16: Whirlwinds of Danger
"Damn you, Perenor, leave us ALONE!"
Someone coughed behind him. He turned to see Beth, blinking sleepily, staring at him from the bedroom doorway. "Yo, Eric," she said conversationally, in close to a normal tone of voice. "Could you scream a little quieter? I was asleep for the first time in three days."
Someone pounded on the wall.
"And I think you woke more people up than me." She glanced past him, at the television set, and her eyes widened. "Hey, isn't that—"
"Yes," he said wearily. "Perenor just torched my apartment. Excuse me, I think I'm going into the bathroom to bang my head against the wall and cry."
He started to walk past her, both hands buried in his hair. "Everything's gone to hell. Kory may be dead, the nexus is destroyed, and everything I own except these clothes and my flute just went up in smoke. That's it, I can't take it anymore."
He pivoted and slammed his hand against the wall. "Dammit, they've won! Why are they doing this to me?"
A strange expression crept across her face and Beth caught him by the arm. "No. Eric, that's not it. That doesn't make any sense. If those bastards have really won, then they wouldn't have any reason to still come after us, would they?"
He shrugged, and ground his teeth. "I don't know. Maybe they're just bored, and ruining our lives is more entertaining than watching soap operas. Maybe it's just Ria, wanting to get even with me for walking out on her. I don't know." He glanced back at the television set, expecting to see another glimpse of his life going up in smoke, and froze.
It was a different news clip, with a photograph of a pretty dark-haired girl, smiling at the camera. ". . . and in the South Bay, another victim of the 'East Side Slasher' was discovered last night. Octavia—"
Martinez. Octavia Martinez. Eric completed the thought before the announcer was two syllables into the girl's last name. Octavia, 'Tavy to her friends, a fifteen-year-old who's already a virtuoso on the cello—gifted and bright, lead cello in her school orchestra—
It was as if he'd known her all his life. The details of her short lifespan flooded into him too fast to really comprehend.
How can I know this? What's going on with my head?
But he knew her, he knew her. Even though they'd never even matched eyes in a crowd, much less met. 'Tavy, a beautiful young girl, already an incredible talent, so happy, always laughing, loving life so much, her music bringing joy to everyone who heard her—
". . . and police are intensifying the search for suspects, and now believe that the killer may be using trained attack animals, such as pit bulls, for these murders." A series of photographs flashed onto the screen, "Already the Slasher has claimed seven lives since the first murder in the East Los Angeles area three weeks ago."
The words faded away beneath the images forming in Eric's mind, the still photographs changing to visions of people, alive and vibrant. Michael, yeah, he was an artist, worked in advertising, with a real gift for making his artwork come to life . . . Sandy Chelsea, solo vocalist with the Master Chorale . . . Danny, only eight years old, but already well-known as an actor, doing voiceovers for cartoons . . .
All of them people he knew as well as his closest friends—and had never encountered in the flesh. How can I know all of this? I've never heard of these people in my life, I've never even seen photographs of them before!
"Eric—Eric, are you all right?"
He opened his eyes and saw Beth watching him with concern. "Beth, all of those victims . . . I know them. They were all like me, all of them able to do the things that I do . . ."
"Bards?" Beth looked at the television screen, now showing a commercial about vacation homes in the mountains. "All of them were Bards?"
Eric moved to the couch and sat down heavily. "That is what's going on. Perenor. He's killing off everyone with the Bardic Gift." He looked up at Beth, who was staring at him, wide-eyed, her sleep-rumpled hair standing up like a cartoon character's. "You were right, there must be some way that we can hurt him still, or he wouldn't have any reason to do this."
"Yeah. If we could just figure out what—" Beth stopped in midsentence, then reacted. "Christ! This means he might try for Uncle Phil, too!"
For a moment, Eric couldn't remember who Beth was talking about, then an image flashed into his mind, the elderly man with the house full of artwork and animation cels, and how his eyes had shone when he looked at Eric—no, not his eyes, but something behind them, something that was a part of him; reaching out to Eric like an old friend, speaking to a part of himself that answered in harmony. "Yeah, Phil—Beth, he's got the Bardic Gift, too."
"Of course he does," Beth said tersely, disappearing into her bedroom. Eric could hear the sound of drawers opening and clothing being flung out. Beth's voice drifted to him through the open door. "He's an animator, after all—you just look at his work and you know that there's more going on there than just blobs of paint on transparency cels!"
She reappeared a moment later in jeans and sneakers, pulling a sweatshirt down over her torso. "Come on, we're leaving," she said, picking up his flute case from where he had set it down on the table. She gave him an impatient look. "Well?"
