October 27th, 1999 Cristos Reckoning.
A single light fell on center stage, and the crowd fell silent as the violinist emerged from the shadows and took his seat. He was a gaunt, frail-looking wisp of a man, with sallow skin and stringy blond hair that fell in long, natty tangles around his bestubbled face. His large, dark eyes sat in deep, hollowed sockets, his prominent brow veiling them in shadow. His shabby tweed suit was patched at the elbows, and his brown leather shoes were scuffed and coming apart at the seams.
The newcomers in the crowd cast uneasy glances at their companions. This was not what they had been expecting. There were street musicians in the Square who cut a more impressive figure than the poor wretch before them. Some of them shifted uncomfortably on the narrow wooden chairs, casting their eyes toward the exit. Those who had been here before paid them no mind, their eyes fixed on the stage in rapt attention.
The man on the stage cleared his throat and moved the microphone closer to his face. His voice had a worn, ragged edge that matched well with his appearance.
“Good evening,” he said, smiling briefly at the crowd. The effect was hideous, milk-white skin pulled taut over the cadaverous face. “For those of you who are new here, I apologize if my appearance is a bit … unusual. But regardless of what you may have been told, you didn't come here to see me. You didn't even come here to hear me. You came … for her.”
He held up the violin before the crowd. In contrast to the man who held it, the instrument had obviously been treated with exquisite care. It was clearly old, but its blood-red varnish gleamed under the spotlight, and not a speck of dirt could be seen upon its surface. A layman spotting it alongside other antiques might not appreciate the care and skill that had gone into its craftsmanship, but a man with any knowledge of the trade would have fallen on his knees and wept at the sight of it.
“This violin is over four hundred years old.” The violinist's eyes were alight with passion, like a man speaking of his beloved. “In her long life, she has passed through many hands, both fair and foul. Some of the greatest musicians in history have drawn the bow across her ancient strings, bringing forth melodies to make the angels of heaven weep. I know these things … because she has told me.”
Someone in the audience made a scoffing noise. Those around him hushed him forcefully.
The man on the stage turned his eyes in the direction of the sound, though no human eye could have seen the doubter's face through the glare of the spotlight. “Ah. A skeptic,” he said, smiling thinly. “Good sir, I do not blame you. I was once such as you myself: a scholar; a man of reason. And surely reason tells us that a mere object, a made thing of wood and metal, cannot speak.” The man's eyes widened with a fanatic's gleam, as he ran a caressing hand over the instrument. “But I will tell you a true thing, my friend: this fair lady remembers her history, and she shares it with those who have the ears to listen.”
The man raised the violin to his shoulder, placed the bow across the strings, and closed his eyes. For a moment his lips moved, silently, as if in prayer. Then, with sure, steady movements, he began to play.
The song was like nothing the crowd had heard anywhere else. The notes were clear, sweet and perfect, with a purity of tone that not one violin in ten thousand could produce. But the song was more than that. The song was pain, and loss, and sorrow, an anthem of unrelenting grief for which no words could be sufficient. In its strains the listeners heard the cry of the mother clutching her lifeless child; of the young woman whose husband never returned from war; of the father watching his son die of cancer; of the old man weeping at his wife's grave. It was the wordless cry of every man, woman and child who had ever shaken a fist at the uncaring universe, every stricken heart that had demanded an answer to the question, “Why?”, and was left unsatisfied.
When the song finally, mercifully ended, not a dry eye remained in the darkened hall. Many in the audience were sobbing openly. Those newcomers who still retained any sense of their surroundings were staring up at the man, their eyes wide with awe and a silent plea for understanding.
The man gave it to them. “I am not the master of this instrument,” he said. “The lady is her own mistress. I am only the channel through which she speaks. What you have heard tonight – what you will continue to hear – is not a performance, but a séance. In my … unworthy hands … she will tell you her story: Sorrow, pain, loss, truth, and beauty. This is not the work of one man; it is the story of all men, of all people everywhere, throughout her long history. Which means, of course, that it is also your story, and mine.”
He held up the violin once more. In the uncertain play of light and shadow, faces seemed to appear and vanish in the blood-red surface of the wood.
“Her name is Threnody,” he said. “And she has come to make you free.”
The man played for little more than an hour, in total, but none who listened would have said that it was too little. In his weathered hands, Threnody gave voice to each one's private pain, drawing it forth in ways that could not be suppressed or denied. Three times the man stopped and sat down on the stage, cradling Threnody in his arms while members of the audience came forward to share the stories that she had spoken to them in her music. There was the man who had lost his wife to a Street thug's bullet; there, the woman whose daughter had been struck by a skimmer; there, the boy whose mother had committed suicide. It was as if the instrument had known their pain and sung it back to them – and in hearing it, they found release. The songs told them that some force, some presence greater than themselves, had heard their pain and answered it. Though they still wept, the universe wept with them, and so they were no longer alone.
As they filed out of the dingy, first-level music hall, the change in the crowd was remarkable. People who had been strangers when they entered now embraced each other and wiped away one another's tears. Street-level hoods and disaffected teens from the upper levels exchanged friendly farewells, all differences of race and class forgotten. Men in business suits emptied their wallets to help homeless people whom they wouldn't have given a second glance two hours before.
None of them noticed the brown-haired, brown-eyed young woman who moved silently among them, her clothes and features utterly unremarkable in the midst of that diverse crowd. She slipped away unseen onto a shadowed side-street. She followed the narrow skyway into one of the adjacent towers. A large black skimmer waited for her in a hidden alcove just inside the gate.
The door opened for her, and she slid silently into the back seat. Radiant blue eyes glittered at her from the space beside her. “Report.”
“There's definitely something weird going on,” the woman said. “Psychometry, maybe? It's hard to tell. The energies in that room were like nothing I've felt before.”
The eyes narrowed. “I was hoping for more, Miss Preston.”
Abbey Preston threw up her hands in exasperation. “What do you want me to say, Janus? That he's a demon? A monster? Something you and Elemacil can solve with a quick decapitation?”
The corner of Janus's lip quirked upward. “If I believed that, I wouldn't have called you.”
“Well, he isn't a teep, either,” Abbey said. “He might be an esper, but if so, his power is passive. It doesn't explain what happens to people when he plays that thing.”
“And no record of magical talent, either,” Janus mused. “Which brings us back to the violin itself.”
“I wasn't able to get close enough to touch it,” Abbey said, a little apologetically. “He's very protective of it, which I guess I can understand.”
“Were you able to detect any malevolence from the instrument?”
“No, but that's not saying much. My ESP only works at really close range, and I can't read something's mind if it isn't alive.” She shook her head. “For what it's worth, though, I don't the guy is evil, or crazy. The people who left seemed … healed, somehow, by what he did.”
Janus Starson quirked an eyebrow. “Miss Preston, the Lothanasi have been tracking Isaac Wells across the Empire for the last seven months. At every new moon, someone who has heard his music dies under mysterious circumstances. Sometimes more than one. Shortly after that, Wells moves on to a new location – where the same thing happens again.” His eyes hardened. “This man is in my territory now. The new moon is in three days. We need to find out how he is connected to these deaths and put a stop to them before it happens again.”
“Believe me, I agree with you,” Abbey said. “I just don't think that Wells is the key to what's happening.”
Janus looked down at Elemacil, the holy sword that rested beside him in the space between the seats. He ran his hand over the sheath, and a dim red glow came from within as the Elven runes on the blade responded to his touch. “Then find the key for me, Miss Preston. Because if we don't find another way to stop it, then three days from now I'll have to destroy the instrument, and probably kill Wells. It's the only way to be sure.” His eyes met Abbey's, and for a moment she saw the pain in them, the burden that came with being entrusted with the power of life and death. “Find another solution, Miss Preston – for his sake, and for mine.”
It didn't take long for Abbey to locate the boarding house where Wells was staying. Threnody's music had left a trail of psychic effects on the whole surrounding neighborhood, and like ripples in a pond Abbey could follow them back to their source. It must have been a luxury home a hundred years ago, but as the first level declined it had apparently been divided up into ever-smaller rental units to serve the needs of the market. It was a place of long-faded elegance, like an old soldier who still wears the uniform with pride in spite of his own decrepitude. Abbey thought it suited him well.
The violinist was not playing when she approached the door to his room, a fact for which Abbey was grateful. Her own emotions were still raw from the night before. She reached out for his mind and made sure he was awake before she knocked on the door.
