just musically. Then there was the sheer delight Zeke took in simple things, making age-old beauties come alive again.
So now, once a year, Culéoin defied his own convictions about the unwisdom of elf-human relationships and met his lover for the final two days of Mardi Gras. Surely no great harm would come from spending just a little time with this particular butterfly. He asked no other time away from his duties, and Prince Irindilel always granted his request with no more than a raised eyebrow and an amused smile. Until this year.
Norenlod, you idiot.
A few blocks from the club, Culéoin laced his fingers with Zeke's. The streets of the French Quarter were crowded here. They were to meet the Loa, the Voudoun gods to whom the spellstone should have been delivered, at ten, giving them time to walk.
After the ease of the music, the burdens of the moment weighed even heavier. Perhaps I shouldn't bring Zeke along, but something is definitely not right. If there's trouble, I want him where I can protect him. I want him with me anyhow. Maybe it's time he learned who I am. At least some of who I am. Culéoin looked around and felt himself tighten as all his senses returned to his familiar hyper-even-for-a-Sidhe alert state.
Something's different.
Zeke is worried about you; best say something. Their emotions run so close to the surface, burn so hot . . .
"I am sorry, muirnín." He brought Zeke's hand, still laced with his own, up to his lips and kissed it. "I promise I'll take care of business as quickly as I can."
"Business." Zeke's drawl, a combination of his native North Carolina and the local N'awlins accent, made music of the word. "Never knew an elf had much I'd call business."
Behind the words, Colin could hear his own silent question. Some of what I am, no more. "I perform various diplomatic and foreign affairs functions for Prince Irindilel."
"Didn't figure on goin' to an embassy ball tonight." The Bard raised an eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth crinkled. "You elves in the UN or somethin'?"
"A power at court has this nephew," Culéoin began, then stopped, wondering how best to describe Norenlod's latest ineptitude. "I could give you a lesson in diplomatic history, but what it comes down to is that one should let a defeated enemy keep his pride. So we give the Loa a ceremonial, yet very complex, piece of magick every year in acknowledgment of the continued peace between us."
Then as quickly as possible, he summarized Norenlod's disastrous encounter with an allegedly decaffeinated version of the fabled chicory coffee of New Orleans, finishing, "He passed out after one sip, thank Danu, so he took no serious harm. When he awoke, the stone was gone. So, thanks to that idiot Norenlod, we're out looking for it instead of . . ." He smiled, a bit wistfully, and Zeke finished for him.
"Instead of jus' bein' us. You doin' all this to look good to your Prince?"
"Indeed not." Colin chuckled. "I've only told you about the diplomatic end. It gets a bit more complicated. Think of the stone as a great big psychic energy amplifier tucked into the center of a magical Mardi Gras bomb." Something's different, something's different, something's different. . . .
"So what does Mardi Gras have to do with it?"
"The local Voudoun run the Krewe of Oblata and set the spellstone off when the king and queen are crowned at the start of their parade." The watchdog sense at the back of his mind stirred uneasily again, and he looked around, probing the surrounding shadows almost without volition.
"So they use it to amplify and spread the spirit of Mardi Gras. Like we were doin' back at the club. An' they do it every year."
He squeezed Zeke's hand. "It's part of what makes New Orleans, well, such a magical city. It's in the air all year round, of course—you know that—but it's especially strong at Mardi Gras, thanks to the Loa's gift to their worshippers and the Voudoun gift, in turn, to New Orleans."
"So, is there a catch?"
Culéoin shook his head. "Only that we must renew it each year. Should the treaty expire, much of the evil energy the spell has blocked would return to the city." The thought gave him pause. "Almost a hundred and sixty years of negative human psychic energy. Terrifying. I should not care to visit such a New Orleans."
"Ya think?" Zeke gave an exaggerated shudder. "I'd call that a catch."
Culéoin's vague sense of unease deepened, despite the ease with which Zeke was handling the disruption of their time together. Everything looked right, yet something still looked all wrong.
"So, what should I expect tonight?" Zeke asked. "I went to a Voudoun service once, but I didn't meet a Loa."
"It's not likely you would; the Loa usually only appear at services for acolytes and up. . . ." Culéoin paused and swiftly checked the area around them. Satisfied, he continued. "But there are only a few Loa willing to speak with other denizens of Underhill, so they are the ones with whom we deal."
Suddenly he identified what had been rubbing at his subconscious. His fingers tightened around Zeke's and he quickened their pace. "Let's get there. Now."
Zeke fell into step automatically. "What's wrong?"
"The Starshades are gone." He bit his lip. It was starting to look as if it was a very bad year to be in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, and knowing Zeke, the Bard would not leave the city no matter what Culéoin said.
Zeke lengthened his stride. "Maybe I need to go Underhill for a refresher course on magical critters. What's a Starshade?"
"Think of them as mine canaries. They're attracted to positive energy, which New Orleans usually has, and they especially love Mardi Gras. Humans have problems seeing them at the best of times—only by clear starlight—but as I said, they aren't here now."
"So what does that mean?"
"I don't know, but I need to find out." But I am very much afraid, muirnín, that it means someone is trying to break the treaty and turn away the stone's blessing.
The wooden hounfour, or temple, was a good six blocks off the Quarter direct, a lovingly maintained two-story house. Colin avoided the original wrought-iron railings as they paused just outside.
"Time for me to go to work, cheri," he murmured in Zeke's ear, and dropped his glamourie. Zeke caught his breath. Every elf he'd ever seen, Bright Court or Dark, had been outrageously beautiful, but the sight of Colin in his formal robes . . .
Wow.
Colin had chosen to keep his hair black, but now it was past shoulder length and wavy, held in place by a braided silver clasp. The unruly lock of silver hair remained. Inky-black breeches fitted tightly to just below the knee; silvery silk stockings vanished into black heelless shoes. His shirt, whisper-soft black silk, had deep silver-lined slashes in the sleeves. Midnight's own cloak covered all.
Mine. At least for two days a year.
