"I'm always happy to get out God's message any way I can, Mr. Songmaker," Billy Fairchild said, smiling as he welcomed Hosea into his private office, "but I've got to say, I'm a mite puzzled. Isn't Rolling Stone one o' them rock and roll magazines?"
Billy Fairchild didn't look like a man who'd suffered a crushing setback in his personal life only a few hours before, nor like a man who was grieving over the absence of a beloved daughter. For that matter, he didn't look like a crazy religious maniac. He had the practiced charm of a good politician, a way of making whoever he was talking to at the moment feel that they were the most important person in the world. Hosea had seen con-games tried on by experts, but there was a genuineness to Billy that made him almost doubt himself. There was only one explanation for that particular conundrum. Whatever Billy Fairchild happened to be saying at any particular moment, he had the knack of really believing it himself.
Which made him doubly dangerous; a pathological liar of the worst kind. You couldn't tell if he was telling the truth by any signal that he would give you; he'd be able to pass a lie detector test with flying colors. And even Bardic truth-sense was likely to fail in the face of such utter conviction.
And the fetch-bag—Unseleighe magick, he now knew, with Jeanette's help—was gone. His mage-sight detected no sign of it.
"Shore is," Hosea said easily in answer, sitting down in the offered seat beside Billy's polished mahogany desk. "But it also does a lot of stuff it thinks people that listen to rock'n'roll might be interested in—like a preacher that runs a casino. Ah can't say they'll print what I write, y'know, that's the risk a freelancer takes, but they said they were interested. An' heck, if Rolling Stone don't take it, somebody else might. I jest like to try the big dogs first."
"Can't ask for fairer than that," Billy said. "And—well, say, I just got a notion, maybe you can stay a few days—I can get you a free ticket to the concert we've got coming up. If a music magazine is interested in a casino, they ought to be twice as interested in a rock band."
Fairchild made it sound like he'd "just" had that idea, but this time Hosea was able to tell he was being played, that Billy Fairchild had planned this from the time he agreed to the interview. This was a "bait-and-switch" tactic. He was probably planning that Rolling Stone would prefer to cover something about what Hosea assumed was another "Christian Rock" band, and hoped to get the article refocused. Hosea responded as Billy would want, looking surprised and interested. "Cain't say as a preacher bringin' up a rock band seems any more likely than a preacher runnin' a casino."
Billy laughed, deprecatingly. "I don't much care for that kind of music myself, but the Lord Jesus didn't preach to the people in fancy high-toned talk they couldn't understand, you know. He used the words they knew. So if I want to get the Lord's message out to the young, I have to use their music to do it, and that's why I've started Red Nails Music. But Gabriel can tell you more about that—that's his bailiwick. I just pick good people and let them run—at heart I'm just a backwoods country preacher doing what I can. But I expect you know that. From the sound of you, you aren't too long out of the hills your own self."
"Ayah," Hosea agreed shamelessly, taking his microcassette recorder out of his shoulder bag and setting it down on the desk. "Why don't you start with a little of yore early days, an then maybe tell me about how you came to build this place?"
The one thing a certain kind of person was most willing to talk about was themselves, Hosea had found, and Billy was certainly that kind of person. He heard plenty about Billy's humble beginnings as a traveling revivalist preacher, and nothing much about his daughter—except that "the whole family pitched in, of course, to spread God's Word."
"Is yore daughter planning to follow in your footsteps?" Hosea asked, making the question seem as idle as he could possibly manage.
"Of course she is!" Billy said fervently. "My little angel wouldn't have it any other way. Why, she's been a part of my Ministry ever since she could walk! She wouldn't leave me now."
The sad thing was, Hosea reflected, that there was probably a part of Billy that actually believed that was the truth. The trouble was, there was another part of Billy that was determined to make sure that "truth" was what came to pass—regardless of anything Heavenly Grace wanted.
But Billy was going right on, oozing sincerity. "I'd sure like for you to meet her, but she isn't here right now. She should be home soon, though, and maybe if your article isn't done, you can come back and visit with her then."
"I'd like that," Hosea said. As far as he could sense the truth in Billy's words, nothing Billy had said was an outright lie. It was true that Ace wasn't here . . . and for some reason, Billy Fairchild had a strong belief that not only would she be coming back soon, but she'd be happy to talk to reporters.
That was worrying. And Hosea couldn't tell if the belief was because Billy had convinced himself that it would be so—or because Billy other reasons besides that.
Billy, however, was sailing on to other subjects. "But deeds speak louder than words, and I expect you'd be glad of a chance to stretch your legs. Why don't we take a turn around the casino floor, and then I'll bring you back upstairs and introduce you around a bit? I'd love to jaw all day, but Miz Granger, she's got a notion that work ought to get done around here, dear lady, and I suppose I can't blame her," Billy said, grinning conspiratorially. "You put in that article of yours that I'd be lost without her, mind. Been with me twenty year."
"Ah surely will," Hosea said.
The two men got to their feet and headed toward the elevators. On the way they passed Mrs. Granger's desk. She glared fiercely at Hosea as he passed, daring him to even think anything uncomplimentary about her boss. Billy's private secretary was a type Hosea was familiar with—the backbone of every church, big and small—determined, efficient, and formidably loyal to her office master. Billy Fairchild could be sacrificing black cats by the dark of the moon and it wouldn't change Mrs. Granger's opinion of him, which had been set in stone long ago.
They took the elevator down to the lobby of the office building—that entrance was on the opposite side of the building from the casino—and then Billy walked over to a door in the wall marked "Employees Only" and pressed a quick series of numbers into a keypad lock before opening the door. He opened the door and ushered Hosea through into the sensory overload of the Heavenly Grace Cathedral and Casino of Prayer.
Billy's enthusiasm ought to have been infectious. He happily explained to Hosea how he'd taken a personal hand in every aspect of the Casino of Prayer's construction, from the design of the slot machines, to the games offered, to the decoration. The idea to make the House's percentage ten percent—"a real Biblical tithe"—had been his, as had been the free-will love offering boxes scattered freely about the casino. All the gaming tokens used in the machines had Biblical verses stamped on them—that had been Billy's idea, too—so that people could be constantly uplifted and refreshed in spirit while they gambled. Even the decks of cards used at the blackjack and poker tables were specially printed, with the Twelve Apostles replacing the face cards, the Dove of the Holy Spirit replacing the aces, Jesus instead of the Joker, and the Fairchild Ministry logo on the back.