"Hang on a sec, Beth—"
He had to close his eyes; the vision overlaying the real world of Beth's apartment was too confusing to sort out otherwise. Images: a sleepy little street in Burbank, the pale yellow house, the first glints of sunlight reflecting off shadowy water, an old convertible parked on the street. And a feeling of cold and calculating intent, of gathering willforce, and—
"Holy shit, Beth, I think Perenor's doing something there right now!"
She didn't say anything, just grabbed him and ran.
What if I'm wrong? What if I'm completely crazy, if all of this is just delusions? What if I'm imagining that Perenor is at Phil's house, planning to do something awful to the old guy?
How do I know if what I'm feeling is real? That I'm not completely crazy?
His mind might doubt, but his gut knew. This was for real. The cold feeling in the pit of his stomach intensified, as the jeep careened around another corner. He glanced at Beth, and saw that her knuckles were clenched tight on the steering wheel. She feels it, too. Something awful is happening—
Beth floored the brakes. The Jeep skidding to a stop in front of the little yellow house, nearly ramming into the parked convertible. Before Eric even got out of his seat, she had vaulted out of the Jeep and was halfway to the front door. She pounded on it several times, calling out Phil's name, as Eric grabbed his flute and hurried across the lawn to her.
"He's not answering," she said shortly, and reached into a potted plant for a hidden key. Eric followed her as she hurried to the side gate and into a backyard filled with assorted junk and pieces of furniture, past a swimming pool murky with fallen leaves and debris. "Beth, if someone sees us doing this, we could get arrested—" Then Eric stopped, staring at the back of the house.
Or rather, what used to be the back. After a giant had reached down and ripped off the wall and roof. Pieces of splintered wood and plaster were scattered everywhere.
I have a real bad feeling about this—
Eric tore his eyes away from the devastation, to see Beth Kentraine already vanishing through the remnants of a sliding glass door. "Beth, wait! You don't know if—"
Shit, she's already gone inside! He glanced at the carnage around him, then swallowed and followed her in.
If possible, the inside of the house was in worse shape than the outside. Eric saw the Snow White cel that he had admired, lying on the floor practically at his feet, shredded. With all of that slimy black gunk smeared all over it—slimy—like that thing that I killed last night—oh shit! Beth! Where in the hell is she?
He ran into the next room, feeling as though every nightmare he had had as a child was upon him, every screaming terror resonating down his nerves. And he saw Beth, kneeling on the filthy floor, not moving, just staring at—at—
Eric turned away and retched onto the destroyed carpet, felling to his knees, shaking helplessly. Oh God—oh my God—
When he could, he looked back at Beth, still motionless on the floor, holding the old animator's hand. He managed to stand and took several unsteady steps towards her, then sank to title filthy carpet beside her, staring down at Phil Osborn's face.
And tried hard not to look at anything other than that wrinkled, surprisingly peaceful face; not at the ruined body, opened like a butterflied shrimp, ripped flesh and exposed internal organs glistening in the dim light, blood spreading slowly into the carpet around him. Eric felt the wetness soaking into the knees of his jeans, and clutched his gut, trying not to throw up again—
—then Phil's eyes opened, looking right up at them, and he nearly lost it one more time. Christ. He's still alive. They did that to him, and he's still alive. Oh my God . . .
"Beth." The old man's voice was a whispery thread, his eyes glazed and very bright. "Beth, listen to me."
"I'm here, Uncle Phil," Beth said softly, kneeling close to him. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand, and Eric saw the blood and tears and undescribable filthy smearing together across her face. "I won't leave you."
"Beth, you can stop Perenor. That's why he's—" Phil gasped, his chest heaving. "Stop him, Bethie. I know you can do it."
We can? How in the hell are we supposed to stop somebody who'll do this, turn another person into a piece of sushi?
Then the old man smiled, looking at something beyond Eric and Beth, something only he could see. "Leila . . ."
The room faded from around Eric, as a slow rising chord echoed through his mind. Power, clear and strong as a river, reaching out for something—a brightness, an intensity, shining like a beacon from within—and from far away, the hint of another Power, different, yet the same, reaching toward the first.
This is what a Bard is, he realized dimly. This quiet strength and power, the force of creation held by a living being, power shining so bright, almost incandescent.
—and the distant melody, drawing closer, strengthening the faltering notes of the first Then the two joining—
—then fading, fading . . .
And gone.
The aged, agonized eyes focused on nothing, then ceased to focus at all. Beth sobbed quietly, Phil's bloodstained hand still pressed against her cheek.
He's dead.
That—that was him. Phil. A Bard. Is that what I am, too? What I look like to Kory—and Ria?