Colin touched his cheek softly, bringing him out of his reverie. "Ezekiel? May I have your permission to dress you in my colors? It has significance to my people, but I shall not hold you to it, and it will provide you with a degree of protection."
Protection? Does he think I'm helpless or something? I'm a Bard. But he just said, "I trust you, Colin."
Feather-light strokes, and Zeke's jeans and T-shirt morphed into a robe of silvery velvet, falling all the way to the ground. Colin caressed his hair; Zeke reached up and pulled off a hat. Silver leather, with a black feather stuck jauntily in the band.
"No matter how often I see these tricks, I never get used to them." Zeke smoothed the feather with one finger, barely touching it.
Colin smiled, the dazzlingly perfect smile that made Zeke weak at the knees. "Just try and look trustworthy."
Since each House had different customs, Zeke had no clear idea of what to expect. The main floor of this one had been turned into a single large room. Graceful French windows lined the right wall, facing a sheltered garden. A carved and decorated pole in the center served as poteau-mitan, where the gods and spirits met with the people. Near it stood the priestess, a beautiful black woman holding an ornate wrought-silver baton. She and a priest led the service. As Zeke understood it, the service rarely had both; this ceremony must call for a great deal of power.
At the rear, an elaborately decorated altar held a clutter of white candles, bottles of rum, statues of Christian saints, pots-de-tete, herbs, an iron cross, and other small items Zeke couldn't quite make out. Between it and the poteau-mitan, a veve filled a large section of floor with a complex design traced in yellow and reddish-black powders. Zeke had no idea which Loa's ritual the pattern indicated.
A dozen or so worshippers were still gathered around the remains of a feast at a long table to the left, but slow drums started up in the right corner. After a few minutes, more drummers joined them. Still other worshippers shook rattles in time with the beat. A heavy incense Zeke couldn't identify filled the air.
Colin led the way past, giving the veve a wide berth. He indicated it. "Cornmeal and iron filings," he said quietly, his voice almost lost to the drums.
One by one the remaining worshippers began to dance, feet stamping and hips swaying. The tempo increased, as did the dancers' speed. Zeke watched, mesmerized, as they threw their bodies around.
Colin leaned over and murmured, "Soon. One of the hounsi, a student for the priesthood, will be the vessel. Say nothing unless you are directly addressed, for the Loa are . . . whimsical."
At that moment, the drumming reached a frenzy. A plump girl with ebony skin, wearing the white robes of the hounsi, shrieked and fell to the ground by the poteau-mitan, still writhing in time to the beat. The priestess immediately raised her to her feet and bowed deeply.
The girl—no, Zeke thought, it's the Loa—stepped past her and touched something on the altar. The priestess bowed even more deeply as the Loa returned to the poteau-mitan. "You honor us, Mawu Lisa, blessed Loa of Creation. Let us worship you and serve you."
The Loa waved her hand in dismissal, and focused on Colin and Zeke. Colin stepped forward, avoiding the margin of the veve. After a moment Zeke followed. The priestess inclined her head, then joined the priest at the altar.
"You are here, Ambassador." The possessed girl's voice held maturity borrowed from the Loa filling her. "We are flattered. Your reputation precedes you; I never thought to have Irindilel's Hound in my court. May Olorun smile upon you. Give me the stone."
With an effort, Zeke kept his face impassive while his thoughts whirled. Ambassador? Irindilel's Hound? What the hell does that mean?
Annoyance flashed across Colin's face, but he hid it quickly and bowed, a flick of his hand indicating that Zeke should imitate him. "I am honored to be in the presence of the Blessed Loa of Creation. I regret, O illustrious one, the stone still eludes me, though I am on its trail. Yet why should such a trivial matter come between friends? You know I search for it, as you know my reputation. I will retrieve your stone. Why need the treaty expire because of a pickpocket?" His voice was soothing, reasonable.
Suddenly Zeke realized the elf was working a subtle magic. He focused his Bardic vision and saw soothing tendrils of powder-blue power reach out to caress the Loa, then spread to the rest of the room. "For well over a century there has been peace between the Loa and Elfhame DeepRiver. Why should we throw it away when we have tried in all good faith to uphold our end of the bargain? I will find your stone for you, madame."
Bright-orange confidence now overlaid reasonableness. Zeke hoped the Loa was as susceptible as he was.
"Soft and gentle are your words, Monsieur le Prince, but while I feel our stone, darkness clouds her. Without her magic, no treaty can exist, and great harm may befall if you do not take care."
Susceptible, but not susceptible enough. Cryptic, too. And what the hell . . . an ambassador, and now Colin's some kind of elven prince as well?
Mawu Lisa walked over and gave Zeke the once-over. Energy touched him like insubstantial fingers and his skin tensed as power from her flirted with his shields.
"I see you have taken this one under your protection?"
Colin moved forward, as if to step between them. "Yes. He is mine."
Always.
"Poor little Bard." And she pinched his chin. "Irindilel's Hound with a pet Bard. Just fancy!" Zeke stiffened, but before he could protest the notion of being anyone's "pet," she turned to face Colin.
"Enough, my fine Prince. Restore the stone before our faithful have their festival, and all will be well between us. Otherwise, the treaty will expire. You will have to tell your brother you failed to bring home your rabbit."
Colin recoiled as if struck, then simply smiled, nodded, and said quietly, "I will find your stone, Mawu Lisa, and deliver it to the Loa before the Krewe of Oblata parade tomorrow."
Zeke hoped his face showed determination rather than the confused jumble of questions that filled his brain. Whatever the elf's play, he'd back it. But after ten years, maybe the two of them were overdue for a little talk.
Been a while since I've heard that. By Danu's breath, I hate that nickname. Who have I gotten really angry at me lately? Let's add "The Hound" to that list of things to explain to Zeke. The whole diplomat bit was bad enough. He would not be happy with the full truth.
Culéoin was mouthing a pro forma formula of gratitude and farewell, anxious to get on with the real job—after all, the clock was ticking—when the six French windows exploded inward around half a dozen figures. Men, or what appeared to be men; Culéoin never assumed anything. Glass showered the length of the sanctuary.