He did not respond immediately, though the wave of anxiety she felt told Abbey that he had heard her. After a moment she knocked again and asked, tentatively, “Doctor Wells?”
Now he came over to the other side of the door, moving with the cautious steps of a mouse in a house full of cats. She felt his surprise and curiosity as he looked through the peephole and saw her on the other side. After a moment's indecision, he opened the door.
If possible, he looked even more horrible than he had the night before. Dark, puffy bags swelled under his eyes, and his rumpled pajamas were stained and threadbare. He reeked of stale sweat and bad gin.
“Y-yes?” he asked. His voice was hoarse and quavered, as though from long disuse.
Abbey bowed to him in greeting. “Doctor Wells, may I speak with you? I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's urgent, and I think you might be the only one who can help me.”
At that he stood up a bit straighter. Abbey had been betting that a man of his generation would have a strong belief in the ideals of chivalry. It looked like he wasn't going to disappoint.
Wells stood aside, holding the door open for her. “Of course. Please, come in, child. Have a seat while I … while I make myself a bit more presentable.”
Abbey did as he asked, perching on the edge of an overstuffed sofa and looking around the room. The furnishings were serviceable but personal effects were sparse, clearly showing that this was a man who had traveled much and kept little to call his own. Threnody held pride of place, resting on a stand in one corner of the room. The violin's battered case sat beside the stand, along with assorted implements that Abbey supposed must be used to care for the instrument. A dozen or so books lined the shelves, the titles written in five or six different languages. All of them were bound in leather and looked far older than the man himself.
The sound of running water came from the little bathroom on the far side of the kitchen-cum-dining area. Abbey sent a tendril of thought in that direction, sensing the mixture of fear, suspicion, and shame that swirled through his mind. Holding all of them at bay was a tenuous alliance of personal honor and professional pride: If I can help this girl, I will.
She stole a glance at the violin. What were the odds that she could esp something useful from it while Wells was preoccupied? A brief touch, a scan with her talent, and she might learn everything they needed to know.
Or, she might not – and if he caught her, the betrayal of his trust would ruin any chance of gaining his help voluntarily. Besides, if it were something simple, the Lightbringers probably would have discovered it on their own. She stayed in her seat.
He emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, freshly shaved and smelling noticeably better. He wore a sweater of faded green and a surprisingly modern pair of khakis. His long hair, which in this light she could see was heavily streaked with gray, was pulled back into a ponytail. He smiled courteously at her.
“May I offer you some tea, Miss—?”
“Preston,” Abbey said. “And yes, tea would be wonderful, thank you.”
The man busied himself in the kitchen for a few minutes more, obviously pleased at the opportunity to play host – and more than a little surprised at himself for feeling that way. He brought out the teapot on a battered serving tray, with two chipped mugs, a small bowl of sugar and a little pitcher of cream. Abbey's surprise must have shown on her face. Wells smiled.
“A proper tea service is one of the things that separates us from the barbarians, my dear. Every great civilization throughout history has had a tea ritual of one kind or another. By it we show our respect for the ancient customs of hospitality.” He poured a cup for each of them, then gestured at Abbey's. “Cream? Sugar?”
Abbey smiled, charmed by the man's peculiar brand of courtesy. “Yes, please.”
He added cream and sugar to both of their cups, then waited for Abbey to sip and nod her approval before taking a sip of his own. He settled back in his chair, peering at her over the top of his cup. “Now, then, Miss Preston. How may I be of service to you?”
Abbey took another sip of her tea, then set it down, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Her request couldn't sound too rehearsed or it would arouse suspicion. “I was at the music hall last night. What you did with Threnody was amazing.”
He smiled, then acknowledged the compliment with a small nod. “Thank you, my dear. As I said, though, I am only a channel. The lady does the rest.”
“I remember,” Abbey said, nodding. “I was wondering, though … what makes someone a channel? Would she play like that for anyone who held her? Or is there something special that made her … choose you?”
The man's eyes grew distant, haunted. “She does not sing in the same way for everyone,” he said. “The last owner had no idea what he had. She had been abused, neglected … he gave her to his ten-year-old son, if you can imagine.” He looked at her, his dark eyes suddenly piercing in their intensity. “I do not know why she has chosen me. I merely serve her calling to the best of my ability.”
Abbey looked down at her teacup, averting her eyes from that discomfiting stare. “This may sound a little crazy … but have any other objects ever talked to you? Told you things about themselves, or the people who owned them?”
Wells set down his cup and leaned forward, peering at her closely. “This isn't about me, is it? You've experienced the phenomenon of which you speak.”
Abbey made no effort to hide her surprise. Wells might not be a telepath, but he was obviously perceptive. “I … yes.” She looked down at her teacup again, turning it back and forth in her hands. “I see shades sometimes. They're like … impressions that people have left on the things and places that mattered to them.”
It was the truth, but only a part of the truth. As for the rest of it – well, the Lightbringers paid her well for her silence. There were some things the world wasn't ready to know.
Wells nodded soberly. “The earth remembers us long after we are gone,” he said. “It is comforting, I think, to know that something in this world shall recall our passing, even if men should not.”
“Then you have experienced this before?” Abbey pressed.
The man looked down at his hands. He was silent for a long moment before speaking. “Sometimes I have felt impressions about objects I have touched … brief glimpses of some past life. A word … a scent … a scrap of memory, without context. The old places of power bring out those feelings the most: temples, summoning circles, druid groves. But nothing like what I have experienced with Threnody. She is … special. I'm not sure why.” He shook his head. “I am sorry, Miss Preston. If you are looking for understanding of your own gift, I fear I cannot help you. I do not even understand my own.”
“It's okay,” Abbey said. She reached across the table and gently touched his hand. He seemed surprised by the contact, but not displeased. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I think it helps, just knowing that we're not alone.”
He smiled up at her, genuine warmth filling his haggard face. “Perhaps it does, at that.”
Abbey looked over at the violin, then back at Wells. “Doctor, I was wondering … do you think that I could hold Threnody? Just for a few minutes?”
The smile drained from the man's face. A sudden terror sprang up in his aura, so strong that it nearly knocked Abbey back in her seat. He took a moment to compose himself, then answered, carefully, “I'm afraid that won't be possible, Miss Preston. I'm terribly sorry … but the lady does not take kindly to women touching her.”
Abbey blinked. “What? Why, what happens?”
A sudden chill filled the room, turning their breath to fog in front of their faces. The morning sunlight streaming through the windows abruptly vanished, casting the room into shadow. Abbey looked over at the violin once more. The darkness seemed to gather itself around the instrument, making that corner far darker than it had any reason to be. Something glinted in the blood-red surface of the wood: two brief pinpricks of light amidst the shadow, there and then gone.
“I think you should go now, Miss Preston,” Wells murmured.
Abbey was more than willing to oblige.
Isaac sat on the sofa, Threnody cradled in his hands. He closed his eyes and stroked the surface of the wood gently, murmuring reassurance.
"It's all right. She meant no harm."
She would have touched us. She would have put her filthy hands all over us.
"But she didn't," Isaac insisted. "She would have done as I asked."
She would have tried to deceive you. Tried to turn you against us. That's what they do. That's what they all do.
"She seemed a very proper young lady to me. I wish you hadn't made me send her away."
They're the worst kind. They're the ones who are hiding the most. Liars and back-stabbers, the lot of them.
"So you've said," Isaac sighed. "Still. I do wish you might reconsider. The work we do is important, but it's … very lonely, sometimes."
A whisper of wind passed through the room, carrying the scents of jasmine and cinnamon. Isaac did not open his eyes, but he felt the warmth of another body take shape on the couch beside him.
"My poor Isaac." A warm breath of cinnamon in his ear. A slender, long-fingered hand ran down the back of his neck and came to rest on his shoulder. "So faithful have you been in serving my needs, that I have forgotten your own."
Isaac squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly. "I … I am sorry, my lady. I shouldn't complain, I—"
"Shhh." A gentle finger touched his lips. "I am not angry, nor do I wish to be unkind." A feminine hand ran down his arm and carefully took the violin away from him. Isaac heard it settle into the display stand in the corner of the room.