They were for sale in the gift shop, of course.
There were other things to do in the casino besides gamble, of course. You could listen to live gospel or "spirit" music—none of the bands from Billy's new label, he said regretfully, not yet—watch highlights from Billy's previous Praise Hours on a thirty-foot screen, dine in four different restaurants (one of which offered "Authentic Food of the Bible Lands!") and Hosea saw a sign for an evening show promising a Genuine Simulated Reenactment of the Miracles of Moses Before Pharaoh! Whatever that show might be, its contents probably didn't bear thinking about too closely . . . though surely it took the place of the usual Vegas-style magic-act.
Everyone recognized Billy, of course, and wanted to talk to him. People clustered around him as he glad-handed and greeted them, giving a good imitation of a campaigning politician. It effectively discouraged any interview-type questions from Hosea, but he got an earful just the same.
"Reverend, I saw your show last night. Is it really true what that Mr. Wheatley said about the demons?" An elderly woman in bright pink stretch pants and a Casino of Prayer logo sweatshirt put a hand on Billy's arm as he passed her seat at the slot machines and regarded him anxiously.
"Sweet thing, there's not one thing said on my program that isn't the gospel truth," Billy said firmly. "But we're gonna root those ol' demons out no matter where they're hiding and send them all back to Hell, don't you worry. We've got big things planned—and you can be a part of the Liberation Army. Just keep watching my program and praising Jesus, and you'll see what you need to be doing."
Most of the questions had to do with Wheatley's startling revelation, naturally, and from Billy's answers, Hosea got the impression that in a few weeks the advice from the pulpit on what to do about the "demons" was going to become a good deal more prescriptive. But a number of the people who stopped Billy on their tour simply wanted autographs, or to have their picture taken with him, or to tell him what a difference he'd made in their lives. Some of them asked about Heavenly Grace, and to them, Billy gave the same answer he'd given Hosea—that she was away right now, but that she'd be back soon.
There was no doubt in Hosea's mind that Billy was the sort to thrive on the attention, never turning anyone away—and why not? He was obviously a natural showman.
It saddened Hosea; here was a man who had been given so many good gifts—health, energy, intelligence, good looks, the ability to understand people . . . he could have done truly good things with them. He could be showing people how to make the most of their own lives—he could be using the money brought in to feed the hungry and tend the sick, instead of building mockeries like this so-called Casino Cathedral.
In fact, by his own words, and from what Ace had said, he had not been a very bad man until Gabriel Horn had arrived on the scene. Or at least, he had not been doing near the harm he was now. And between the hate and fear he was preaching, and the way he was preying on peoples' weaknesses here in this casino, he was doing a lot of harm.
On the whole, Hosea thought it would be very interesting to meet Gabriel Horn.
Hosea glanced around the casino, and wondered if the Reverend Billy Fairchild was familiar with the Bible verse about the children crying out for bread and being given stones.
At last they ducked out through the side-door again. Hosea had gotten so used to the din in the casino that the silence on the other side of the door was nearly deafening.
"Any time I need a little pick-me-up I just go down and walk around out there for a while," Billy said, grinning. "Sets me right up. You can just feel the love rising up out of all those good Christian souls."
Hosea smiled, but his heart wasn't in it. All he could think of was that love didn't have a great deal to do with what Billy had been preaching last night.
And that Billy was probably a great deal more "set up" by all the money being sucked out of all those good Christian pockets.
"There you are, Reverend! When Mrs. Granger said you'd gone down to the casino, I was afraid we wouldn't see you for the rest of the day," a new voice said.
Hosea turned and regarded the speaker. The man was as tall as he was—and there weren't many who were. While Billy wore an expensive handmade suit in a way that managed to make it look "just folks," there was no mistaking the stranger's suit for anything but custom couture tailoring.
"Well, just the man I was going to be looking for next!" Billy said sunnily. "Hosea, this is Gabriel Horn. I couldn't run this place without him. Gabe, this is Hosea Songmaker—he's come down here to do a little article on us."
"A reporter?" Gabriel Horn said, his voice dark with suspicion.
"More like a freelancer journalist, even if that's a kinda fancy word. Rolling Stone sent me down," Hosea said, carefully putting on a respectful and opaque mask, "and if they like what Ah write, well, might be they'll print it."
He really did wish there was enough time to take care of Billy Fairchild properly and with thorough care, Gabriel thought wistfully. From what black cauldron of fool's inspiration and raven-kissed luck had he drawn the notion to summon a Bright Bard to his side and give him a tour of the inner workings of the Ministry?
Of course, it was unlikely in the extreme that Billy knew that this so-called journalist was, in fact, a Bard, obvious as the fact was to Gabriel. And it might almost have been seen as a stroke of good fortune—if Gabriel had been in a better humor—for surely this was the busy meddler who had seen to it that Gabriel's own spells had gone awry this morning. Was there any chance whatsoever that there were two Bright Bards sniffing around Billy Fairchild at this moment? Improbable, to say the least.
"I am delighted to meet you, Hosea Songmaker," he said, holding out his hand.
Yes—he knew it when their palms clasped—the flavor of the magic was the same as that which had wrapped and drained his talisman. This, then, was little Heavenly Grace's champion.
Swiftly, he considered how the interloper might best be served. A quick and merry death? Gabriel dismissed the possibility with regret. At the moment what he could do was very limited. It had taken every ounce of his power to send his Hunt into New York City in broad day to take the Bright Bard Eric and the boy his brother and bring them away safe again, and undoubtedly Jormin would be complaining about it for the next hundred years. The mortals' blighted iron city was no place for the Sidhe—only Aerune the Mad, who had owed allegiance to no Court, and who had dared Oberon to bring him to heel, had made it his own—that place that mortals had once called cursed because he dwelled there, and in a strange retribution, had made it into a place where no Sidhe dared linger.
So for now Gabriel's powers were spent . . . and more mundane "accidents" took time and care to arrange, and were better left for the hours of darkness.