More crowded in behind the first wave, movements rough and uncoordinated, but once inside they walked in unison, even those at opposite ends of the room. The stench of the grave preceded them. He now recognized these beings as the truth behind Hollywood myths of the living dead. Zombies were no more than unfortunate souls, wills first paralyzed by a powerful poison then spelled away by a caplata, an evil sorcerer.
Culéoin had never encountered such a powerful psychic stink before. He'd once had an encounter with a human weapon called tear gas; this was much worse. Most of the worshippers doubled over retching; a few fought their way out the shattered French windows while others, tears streaming from blinded eyes, blundered into the path of the zombies and were knocked to the floor by clublike fists.
He shook his head and the spell-generated reek faded. Only Zeke, the priestess and priest, and a handful of hounsi were still on their feet, unaffected.
Culéoin looked for the nearest exit, or barring that, the best place for defense. Not my fight.
It's always your fight.
What's happened to my Mardi Gras?
A tangle of zombies and fallen worshippers blocked the door. No way out there. And none of these poor humans are going to be of any use. The treaty required him to help the Loa in any case.
Six zombies surged toward the altar, defended only by a handful of hounsi and the priest. The largest zombie knocked him aside as they swarmed the altar, pawing the contents. A collective moan came from their throats, and they turned and began searching for . . . something.
The Loa looked at Culéoin expectantly.
"Zeke? Ever fought zombies?"
"Fought 'em? Never seen 'em before, bro."
"Just follow my lead." Culéoin smiled, he hoped reassuringly. I tried so hard to keep him away from all this. Now we're fighting zombies together. All thanks to that idiot Norenlod. Then he bowed to Mawu Lisa. "On your behalf, madame."
One set of zombies was nearly upon them, another coming up on one side, and while they didn't appear to be killing anyone, Culéoin wasn't keen on the idea of being knocked out, either. Time to do something.
He quickly sketched a protective bubble over the Mawu Lisa—she could leave at any time, of course, but it cost nothing and the Loa appreciated such gestures. Beyond the Loa, another group of zombies had the priestess backed into a corner. Supported by two hounsi, she stood tall and proud, chanting and working her spells while the two men blocked approaching zombies with their bodies.
Culéoin moved to flank and protect Zeke. Sure, he's a fully trained Bard. But he's never been in any kind of fight before. Unless your reports are wrong.
They're not wrong. He would have told me.
Like you've told him about your life.
No time now. He sent an exploratory trace of power into the mind of the nearest zombie. As it made contact, he tagged others and sent the tendrils of force searching back the psionic pathways to the mind of the person controlling them. All seven had the same lime-green magical energy signature, as distinct and personal as DNA.
In the corner, both hounsi were down. The priestess's magicks were not made for this sort of defense. She would be of value in despelling the men—a priestess so favored by the Loa must know the zombie counterspells—but she was no warrior. First he must finish this.
He felt the gathering of Bardic magic and looked over at Zeke. The musician easily avoided a clumsy blow, then opened his mouth and sang a single wordless note. Culéoin's tracing net started to give and he quickly redirected his attention. Pinpointing the energy signature, he sent a blast back through the psionic highway he'd created. Hot red fire consumed cold lime and severed the spell giving control of the men's will to the caplata. Energy feedback shocked the nervous systems of the zombified men; they collapsed, unconscious.
Zeke, where's Zeke?
Culéoin looked back at Zeke just as the clear tenor voice ceased. A deep blue glow enveloped both Bard and . . . Culéoin blinked. It was no longer a zombie facing the Bard, just a confused-looking man in an ill-fitted black suit. The glow faded; another black suit, this one still occupied by a zombie, knocked the disorientated man aside and reached for Zeke. He ducked.
"Too many!" he yelled.
"Let me help," Culéoin said, and opened his own mouth in a warm baritone C. No words; he fed pure tone to the Bard, who caught it, added harmony, power. For a moment, blue light washed through the room, around five bewildered mortals, a Bard, and an elf. It faded, along with echoes of a simple chord that held the riches of an entire chorale.
Elegant solution, that. Clever boy, he's so appealing. I want to . . . no, you mustn't take Aerienne's path.
Look at all that he is, then remember your sister. Your course is set.
"Didn't know I could do that." The Bard helped one man up, then looked at the former zombies. "Y'all okay?"
The Voudoun priest, dignity unmarred by a bloody nose, rose unsteadily to his feet. Swaying slightly, he said, "They will know their own desires again."
He waved to several shame-faced worshippers making their way back to the sanctuary. They began clearing the fallen, black-suited and white-robed alike, and Culéoin gratefully left them to it.
His mind shaped a soundless whistle, the one that summoned his elvensteed. Danu alone knew where the cursed stone was, but he had precious little time in which to find it. At least he could count on Shadow's Cloak. Then he turned to the Loa.
Her aura flared in a confusion of towering rage, fear, and deeper emotions. Culéoin tried to pick out the threads, but he'd seldom dealt with Loa; the aura was unfamiliar and jumbled with that of the young girl the Loa possessed.
"This desecration grieves me, blessed Mawu Lisa." Culéoin gave her his best High Court bow. "Yet I rejoice at the privilege of battle on your behalf. May this remind you of the trust between Loa and DeepRiver, and our treaty."
"Treaty?" Fury darkened the aura to a flame-shot inky purple. "There is and can be no treaty."
Victory had relaxed him. This unexpected outburst snapped him back to full attention. What am I missing here?
The Loa spoke with patently false patience. "The scepter our handmaid was to carry. Together with the stone and the power of the crowd, it renews our spell and blessing on our servants' city."
She meant the silver baton the priestess had been holding, Culéoin realized. His eyes searched for the woman, but the Loa spoke again. "You need not look. Our servant fought hard, but our people's enemy has stolen it. Long has he gathered dark powers for this purpose. Now we have no scepter. We have no stone. We—you, Monsieur le Prince—have no treaty."