Eric swallowed, feeling his nausea rising again. And she and her dad had me in their clutches for two months. They could've done this to me at any point, exactly what they did to Phil. Christ.
He edged closer to Beth, resting his hand on her shoulder, wanting to comfort her, but not really knowing how. What do you say to someone who's just seen an old friend murdered—hell, taken apart like a laboratory frog! What good are words now?
"Eric."
Beth's voice was low, it barely penetrated through the clamor of his thoughts. Then she spoke louder, stronger. "Eric, I don't want to leave him like this. I don't want anyone to see him. Not the cops, not anyone."
He nodded, understanding what she was saying, even though he wasn't certain what she expected him to do. "All right. Stand back a bit, Beth."
She bent low and kissed Phil's bloodless lips briefly, then stood up.
Okay. This time, I'm going to do it right. For Beth. He removed his flute from the case, fitted it together, then brought it to his lips. He closed his eyes, concentrating.
Slow notes, a quiet melody, then building in intensity, fitted with aching pain . . . "O'Carolan's Farewell to Music," a fitting tribute to a murdered Bard, someone who held power in his human hands, who created life with ink and paint.
If there's a heaven, this old guy is headed straight for it. Or wherever it is that we Bards go when we die.
Through his closed eyes, Eric saw a bright spark of light, then a burst of green flame. He opened his eyes, watching as the crackling eldritch fire consumed the old man's body. When nothing was left but a fine dusting of ashes on the floor, Eric let the fire die away.
Strange. The floor isn't even scorched. But the fire was hot, hot enough that I could feel it from here. And hear it, the snapping flames—
For a moment, Eric thought he heard something else, a feint slithery sound, like a water hose dragged along concrete. Then there was silence again, except for the sound of Beth crying softly.
He touched her shoulder gently. "Beth, we'd better get out of here. If some neighbor calls the police . . ."
She stood up, still gazing down at the small heap of ashes. "Thank you, Eric," she said quietly.
Eric put his arm around her as they walked to the bedroom door. In the ruined living room, Beth bent to pick up a shattered photograph frame. The picture that fell out was a black-and-white of a younger Phil and a lovely dark-haired woman. She caught it before it touched the slimed carpet, rolled it up and slipped it into her jacket pocket.
Outside, the first hints of sunlight were breaking through the clouds overhead. There were only moments left until true dawn. Eric and Beth, walking in silence, picked a careful path through the debris on the swimming pool deck.
"Beth," Eric began hesitantly, "when Phil called out to Leila, did you see—"
He stopped, feeling as if someone was standing just behind him, peering over his shoulder. Somebody very close, close enough to touch . . .
Then he screamed as something wet and oily coiled around his ankle, yanked his feet out from under him, and dragged him backwards. He thrashed, trying to free himself, and caught a glimpse of something. Something huge and dark and dripping, topped by a rearing equine head with glittering red eyes and distended fangs. Then the thing slammed him down on the concrete, knocking the breath and wits from him. His flute case went flying in one direction as he was yanked in another.
Toward the pool.
"Beth!" he shrieked, hearing her scream echoing behind him. Then the water closed over him, black and icy cold, as icy as the scaled flesh against his bare skin. He struggled against that inhuman grip, already knowing it was hopeless, trying to reach the surface to breathe, feeling the darkness closing in around him as every second ticked past.
God, please, just let Beth get away, don't let it get her, too—
Then the clawed hand thrust him up into the open air, and Eric gasped for breath gratefully. Then he saw why the creature had surfaced, and his heart stopped beating for an instant.
Beth!
She stood like some fantasy art heroine, her clothing soaking wet and clinging to her, a piece of wood splintered to a sharp point clenched in her hand. He could see where the tip was stained with blood and a foul greenish ichor as she danced closer along the slippery rim of the pool, trying for another stab.
"Beth," he yelled, "get your ass out of here!"
Then Eric screamed again as the piece of wood sailed within inches of his nose to embed itself in the creature's eye. With a shriek that rent the air, it flung Eric onto the concrete and sank beneath the pool's surface.
Eric just lay there for a long moment, choking and gasping, and concentrated on some serious breathing.
Oh God. I'm still alive—
Then he realized Beth was pulling him away from the water's edge. "I'm—I'm okay," he gasped hoarsely, trying to sit up.
She held on to him tightly. For a moment, he thought he could hear her voice, even .though her face was pressed too closely against his shoulder for her to speak.
:I thought I'd lost you again, lost you—oh, Eric—:
"I love you too, Beth," he whispered.
She kissed him, then helped him to his feet. "At least you don't reek quite so much now," she said dryly.