So this Bard's death would have to wait. But at least he now knew the face of his enemy, and with care, he'd be able to take the measure of the mortal as well.
"Maybe you could show Hosea around the place a little—the behind the scenes stuff," Billy said, foolish and open and gormless, with no more notion that he was giving succor to the very person that had thwarted his will than a suckling babe. "Tell him all about the concert this weekend, and see if we can't persuade him to stay and give it a listen. I figure that's just the thing his magazine would like to hear about."
Suddenly, Gabriel felt much more cheerful. Out of the mouths of babes— Oh, yes. If the Bard stayed for Jormin's concert, that would give Gabriel plenty of time to recover. He already knew where Heavenly Grace was staying. No doubt the Bard laired there too. He could take the Bard at his leisure and feed him to his Soul-eaters; not a light feeding, but a heavy one. Not even his bones would remain. And then there would be nothing standing between him and acquiring the maiden.
Nothing.
"I'd be delighted to," Gabriel said warmly. "I hope you'll be able to stay for the concert. It's going to be an amazing event. Come this way—I'll take you up to the Red Nails office."
" . . . I think we've signed the finest in Christian heavy metal today: Pure Blood, Holy Sacrament, Lost Angels, Revelations . . . they'll all be at the concert on Friday."
The offices of Red Nails Music occupied most of a floor of the Fairchild Tower, and bore a superficial resemblance to any other creative workplace: messy desks, harried employees, walls covered with posters and every flat surface heaped with promotional items. In fact, there really wasn't much difference between this office and the offices of Rolling Stone.
Gabriel talked as he took Hosea on a quick tour, and there were some profound differences between Gabriel's style and Billy's. Hosea noted that while Gabriel's staff was happy to see him, and didn't hesitate to approach him for help, there was a certain formality in the exchanges that hadn't been present between Billy Fairchild and the people he met. Gabriel Horn wasn't the type to let people forget, even for a minute, who was the boss. Billy preferred his underlings to act—at least while Hosea had been there—as if he was as much friend as employer.
"The concert is free—we're holding it to launch Pure Blood's debut album—and we're expecting several thousand people to show up," Gabriel was explaining. "We didn't want too big of a crowd, you understand—one of the reasons we're holding it on a weekday and only doing minimal advertising. Too many people could pose a crowd-control issue. But it should be enough to get the word out—and there's still plenty of room here in the business park; we shouldn't have all of the subsidiaries of the Ministry moved in and the rest of the space rented out to compatible corporations until late next year."
"Does that include moving in Parker Wheatley's demon hunters?" Hosea asked. He did want to know if everybody at Fairchild Ministries was as pleased with Wheatley as Billy was, and besides, an interviewer ought to ask an awkward question or two.
While Gabriel Horn made him uneasy—though he didn't have quite the same effect on Hosea as he'd had on Ace—Bardic powers or not, he couldn't say what bothered him about the man any more than she'd been able to. It was a great pity he hadn't been able to bring Jeanette along with him to the interview, because without her, his ability to see what lay beneath the surface of things was limited. His mage-sight would show him magick and things unseen—if he could find an undistracted moment to use it. And if it didn't happen to come up against a power greater than his.
Now there was a comforting thought.
He could also tell, usually, when someone was telling the truth. But Gabriel Horn very carefully had not said anything that was not purely factual. At least, not until this moment.
Gabriel Horn hadn't liked his question about Wheatley at all, though he did his best not to show it.
"Mr. Songmaker, one of the reasons Billy and I get along so well is because I let him deal with the matters he considers important and he extends me the same courtesy. I'm sure that if he wants Mr. Wheatley to have resources, he'll give them to him."
That's true. And he knows it.
But what Gabriel Horn wasn't saying was how he felt about that. No, he was going to skim right past that little roadblock. "If you'd like, when we're finished here, I can turn you over to Andrew Wyath—he produces the Praise Hour, and he's been working closely with Mr. Wheatley—and you can see if you can get a few minutes of his time."
"Oh," Hosea said dismissively, glancing over Gabriel's shoulder at an enormous poster of Judah Galilee, wearing leather pants, clutching a blood-red guitar that matched his hair, and looking as if he were undergoing electroshock therapy, "that's all very well, and Ah do thank you for the thought, Mr. Horn, but . . . Ah think mah readers might be more interested in music than demons."
Gabriel smiled, obviously recovering his good mood with a bit of an effort. "Then by all means, let us give the people what they want. I can give you a press-kit and some CDs—Lost Angels is a popular local band, and Revelations had some success in the Detroit market before they signed with us, put out a couple of CDs on an indie label, but I think we can take both of them to the top. As for Pure Blood, well, once you've seen and heard Judah Galilee, I think you'll have to agree that he's going to cross over. The boy is absolutely brilliant, and very appealing."
"These people don't just walk up and knock on your door," Hosea said, making it a half question.
"You'd be surprised," Gabriel said with a faint smile. "But in the case of Pure Blood—"
One of the office staff approached Gabriel hesitantly. "Excuse me, sir, but Judah Galilee is waiting for you in your office."
"Well, this should be interesting," Gabriel said. "Come along, young Songmaker. This is your chance to meet a modern-day Bard."
Gabriel's offices were at the end of a long corridor that wouldn't have been out of place at LlewellCo—expensive wooden paneling, the real thing and not veneer, and thick carpets that had never come out of an industrial-supply warehouse. Hosea had to hurry to keep up with Gabriel, and even so he kept falling a few steps behind. That, he suspected, was another bit of power-play, designed to put him in his place. Gabriel had all the moves, all right.
There was something just the slightest bit off about all of Gabriel's reactions, but Hosea couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was as if Gabriel was playing a part, somehow, playing it well, but playing it for Hosea's benefit, and try as he might, Hosea could not imagine why that should be.
Hosea was looking for an Unseleighe Magus, probably one working with Parker Wheatley, who had had Unseleighe allies before. Someone who had given Billy a charm that would win his court case for him. And so far, he hadn't seen any sign of one.