A dozen thoughts clamored. He'd not been told of the scepter, but it came as no surprise; many spells worked only when two objects came together. Anyone willing to attack the Loa to get the scepter must already have the stone. Norenlod might have had some help making a fool of himself this time.
Be honest, Culéoin. You knew this was more than a simple mugging; no ordinary thief could have shielded the stone. But how could a mere caplata know to approach Norenlod? Something still does not make sense.
Long practice kept his thoughts out of his voice and off his face. "I gave my word you would have the stone. So you shall, and the scepter as well. But the treaty . . ."
"What think you might befall, mon cher prince, should one cast the spell after evil returns to this city?"
Evil would indeed return, a century and more of pent-up energy, should the spell that symbolized the treaty not be renewed. By now, the spell was worth more to the Loa than the treaty. In fact, from their perspective, there was no reason to sign the treaty without it. When he returned to DeepRiver, he'd have to point that out to Irindilel.
Worry about that later. He thought through Mawu Lisa's question. The spell amplified psychic energies it was fed, and kept out opposing ones. It had been reinforcing positive energies and holding back negative for one hundred and sixty human years. No one had ever considered what might happen were it allowed to lapse and then be recast.
Culéoin now did so. Once the spell lapsed, as it would if he failed to return stone and scepter in time, the Mardi Gras crowd, seething with raw energy, would be open to the negative power that would come rushing back to fill the void left by the spell. If the caplata then triggered it, with the crowd still present and filled with dark energies . . . I spoke truly when I called the stone a bomb. A very large one, which feeds on itself. The human term, he remembered, was critical mass.
New Orleans would be devastated, and much of the rest of the country. As the psychic blast fed back and fed back, like a microphone on overload, even Underhill would be affected.
Zeke whispered, "Colin? What's she mean?"
"It would be . . ." He paused, searching for a word, then gave up and used the simplest. "It would be bad."
The priestess, white robes fouled and torn, joined them. A massive bruise covered one side of her face. She stood alone, Culéoin thought, shamed, and bowed deeply.
"Lady. I will deliver stone and scepter on the morrow, into your own hands. This I vow."
Shadow's Cloak drew up to the curb outside the temple in answer to his call. Elvensteeds were the Underhill equivalent of horses—if a horse could assume any shape it wanted and required no assistance on its rider's part. She had chosen her most glamorous appearance, a jet-black 1956 Mercedes 300 SL gull-wing coupe.
Zeke gave a low wolf whistle of respect and ran his hand down one silken fender. Culéoin smiled as the normally silent elvensteed made engine-noises of appreciation. Her feminine curves, proud sleek nose, trim V of a tail, and winged doors had seduced many a man, and she knew it.
Zeke has seen too much this night; I should send him home, Culéoin thought as they got in. Should have thought of that one earlier. Already there were bound to be more questions than he really wanted to answer.
Culéoin frowned, searching the contents of one pocket. An hourglass a quarter-inch tall, a silver penknife, several small crystal marbles, each containing a single spell. La Chasseuse was not there. He had better luck with the other pocket. Whispering softly to her, he sat back as the cube, a tightly wrapped essence of Seeking that glowed dull red, quickly unfolded itself. He looked over at Zeke.
"Now that I know his energy signature, I can use this spell to track down the man who sent the zombies. Find him, find the scepter, find the stone. No problem."
Culéoin smiled at Zeke, who smiled back, but the easy comfort between them was strained. Culéoin could almost hear the questions piling up.
Norenlod, you idiot.
La Chasseuse's cube was gone, unfolded to a shapeless red glow of Magus force hovering over his hand. Culéoin slipped one hand around it and stroked it lovingly.
"What're you petting?" Zeke asked.
"My hound," Culéoin replied dryly. "Once she's set on her scent, even Magus-sight won't reveal her presence to anyone except me and mine."
He lowered the window and released the little ball. It hovered just off the ground in front of Shadow's Cloak, who faked the appropriate shifting noises as she moved out into traffic following the energy essence.
Before the silence between them got too awkward, Zeke took pity on him and said, drawling out each word, "So that's diplomacy."
Culéoin chuckled. He is kind. "Some days go better than others."
Zeke grinned then relapsed into silence. Zeke's waiting. Say you're sorry. Confess. Tell him what you are.
No.
Several times Zeke seemed on the verge of speaking; Culéoin braced himself for the inevitable. It came. Zeke sketched a vague circle encompassing Culéoin, the Elvensteed, and the day's events.
"So why didn't you ever mention all of, well, this?"
Culéoin took his time replying as Shadow's Cloak cornered particularly fast. Because you didn't need to know. It didn't touch you, and I wanted to keep it that way. "Because all of this . . ." He repeated the gesture. "Is not what I come to Mardi Gras for, muirnín."
They were slowing now, turns coming less often. La Chasseuse hesitated, bobbing up and down in place, then stopped decisively in front of a padded black-leather door.
As they entered the exclusive club, Zeke Washington no longer worried about what had happened to his Mardi Gras. He worried about who or what his lover really was.
He knew this place only by repute, since his tastes had never run to leather and chains. The padded door set the tone for the interior, which combined black leather and gleaming brass on every bit of wall not covered by mirrors. He'd agreed when Colin had suggested another kenned change in wardrobe, but this just felt wrong.
Zeke ran his thumb down the side of his pants, uncomfortable. He'd started the evening in his favorite jeans and a Thelonious Monk T-shirt. First they'd been morphed into Elven Court garb. Now his jeans were so tight he expected to find each individual thread imprinted on his skin, and the T-shirt, sleek black leather instead of cotton, exposed half his chest and back behind lacing that crisscrossed almost to belt level. The effect suited the club's ambiance better than Zeke's own clothes, but that made him even more uneasy.
Colin's hair now reached his waist, pulled into a tight leather-laced braid. Only the single lock of silver remained unchanged. The reassuringly familiar strand fell, and Zeke felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft behind them. This face belonged to a stranger. It held the beauty of the Sidhe, but diamond-edged beauty, sharp and cold, all kindness, all mercy, sliced away. His outfit also featured leather and lacing, but in the elf's case the lacings ran down the side of each leg, pulling the butter-soft black leather indecently tight. Instead of a conventional shirt, he wore sleeveless mail of fine silver links that draped fabriclike across his torso while affording glimpses of skin. Not a glamourie; Magus-sight matched what Zeke's physical eyes could see.