Then she returned, her lithe body straddling his lap. Deft fingers opened his shirt, as lips trailed a line of kisses over his mouth, his cheek, his neck. Each touch of her skin on his was blissful agony, fire and ice and honey. He felt his own arousal rising, and the strings of the violin began to vibrate in sympathy.
"I … I shouldn't," he said — but he made no move to stop her as she loosened his belt and pulled down his pants and underwear.
"Nonsense." Bare flesh settled against his, and the touch was electric. He felt himself go rigid instantly. "You are my maestro, my chosen one. Nothing I can give is too good for you."
He felt control slipping away. He knew the price that this time of bliss would carry, but he no longer cared. He reached up and ran his gnarled hands over her warm, supple form, reveling in the touch. He ran his fingers through long, silky hair and drew her head down to him, kissing her passionately. Sharp canines nipped at his tongue, and the pain brought with it a new wave of pleasure. With a growl of desire, she raised her hips and impaled herself upon him.
"Say it," she whispered, as agony and ecstasy ran together in his perceptions. A clawed hand ran down his chest, slicing the flesh in long ribbons. A forked tongue snaked out and lapped up the blood, leaving trails of ice to follow the fire.
"You … are … my lady," he panted.
"And have you a need for any other? Is there any other who can give you what I give you?" She ground her hips against him, to emphasize the point.
"No," he gasped. "You are … my life … my song … my all…"
She kissed him again, and he tasted his own blood on her lips. "And so it shall ever be," she said.
For an hour she stayed with him, visiting such delights and tortures upon his body as he could scarcely have imagined in his youth. Through it all he reveled in her scent, her touch, the melody of her voice.
At no point did he open his eyes. Some things man was not worthy to look upon, and there was beauty that was too terrible to see.
Abbey was waiting outside the music hall when Wells arrived that night. She waved to him in greeting, and he answered the gesture with an upraised hand.
"Good evening," he said as he approached. "Miss … Preston, was it?"
Abbey nodded. "Good to see you, Professor. I apologize if I gave offense this morning." She carefully did not specify whether she meant to him, or to the violin.
"You did nothing wrong, my dear. Don't worry yourself about it." He stepped into the light of the street-lamp then, and it took all of Abbey's self-control not to gape at him. He looked like he had aged ten years overnight. The gray in his hair was more abundant than it had been even this morning. His skin was as pale and bloodless as a corpse. When he moved, it was with careful, deliberate steps, as if he did not trust his own legs to hold him. Still, for all that, he looked calm and focused — even content.
It took Abbey a moment to find her voice again. "Well … I'm glad everything's all right, then," she said at last. "Would you mind if I listen while you warm up tonight?"
"Not at all. Come, the manager will let us in the rear entrance."
Once inside, Abbey took a seat in the corner of the dingy practice room, between a mop and bucket and a stack of old placards for past performances. She watched as Wells rosined the bow and checked the tuning on Threnody's strings.
"It's funny," she said. "For some reason I thought that a magic instrument wouldn't need tuning."
Wells chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. "The lady isn't magic — or, at least, not in the sense that you mean. No wizard has placed an enchantment on her. The luthier who crafted her had extraordinary talent, but she must be cared for like any other violin."
Abbey frowned. "If that's true, then how does she…?" She gestured vaguely.
Wells looked down at the violin, running a loving hand over the surface of the wood. "I wish I had the words to explain it. I believe that she is … connected to another kind of power. Something older and greater than mortal magic." He looked up at Abbey. "Are you a Universalist, Miss Preston?"
Abbey shook her head. "Meraist. Well, sort of."
"Ahh." Wells tuned another string, then fell silent a moment before speaking. "There exists a primal form of energy that pervades the universe — a spiritual energy, you might call it. Universalists, such as myself, believe that this energy is the undifferentiated essence of the Creator — remnants of its being, scattered throughout the cosmos when it sacrificed itself to create the universe. I suppose that a Meraist might call it the Breath of Eli. We call it the Numen."
Abbey found herself leaning forward, perched on the edge of her seat. "And you think that Threnody is somehow connected to this Numen stuff?"
"It seems plausible. The Numen is the raw substance of creation; it cannot be tamed or commanded by human will, as mana can, yet it responds to us in strange and compelling ways. Some believe that the Dreamlands themselves owe their existence to the Numen: our fantasies and nightmares become real when touched by its power." He gestured down at the violin. "If the Numen can respond to our dreams, perhaps it responds to our pain, as well. Perhaps the universe recognized our suffering, and this fair lady became the vessel for its response."
Abbey nodded, but it was mostly to herself. Her mind was already mulling over other things she had seen and experienced, things that the Numen might be responsible for — if it was real, and not just the product of a troubled man's imagination. She resolved to ask Janus about it as soon as possible.
"Have I frightened you, my dear?"
Abbey looked up and blinked. "Sorry?"
"You look troubled," Wells said. "I hope I have not added to the burdens that already rest on those slim shoulders."
She forced herself to smile. "I'm all right. I just…" She hesitated.
"Yes?"
"I'm wondering what it does to a person, to channel that kind of energy." She gestured at his near-skeletal form. "No offense, Doctor Wells, but you don't look … healthy."
Wells gave her an ironic smile. "Indeed not, Miss Preston, but you needn't blame Threnody for that. With or without her, it would make little difference. I am dying."
"And that's all he said?"
Janus was pacing back and forth in a small hotel room across the street from Wells's boarding house. Abbey thought he looked like a caged lion: tremendous power, but no way to use it. No productive way, anyway.
"Pretty much," Abbey said. "I tried to get some details from him, but his thoughts were guarded and I didn't want to pry. Some kind of cancer, I think, but I can't be sure."
"Hm." Janus paused in front of the window and stared out of it for a long moment, brooding.
"What do you think about what he said?" Abbey asked. "About the violin being a link to the Numen?"
Janus snorted. "It's possible, but that doesn't tell us very much. The Numen is raw creative power, wild and unpredictable. No one understands it, least of all the creatures who are given life by it. That's the problem with blaming things on the Numen: it can explain anything, and therefore explains nothing. He may believe in this link, but I suspect he knows more than he told you." He paused. "You said that he looked sicker than ever. Did he still play as well as the night before?"
"As far as I could tell, yes."
"No signs of fatigue?"
"Not during the performance. He looked really tired afterwards, but that's just like it was yesterday."
Janus flexed his sword hand, clenching and unclenching it repeatedly. "It doesn't add up," he muttered.
Abbey sat up a bit straighter. "What doesn't?"
The Lightbringer left the window and resumed pacing. "The symptoms you've witnessed point to a very specific type of Outsider: a Leanan Sidhe."
Abbey cocked her head. "Is that a kind of faery?"
"Yes, one of the stronger breeds. They're drawn to artists, musicians, poets, tortured men with some substantial talent. The Leanan Sidhe offers them inspiration and companionship, but in exchange she feeds on their blood and takes their life force. Artists who gain one as a patron usually have short, brilliant careers ending in untimely deaths."
"And let me guess: They tend to pick people who are going to die young anyway."
Janus smirked. "When they can. They don't stay where they aren't wanted, but it's hard for most mortals to resist their charms. The Lothanasi … discourage them from taking advantage of young men who have their whole lives ahead of them."
Abbey spread her hands. "Well, obviously that's not an issue here. So what doesn't add up?"
"The deaths at the new moon. Leanan Sidhe aren't bound to a lunar cycle, and they only feed on one person at a time. They're also very committed to making sure that their artists become successful. Killing off members of the audience runs counter to that."
"Maybe she's jealous?" Abbey suggested. "He did say that Threnody doesn't like women touching her. How many of the people who died were women?"
Janus pulled a notepad from his pocket and consulted it. “Ten out of the fifteen that we know of. There may be others, of course, that we haven't gotten word of yet. We didn't become aware of the connection to Wells until a few weeks ago, so we've had to construct much of the information after the fact.”
Abbey grimaced. “Two thirds. Not exactly overwhelming evidence for the 'jealous lover' theory.”
“It doesn't fit, anyway,” Janus said, putting away the pad. “Leanan Sidhe aren't threatened by mortals; they have no reason to be. No mortal woman is ever going to be able to compare to one of the High Fae."
Janus finally came over and sat down in the other chair. Elemacil lay on the coffee table in front of him, and he took it up with the same reverence that Abbey had seen Wells show toward Threnody. The Lightbringer ran his fingers over the pommel, apparently lost in thought — or maybe communing with the sword. There was an intelligence there, but nothing that Abbey's power could touch.