While Gabriel Horn was the original bad hat, Hosea was prepared to guarantee Gabriel wasn't working with Wheatley. There was only one thing he was prepared to feel sure of about Gabriel Horn, and that was that the man resented Wheatley at the least, probably disliked him, and certainly was not at all happy about Billy Fairchild's involvement with him.
They reached the door, and Gabriel opened it.
His office had a breathtaking view, though mostly of empty office buildings and half-finished landscaping at the moment, and mercifully it was one of the few places in the complex from which it was not possible to see the facade of the Casino and Cathedral of Prayer. There was a long sleek black leather couch under the window, with a long sleek musician dressed mostly in black leather lounging on it.
Judah Galilee looked as if he were barely out of his teens. His eyes were a startling shade of gold—and not from contact lenses, either, Hosea decided, looking closely. His hair, which was definitely enhanced, was bright crimson and waist length. He looked up when Hosea and Gabriel entered, but not as if he intended to move at any time in the near future.
"Hosea is a member of the press, Judah; you may speak freely in front of him," Gabriel said.
And that was a flat untruth, the first Gabriel had uttered in his presence. Of course, it might simply be a joke. . . .
"I just wanted to talk about the supplies for our trailer for the concert. We don't want any red M and Ms in the candy. Red M and Ms are Satanic," Judah said, a faint whine in his voice.
"'No Satanic Candy,'" Gabriel recited, as if making a note. "Judah, are you quite through jerking my chain?"
"Actually, I've got a really long list of stuff," the singer replied with an impish grin, sitting up and swinging his long legs off the couch. "And then there's what Abidan wants, and what Coz wants, and what Jakan wants—" He turned to Hosea, getting to his feet. "But it can wait. Gabriel says you're a reporter. Are you here to cover the concert?"
"Among other things," Hosea said.
But he had clamped his mask of slight deference and interest down hard over his features. Gabriel had called Judah Galilee a bard just a few minutes ago, and at the time Hosea had thought he was making another of his oddly skewed jokes. But now that he saw Judah in the flesh, he knew Gabriel had been telling the simple truth.
Judah was a bard. No, a Bard. A Bard as Eric was, as Hosea was learning to be. No wonder Gabriel was so sure that Pure Blood was going to be a success, if Judah was its lead singer.
For Hosea could feel Judah's Gift as clearly as he could sense Eric's, and it took all his will and training not to let that knowledge show on his face.
Hosea knew—Eric had made sure he knew—that just as a Bard's Gift could be used to heal, it could also be used to destroy, but healing, creating, was the wellspring and foundation of Bardcraft. Not so for Judah Galilee. He possessed all the power of a Bard, but somehow Hosea knew that if Judah ever created anything, he did so only to destroy it. It was as if everything sane in the world had been turned to madness: if there were such things as demons walking the world in human flesh, Hosea thought in that moment he might be looking at one.
And he knew with a sinking feeling that if he'd recognized Judah as a Bard, then Judah had recognized him as well.
Did Gabriel know what Judah was? Hosea suspected he might.
And that meant he was in a lot more trouble than he had time to think about right now.
It was an enormous effort to make conversation, to ask the sort of questions a person in his position ought to ask, to pretend he'd sensed nothing simply because he didn't know how much either of them knew, and to let them know that he'd sensed anything at all might trigger the worst sort of disaster. His hotel room key was in his wallet—he'd thought nothing of it at the time, but if something happened to him here, that key would lead whoever took him down right back to Ace . . . and Jeanette.
And that would be the worst kind of disaster.
Half an hour later he was out of there, feeling as if he'd escaped the lion's den only because the lion hadn't happened to be particularly hungry that day. It was nearly six o'clock. He was carrying a press-kit for the upcoming concert—actually a large shopping-bag full of tapes, CDs, and other promotional items—a press pass that would get him through the gate and backstage on Friday, and half a dozen tickets to give to his friends. Gabriel had even promised to help him get a chance to talk to Parker Wheatley sometime before the concert, and Hosea had thanked him politely, even though he didn't really expect to keep that appointment.
He suspected that Gabriel knew that as well.
It was already dark when he walked out of the building. When he'd walked in that afternoon, he'd never expected to be so purely grateful to leave. He threw the bag onto the passenger seat of the pink Cadillac and drove quickly away from the building, unable to repress a shudder of relief as he did so.
"So that is Sieur Eric of Misthold's apprentice?" Jormin ap Galever said, after Hosea had left. "Unimpressive. Yet odd." He shrugged elegantly, dismissing the anomalies he had sensed in Hosea's magick. The mortal was hardly beginning his training; as a Bard, he was inconsequential. He probably could not work magic without actually playing or singing, and that, for a Bard, marked him as the merest tyro. Insignificant. "A pity for him that he has not chosen to make his manners to Prince Arvin and accept the protection of Elfhame Misthold—or is it that Bard Eric did not think to extend such protection?"
"It will not matter soon," Prince Gabrevys said, dismissively. "I will be rid of him, of course; he stands between me and my rightful prey, Fairchild's Fair Child. He thwarted me once; he shall not do so again. His death will not be laid to my door—indeed, it cannot be, at least, not by the Bright Court; they have no agents that are practiced enough to trace back my movements here in the World Above. Nor indeed by any other of the Sidhe, not even the High King himself. There will be a terrible accident here on Friday, one that will claim the lives of a number of people. I'm afraid Sieur Eric's inconvenient apprentice will be just another tragic casualty. Pity, that."
"Not that Sieur Eric will either know or care," Jormin gloated, still delighted with his own cleverness. Though the boy Magnus had somehow sensed the presence of the Hunt and run, he hadn't gotten far, and had been easily taken by Abidan, Coz, and Jakan. And the fury, fear, and despair on the Bard's face when he had seen Jormin's hostage had been wine of a heady vintage indeed. "By the time I take the stage, he and his brother will be well on the road back to Boston. His parents will be lucky if they don't drool on themselves. As for this Hosea Songmaker, I can play him in circles for as long as I please. He'll be no trouble to you, my Prince."
"I will hold you to that, Jormin," Gabrevys said softly. "He may be untutored, but he surely will have recognized you for a Bard, if not as Unseleighe. I wish him to stay here and keep Heavenly Grace at his side until she hears word of her father's tragic death. She will have to return to her mother's house, then, to comfort her in her bereavement. Once there, I can move the Apprentice into position to eliminate him, and once the Apprentice Bard is gone, I may move to take the maiden at my leisure."