Is this the way he's always looked? Zeke took a step in Colin's wake, wanting answers, when the mirror-lined wall provided one. His body had changed as well as his clothes, both to outer and inner eyes. Latino, with a wild black tangle of tight, shoulder-length curls and skin two shades darker than Zeke's own. An unfamiliar weight tugged at his left ear, and he reached up. A heavy earring shaped like a skull dangled from a pierced lobe. He'd never poked any additional holes in his own body.
Some sort of extrastrong glamourie. He broke free of the sight of himself wearing a stranger's face, and overtook Colin in two steps.
"What the hell—"
"Trust me." The words were soft, intense. "Just keep following my lead."
Zeke bit down on further questions.
Colin had used a decidedly non-Elven form of magic to get them in; he bribed the doorman. The guard at the bottom of the staircase looked like a tougher proposition. This time Colin didn't bother with a bribe; he simply smiled and said, "Thank you," as he walked straight past the man. Zeke followed him up the circular staircase, past the still-blinking rent-a-cop. He felt magick layered into the words.
Colin's natural smile held charm enough to work without Magery, but no one could have warmed to that rictus.
Trust me. Zeke's inner ear, the trained ear of a Bard, echoed the words. Just keep following.
There wasn't much else to do at the moment, anyway.
As they climbed, he looked around. From the stairs he could see most of the club, from a padded bar matching the door past a small stage flanked by two currently unoccupied cages for dancers. Zeke's foot froze halfway to the next step. He'd only met a handful of Dark Elves, but he'd bet his horn those two at the bar were members of the Unseleighe Court. He took a second look around. The pair weren't alone; he spotted at least six or seven more.
If Colin noticed any of them, he gave no indication, continuing his languid progress up to the club's more exclusive regions. The unfamiliar face looked slightly bored, totally at home, utterly foreign. Zeke looked for reassurance to the strand of silver hair.
Trust.
At the top of the staircase, the VIP lounge separated two balconies of small private rooms. Luck was with him; this early the crowd was thin, still fishing for their prey among the Mardi Gras throng. Zeke obediently followed to the bar, eyes full of questions. I don't blame you. I am almost surprised you haven't run out on me.
La Chasseuse made her way down the left balcony to a door where she bobbed up and down happily. That's my good girl. Culéoin spoke so only she could hear. She raced back and bounced into his palm. Culéoin kissed his hand to her, and her glow doubled, then she began folding herself. Within seconds he held only a tiny cube, which he pocketed.
The strangest thing wasn't that Colin didn't look like Colin; Zeke was used to elves changing how they looked on a whim. But he didn't move like Colin. He didn't talk like Colin. He just didn't feel like Colin, not really.
Colin's words to the bartender were clipped and brusque. "In there." He pointed to a private room, then took Zeke's hand and led him into what seemed to be a play area for those needing more privacy. It had the usual seating, but it also had a lot of wooden and leather equipment that Zeke thought would be uncomfortable, to say the least. Chains are made of brass, at least. Leastways they sure look like brass, and if they get Sidhe in here regular, they'd need somethin' other than stainless.
Zeke hesitated to ask this Colin what he was doing. The elf seemed so distant and remote in this guise. In a moment, though, he smiled and said, "There. I've set my echo spell. He's in there and alone; if someone joins him, I'll hear their conversation. We can relax a bit now, muirnín. Though if you would . . ."
Zeke sighed, annoyed. "What now?"
"Search for Bardic resonance? A Bard helped fashion the stone, so it should respond. At least we would know if he had it with him."
Zeke nodded, and began humming, sending soft waves of Bardic energy searching in ever-expanding circles. But no answering vibration reached him. They'd found the man who controlled the zombies, but not the stone.
On TV and in movies, the bad guys always seemed to spill their plans every time they got together. In real life, Zeke decided, they didn't.
They didn't have to wait long for the caplata's guest, an Unseleighe Sidhe, to arrive. Maybe one of the ones we saw downstairs. If the Dark Court's involved, Colin might have himself one heck of a mess. Wonder if he had any idea.
Zeke couldn't tell; Colin acted a mite surprised when the Dark Elf started talking, but didn't say anything. Been makin' kind of a habit of not sayin' much.
Colin's echo spell worked like a charm, though Zeke found it a little annoying that it echoed every sound for Colin's ear alone; Colin had to repeat everything.
"What's with you and spells that work just for you? Didn't nobody teach you to share when you was a kiddy elf?" At this point, he was only half joking.
They learned little. A hounsi had the scepter hidden under a Voudoun spell of concealment and was to deliver it in the early hours of the morning. The Unseleighe had hidden the spellstone, using the stone's own power to amplify the shield. Zeke watched Colin's assumed face grow harder and more distant at the news.
"They are gone," Colin told Zeke finally. "I'm sorry."
Zeke didn't know if the elf was apologizing for the lack of information, the bar, the disguises, the day, Mardi Gras—come to think of it, Colin did owe him a bunch of apologies, didn't he?
Colin had taken his hand to lead him out when suddenly he whirled to face Zeke, grabbed his wrists, pinned them overhead, and kissed him ruthlessly. What the hell? Under other circumstance Zeke might have enjoyed the process, but given the time and place . . .
"Well met, Cousin Ruadrí! Good sport?" The Unseleighe speaker smiled, lips an almost straight line that angled up at each corner, leaving the rest of his face untouched.
Ruadrí? Now his name's Ruadrí? Dammit, if this were a movie, he'd think Colin was working undercover! Was that standard in the elf diplomatic corps?
Colin slowly and insolently finished kissing Zeke, then turned and smiled slowly. "It was until you came in, Senn-fáelad, and spoiled my fun. But since you have, by all means, join us." Colin looked even colder and more unapproachable. This wasn't his Colin, was it?
