She put it on the table where it was sure to be noticed and left the room through the trow’s tunnel.
Getting into the Tower was going to be the only problem, she decided as she followed the canal south to where it stood. Once she was in the study, it would just be a moment’s work to grab the wallystanes and jump through the window, landing right on Gump’s front porch, as it were. But the getting in
Worry about that when you get there, she told herself.
It just never stops, Johnny thought. As he sat listening to what had happened to Henk earlier tonight, he wasn’t sure if he was glad that somebody else somebody normal was experiencing the same strangeness that he was, or if it just made things worse.
“I was never so scared in all my life,” Henk finished. “Johnny, just what the hell’s going on?”
Johnny didn’t know what to say.
“I was sitting there in the donut shop,” Henk went on, “and I just couldn’t leave. I must’ve been there for over an hour, Johnny, just staring out at the parking lot, waiting to see more of them. To see if they were still out there. Waiting for me.”
“But you made it back,” Johnny said.
Henk nodded. “Yeah. I was on my third coffee, I guess, when it all just went away. Like someone had turned off a switch in my head. I got on your bike-“
“My bike. I’d forgotten about it.”
“Well, it’s back here, safe and sound. Just like us. Except I got the shakes again, waiting for you
“
Henk took a sip from his coffee. His hand shook and the cup rattled on the table, slopping coffee over the side.
“Christ,” he said. “Look at me. I’m a wreck. You know what’s doing this to me what’s really doing it to me?”
Johnny shook his head.
“Knowing that all that stuff I was scared of when I was a kid all those bogeymen they’re all real. I don’t want to sound like a pussie, Johnny, but I had a rough time with that kind of thing when I was a kid. It took me a long time to convince myself that that kind of thing just couldn’t be real. And now look what happens.”
Neither spoke for a while. Johnny got up and poured them both another coffee and then told Henk about his own night. He spoke in a quiet voice and, for all that what he was saying was only more fuel for Henk’s fears, by the time Johnny got to the end of his story, Henk was more like his old self again.
“I just can’t figure out why Loireag attacked you,” Johnny said.
“She was pissed, Johnny. And with what you’ve told me, now I know why.”
“I suppose.”
“You’d better watch out with Jemi,” Henk warned. “That’s all I can say. She may look human a lot of them do, if you believe all the stories but they’re still not like us. They’re volatile. Christ, they’re just plain dangerous.”
“I don’t know,” Johnny said. “There’s something special about her not because she’s what she is, either. I mean, not because it’s like she stepped out of some storybook. There’s just something that sparks inside me every time I’m with her that kind of special. Like we were meant for each other. Something binds us together.”
“Right. Two bone carvings from some other weirdo’s necklace. Come on, Johnny. It’s not right.”
“You don’t know”
“You’re right. I don’t. But just tell me this: What does Jemi turn into? Can you tell me that? What kind of thing does she become? Another horse? A wolf, maybe? Some kind of slime monster out of a B-movie?” Henk shook his head. “Jesus. Maybe it’s better that we don’t know
.”
Johnny stared at him. There was nothing he could say. He didn’t know either. He just knew the bond was there and, enchantment or not, he wanted it to be there.
“Do you mind if I crash here again?” Henk asked. “I don’t think I can get it together to, you know
get myself home.”
“No problem,” Johnny said. “You can take
” He swallowed hard. “You can take Tom’s old room.”
He waited until Henk had left the room, then slowly got up and walked out onto his porch.
Tom. That’s where it had all started. With Tom’s bone carving and that talk about “The King of the Faeries” and where to play it. But with all that had happened, his grandfather had been pushed out of his mind, only returning now on the heels of that simple phrase. And with it, the sorrow returned as well.
Johnny sat down on the steps. His eyes were dry, but tears welled up behind them. His chest was tight.
Why did you leave me, Tom? he asked the night.