Jormin cocked his head to the side, his hair falling over his shoulder like a spill of blood. "So you mean to move at last! To be the butt of mortal's japes suited you ill, my Prince. This is happy news. I shall ready my most subtle enchantments . . . against two Gifted mortals, you will have a day, perhaps two, before they become suspicious at their own delay—after that, I can still hold them as long as pleases you, but they will begin to wonder at their own behavior, and perhaps might suspect and ready their own crude magic to counter me."
"It will not be so long as that, my Bard," Gabrevys told him, dark pleasure in his voice. "Only keep them here until the day of the concert. After that, it will be too late. Now here is where you must go. . . ."
Once Hosea left for the business park, Ace checked her watch and phoned Magnus. Although it was lunchtime by now, his phone returned an "Out of Service" message.
She made a face. She knew he wouldn't have forgotten to turn it on—it was more likely he'd been caught trying to use it between classes and gotten it confiscated again.
She tried Eric next, but she got the same message from his cell, and nobody picked up at the apartment. She sighed in annoyance. He was probably off giving a music lesson and had his phone turned off, and she had no idea when he'd be back to pick up his messages at the apartment.
She called Ria next to give her the bad news, not that Ria didn't already have most of it, courtesy of Mr. Tilford.
"So when are you coming back to New York?" Ria said. "I can't say this thrills me—especially the part about your father having an Unseleighe Magus somewhere on the payroll, whether he knows it or not—but having Parker Wheatley launching a demon-hunting crusade under the aegis of Fairchild Ministries does give us a bit more ammunition to pry you loose. As soon as Derek gets back, I'm going to have him put together a short précis of Mr. Wheatley's recent career—kidnapping, torture, subversion—to present to Judge Springsteen. An environment containing a man like that is no place for an impressionable young girl like you. Not to mention what kind of unpleasant experiences he might expose you to, nor the kinds of unwanted attention he'd bring in the way of people who might be looking for revenge. He hurt a great many people, and no few of them hold grudges." She paused a moment, and Ace could practically hear her thinking. "I might be able to shade enough of what I've got to make it look as if he has mob connections—and you know, the three places that deal in a lot of untraceable cash are organized crime, legalized gambling, and churches. A church is a logical place to use to launder money—make that a church running a casino . . . I think I can throw out enough red herrings to make the judge start feeling a bit alarmed. I'd like you back here, though."
Despite herself, Ace managed a smile. "Well, it's a little too far to walk. I thought I'd wait until Hosea got back from his interview, and see what he's found out."
"Call me then," Ria said. "And be careful."
"I will," Ace promised.
After that there was nothing to do but watch television, pace, and wait for Hosea to return from interviewing Billy. She used up all the coffee in both the in-room coffeemakers—hers and Hosea's—and began to think about going out to get coffee and maybe something more appetizing than the leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator, but no matter how much she tried to convince herself it was perfectly safe, she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. She called Eric's apartment several more times, but nobody ever picked up the phone, and by the time she made the last call, it was well after the time Magnus should have been home, even if Eric wasn't.
Something was wrong.
She started to worry in earnest.
Magnus knew her hearing was today. He was mad to find out how it had come out. Even if Coenties & Arundel had taken his phone, he would have called her from another one as soon as he could.
Unless something had happened to him.
She knew their parents were fighting Eric over custody . . . had something happened? Were they tied up in court somewhere? Or stuck in a lawyer's office? Had the parents somehow managed to get them arrested?
She thought hard, gnawing at her lip. There had to be somebody she could ask. Not Ria. For one thing, she didn't want to wind Ria up about Magnus and Eric's parents any more than she already was, and for another, she hated to keep going to Ria with every little thing, and she'd already promised to call her as soon as Hosea got back. And there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation for what was going on that she just couldn't think of right now.
Kayla. Kayla lived in the same building. She and Eric had been friends for years, and Ace suspected that Magnus kind of liked Kayla too. Besides, Kayla knew things about people. If there was something funny going on, Kayla would know. And if there wasn't, she'd tell Ace to stop being a jerk and then Ace could go take a cold shower or something.
She dug around in her bag for Kayla's number. Her phone was a new one, and she hadn't gotten around to completely programming it yet.
The phone rang, and there was a connection. For a moment Ace heard nothing but wild barking, then: "Molly—Molly—Molly, I don't know who it is, but trust me, they ain't callin' for you!"
"Kayla?" Ace said doubtfully. The barking subsided—or rather, became stifled, as if its source had been wrapped in something.
"Yeah. Ace? Are you okay?" Kayla said. "Good girl!" This last did not seem to be directed to Ace.
"Why shouldn't I be okay?" Ace demanded suspiciously.
"Well, this morning Eric took off like the proverbial bat, and Greystone told Toni he'd gotten some kind of vague mumbo-jumbo warning, like only Bards get—and I guess Too-Tall didn't get one, or you would have called earlier and you wouldn't be nearly this calm now—so when I got back from walking Molly, everybody jumped on me just in case I'd got kidnapped by space aliens, which I hadn't, thank you very much. Drop that, Molly! Sheesh! If this is what having kids is like, I'm becoming a monk."
"I haven't been able to get through to Magnus on his cellphone all day," Ace said flatly. "And Eric isn't answering the phone in the apartment."
Kayla let out a long breath. "Actually, we were all sort of hoping you wouldn't notice that."
"What happened?" All the apprehension that Ace had felt all day spiraled up into a sudden flash of terror, and suddenly her hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold onto the phone. Something was wrong, something horrible had happened to Eric, Magnus, or both!
"Breathe," Kayla told her firmly. "There's nothing you and Too-Tall can do from down there. The big guns are on it and we didn't want you worryin' about somethin' you couldn't fix. All I know is what Toni told me that Greystone told her. He didn't sense anything directly, either. Whatever it was came straight through to Eric, and all he got was a warning of trouble. He took off on his bike for Gussie's school, and about half an hour later, the bike was back. Empty. When it showed up, Toni called Ria, and Ria called the school. They checked, but Magnus wasn't there—his history teacher said he'd been called down to the office. That was about the same time somebody turned a pack of wolves loose in Midtown, according to the news reports."