He drew Zeke down next to him on the sofa, while Senn-fáelad took a chair on Colin's left. The Dark Elf chuckled. "Ruadrí, I didn't know your tastes ran in this direction. I've seen you put up a great deal of game, but I've never seen you with human prey."
Colin knows this guy? And the jerk thinks I'm prey. Human prey. Colin's prey.
Colin reached out to stroke Zeke's hair. "It's not my usual sport. I've seen too many good elves become addicted to toying with humans to go that way myself." He ran his thumbnail down Zeke's throat and Zeke gasped. The elf continued, "I merely indulge myself with a particularly fine toy now and then."
Is that all I am? Zeke pushed the thought aside. Trust; he asked me to trust him.
"I assume his flavor is what brought you barging in," Colin said. "Surely it wasn't the pleasure of my company."
"You're right—though how could I be other than glad to see you? His magic is floating about the lounge; it tickled my aura. Ruadrí, you really have a Bardic toy?"
"Better than that, my dear Senn-fáelad. When I'm done, this Bard will be mine, heart and soul. At my bidding."
Zeke's lungs didn't want to work as he realized he could feel both truth and falsehood in Colin's words. Half of what he's been sayin' since we got here's been a lie, and half's been true, and I will be damned if I can tell one from the other.
Follow his lead. At the moment, that required him to just sit and let himself be stroked like a lapdog. It took some effort on Zeke's part.
Colin leaned over. "What is this scent of mortal magic around you, Senn? Ally or amusement?"
"There's no reason not to have both."
Colin or Ruadrí, whichever, sat back and smiled. "Growing soft, cousin? Senn-fáelad needs a human ally?"
"If it will bring our smug Bright relations down a peg or two, I'll ally with a gnarkesh. Which you have done, as I recall." Senn-fáelad raised one elegant eyebrow.
"It worked, didn't it?" Culéoin paused. "Though in the end, we did run out of sauce."
The two laughed uproariously.
BBQ? With friends like this . . . Wait. This isn't Colin. This isn't even the guy from earlier today.
Senn-fáelad reached out one hand as if to pet Zeke but Colin slapped it away. "Desolated, my dear cousin, but we're in the middle of his bonding, and I'm afraid no one may touch him but me."
"Your work is always a delight to watch, Ruadrí. At least let me stay to hear the first screams."
Screams? Somehow that hadn't sounded like a joke. I wanna hear about these screams.
Colin sounded cross. "You're so crude. Subverting a Bard is more than a matter of force. It's a subtle combination of magicks too advanced for you, Senn."
How well did Zeke know the elf, really? Ten years, he thought. For now, just play along.
Colin cupped his face. "Come, my little butterfly, let us play our own game." He kissed Zeke softly on the lips. Behind the kiss, Zeke could taste Colin.
They'd gotten out of the club, by now chock-full of Unseleighe and their human toys, easily enough. Shadow's Cloak waited at the corner across the street. Some Mardi Gras revelers went by as they crossed. Once they were out of sight, Colin half stumbled toward a wall.
And there, sagging against the concrete, stood Colin. His Colin, pointed ears and slit-pupil eyes and all. Zeke glanced down, unsurprised to see the faded image of Monk on his chest and his arms their proper color once more.
"Sorry." Colin pushed himself upright. "I've never before held two such bone-glamours at once. One is fairly simple for a Magus of my power. Two were said to be difficult. It was . . . more demanding than I expected."
Zeke could read exhaustion in the elf's blessedly familiar face. I hope that brother of his is worth it. He helped Colin to the car and Shadow's Cloak did the rest.
Zeke hesitated to bombard the elf with questions, but at the same time, he needed some answers.
Colin forestalled him with an upraised hand. "Zeke, I know you have many questions, and they deserve what answers I can give. But my duty now is to my Prince; please, give me until after the parade. Then we'll talk. Please, muirnín, you have to trust me."
Before today, Zeke would have said, "Of course I trust you." Right now, though, the words wouldn't come out.
"Trust me," the elf repeated, meeting Zeke's gaze steadily. "We will talk."
Zeke crossed his arms and glared at Colin. "Damn straight we're gonnah talk. . . ." His glare melted away and a reluctant smile took its place. "Yuh Highness."
For someone who wanted to keep him out of this, you've buried him in it up to his neck.
By unspoken agreement they'd returned to their normal late-night Mardi Gras routine: shower, food, talk (though not about the day), and sex. Their lovemaking, tentative at first, quickly reached that passionate intimacy that always threatened to overwhelm Culéoin. He gives everything he is, and all I do is take.
But I kept him safe.
Safe? He's still in it.
Culéoin sighed and eased his arm from under Zeke's shoulders; given the events of the day, he was surprised Zeke had stayed awake so long. He got out of bed and stood watching the rise and fall of Zeke's chest. A twisted smile crossed his face as he whispered, "Irindilel's Hound with a pet Bard. Just fancy!"
Somewhere, he still had Senn-fáelad's cellphone number. He went to make the call.
There was no good news at breakfast. Despite casting spells of location and revealment while Zeke slept, tracking power veins, and employing all the many arts at his command, Culéoin had found neither stone nor scepter. He did, however, know more than he had the night before.
"The two are now together," Culéoin said, biting into a hot beignet and licking the powdered sugar from his fingers, "and I have broken the outer layers of their Cloaking spells, which means I have narrowed down the location." How to do what must be done and keep him safe?
"I'm waiting for the 'but,'" Zeke responded, munching one of his own hot pastries.
"A city block is still too large an area for my more delicate spells. I fear I do not have enough time. I need your help, Ezekiel." He sounded solemn even to himself.
"I want to help you." Zeke's steady voice was quiet.
"The area where the stone and scepter are hidden—downtown on the parade route—not surprising, since they'll want to use as much of the crowd's energy as they can. You could search for Bardic resonance while I continued to work on cracking the shielding." Culéoin looked hopefully at Zeke. "Take our instruments? After we've saved the world we can go to the club."