"Maybe this Leanan Sidhe is crazy," Abbey said, after a long moment. "Is that possible?"
The blond man grimaced. "By human standards, all Fae are insane. The question is whether her insanity is substantially different from that of her sisters." He looked up at Abbey, but his eyes were distant.
"We're missing a piece, aren't we," Abbey said.
"I believe so, yes." His eyes focused on her, and a glimmer of blue fire shone within them. "I'll have our research division take another look at the death records. See if they have anything in common that would explain why the Leanan Sidhe might kill them. In the meantime, I need you to try to make contact with her. If the violin is her link to Wells, then your gift is our best chance to reach her."
A chill ran down Abbey's spine. "Wells seemed to think that was a really bad idea."
"It isn't my first choice, either," Janus said grimly. "But we need answers, and I don't think we're going to be able to answer them unless we can talk to the faery."
"And what if she's not willing to talk?"
Janus shrugged fractionally. "Then I'll have to kill her. But I'd prefer to solve this without, as you say, a quick decapitation."
Abbey sighed. "All right. I'll try it." And hope that Wells's muse is in a friendly mood.
Abbey was feeling drained after hearing Threnody's performance for a second night in a row. Her own sorrows were plentiful, and she found the violin's power to be less comforting than many in the audience did. She wanted to go home to her family, go to sleep and forget about the whole business until morning, but time was short and she was still on the clock. After Janus left the hotel room, Abbey lay down on the bed and slipped into her lucid dreaming state. This was one of her special gifts as a telepath, a form of astral projection that let her walk the borders between the physical world and the realms beyond. There were many things that haunted that liminal state between life and death, waking and dreaming, reality and imagination, and Abbey was adept at finding them.
Actually dealing with them was another matter entirely, but it wasn't as if she and Janus had a lot of options at this point. Her dream-form rose from the bed, leaving her sleeping body behind, and headed out into the hallway.
The hotel was old and full of shades. They whispered and reached out to her as she passed, dimly sensing that here was someone who could see them and would hear their story. They told her of drug overdoses and accidental shootings, of jealous wives and bathtubs full of blood. She ignored them all, brushing through their clutching hands like wisps of fog. These were only the memories of departed souls, not the souls themselves. They were harmless, and the mundanes who stayed here would never even know they were there — except, perhaps, on the night of the new moon, when the veils grew thin between the worlds.
Abbey exited the building and walked across the skyway to the boarding house. The house was different in her dream-sight: it looked like a proud mansion at the height of elegance, with fine paintings and sculptures and polished marble floors. Abbey could imagine this place hosting cocktail parties and masquerade balls, where men and women of the nobility celebrated their own prosperity and the end of the great wars that had torn the world apart at the end of the last century. The halls were quiet now, though, and she saw no images of the decadent, self-satisfied revels that must have filled this place at the height of its splendor. The shades here were quiet and skittish, peeking out at her through mirrors and picture frames. They did not speak, did nothing to draw attention to themselves. A silent dread filled the house, as if the shades somehow knew that something terrible dwelt among them.
Abbey found it difficult to navigate through the building, since many of the walls and doors that she had seen when she was here yesterday were not present in the dream-house. She reached out for Wells's mind and found it, then used it as a homing beacon as she passed down long corridors and up grand, spiraling staircases.
The place that had become his flat was a child's bedroom in the original mansion, a fact made clear by the bright colors of the walls and rugs and the many toys that lay scattered around the room. There was no sign of the children themselves; if there were any shades here, they were even more deeply in hiding than the others in the house.
Wells lay sleeping in the far corner, his modern, full-sized bed oddly juxtaposed with the rest of the room's contents. His aura glowed around him, a pale blue light tarnished with patches of sickly yellow-green. Abbey supposed that was the cancer slowly spreading through his body, consuming him from the inside out.
As she looked more closely, she saw a third force acting within his aura: an emerald green energy, subtle but powerful. It wrapped itself around his brain and heart, like a vine growing around the trunk of a tree. It also sent out “roots” that buried themselves in the yellow-green energy of the cancer, and in those places the sickly light was weaker and seemed to advance more slowly on the surrounding blue. Abbey realized that the vines, whatever they were, were feeding selectively on the rampant, out-of control life force of the cancer. Like the death-aspected mana therapy used to treat cancer in modern hospitals, the vines were prolonging Wells's life by hurting the disease more than they hurt the host.
Abbey looked around for the violin, wondering if she would see lines of green energy tracing from it to Wells. She didn't. In the corner where the instrument should have sat was bathed in shadows, a swirling pool of darkness that hid everything within it. Abbey concentrated, and her third eye opened, releasing a beam of cool blue-white radiance into the gloom.
The effect was not what she anticipated. Normally her soul-light was enough to dispel any darkness she encountered on the dream-plane. This time the darkness responded like a living thing, recoiling from her light as if burned. It pooled behind the violin to form a deeper, darker shadow, one that licked up the edges of the wood like fire before shrinking away again with an angry hiss. Red pinpricks of light glared at her balefully from the shadows, fierce and resentful.
Cautiously, Abbey drew closer. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't want to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
A chorus of whispers came up from the shadows behind the violin. The light. The light. It hurts. It burns us. Put it out, put it out.
“All right,” Abbey said soothingly. “I'll put the light away now. Look.” She closed her third eye with a thought, and the shadows swept out to surround the violin once more, hiding it from view. The darkness crept within a decimeter of Abbey's dream-self, and she took a step back, feeling uneasy.
“See?” she said, putting on a smile that felt ridiculously fake. “That's better now, right?”
The whispers began again, dozens of them, all saying different things. Abbey couldn't understand most of them, but one stood out more loudly than the others. Why are you here, little girl? The voice was dry, wheezy, and full of suspicion.
Abbey bowed, then spoke in a carefully formal tone. “I wish to speak with the fair lady who has blessed Isaac Wells with her gifts and her power. Do I have the honor of addressing her?”
The darkness around the violin muttered with agitation. A cool breeze blew through the room, carrying the scents of cinnamon and jasmine. A bright emerald light appeared behind Abbey and then vanished, as if someone had opened a door and stepped through it.
“I am she.” The woman's voice was rich and sensual, and it carried an air of unquestionable authority. Abbey turned to face her, and was struck dumb by the beauty of the creature before her. The finely-sculped lines of her features, the shocking crimson of her hair, the flawless alabaster skin, all embodied a feminine perfection so complete that Abbey wept at the sight of it. She was sure that, ever after, the humans she saw would all seem like crude and unfinished sketches in comparison with this one masterpiece. She fell to her knees, overwhelmed.
The faery's emerald, catlike eyes glittered with amusement. “You wished to speak to me, mortal? Speak, then.” She smiled, showing long, pointed canines. “Your strange talents have aroused my interest.”
Abbey trembled, suddenly terrified at the thought that this creature was interested in her. She opened her mouth to speak, but words fled her.
The faery sighed and rolled her eyes, but even in this Abbey sensed that she was pleased. The sidhe enjoyed the effect she had on mortals, even if it was sometimes inconvenient. “Oh, very well,” she said. “For the sake of your feeble eyes, I shall garb myself in glamour.”
She gestured with one clawed hand, and suddenly her radiant beauty had diminished to something bearable. She now looked merely like the most striking Elf-maid that Abbey had ever seen: captivating, but no longer devastating in her beauty. Abbey let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said, her voice coming out ragged. “You are kind, to be so … patient with my weakness.”
“I am indeed kind, when it suits me,” the lady said. She gestured for Abbey to rise, and Abbey did so. “Now speak, child. What would you have of me?”
Abbey thought carefully before speaking. She'd never had any dealings with faeries before, but she knew that it was dangerous to ask them for favors. Even something as simple as answering a question could create a bond of obligation between them.
“I have questions that I think you could answer,” Abbey said. “Important questions about Dr. Wells and that violin.”
“Mmm.” The Leanan Sidhe sat down on the edge of Wells's bed, stroking his cheek with an idle hand as she did so.
“Would you … be willing to answer my questions?” Abbey asked.
“I might. What are the answers worth to you?”
Abbey hesitated. “I would not want to offer you something unless it was of value to you,” she said. “Do you … have any suggestions?”
The Fae woman smiled mischievously. “I would be willing to answer all of your questions in exchange for your name.”