A noise behind them made both of them turn. The opaque water of the swimming pool was roiling with darkness, seething as though something was thrashing below. They glanced at each other, then Eric scooped up his flute case and they ran for the gate. And didn't stop until they were in the Jeep. Beth sent it accelerating onto the westbound Ventura Freeway.
It must be dead. How could anything live after getting drilled through the eye like Beth did to it?
Then again, how can anything like that be alive in the first place?
Kory gone, Phil dead, the nexus destroyed—God, I wish this was a bad dream and I could wake up.
Fat chance, Banyon.
He looked across the seat at Beth, and realized that her hands were shaking on the wheel, "Maybe you should pull over for a minute."
She took a deep breath and shook her head. "No. I'm okay. It's just—how long do we have, Eric, before Perenor tracks us down and kills us? He obviously hasn't forgotten about you. What can we do against a guy who summons creatures like that swimming-pool thing to take care of his enemies?"
Or that winged monstrosity that tried to eat me last night in the hills— "I don't know. Go on the offensive, maybe?"
"Offensive against what? If we go anywhere near him, he'll swat us like flies, Eric!"
He thought about it for a moment. "What about the nexus? Maybe there's still something we can do about that."
"Okay," Beth said after a long pause, "let's go out to Fairesite."
They bulldozed the site three weeks ago.
Even knowing what to expect, Beth was still shocked and horrified by what she saw.
They didn't just destroy it, they devastated it. I've never seen anything like this before, done with such . . . maliciousness. Like they didn't want to leave one single paving stone next to another.
She looked out at the desolation, seeing in her mind's eye what once had stood there . . . Over there, that was the Mainstage, where now there's only a heap of splintered wood . . . Irish Hill, they practically leveled it completely, there's nothing left except some scattered straw . . . the old Wishing Well, they just left the concrete foundation broken, didn't even bother with removing the pieces.
There's nothing left here but dirt and chips of wood. Nothing at all.
She reached down, picking up a piece of what had once been a bright green ribbon, now torn and dark with mud. She straightened and saw Eric, moving towards what had been the Wood.
The Wood Grove. That's where Kory said the nexus was, within the circle of ancient oak trees.
Oak trees, torn out of the ground, lying like mutilated corpses on the dusty ground, dead—they've destroyed it completely. There's nothing we can do here.
Uncle Phil murdered, and now Kory is going to die, too, if he isn't already dead—
Pain ripped through Beth, making her clench her eyes closed to keep from crying aloud. Pain like someone stabbing her in the heart—
—or the soul. It's over, Kory must be dead or dying, it's hopeless.
Eric's still picking over the mess, walking through the fallen trees, looking around. Doesn't he realize that there's nothing we can do, nothing at all? Why doesn't he just give up?
Eric disappeared around the edge of the ruined Wood, into the hilly area beyond. Beth followed hesitantly, not certain where Eric was going. That's what used to be the end of the Wood, there's nothing beyond there, nothing except a few more oak trees—
Beth climbed carefully over the bulldozed trees, trying to spot Eric. There's still a few oaks left standing, by the edge of the Wood. And—
She felt her heart leap with sudden hope, seeing a cloaked figure sprawled beneath one of the oaks' spreading branches. Then she ran forward to where Eric was standing, looking down at the motionless man.
It's him, it's Kory!
Now she could see him clearly, that wild blond hair spilling over his shoulders, mixed with dirt and blood and tears. His slack face streaked with tears and mud, his jeans and Faire shirt the same no-color.
And the six-pack of empty Coke cans on the ground next to him.
Beth slowed to a stop, and stared at the shiny red cans in horror. But that—that's poison to elves—
—oh my God, no!
She fell to her knees next to Kory, seized his hands and touched his face, still damp with tears. His hand was icy cold in hers. She moaned, deep in her throat, and began patting his cheeks, trying to get a response. When nothing happened, she searched frantically for a pulse. "Kory, please, no, don't be dead—"
She looked up at Eric, who was staring down at Kory in stunned silence. "God damn you, don't just stand there, do something! Use your magic! You're a Bard, this is what you're supposed to do! Help him!"
He swallowed, and stepped back a pace. "Beth, I don't think—"
"I don't give a shit what you think, Banyon—you're going to play that fuckin' flute now or I'm gonna ram it down your throat!"
"Beth, I don't know how!" he said, shouting to be heard over her rising voice. "The fire—that just came! This is complicated."
She forced herself to calm down, and took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's think this through. I think maybe we need a—a spell of some kind. Maybe what you played to wake him up would work again."
He knelt beside her and opened the flute case. "I think—I think maybe I played 'Sheebeg Sheemore.' That's a spell?"