The street was still. Above the haze cast by the streetlights, he could see a speckle of stars, not nearly so bright and close as they were in Puxill. He wondered where his grandfather was if faerie were real, then what about God and angels, heaven and hell? Or maybe, because of his music, he was hanging out in some Celtic afterworld, putting back a pint with Yeats and the lads, playing his fiddle.
And what part had Tom played in all of this? Had Jenna wanted Tom to lead the rade, so long ago, and Tom had turned her down? Had the needed spark between them just not been here, or was it really enchantment and Tom had just been stronger than Johnny knew himself to be? Because whatever Tom had done, Johnny knew he couldn’t resist the spell himself.
He wished Tom was here to talk to him now. They’d always talked things out, problems either of them had, problems they saw around them, just talking sometimes, sometimes not saying anything at all and communicating more in those silences than in all the words that had ever existed.
It wasn’t that Tom had left him that was so important, as why he’d left him. Why did he have to be taken away? Why did he have to die?
The tears welled up in earnest now and filled his eyes. Then he looked out at the street and saw it all through a shiny sheen. He should never have let Tom talk him into letting him go into the old folks’ place. He should just have kept Tom here, at home, where he belonged. Not in the hands of strangers, no matter how better qualified they were. Maybe if Tom had stayed here he wouldn’t have died. Maybe
.
Johnny pressed his face against his knees and his tears wet his jeans. He never heard the scuffle of bare feet on the pavement, not the sound of breathing close by his ear. He started violently when a small hand touched his arm and a raspy voice broke the stillness.
“Why are you so sad?”
He was half off the porch and stumbling onto the lawn before he realized that it was Jemi’s little wolfish friend who was crouched furry and naked on his porch. Mactire regarded him worriedly, Jemi’s name forming on his lips, but no sound issuing forth.
Johnny took a deep steadying breath.
“No,” he said. “She’s all right. At least I think she is. She went off to talk to Kinrowan’s faerie, but I don’t know where she’d be looking for them.”
Mactire frowned. “It’s a bad night for faerie Court folk and sidhe alike. There’s a darkness riding the wind that has nothing to do with a lack of light.”
“Yeah,” Johnny said. “I know.”
He returned to sit on the steps, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Why are you here?” he asked Mactire.
The wild boy shrugged. “I felt
bad. Running away with the others, instead of staying with you and Jemi. I was going to where she lives in the city, but remembered that this place was closer. I thought she might be here with you. I suppose I’ll go look for her at her own home now.”
“She won’t be there,” Johnny said. “She’s gone off to do what everybody wanted her to do: find the name of whatever it was that killed her sister.”
“It’s not just her sister,” Mactire said. “It’s the rade, too. The luck’s all gone.”
“I know,” Johnny said. “But it’s because of her sister that Jemi’s gone. It
it’s not easy losing someone you love.”
Mactire nodded. “He was a good man, Tom. We
all knew him, you know.”
“What did he do with you people? How did he get involved?”
“He played tunes for us. Not rade tunes, not luck music, but skilly tunes all the same. We’d dance to his fiddling, Johnny Faw.”
“And Jenna?”
“There wasn’t the light in her eyes when she looked at him as there is in Jemi’s when she looks at you. But Tom a long time ago, he led the rade. It was only once or twice, and as good a Fiddle Wit you’d be hard put to find, but it wasn’t for him. He went away for a while, and when he came back, he’d only play for fun, not for the luck.”
Johnny sighed. “I still miss him.”
“He’s not gone until you forget him,” Mactire said. “So long as you remember him and love those memories, a part of him will still be alive.”
“Words,” Johnny muttered. “That’s just words. Something you say to make someone feel better. But it doesn’t fill the emptiness inside.”
“Maybe you just need to catch hold of some more memories until you do fill that empty place.”
“I suppose.” Johnny glanced at the wolf boy. “Do you want a drink or something to eat?”