"Wolves?" Ace said faintly.
"Or something that looked like wolves to most of the people that saw them," Kayla said grimly. "Odds are they weren't. Paul's trying to get a line on what they were and where they came from right now, and Ria's looking for Eric and Gus."
Wolves in Manhattan—that had to be magic. Lady Day coming back alone. Eric and Magnus missing—Ace felt paralyzed and helpless—she didn't know anything about this magic stuff, only what she'd seen since she met Eric, and that was hardly anything—
"Look, I know it sounds stupid, but—try not to worry. Eric's survived a lot of weird stuff. Hell, he's even been dead, and it didn't slow him down much. Wherever he and Gus are, he'll make sure they both get back safe. Right now, you've just got to make sure that the two of you stay safe too. It's only been a couple of hours."
"Yeah," Ace said faintly. She could feel tears building in the back of her throat, and gulped them down. She wasn't going to cry in front of Kayla. Kayla was counting on her to keep herself under control. If she lost it, she'd just be a liability, not a help. She took a deep breath. "Okay. Call me if you hear anything, okay?"
"Sure," Kayla said. "I just wish I didn't have to give you more bad news on a day like this."
"Oh, you know how it is," Ace said, trying to feign cheer, "bad things happen in threes."
Once she'd disconnected, she wondered why she'd said it. So far today, only two awful things had happened.
Hosea arrived very soon after that, and though she managed to keep her vow not to burst into tears, the sight of his face nearly made her break it.
He looked frightened.
She'd never seen Hosea afraid—not even when he'd been facing down Jaycie's Protector with nothing more than a banjo and the wild guess that he'd solved the riddle of her true identity rightly. If he'd been wrong then, Rionne would have torn him to pieces, but he hadn't looked the least bit scared.
"You don't look like you've had a better day than Ah've had," Hosea said, with the ghost of a ragged smile.
"Eric and Magnus are missing," Ace said, struggling to keep her voice even. "And from what Kayla says, it wasn't natural."
Hosea sighed deeply, and bowed his head. "That might not be the best news Ah've ever gotten," he said. "Ah did want to ask Eric about a few things." He shook his head. "Cain't be helped, though. What exactly did Kayla say?"
Frowning in concentration, Ace recited back everything she could remember from her conversation with Kayla. The more she said, the less good it sounded.
Hosea ran a hand through his pale blond hair, making himself look a bit like a scarecrow in a cornfield. "Well, Paul's the best at sorting things like this out, and there isn't much that gets past him. Something that went right for Eric and Magnus, though, Ah'm bound to say, odds are it's the Good Neighbors, and vexin' as it is, even something like this, it could be their way o' askin' for help—or givin' help—or payin' a social call as much as bein' unmannerly. Cain't be sure until we can ask Eric. Last time one o' the Good Neighbors set out to do him a kindness, they kidnapped him out of a hospital and bespelled the whole place to think he'd never been there in the first place, which gave the rest of us quite a turn until he showed up again," Hosea added with a crooked smile.
Oh yes, mortal fools, set your fears to slumbering, Jormin thought to himself. His fingers moved over the strings of his harp, weaving a subtle spell of Misdirection. His shields were strong; they would neither see nor sense him, and the spell was the sort that even the most canny Magus Major would have difficulty detecting, for it was not something imposed from without. No, the beauty of this spell was that the chains of its binding were forged within the hearts of its victims.
Jormin's silent music plucked up every strand of their own desire to stay here and investigate further, every desire to believe that all was well with their friends, and strengthened them, while suppressing those urges that would lead them to seek outside help, or leave.
In the end, they would be sure they had made up their own minds.
Freely.
"So he could be all right? Both of them could?" Ace asked hopefully.
"And probably are," Hosea said reassuringly. "And as soon as they get things sorted out Underhill—which is where they probably are right now—they'll be back. Count on it."
Ace took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. Hosea was right. She was sure he was. He had to be.
"So . . . what happened to you today?" Ace asked. "How did the interview go?"
"Well, that prayer casino is a pretty piece of work," Hosea said thoughtfully. "And that's one slick operation. Ah expect it could give LlewellCo a run for its money, in its own way."
Briefly, he described what he'd seen of the casino, and his interview with Billy Fairchild.
"He seems pretty convinced you're comin' back—o' course, that could just be moonshine for a dumb reporter," Hosea said. "Ah met Gabriel Horn, too. Nasty piece o' work, but Ah jest cain't put my finger on what bothers me there. Doesn't quite seem to fit in with the rest of the folks. And surely isn't fond of Parker Wheatley, either, though there could be a lot of reasons for that. He was happy to tell me all about his new record label, and the free concert they've got comin' up on Friday. Gave me a whole batch of free samples, too. Pity this place don't run to a VCR, or we could look at some o' them tonight."
"I'm not sure I want to," Ace said, and Hosea shrugged in agreement. He sighed, and Ace got the sense he'd saved the worst news for last.
"His star turn is a band called Pure Blood, and while I was there, their lead singer, a feller called Judah Galilee, dropped in. And I guess I know why Mr. Horn is so sure that Pure Blood is going to be a success, because Galilee is a Bard."
It took a moment for the words to sink in.
"A Bard?" Ace said. "A magic Bard? Like you and Eric?"
"That's the trouble," Hosea said, looking even more weary than he had when he'd come in. "Not like me and Eric. This Judah Galilee is all meanness and twisted up inside. Ah don't know what his music's like, but it's sure to hurt people. What Ah do think Ah know is that Mr. Horn knows exactly what he's got by the tail."
Ace took a deep shaky breath. "What are we going to do?"
Hosea grimaced. "Ah'd been going to ask Eric that, until you told me he'd upped an' vanished. Now . . ." There was a long pause. "Ah'm not sure Ah want to bother the folks in New York with our problems down here until they've found Eric. Or he's turned up by himself."
Ace nodded. That made sense. Magnus might be in trouble, and right now, they weren't. "But you told Ria you'd call. She'll worry if you don't."