She took a very deep breath and seized his hand, flute and all. "A spell, Eric, is a process, and not a thing. A spell makes you concentrate your energy on a goal, 'Sheebeg Sheemore' is about elves, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but—"
"It worked last time, didn't it?"
"Yeah, but—"
"If you don't start playing," she said softly, clenching her jaw to keep from screaming at him again, "that flute is going to be shoved where you won't like it."
She turned away from him as the first notes sang out into the sunlight, searching Kory's face for a flicker of life, any sign that he was being drawn back—
Nothing.
The last notes died away, and nothing had changed—except that maybe the pulse beneath her fingers was a little weaker.
She was about to round on the musician and demand that he try something else, when Eric began "Tamlin's Reel." He followed that with "Tom O'Bedlam."
One tune after another poured from the flute, the different melodies filling the stilled air, and now Beth could feel the desperation under the notes, the frantic fear that mirrored her own so exactly that she trembled beneath the double burden. And still nothing happened, nothing changed—except the sun rose a little higher, and the wind stirred Kory's hair and dried the tears on his face.
Eric could feel Beth's desperation; it was a match for his. So he tried, poured his soul into his playing, tune after tune, note after note, everything Celtic he knew—and nothing, nothing happened. Finally he ran out of things to play, and dropped his aching arms.
He's going to die. Kory's going to die, and there's nothing I can do to stop it—
Kory's face was as slack and lifeless as before. Eric could feel the life in him; could see it if he looked just right—flickering, fading . . .
Dammit, I healed him, there has to be some way to channel this power right! There just has to be! Maybe—maybe it's me. I'm not making the right connections. If a spell is a process, it probably has to convince my subconscious. Which means it has to be simple. And something I can relate to.
Simple—well, the Celtic tunes are sometimes simple enough, but do I really relate them to what I have to do? Maybe I'd better get down to my own roots.
So what do I want to do?
I want to put Kory back together. To put him back the way he was. To come out the way he was.
None of the tunes he'd played so far addressed that need—
Which may be why they didn't work. He frowned, clenched his hands on the flute. I need something clear, something simple. I've got to make this come around right—
Then it came to him, with those words. It all came together, making such a perfect pattern that he was blinded by the clarity of it.
He closed his eyes again, made himself very still inside, and reached—
—and played.
He felt Beth go still for a moment, then felt her reaching out to him; heard her begin to sing.
"She danced on the water and the wind—"
He stopped. She sang another word, and faltered. "Eric? What's—"
"That's wrong, Beth," he said around the flute mouthpiece. "Not the pagan version—the original. The Shaker hymn. You said we needed a spell; well, that's a spell. It's about returning to balance, to what you were and what you were meant to be."
He heard her swift intake of breath, and began the tune again. She let him play it through once, then joined him on the second round.
"'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free,
'tis a gift to come 'round where we ought to be—"
Yes. That's it. He could feel the power rising now, dancing around him, following the lead of his music—and hers—echoing the simple tune.
"—and when we find ourselves in the place just right
'twill be in the valley of love and delight."
Now he could feel the fading flicker that was Kory gaining strength, reaching for the power. He twined it once about the elf, twice, three times, verdant and living, tying him in vines of melody, anchoring him to here and now.
Beth poured her heart into the song, into the words. Eric could feel her strength, a dark fire joining his own power.
"When true simplicity is gained,
to bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed—
to turn, turn, will be our delight
till by turning, turning, we come 'round right"
But that wasn't enough. Not yet. Kory was not a simple creature, a one-dimensional cartoon elf. He had depth and breadth and heights Eric couldn't imagine—
So Eric called to the power and the music, and reached for Kory with it.
Touched.
No doubt; this was the Copland transcription from "Appalachian Spring." Building on the original melody, weaving in and around it, calling in images as well as melody. Thunderstorms in the mountains. A quiet, secret stream. Song of a single bluebird—and the haunting cries of hundreds of skeins of geese. A towering oak. A tiny violet, hidden in fallen leaves. Oboe carrying the melody with him, a second flute making it a round, clarinets laughing a harmony—
—then the strings—
Come back, come home, come round right—
—weaving a braid that turned to a circle that turned, turned, turned—
He couldn't hear Beth anymore, but she was in there too, making the song a prayer, an outpouring of love and passion.
Now the music was returning to what it had been, each part dropping back to join the flute-line, the melody, the simple line; joining it and reinforcing it. "—till by turning, turning, we come 'round right—"
When they all were one, Eric played it through one last time, slowly, with all the emotion he could muster.
Silence. And he opened his eyes—
—and saw Kory, gazing up at him with those brilliant, leaf-green eyes—
Alive.