Mactire shook his head. “But a tune would be good. One of Tom’s. Do you know the one he called ‘The Month of May’?”
“Sure.”
They went inside and after some hesitating stops and starts, Johnny played a few tunes for his sidhe guest. It did help to ease the emptiness a bit, but then he just found himself worrying about Jemi instead. It was getting so late. Where could she be, was she all right, would she come back?
It never stops, he thought for the second time that night. Tom was gone, his own life all changed, and Jemi
Looking into Mactire’s eyes, he saw the same question there that worried at his own mind.
Jemi.
Out there in the night.
Alone.
As her sister had been.
He set fiddle and bow aside and the two of them sat in the ensuing quiet, wondering where she could be.
Fourteen
Jemi Pook was in the Ottawa University campus, on the roof of Tabaret Hall, standing near its domed skylight. She watched the black dog shape of the gruagagh’s shadow approach her. The university was quiet all around her
North stood Academic Hall, dark and still. Behind her, to the west, were red-bricked buildings, and then Nicholas Street, not one car moving on any of its lanes. South were the two grey-bricked buildings that housed the Linguistics Department. East was the broad lawn of the Hall, dotted with red-leafed maples. The gruagagh was down there, out of sight now as he’d moved from the lawn to stand by the fat round pillars at the front of the Hall. She couldn’t see him, but he watched her through the dark eyes of his shadow.
The dog, now that it had her trapped, didn’t appear too eager to attack her. Maybe the gruagagh was just being cautious, maybe he thought she was just like Jenna. How could he know that with her half-blood, she had only half her sister’s strengths? She was fast, but not quicksilver as Jenna had been. Strong, but not as strong either. She knew a few spells, but nothing like those Jenna had known. The beast would have had to take her unawares, or Jenna would have escaped it.
Or maybe the gruagagh wanted to know where Jemi fit in. Knowledge was a powerful weapon. He’d been surprised by her existence. Perhaps he hoped to ransack her mind and spare himself more surprises.
The initial numbness clouding her mind had worn away, but she still couldn’t think of what to do. She had nothing with her that she could use for a spell only the Bucca’s flute carving, and that was a different sort of charm. The small bag holding her pipe hung from one shoulder, but this wasn’t a moment for skilly music. If she played the right tune, she might be able to call up some luck, or sidhe, but she doubted that she’d get the chance to free the pipe from its bag, little say play the first few notes she’d need. All her purse had was her makeup, some money and ID, her compact
.
Gaze fixed on the beast, she reached into her purse. The dog growled and took a step forward, then paused when it saw that all she took out was her compact. Without seeing him, she knew that the gruagagh was only moments from reaching the roof himself. That was why his creature kept her at bay it was waiting for him. So she only had moments in which to work.
She didn’t think for a moment that she could deal with the gruagagh himself that needed a level of magery that she couldn’t hope to match. But a trick, played on a gruagagh’s shadow, that wasn’t beyond the capabilities of a halfling Pook like herself.
She flipped open the compact and thrust the mirror towards the dog. Whether it looked with its own gaze as well as that of the gruagagh, or if it was only the gruagagh’s gaze that was upon her, wouldn’t matter. She whispered a brief phrase in an old tongue.
“Gaoth an iar liom. a comhnadh.” Wind from the “west, protect me.
She moved the mirror sun-wise in a quick circle, then spat at it and threw it at the dog.
It was only the smallest of spells. A charm, really. A call to the west wind who opened the doors between flesh and spirit. A deasil turn of the mirror to wake it and make it ready. Her saliva, a gift from her body.
The west wind touched her briefly. The mirror took her saliva and made of itself an image so that the dog saw Jemi attacking. It snarled, lunging up from the ground to confront the image, while Jemi bolted in the other direction. She counted the seconds as she ran.
One thousand and one, one thousand and two.
She reached the far side of the roof and swung herself over.
One thousand and three, one thousand and four.