"Or have a nice long talk," Zeke drawled.
Culéoin took one look at his face and agreed, adding hastily, "After we have saved the world."
Somewhere behind him, Zeke heard a band swing into a traditional arrangement of "Cotton Tail." If Mardi Gras hadn't been wrecked by Colin's "business," he'd have grabbed the trumpet slung across his back on a baldric and joined in. Where the devil was the elf, anyway? They'd made their way downtown and begun searching for the caplata, each in his own way. But the band and the growing energy of the crowd now underlined what his watch told him; time was running out. And he for one hadn't had any luck.
Zeke scanned the crowd; the elf was tall enough to be visible over most people's heads. He didn't feel the presence behind him until a heavy hand fell on his left shoulder. "Well, well! Ruadrí's pet, all alone!"
Whaaat . . . Zeke looked around at the owner of a hand that was now squeezing uncomfortably hard. The coldly handsome Dark Elf smiled, and Zeke shied back from the malice in the inhuman eyes.
But I'm not— The skull earring moved as Zeke's head turned, and he realized he was, in fact, back in the glamourie Colin had used the night before to disguise him. Instinct made him pull away, and the grip tightened to pain. Enough was enough; Zeke gathered power to blast himself free, when a second hand fell on top of Senn-fáelad's.
"Mine." Colin—Ruadrí?—tightened his own hand on top of the Dark Elf's, and for an instant the pressure increased to agony. Then both hands fell away. "I told you that last night, Cousin."
"Ah. Too much to hope you'd already finished with him." Senn-fáelad laughed, and took a long swallow from the extralarge waxed-paper cup he held in one hand.
Finished with me?
Colin gave an exasperated-sounding sigh. "Senn, instilling a taste for the darker pleasures in a Bard takes years. And even were my pleasure done, Cousin, he would not be for the likes of you."
The idea of being turned into a Dark Bard, a willing servant of the Unseleighe, made Zeke shiver. Colin would never do that to me. And wouldn't I be able to tell if he ever did try somethin' like that?
"Do you offer this banquet as part of his training?" Senn-fáelad waved a languid hand at the Mardi Gras crowd, which had grown denser everywhere except in their immediate vicinity. A bubble of space surrounded them, but no one seemed to notice.
Colin lifted Zeke's fingers to his lips and brushed them, murmuring, "My beloved shall indeed feast."
Earlier, Colin's mix of truth and lies had bothered Zeke. This was worse. Every word was true. Did Colin really intend for him to feast on human disaster?
"I should have known your presence last night was no coincidence, Ruadrí. Is your pet going to assist that mortal fool's plan?"
"What mortal fool?" Colin asked, his stranger-face a mask of indifference. He ran his thumb down Zeke's cheekbone and caressed the jaw line. Without thinking, Zeke leaned into the gentle touch.
Senn-fáelad looked sharply at Colin, then shrugged. "Keep your own counsel, if you will. But I am the one my Prince trusted to select the caplata; this feast, Cousin, is of my providing."
"We were promised a banquet fit for my darling, but my information was sadly lacking specifics. Where will this feast take place, Cousin?"
No need to ask when, Zeke thought. Colin, we're running out of time. Part of him wondered if the elf cared.
"Why, we've front-row seats!" Senn-fáelad waved his cup at the crowd. "The caplata has a—now what did he call it?" He took a sip. "Ah, a pawn shop. It lies but a stone's throw in that direction."
"How fortunate." Colin sounded almost bored. His fingers traced Zeke's ear gently, and Zeke shivered. The intimate gesture felt indecent under Senn-fáelad's amused gaze.
"You seem to have his bonding well in hand, Ruadrí."
"But you see, my dear Senn-fáelad, he loves me already. Already he would do almost anything to please me." Despite the ice-edged smile, Colin's lips were gentle as they brushed across Zeke's own.
He moved back no more than a few inches, and tilted Zeke's chin, locking eyes with him.
"Do you love me, my sweet Bard?"
Although Zeke no longer knew who Colin really was, he gave the true answer. "Yes."
Impossibly gentle hands stroked the side of Zeke's face and smoothed his hair, while crystalline green eyes continued to bore into his own. "Do you love me more than mortal words can express?"
Zeke found he could only whisper. "Yes."
Colin kissed Zeke's forehead, each eyelid, and finished with the lips, a softly languid kiss. "Will you sing for me, sweet Bard? No. Such delicacies are for more private moments."
Thank God. For a while, Zeke hadn't been certain any of his emotions were still private. By now Zeke barely knew the crowd or Senn-fáelad were there. What did Colin, assuming this elf in front of him had anything to do with the lover Zeke had known for a decade, want from him?
"No, not singing. No mortal words." The gentle lips brushed his once more.
Senn-fáelad stumbled against Zeke's shoulder. "Mor'al wordses." The Sidhe was almost slobbering in his ear. "You. Cous'n. Are good."
Colin steadied Zeke and stared deeply into his eyes. Zeke searched for any hint of his lover, the one who'd been at the heart of his life for the past ten years. Each day of them, not just the two they had together.
"Play for me, Bard." He leaned forward, this time a lingering kiss that might have tasted of Colin.
Maybe . . . Zeke still hadn't decided when Colin, or Ruadrí, or whoever the hell the elf was, took a step back.
"Play power for me."
With that, he turned and vanished into the crowd. The bubble of space shielding Zeke from random elbows disappeared along with him. Senn-fáelad, pushed from behind, stumbled and Zeke caught him.
"Rwa . . . Rrah . . ." The Unseleighe blinked owlishly and gave up. "He. Said play."
The crowd surged and the Dark Elf staggered away with them, eyes vacant; his cup crumpled on the pavement. Figures he'd be a caff-head. But he was right.
Colin had said to play. It had to have been Colin.
Absentmindedly Zeke gave a little push with his Bardic magic to the throngs around him, reforming the bubble Colin had created. Colin. Ruadrí. Damn the elf, who was he?
He's my love. I've known him for ten years.
Two days out of each of those ten years. Less than three weeks total.