"Well, Ah 'spect Ah can tell Miz Ria about my day without tellin' her too many stretchers. And maybe Eric and Magnus are already back, and we're frettin' for nothing."
But when Hosea made his call to Ria, and gave her a very carefully worded account of the day's events—yes, he'd seen Billy Fairchild and Gabriel Horn; yes, he'd gotten a tour of the casino; no, he hadn't seen any Unseleighe, nor did he have any better idea of who it was who'd crafted the charm that Billy had carried into court—the two of them found that Eric and Magnus were still missing. Nothing that Ria or the three Guardians had been able to do had enabled them to trace their whereabouts.
Ace had to admire Hosea's performance. Absolutely nothing he said was a lie—in fact, everything he said was absolutely true. But the impression he managed to give with all that truth-telling was 180 degrees from the actual truth of the situation, and he left out the Black Bard entirely. He created an impression that the two of them were quite secure where they were, and that they could get far more done if they stayed put and out of the way of the search for Eric and Magnus.
"Actually, Ah'd like to poke around for another day. Ah've got an interview with Parker Wheatley set up for tomorrow, and maybe Ah can find out a little more about this demon-busting crusade o' his. And Ah guess Miss Ace is just as safe here as anywhere, don't you think?" Hosea said into the phone.
"She's agreed—and she'll skin me alive if anything happens to you," he added unnecessarily, as he folded up the phone.
Ace didn't say she could take care of herself. If there was one lesson she'd learned far too well in her seventeen years of life, it was that there were a lot of things out there that were bigger and stronger than she was, and some things that were smarter. She could use all the help she could get.
"Are you really going to go back and talk to Parker Wheatley?" she asked.
"Ah'd rather not," Hosea said surprisingly. "Ah'd rather not ever go near that place again. But let's see what Jeanette has to say."
Hosea went off to his room and brought back the banjo case, sitting down on a chair. Ace settled down on the bed to listen. She loved Hosea's playing, no matter what the circumstances were, and maybe listening to him would help her to think of something.
From his vantage point outside, Jormin felt the unfamiliar magic he'd sensed before, much stronger now. What was it? As a half-trained mortal Bard, Hosea Songmaker's power was no match for his own, he knew, and though the Sidhe were as susceptible as any to Heavenly Grace's Talent, she had not yet come into the fullness of her strength—and, he knew from his Master, she did not wish to use her Gift.
He hesitated, wondering if he should alert Prince Gabrevys, but whatever the apprentice Bard was doing, it did not seem to pose any threat to him.
At last the web of his spell was set tight, past any undoing. It would follow them wherever they went, feeding on their hopes and fears, keeping them from either leaving the immediate area or seeking outside aid.
Oh, he would have to return in a few hours of the World's time to reinforce it again and make sure it was running as it should, but for now, his work here was done. . . .
:Well?: Jeanette demanded instantly.
Hosea told her the most important things first—Eric and Magnus were missing, and that there was a Black Bard fronting one of Gabriel Horn's bands. He went on to tell her all he'd told Ace, trying to bring his sense of wrongness into focus.
But it was still as if he couldn't think clearly—or couldn't think of the right questions to ask.
"Ah didn't find that Unseleighe magician you told me to look for, sweetheart, but Ah didn't get a chance to meet everybody in Billy's organization. And after today, Ah'm not all that sure Ah want to go back. Galilee knows me for what Ah am, you cain take that to church."
Jeanette made a rude noise, for once not even bothering to object to the hated endearment. :Oh, you think you didn't see any Unseleighe, farmboy? I'd bet you dollars to doughnuts—assuming I had any dollars, or any use for doughnuts—that your Judah Galilee is an elf-boy. And I'd double that bet and say Gabriel Horn is holding his leash, which means you've got another one, because Sidhe don't truckle to mere mortals.:
"Elves?" Hosea said, feeling utterly stunned. How had he missed that? "Both of them?"
:Did you look?: Jeanette demanded. :REALLY look? Or were you just too distracted for some odd reason to ever use your mage-sight on either of them?:
Hosea thought back. There'd never been a really good time to take a close look at Gabriel Horn, and he'd known Judah Galilee would know what he was doing, so he hadn't tried using the Sight on him. But maybe he should have been a little more aggressive about trying.
Maybe he should have been a lot more aggressive.
:The timing works,: Jeanette went on. :Billy's a ratbag, but his snake-oil show apparently didn't really start to go to capital-H Hell in a handbasket until Brother Gabriel showed up. And in a very short time it's bigger and sleazier than ever before, with a big influx of money from a source nobody can quite put their finger on, even your money-laundering girlfriend Ria with her pocketful of lawyers. Want to bet Gabriel's the funding source? I bet he's got big nasty plans for Fairchild Ministries. And if you're still thinking that Eric's disappearance is a coincidence, I've got to say, you're even dumber than you look.:
"What would the Sidhe want with a televangelist?" Hosea asked blankly.
:The Unseleighe like to break things,: Jeanette answered bleakly. :And Fairchild Ministries would make a nice big hammer.:
Ace could see Hosea's lips moving, and knew he was talking to Jeanette, but she couldn't hear him over the sound of the music. From the expression on his face, though, Jeanette was giving him quite an earful, and nothing that he liked. At last he set aside the banjo, and sighed.
"Jeanette has a theory," he said.
The more Hosea talked, the more it all made a kind of awful sense: how everything had gotten particularly bad at home just after Gabriel Horn had shown up, how Daddy would never even think of hearing a word against him—and Billy Fairchild was a man who hated competition as much as he'd loved his own way.
"But . . . Bards are human, aren't they?" she asked, confused.
"Some are," Hosea agreed. "But just like Healin', it's a Talent that shows up extra-strong in particular elves, too. Eric said the Elven Bards are the most powerful magicians the Sidhe have, the ones who make the Gates, and anchor the Nexus-points to the Node-groves to anchor an Elfhame to the World Above."
"Sounds like physics, not magic," Ace said dubiously.
Hosea smiled faintly. "Paul says that they're pretty much the same thing when you take them far enough. Ah wouldn't know. What Ah do know is we've got us a fine mess here—and all our big guns are on a huntin' expedition somewheres else."