Fingers and toes found the tiniest of perches as she went down the wall, moving like a spider, limbs outstretched.
One thousand and five, one thousand and six.
The black dog howled. It had seen through the mirror-charm. She tried to go faster, but even sidhe had their limits in such a situation. Especially halflings.
One thousand and seven, one thousand and eight.
She was past the halfway mark now, but there came a sound from the roof. Daring a glance up, she saw the gruagagh leaning over the side, looking down at her. The black dog hung like an aura about his head and shoulders. She continued her descent.
One thousand and nine, one thousand and ten.
As the gruagagh loosed the dog and tossed it down towards her, Jemi let herself drop.
It was some fifteen feet to the ground. Turf absorbed some of the impact, her bent knees some more, but it still jarred her enough to rattle her bones. Cat-like the sidhe could be, but she was out of shape.
She dared another glance up, saw the gruagagh’s shadow dropping towards her, riding the air with wide bat wings, then she took off, running for all she was worth. She zigged and zagged her way across Nicholas Street, heading across it to where the land dipped towards the Rideau Canal, every sense strained to gauge the position of the creature. When she sensed it dropping towards her a shift in the air currents warned her, an almost inaudible whisper of its shadowy wings she threw herself to one side.
The creature swooped down to where she’d been, then angled back up once more. By then Jemi was on the grass verge at the far side of the street, coming out of a roll to slip and slide down the sharp incline towards the canal. The creature dove at her again, but she moved too quickly and it missed, rising up on its vast wings for a second time. Without hesitating, Jemi threw herself into the chilly waters of the canal and began to swim across.
Above her the creature seemed to come apart in the night air. It became one, three, a dozen airborne creatures, all swooping down at her. Jemi dove deep, still stroking strongly for the other side. When she came up for air, she half-expected to find that the gruagagh had given his shadow aquatic shapes, but the bat creatures were still in the air above her. They hovered in place with great sweeps of their wings, their attention no longer upon her as they gazed south.
Reaching the far side of the canal, Jemi haule
d herself out of the water, teeth chattering. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of her wet clothes. The water of the canal wasn’t exactly known for its purity. She reeked of algae and stagnant water. Getting to her feet, she looked up once more. The flock of bat creatures had become one again, its attention upon her, its voice ringing in her mind.
It seems that Bhruic’s pet has returned to her lair, the creature said. But don’t fret, my ghostly Pook. There will be time for you. later.
Without another word, it bent its wings against the air and flew silently south.
Jemi leaned weakly against the metal rail that ran along the length of the canal and watched the creature go. She was safe. For now. But what had the gruagagh meant? Bhruic’s pet
. And then she knew.
It was the new Jack. Her sister’s murderer was after the new Jack, and why not? It made perfect sense. The Jack’s responsibility was for the luck of Kinrowan. The gruagagh had been disturbing the fiaina rades, which was what the sidhe used to gather their luck. Of course he’d go after the Jack. Kinrowan’s luck would be like a treasure feast compared to what he could steal from a sidhe rade.
She shivered from the chill of her wet clothes and ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her brow. Water puddled all around where she was standing.
It wasn’t a name, she thought as she looked south, but it would have to be enough.
She took her pipe from its soggy bag and shook it free of water. Pulling out the reed, she blew through the hollow body of the instrument until it was dry as she could get it. She held the reed up, studied it for a moment, then fit it back into the pipe’s mouthpiece.
The first notes she blew had a ragged sound to them, but soon she was playing a calling-up tune faultlessly. The belling cry of her pipe was loud in the quiet air. She saw a light go on in one of the upper stories of the houses near the canal, then another. But if the tune was loud in the world that men knew, in Faerie it rang from one end of Kinrowan to the other and out into the borderlands, a piercing insistent music that no sidhe could ignore. For it was a calling-on tune, a skilly music. It was the sound of a Pook calling up her rade to lead her folk to war.