Abbey winced. “I'm sorry, my lady, but I mustn't give you that.” Abbey was no expert on magic, but she knew what a faery could do with someone's name, given from her own lips.
The Leanan Sidhe sighed. “Pity. It has been centuries since I've had a proper name to play with.” She tapped two fingertips on her lips, apparently thinking. “Ah! What about … a song?”
Abbey frowned. “A song, milady?”
“Yes, a song!” The faery's eyes had lit up with the idea, and she showed Abbey a feral grin. “Give me a song, and I shall answer three of your questions.”
“I'm not much of a singer,” Abbey admitted.
The sidhe waved off the objection. “I am not concerned with your level of talent. But it must be a song that is meaningful to you. That is what gives it power.”
Abbey thought about it a moment, then nodded. “All right. There's a lullaby that my mother used to sing to me when I was a little girl.”
The faery's grin broadened. “Perfect.” She sat back against the headboard and folded her hands in her lap, giving Abbey her full attention.
Tentatively, Abbey opened her mouth and sang. It was a simple melody, one that she had heard many times in the years before her parents died. It was one of the few memories she still had of her mother, and she had clung to it like a talisman during long, lonely nights in the Westfall crèche. She had sung it to her unborn daughter, until Victor's madness had taken her from Abbey. She had sung it to the children in her breeding cell countless times to lull them to sleep at night. It was a song as close to her as her own heartbeat.
Yet, as soon as she had finished singing it to the Leanan Sidhe, Abbey could no longer recall a single note or word of it.
The Fae woman closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if breathing in the scent of something delicious. After a moment she opened her eyes and fixed them on Abbey. Her gaze looked more feral and inhuman than ever.
“That was lovely, child. I thank you.” She gestured in an invitation to Abbey. “Now then: What are your questions?”
Abbey shook with suppressed rage – and more than that, with terror. She was one of the most powerful telepaths that Metamor had ever seen, and this … creature … had taken her mother's song from her so quickly that Abbey hadn't even felt it happening.
She had been told that faeries were dangerous. She had never known how dangerous until that moment.
She would choose her questions very, very carefully.
Janus came into the ops center at Lothanasi HQ, his hair still damp from his post-patrol shower. That was driven by necessity, not vanity: his uniform repelled blood, ichor and most of the other byproducts of his work on the Street, but his skin and hair were not so fortunate.
Candace was still working at the main control console, a cup of tea steaming beside her. The two-storey holographic display in front of her showed location tracking and vital signs for each of the Lightbringer agents currently on patrol in the city. Three supplementary displays were filled with background data of one kind or another.
“It's late,” Janus said, coming up behind her. “You should be in bed.”
Candace shot him a look over her shoulder, her hazel eyes sparkling with wry amusement. “You're one to talk. Gillian's out sick tonight, so I'm taking half her shift and Kyle's taking the other.”
Janus frowned. “No one told me about that.”
“Because, O fearless leader, you have more important things to worry about,” Candace said. She spun her chair around and put a gentle hand on his arm. “You take care of the monsters. I take care of keeping the place running. It's a good system, don't mess with it.”
Janus gave her a small nod and a brief smile. “All right.”
Candace's hand lingered where it touched him, and he found that he felt no desire to pull away. He wasn't sure what he did want, though, and Candace did not risk impropriety by taking things further. The moment lasted long enough to be awkward, until finally she cleared her throat and turned back to the computer terminal.
“Here's something you'll want to see,” she said. “Research Division dug up some more information on the Wells case.”
“Ah, excellent,” Janus said, relieved at the shift back to business. “Did they find any possible motive for the deaths?”
“Some of them, maybe.” Candace called up records on the fifteen victims and spread them out over the display in front of them. “One of them is the prior owner of the violin. He got himself into some financial trouble and had to pawn the instrument to get out of it. He died of a brain aneurysm two weeks later, on the night of the new moon.” She smirked. “I guess Threnody has abandonment issues.”
“Had Wells purchased the violin by then?” Janus asked.
“No, he's in the clear on that one. It was another month and a half before the loan came due and the pawnbroker put it up for sale. Wells bought it a month after that.”
Janus grunted. “Were there any other deaths in the intervening months, between when it was pawned and when Wells began using it?”
“Not that we've been able to tie to the case. And before you ask, neither the previous owner nor anyone in his family was known for having much musical talent. No virtuosos here.”
“Which means it's not very likely that the Leanan Sidhe would have been interested in them,” Janus said, following her train of thought. “Puzzling, but good work. What else do you have?”
“Four of the dead had police records for theft, burglary or assault. They probably saw Threnody in concert and thought they could steal the magic fiddle for themselves.”
Janus almost felt satisfied at that. “Cause of death?”
“Three of them due to blood loss from severed arteries. One due to having his head removed.” Candace looked up at him grimly. “Remind me to never get on a Leanan Sidhe's bad side.”
“I hope we can avoid it,” Janus said, in all honesty. “Any others?”
“Three of them were wealthy individuals who tried to buy the violin. There may have been more, but those are the ones we know about. Wells turned them all down, but maybe Threnody still felt threatened.” Candace shrugged. “The rest were just fans of the music, as far as we can tell. They came to repeat showings and talked to a lot of their friends about what was happening at the concerts. At least some of them offered to sleep with Wells, but so far we haven't heard of him actually accepting from any of them.”
Janus nodded thoughtfully. “And these … 'fans.' They were all women?”
“Yup. Wells wasn't kidding when he told Abbey that Threnody hates girls.”
Janus sank into the seat next to her, grumbling. “It still doesn't add up,” he said irritably. “Why on Earth would a Leanan Sidhe be threatened by a bunch of…”
“Groupies?” Candace suggested. Janus gestured to her, accepting the term. “I wondered about that, too — which is why I'm working with Research Division to dig into the history of that violin before it went to the pawn shop. Hopefully we'll turn up something that explains how Threnody works, and why she's got such a mad-on toward the better half of the species.”
Janus stared at her a moment, then grinned. “Whatever we're paying you, it isn't enough.”
Candace smiled back at him. “I'll be sure to give myself a raise on our next budget cycle. Now go get some sleep and let me work.”
As he rode the lift up to his quarters, Janus thought about their bizarre findings on the Wells case. He couldn't believe that the faery would kill all of those women simply because they had showed so much interest in Wells and his violin. If anything, the sidhe should have been thanking them for spreading the word about her chosen one. Instead, they had died…
…after showing a stronger-than-normal interest in Wells and Threnody. Just as Abbey Preston was doing right now.
Janus stopped the lift and pushed the button for the garage. It might be nothing, but an intuition was taking shape at the back of his mind, and he had learned that it was wise to listen to those impressions. He would stop by Preston's hotel room to check on her, one last time before daylight. You couldn't be too careful when you were dealing with faeries.
The faery left her alone for an hour to consider her questions, for which Abbey was grateful. She returned to her physical body and puzzled over possible questions on a sheet of hotel paper. With only three of them, she didn't want to waste any — especially given what they had cost her.
Some questions she was able to discard immediately. She would not ask if the Leanan Sidhe was helping to keep Wells alive; it was the only thing that made sense, given that he had lasted this long without any apparent medical treatment. Granted, she was also sucking out his life force, and something had happened last night that had aged him a great deal, but that look at Wells's aura told Abbey that he was probably going to live longer with the faery than without her.
She also would not ask why the Fae woman had chosen Wells, or why she chose to heal people through his music. If Janus was correct, and all faeries were insane by human standards, then her reasoning might not make any sense to Abbey anyway.
Abbey decided that she and Janus really needed to know four things: whether the violin's power was inherently harmful, why Threnody was killing people, whether Wells was complicit in the killings, and whether she could be persuaded to stop. On further reflection, she added a fifth item: they needed to know whether Threnody was responsible for all of the deaths that had been attributed to her. The Leanan Sidhe was undoubtedly dangerous, but it was just possible that she wasn't actually guilty of this particular set of crimes, and Abbey wasn't the least bit interested in picking a fight with the creature if she didn't have to. She couldn't ask everything she needed to, but in the end she decided on a strategy to get as much information out of the faery as possible.
She dream-walked back to Wells's flat and found the Leanan Sidhe waiting for her. She was reclining on an elaborately-carved settee that would have fit in well in the lower parts of the mansion, but which looked odd and out of place among the children's toys.