"But maybe we don't need them," Ace said slowly, thinking it out. "You said that Gabriel Horn doesn't like Parker Wheatley. And Ria said he started out hunting elves, and whatever he's calling them now, it looks like he's still doing it. If I can get to him, and tell him that Gabriel Horn and Judah Galilee are "demons," he'll use his bag of tricks on them—if just to prove me wrong. But I won't be." I hope.
"Besides," she continued, "I bet Mr. Wheatley doesn't like Gabriel Horn any better than Mr. Horn likes him. I bet he knows good and well that Mr. Horn doesn't want him around. And I bet he's thinking he'd like Mr. Horn out of the way, and maybe take over in his place. If he can do something to get rid of Mr. Horn, you know he will!"
"And what if Jeanette was right about the other thing, too, and Wheatley's working for another Unseleighe?" Hosea said.
"I don't get the feeling any of those guys like each other very much," Ace said, remembering what Ria had told her. "And Mr. Wheatley's just showed up. Maybe Gabriel Horn doesn't like him because he thinks he's poaching on his territory. Maybe Mr. Horn doesn't know about the other Unseleighe, if there is one."
But Hosea was frowning at her. "It's too dangerous," Hosea said.
"No it isn't," Ace said, excited now. "I can just sneak in to the building, get into Mrs. Granger's files, and find out everything I need to about Mr. Wheatley, including where his office is and his home address. Hosea, if anybody sees me, it's probably going to be somebody I've known all my life and grew up with, and from what you've said, Daddy's told everybody I'm away at Bible College somewhere, so why shouldn't I come back for a visit?" She took a deep breath. "And if I get into real trouble, I can sing my way out. You know I can. If we can start Mr. Wheatley and Mr. Horn fighting with each other, that would be good, wouldn't it? And if we could get our hands on some of those "demon hunting" weapons that Mr. Wheatley has, that would be better."
The more Hosea considered the matter, the more he thought she was right—not because he wanted to go back to that unhappy place, but because he couldn't leave something that dangerous alone.
Judah Galilee and his band would be playing before an audience of several hundred people—at the very least—Friday at noon, and Hosea hated to think of what the Black Bard might do with the energy he could raise off such a crowd.
He wasn't sure that either Judah or Gabriel were Sidhe—Jeanette was only guessing, after all—but if they could get Parker Wheatley to turn his elf-hunting obsession on Fairchild Ministries, it should convince Billy Fairchild to get rid of one of the two. Either he would convince Billy Fairchild that Gabriel was a demon, which would rid them of Gabriel Horn, or he would so outrage Billy that Fairchild would throw Wheatley out on his ear. And that was the worst that would come out of it.
And at best, it might solve a large number of their problems. Horn and Wheatley might actually lock horns and destroy each other, and it might happen in a public enough forum to bring down Fairchild Ministries as well.
"All right," he said reluctantly. "But we'll wait until we're sure everybody's out of the offices for the night. And you be as quick as you can."
"I will," Ace said soberly.
They'd gotten the call that afternoon. Fortunately, Michael didn't have classes that day, and they'd been able to fly down immediately.
Fiona was both pleased and a little irritated that the call had come so soon. She couldn't precisely decide where the source of her irritation lay; perhaps this seemed too easy? In her experience, nothing worth having was obtained easily, and if bringing Magnus and Eric to heel could be done so quickly, then the implication was that it was something that she and Michael could have accomplished themselves.
They would see.
Once more—for the last time, she told herself—they drove to the offices of Christian Family Intervention. When they got there, the girl had already left for the day, but Director Cowan was waiting for them in the reception area.
"Mr. and Mrs. Banyon. Do come in. It's wonderful to see you again, and on such a happy occasion for us all. I'm sure you remember Mr. Horn?"
"Yes, of course," Michael Banyon said, holding out his hand.
Gabriel smiled as he took Michael's hand, regarding the Banyons with deep satisfaction. The woman fairly seethed with haughty impatience, as if she wished nothing more than to snatch her plaguish brats from his hands and flee. But he had no desire to return her children to her just yet. No, in a few hours he would go and explain to the Bard what a treat lay in store for him, and then give him a few more hours to savor the anticipation of it. The feeding pen was quite secure, as were his bindings. There would be no escape for him, only horror. In the morning, well before the concert started, he would send the Bard and his brother off to their new life. Meanwhile, he would have the parents as further hostages, should the necessity arise.
"I'm sure you're both anxious to see your sons. Believe me, nothing gives us greater joy than the opportunity to reunite a family." He smiled again, broadly, at Fiona's reaction.
"Sons?" she asked sharply. "I thought—"
"Ah, I know you had not anticipated recovering your eldest, Eric, yet we have managed to convince him how misguided he has been," Gabriel interrupted, unctuously. "They're both here in the building right now, and looking forward to their reunion with their parents. Truly, the Prodigal Son returns to the arms of his family. We're just taking care of a few last-minute details, our legal staff is making sure that all of the legal mess poor Eric instigated is cleared up so that you won't be bothered with any of it anymore. Just getting all of the niggling details tidied away, then you can see them. It won't be long. Why don't you have a seat while you're waiting?"
Looking skeptical, Michael seated himself on the couch that Gabriel indicated, and, reluctantly, Fiona followed his lead. As they settled themselves, the prepared spell was triggered. Their faces went slack, their eyes closed, their bodies settled limply against each other.
"Good," Gabriel said with satisfaction. "You do excellent work, Toirealach."
Toirealach O'Caomhain bowed to his liege-lord. It was a fine thing, to have competent underlings. That was one mistake that altogether too many Unseleighe didn't understand. One needed to keep an iron fist yes, but in a velvet glove. If your underlings could not be sure of reward, they would not serve you without overmuch supervision. "They will slumber here until they are waked, and they will have no sense that time has passed. A bit of meddling with their memories will convince them that they came on the morrow instead of today, and all will be well."
"Then there is nothing more for you to do than hold yourself ready for the pleasures of the coming day," Gabriel said.
Toirealach rubbed his hands together. "Ah, what a grand feast you spread before us, my Prince! Blood and pain, and the deaths of children! Truly, you are the greatest of the Dark Court!"
Not yet, perhaps, Gabriel thought. But I will be.