Nothing he'd seen before the last two days had ever given a hint Colin was anything other than what he'd first appeared, a member of the Seleighe Court. Problem was, no matter how this day ended, Zeke now knew Colin was a lot more than that.
Trust. He's been askin' for a whole lot of it.
If I don't trust him, the last ten years of my life seem pretty pointless. . . .
It had to be Colin. His Colin, his pointy-eared lover. He raised the horn to his lips. Play. He'd play power for Colin, not Ruadrí.
By the stars, what made Senn-fáelad take so long to drink his beer after I'd caffed it? Fool still waves his cup around. Pity I need the Ruadrí cover so badly, or I'd have just hit him with a levin-bolt and had done with it once he told us the location.
Would it work? He had no hope of shattering the shields as they currently stood; he doubted even Zeke's full Bardic strength combined with all his power would overcome the stone-shield combination, but he had to try. If I must lose for once, let it not be here and now. Not with Zeke at stake.
Though if you're concerned about protecting your beloved mortal Bard, perhaps you should refrain from throwing him into deep cover among Unseleighe without warning.
Guilt added, Twice.
The professional part of his mind called a halt to the recriminations. Right now his duty was, as it always was, to Irindilel.
But may Danu grant he forgive me for it. This was never supposed to touch him. Not Zeke. Zeke was clear and bright and . . .
Culéoin stopped before a dingy shop window. There it lay, a blatant insult to the Krewe of Oblata, the scepter swathed in garish plastic beads, spellstone half buried in another tangle, part of a tacky Mardi Gras display.
He could not touch stone or scepter with magic, and the shop, which appeared to be closed, had a steel security door. Even a levin-bolt left the glass untouched, the stone still protected behind the caplata's strongest shields, here in the heart of his power.
Somewhere behind him, he heard a soaring trumpet as Zeke started to play. "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered." Good choice; it certainly summed up Culéoin's feelings toward the human Bard. But I can't end up like Aerienne—I can't!
Power poured through the notes, all the power any Magus could ask for. Zeke had never played better, offering his whole heart and trust. Total giving . . . so like Zeke.
Culéoin gathered his power, magnified by Zeke's Bardic gift, and stretched out his hand.
Unyielding glass. The shield still held.
I'm not going to win. Can I get Zeke Underhill in time? Will he go? For once, the thought of his royal brother never crossed Culéoin's mind.
Power, pure and strong, continued to pour from Zeke's horn. Such things could go to one's head, were one not careful. Zeke held nothing back, and everything the elf had thrown at him in the last day the mortal had handled with ease and dignity. If I got him into it, he trusted me to get him out.
A final phrase segued smoothly into "Body and Soul." Culéoin had played the Coleman Hawkins version of it just the night before.
That is what he gives you. Body and soul. Knowing so little, he trusts you so much; knowing so much, can you trust him less, butterfly or not? You wouldn't have done these things if you didn't.
As Culéoin realized how deeply he trusted Zeke, power, more than he'd ever felt, filled him. He turned back to the shop. Almost idly, he waved one hand, then reached through the suddenly glassless window.
He turned back toward the parade route. He should just have time to reunite with Zeke and deliver the Loa's prizes.
At least they'd been able to salvage the rest of Tuesday for themselves. Culéoin savored every second of his lover's presence, knowing it would have to last an entire year—assuming Zeke came back. The Bard hadn't said a word of complaint as Culéoin packed his bag, but from Zeke's body language he knew Zeke wanted him to stay.
They sat side by side on the couch now, instruments in hand, playing as the mood struck them, talking about whatever came to hand.
"Where do you go from here?" Zeke asked. "I'm assuming you go somewhere." Very softly he started the chorus of "Ramblin' Man."
Culéoin started to build a harmonic underpinning, then stopped. "My brother's having some problems with a goblin smuggling ring. I believe that's my next task."
"Sounds like he keeps you hopping."
"He does. But it helps keep my mind off . . ."
Are you going to tell him that you think about him all year long? That you get regular reports on how he fares?
" . . . my personal thoughts."
"Ummmm." Whatever Zeke's personal thoughts, he didn't share them. Instead, he lifted his horn again in the opening measures of "That Old Black Magic." He broke off and said, "You think the Loa can handle that caplata on their own now?"
"Now they know how to find him, yes." They'd been appropriately grateful, and Culéoin had managed to deliver the news without leaving the Loa too obviously in Elfhame DeepRiver's debt.
Thinking of gratitude, he felt a great deal of it toward his lover. All the difficult questions had been answered easily, helped by Zeke's natural kindness. The mortal had been able to accept "Because I was afraid of losing you if you knew the truth" as an answer.
Bardic truth-sense probably had not hurt, either.
Zeke had gone back to his trumpet, idly adding harmonic elaborations to the "Magic" melody. After a few minutes, he lowered it again and looked at Culéoin evenly. "'Bout time for you to be goin', isn't it?"
"Yes."
Both sets of suitcases stood ready, side by side next to the door, but he'd never been as reluctant to end their time together. "We've had so little time this year, though."
"Yeah, well." Zeke shrugged, and grinned at him. So human, that smile. "Always do."
We always do. There never could be enough with a mortal; they had so few years. Then why have I wasted so many of his?
Fear.
He, lesser Prince of the High Court of Elfhame DeepRiver and Magus Major, feared what this mortal could do to his heart and his very soul.
Rather late to fear, is it not?
Culéoin usually ignored that part of his mind that rebelled against duty. This time, however, it held truth. He'd trusted the mortal Bard with more than his life, and the trust had been returned, in more than full measure.
Everything he'd asked of Zeke, he'd received. Everything. How could he return less?
"Excuse me, muirnín. One last piece of business." He got up and went into the bedroom. Zeke muttered something Culéoin thought wiser not to hear.
Phone call completed, he returned to the sitting room and picked up both suitcases and carried them back into the bedroom. Zeke got up and followed, face filled with a hope that didn't dare take form as a question.
Culéoin smiled, and began unpacking. "We're staying for a while."
All thanks to that idiot Norenlod.