“Have you chosen your questions, mortal?” she asked.
“Yes, milady,” Abbey said, bowing low.
The Leanan Sidhe gestured expansively. “Ask, then, and I shall answer.”
“My first question: When Dr Wells plays the violin, it seems to echo people's pain — but the violin isn't magical. How does that work?”
The Fae woman seemed surprised by the question, but also pleased; it put Abbey in mind of a professor being asked to expound upon her area of research. “The violin sings the pain of lost souls,” she said. “In the maestro's hands, under my tutelage, it can call forth the sorrows of the dead. The anguish of the living heart resonates in sympathy with the song, and so you perceive the sorrow as your own.”
Abbey nodded thoughtfully. There were a lot of follow-up questions she could ask about that, but she had too much other ground to cover. “Second question: I would like to know which people you have killed in the last year of mortal time, and why you killed them.”
The sidhe's lips parted in a sharp-toothed smile. “Those could be considered two separate questions, child — but very well. The song you gave me was sweet, and so I shall not quibble.”
Abbey sighed in relief. After a moment's thought, the faery spoke again; idly, as if running through a list that bore very little interest to her.
“Let me see,” she said. “Two men I killed when they laid their hands upon my maestro in a violent and unseemly manner. One I slew for threatening him with a … a pistol, I believe they are called. Is that the word?”
Abbey nodded.
“A fourth was a thief. He entered the maestro's home on a moonless night and would have stolen his instrument. I killed him quietly so my beloved would not be woken. The fifth and sixth were a pair of lutins who sought to force themselves upon a young woman I had heard singing once in a choir. I happened to be passing by and recognized her voice, and so I rescued her. The seventh and last was my former beloved, a painter from the land of Tourne; his heart failed as I rode him to the heights of pleasure.” She sighed fondly. “With his last breath he called my name in ecstasy. I miss him still.”
Abbey shivered, which was unusual in dream form. Still, the list was shorter than she had expected. Thinking back through the faery's account, only four of her kills had anything to do with Wells. None of the deaths could be considered unjustified — except for the painter's, and he'd chosen that fate himself. That left eleven names on Janus's list.
“Third question,” Abbey said. “There were other people who died after hearing Dr Wells play, always on the night of the new moon. If you didn't kill those people, who did?”
The faery rose from her couch, her face darkening. Abbey took an involuntary step back. The settee vanished in a flash of light as soon as the Fae woman left it.
“ 'If I did not kill them'?” she said, her voice cold. “I do not appreciate you questioning my word, mortal. I am Fae, and the Fae do not lie.”
Abbey fell to her knees, her heart quailing. “Forgive me, my lady,” she said, her voice shaking. “It is only a human figure of speech. I did not mean to give offense.”
The Leanan Sidhe's eyes burned into her for a long moment. “Very well,” she said. “It is forgiven. As to your answer: the others you speak of were slain by Threnody.”
Abbey stared at her in confusion. “But … wait … you mean, you're not Threnody?”
The faery let out a derisive snort. “Three questions you have asked of me, mortal, and three have I answered. Unless you give me your name in payment, I shall answer no more.”
A gust of wind blew through the room, and the faery vanished in the blink of an eye. Abbey turned and looked at the corner of the room where the violin sat, still surrounded by living shadows.
“Threnody killed them,” Abbey murmured. She stepped a few paces closer to the instrument, then looked back over her shoulder at the spot where the Fae woman had vanished. “But if she's not Threnody…” She looked back at the violin. “Threnody?” she asked.
A chorus of whispers answered her. Again, most of them were indistinct, but one rose out more clearly among the others. So we have been named.
“ 'We,' ” Abbey said, mostly to herself. “But who's 'we'?”
A low hiss came from the shadows around the violin. Nosy girl. Nosy. Nosy. The shadows grew, flowing up the walls and across them until they formed a broad barricade that blocked the door. Too many questions.
Abbey took a step back, then another, as the shadows grew to surround her on three sides. Red eyes burned in the darkness, and white light glinted off of what might have been teeth.
She was frightened, but not nearly as much as when she faced the Leanan Sidhe. She kept her wits about her and opened her third eye, sending a blast of soul-light directly into the wall of shadows. The creature screamed and shrank back, and Abbey bolted through the now-exposed door. She ran as fast as thought could carry her, out through a mansion that rattled and shook around her. The sound of claws scrabbling against floors and the crash of broken china came from behind her. The front doors opened before her and she raced across the skyway and back to the hotel. The shades bolted for cover as she approached, and from the expressions on their faces she knew that the thing was still following her. Faster and faster she ran, desperation driving her onward. The touch of ice licked at her heels. Hisses and snarls came from somewhere close behind her ears. Up the stairs, three at a time, as they rattled and shook with the great weight of the thing that pursued her. Now at the door to her room, she burst through and dove for her sleeping body, dimly aware of the bright lights that filled the space and the man waiting beside her with a flaming sword in hand—
Abbey sat bolt-upright on the bed, gasping for breath. Janus was there at the doorway, his holy symbol in one hand and Elemacil in the other. Light poured forth from blade and twin-cross alike, as a wispy and insubstantial mass of dark fog tried to push its way inside.
“Autalye!” Janus shouted, swinging Elemacil in a broad arc. The fog parted where he touched it, and Abbey heard a shriek of pain in her mind. “Autalye, moreri!”
The shadow fled, backing away into the hall and then evaporating. The Elven runes that had been glowing red died down to orange, then yellow, then nothing.
Janus closed the hotel room door and drew a sign of warding over it. The lines glowed blue-white for a moment, then faded into invisibility. He turned to face her, and the muscles in his jaw jumped in obvious tension.
“Get some rest,” he said. “And this time stay put. We'll talk in the morning.”
Wordlessly, Abbey nodded. She fell back against the pillow and collapsed into a sleep that was, mercifully, dreamless.
When Abbey awoke, Janus was sitting in a chair next to the coffee table. He was speaking quietly into his earpiece and making notes on his pad as he did so. He must have sensed her eyes on him, because he looked up at her almost immediately.
“Preston's awake,” he said. “I'll check in after I debrief her. Thanks again, Candace.” He tapped a button on his earpiece, then nodded to Abbey. “Good morning.”
“Thanks to you,” Abbey said, putting her hands behind her head and arching to stretch the muscles in her back. “I don't want to think about what could have happened if that thing had caught me.”
“I have a few suspicions,” Janus said grimly. “But first, tell me what you learned.”
Abbey ran through the story of her encounters with the Leanan Sidhe and the thing that lived in the violin. Janus listened intently throughout, making notes on his pad as she spoke.
“So,” he said, when she had finished. “We have a violin that channels the suffering of the dead. A man with enough latent psychic talent to understand the instrument's potential. A faery who uses her Art to enhance the man's native talent while feeding on his life force, which incidentally slows the advance of his cancer and allows him to continue in his work. And then we have … this.” He gestured at the door where he had stopped the shadow's advance. “A host of tortured spirits, drawn to the violin and bound by its power.” He tapped his pen once against the pad, a short and irritated gesture. “That explains the new moon killings. It's the only time of the month when they can manifest strongly enough to harm a person in the flesh.”
“I don't get it,” Abbey said. “Why are they so protective of the violin when it's feeding on their pain?”
Janus shrugged one shoulder. “People want to be understood. They want their pain to be acknowledged by others. Why do you think so many come to hear Wells play?”
Abbey nodded, conceding the point. “So the ghosts are getting the same thing out of the concerts that the humans do: they feel like someone understands their suffering. But when someone tries to take the violin away from Wells, or gets more interested in the messenger than the message—”
“Exactly,” Janus said. “They become jealous. They lash out. And when they're done, another spirit is added to the mob.”
“So how did this get started?” Abbey asked. “I sensed one voice inside Threnody that seemed to be stronger than all the others. Do you think that was the first spirit to bond to the violin?”
“Almost certainly. Candace found something interesting when she looked into the history of the instrument.” He took out his earpiece and pressed a button on the side. “Candace? Please tell Ms Preston what you just told me.”
Candace's voice came out of a speaker on the side of the earpiece, surprisingly loud and clear. “There are still some big gaps in the chain of ownership, but I think we found the record of when this thing was made. The violin matches the style of a luthier named Emilio Venturi, 1507 to 1549. From 1541 until his death he crafted the Divinities, a set of eighteen violins that were supposedly the greatest ever made without the use of magic. Each of the eighteen was named for one of the gods, and they were supposed to be able to call up the emotions connected to that deity when they were played.”
“Wow,” Abbey said. “So which one was Threnody?”
“None of them; all eighteen are accounted for,” Candace said. “Four were destroyed, three are held by private collectors, and the rest are in museums.”
“So he made another one that wasn't part of the series?”
“Yep. In 1543 Venturi's wife committed suicide. Nobody knows why. Apparently Venturi went nuts for a while: locked himself in his workshop, wouldn't talk to anybody. He stopped working on the Divinities and made another violin for his dead wife. Said it would be her voice from beyond the grave. The violin had a strange red color when it was finished, and some people said he used his wife's blood in the varnish.”
Abbey shuddered. “Whatever he did, I guess it worked.”
“He had help,” Candace said dryly. “Venturi died three months shy of his forty-second birthday, which was young even for back then. They say he aged rapidly while he was working on the Divinities, and died only a month after finishing the last of them. His funeral was attended by a tall Elven woman with red hair and green eyes.”
“And Elves don't have red hair,” Janus said grimly. “Three guesses as to who she was.”
“The Leanan Sidhe,” Abbey sighed. “No wonder she's interested in the violin; she helped make it.”
“And it explains why the violin is able to capture souls without appearing to be magical,” Janus said. “The faery wasn't drawing on mortal magic when she and Venturi made it; she was drawing on the Numen.”
Abbey and Janus looked at each other.
“We have all the pieces now,” Abbey said. “Except one: why did … Candace, what was Venturi's wife's name?”
“Rosanna,” Candace said.
“Why did Rosanna kill herself?” Abbey spread her hands in front of her. “Her spirit's the key to the whole thing, I can feel it. If I can get through to her, separate her out from that … that monstrosity that she's gotten turned into, maybe I can untangle the whole mess and get those spirits moved into the afterlife where they belong.”
Janus stroked the stubble on his chin. Abbey had never seen him with stubble before. She didn't think it suited him. “Candace, what's the projection if we destroy the violin?”
“Not great,” Candace said glumly. “Our diviners give us a forty percent chance that the spirits get released to the afterlife, a forty percent chance that they find something new to attach themselves to, and a twenty percent chance that the spirits go revenant and try to kill us all.” She paused, then added, “No bets on what the faery will do. She might not care, or she might wreak vengeance on you and yours for the next ten generations. Hard to say.”
“What about containment?” Abbey asked. “Could you throw it in a vault or something?”
“Maybe, but that only delays the problem,” Janus said. “I don't want to bury the violin for another four hundred years and risk someone forgetting why we held on to the thing.” He added, in a softer voice, “Besides, there are the spirits themselves to consider. They're being held captive by a force they don't understand that does nothing but remind them of their pain. They deserve to be set free.”
Abbey looked at Janus with newfound respect. “For once, I agree with you completely,” she said. “Now, let's figure out how to save them — preferably without getting me killed in the process.”
When Isaac Wells opened the door to his flat, Abbey thought he was actually going to run for it. The thought certainly passed through his mind, and Abbey couldn't blame him for it. Janus cut an impressive figure in his Lothanasi uniform, the spellweave fabric glistening white in the dim light of the hallway. The golden insignia of the twin cross on his sleeves left no doubt about who Wells was dealing with.
“Dr Isaac Wells?” Janus said.
The aging man stared him for two full seconds, then slumped, defeated. He sighed. “Yes, agent. I suppose you'll want to come in, then.”
“If you would be so kind. There are some urgent matters we would like to discuss with you.”
Wells shot a look at Abbey. The sense of betrayal he felt was obvious, but Abbey met his eyes without flinching.
“Please, Professor,” she said. “You need to hear this.”
He looked at her a moment longer, then back at Janus. His back straightened a little, as he tried to recover some of his dignity. “Very well, then.”
He opened the door and stood aside. Janus went in first and circled the sitting area, laying down a set of iron nails and drawing signs of warding between them with his fingertips. The sigils glowed blue-white against the wooden floor as Wells and Abbey took seats opposite each other.
“What is he doing?” Wells murmured, as Janus drew a more elaborate set of symbols around Threnody's display stand. These were interspersed with silver coins about the size of a quarter-mark, with the symbol of the twin cross engraved on them. Abbey didn't sense any reaction from the violin, but that was not particularly surprising; it was about noon, and the spirits would be at their weakest.
“Just making certain that we are not interrupted,” Janus said, as he laid the last of the symbols and took the seat next to Abbey. “There are facts of which your mistress might prefer that you remain unaware.”
Wells's eyes widened. Abbey could see him consider denying everything, but he must have realized that playing dumb would be useless. “What do you know about her?” he asked.
“I think that first we'd better hear what you know about her,” Abbey suggested. So we can figure out how guilty you actually are.
Wells looked down at his hands. It took him a few seconds to find his voice. “She … came to me in my dreams, at first,” he said. “About a week after the doctors diagnosed that my … illness was terminal. She told me that I had a great gift … one that I could use to do great things, with her help. She showed me a picture of this pawn shop near the university. That's where I found her.” He looked up at them, and Abbey could see the tears in his eyes. “Understand, I've been playing the violin my whole life. For a while I tried to make a career of it, but—” He sighed. “The opportunities were never there. I ended up as a professor of music history instead. Most of the time I enjoyed it, but … I always wanted to be the one in front of the audience. Musicians could stir people's hearts, make them feel. As a professor, all I could do was engage their minds…” A mirthless laugh. “And often not even that. The lady promised to change that … and she did.”
Abbey looked over at Janus, but the Lightbringer was still gazing intently at Wells. “What did you give her in exchange?”
Wells wrung his hands. “Well, she wanted an audience, of course. The work had to have my undivided attention. I retired from the university, sold most of what I owned, and went where she led me. I was already almost broke from the doctor bills, so it wasn't as if there was much holding me down.” He shrugged. “We'd come to a new city, play for a few weeks, and I'd save for my next train ticket. When she said it was time to move on, we moved on.”
“Did she ask you for anything else?” Janus pressed.
Wells hesitated. “During the first few concerts, the response from the audience wasn't as great as I'd been hoping for. I could see the potential, I could feel it when I played, but somehow it wasn't reaching the people in the seats. I thought there was something wrong with me. She said there wasn't, but that we weren't as close as we needed to be. She said she needed to know me better if we were going to work well together. So she … asked for my name.”
From the way he said it, Abbey could tell that he knew how dangerous it was. Even if he hadn't known he was dealing with a faery, giving your name to any kind of supernatural creature was just asking for trouble.
“This was my lifelong dream,” he said, his tone pleading. “I was already dying, and I'd done so little in my life that felt like it mattered to anyone. So what if I gave her a mortgage on my soul? What had I ever done with it that was worth a damn?” He shook his head. “She gave me the chance to help people. I took it.”
Silence fell across the table for a long moment.
“Dr Wells,” Janus said. “Are you aware that your instrument has been connected to the deaths of fifteen people over the past year?”
Wells stared at him. “Fifteen?” he whispered. “I … She killed to protect me, a few times. Violent men, criminals. I never reported it to the police because I was afraid they'd take her away from me. But not fifteen, not that many!”
“You're right,” Abbey said quickly. “I spoke to your lady last night, while you slept. She admitted to killing four men who tried to hurt you. But the lady who appears to you in your dreams isn't Threnody — and Threnody has secrets she hasn't told you.”
Wells looked back and forth between her and Janus. “Perhaps you had better tell me your side of the story now.”
Janus glanced at Abbey, his eyes questioning. Abbey nodded. “He really doesn't know,” she said.
Together, they told Wells what they had learned about the history of the violin and the spirits bound to it. The old professor listened with increasing anxiety. By the time they finished, his hands were shaking.
“I had no idea,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on the violin where it stood in the corner. “I'd always suspected Threnody was a Venturi violin; all the signs were there. But to think that he would imprison his own wife's spirit, in some kind of twisted homage to her…”
“To be fair, he probably didn't know that was how it worked,” Abbey said. “He just wanted a way to give voice to his wife's pain, and the Leanan Sidhe knew how to do it. Faeries have a habit of twisting people's wishes around.”
“Including mine,” Wells muttered. He blinked the tears out of his eyes, then looked back at Janus. “How can we make this right, Agent Starson?”
“I don't know if we can,” Janus admitted. “Ms Preston needs to make contact with the spirit of Rosanna Venturi and find out how to release her. It's likely that the bond between her and the violin is what is holding the other spirits in place. Free her and the others should follow.”
Wells grimaced. “Threnody doesn't like being touched by women. Miss Preston could be harmed.”
“I think we can use you as a bridge,” Abbey said. “If you can open a link to Threnody, then I can link up with you and talk to her through that connection.”
“Um … 'link up'?” Wells asked, carefully.
Abbey grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I'm a telepath. Did we forget to mention that?”
Wells cleared his throat. “Yes, actually. But no matter.” He turned to Janus. “Will it break your circle if I bring Threnody over here?”
Janus rose to his feet. “Yes, but we aren't going to accomplish anything more by sitting here talking. Do what you have to; I'll make sure you aren't disturbed.” He drew Elemacil from its sheath and took up a position by the door. The Elven sigils on the blade glowed a soft yellow. Wells looked at the sword, swallowed visibly, then carried Threnody over to the couch.
Cradling the violin like a newborn, Wells took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He grew very still, so much so that Abbey wondered if he had fallen asleep — but when she brushed the surface of his mind, he responded immediately. Not yet, he told her silently.
Abbey waited. When about five minutes had past, Wells twitched two fingers in her direction. Taking the invitation, Abbey slipped into his mind.
She sensed the multitude of spirits lingering at the edges of perception, angry and suspicious. One stood apart from the others, closer to Wells and stronger in his mind. In her mind's eye, Abbey saw the woman take shape: a Pyralian lady, slender and elegant, with a strong nose and dark hair braided in a very old style. Her skin was unnaturally pale, as if all the blood had been drained from her body. A glowing red chain ran from her ankle to the violin. Her dark eyes burned with anger as she recoiled from Abbey's presence.
“What is she doing here?” she demanded.
“She wants to talk to you,” Wells said, in a soothing tone.
The ghost didn't seem interested in being soothed. She lunged at Abbey, her fingernails lengthening into claws. “Scheming bitch! You can't have him! I'll tear out your heart!”
Abbey summoned a shield of thought and blocked the attack easily. Threnody might be deadly at night, but at midday she was weak and vulnerable. Abbey caught the ghost's hands between her own and held them.
“I don't want him,” she said. “I'm not here for your maestro. I'm here for you, Rosanna Venturi.”
The ghost went still in an instant. She stared at Abbey in open astonishment. “You know my name?” she whispered.
Abbey smiled kindly at her. “I do. I want to help you, Rosanna.”
Rosanna frowned and pulled her hands out of Abbey's grasp. Her fingernails were back to normal. “How can you help me?” she asked. Her tone was bitter, as if she didn't really believe that anyone would even want to help her, much less actually be able to do it.
“By listening,” Abbey said. “Listening to your story. Nobody's ever done that before, have they? People hear you singing about your pain, but all they ever hear is their own. Nobody really knows you.” She spread her hands in invitation. “Well, I'm here now. I'll hear your story, Rosanna Venturi, if you'll share it with me.”
Rosanna turned away from her, took a step, then paused. After a long moment, she turned halfway back, so that Abbey was looking at her face in profile. She bowed her head. “You would know my pain?” she asked softly.
“I would.”
The ghost nodded once, as if to herself. She stretched out a hand to Abbey without looking at her. “Come with me, then.”
The other spirits whispered in agitation at that, and a few of them let out snarls of jealousy. Rosanna quelled them with a look. Abbey stepped forward and took her hand. Instantly she was transported elsewhere — and at last, the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.
That night, two stools sat side by side under the spotlight on the little stage. When the violinist came forth from the shadows, he was not alone. A plain-featured young woman — brown-haired, brown-eyed, and unassuming — sat down beside him, gazing out at the crowd with a pensive expression on her face. Those who had been here before whispered to each other in confusion, wondering what this might mean.
The maestro spoke. “Good evening. For those of you who have never been here before, welcome. While I realize that it might not look like it, you are about to witness something extraordinary. For those who have heard Threnody before, this will be unlike any other show you have seen.”
He held the violin aloft, turning this way and that to show her to the crowd. “For the last year I have carried this fair lady from one end of the Empire to the other. You have heard her sing of grief, of sorrow and loss, and in her songs you have heard the universe singing your own pain back to you. I believed that she was sent to us as proof that some higher force in creation understood our suffering — that, on some level, we were all united in our pain, and that this was proof that we are all brothers and sisters.”
Many around the audience nodded in agreement. They stopped when the maestro frowned and shook his head.
“I still believe that our pain can unite us,” he said. “But I know now that Threnody's song is not the story of all people, everywhere. It is the story of one anguished woman, whose spirit has been in torment for four hundred and fifty-six years as she gave this instrument its power.” He gestured to Abbey. “With the help of my friend here, she will tell you her story. Her name is Rosanna Venturi, and this is her final performance.”
The man lifted the violin to his shoulder and began to play. As the clear, pure tones of the song filled the recital hall, images filled the minds of the people present. They saw a woman — Rosanna, they realized — dressed in the finery of a 16th-century Pyralian lady, as she gave herself in marriage to a handsome man with bright, merry eyes and a mischievous smile. The song that filled the house was warm and joyful, full of life and the promise of a happy future.
Years passed, and Rosanna and her husband were happy together. The man worked in his shop by day, crafting instruments of great beauty, and at night his wife would listen to him play. Rosanna adored her husband, for he was both witty and tender-hearted, and he loved her with the same passion that he put into his craft.
Or so it was at first. The husband's fame grew with each passing year, and noblemen came from far and wide to commission new instruments from his shop. Rosanna played hostess to countless powerful men and women, and the money they brought so enriched their house that she and her husband lacked for nothing. Nothing, that is, except time — for with the increased demands for his services, her husband spent longer hours in his shop. Their nights together grew shorter, and he came to bed wearier, less able to return her affections. Sometimes she went to bed alone.
At last, a man came to the shop with the greatest commission her husband had ever seen: a matched set of eighteen violins, each one crafted to sing the praises of one of the eighteen gods of the fallen pantheon. It was a challenge like nothing he had ever faced, but if he succeeded he would secure his place for all time as the greatest of all luthiers. The sum of money the man offered was so great that her husband would be able to retire. With this one last, great project, he assured her, their futures would be secured. They would have all the time in the world for each other.
A year into the project, however, Rosanna's husband knew that he had been too ambitious. The client was not satisfied with anything he produced. Try as he might, he could not invoke the aspects of the deities as he had hoped. The luthier grew disconsolate, withdrawing from his wife's attempts to comfort him. He raged at his own inadequacy and screamed to the heavens that he would do anything, pay any price, if his hands could be made equal to the task set before him.
The answer came in the form of a woman, an Elf-maid with hair like fire and eyes like emeralds. She would not give them her true name, but consented to be called Melodia, for songs and music were her trade. She claimed to know the great secrets that the luthier sought, and if he apprenticed himself to her she would teach him what he needed to fulfill his contract. Rosanna was suspicious of her at first, but Melodia won her over with her charm and grace. Unlike Rosanna's human acquaintances, the song-mistress seemed to understand the loneliness and isolation that her husband's success had brought to her. She would work with Rosanna's husband for a few hours each day, then leave him to practice what she had taught him; the remainder of the day she would give to Rosanna, teaching her songs and poems, sharing her company as Rosanna went about the business of the household. She became Rosanna's friend as well as her husband's mentor, and the only one with whom Rosanna trusted her secrets.
Melodia promised to make Rosanna's husband great, to secure his name and their family's future prosperity, so that he would never again have to worry about such things. Rosanna trusted her to make it happen, and endured the long hours that her husband spent in the workshop putting her teachings into practice.
The song-mistress made it clear to Rosanna that she and the luthier were not to be disturbed when they were at work together; the techniques she taught him were secret and must remain so. For a time, Rosanna was content with this; Melodia had endeared herself to the woman and won her trust completely. But as the years dragged on, and her husband spent more time than ever in his shop, Rosanna grew insatiably curious about what they were doing there — and when she saw her husband stumble into bed each night, exhausted beyond words, and found the long scars that covered his rapidly-aging body, she grew afraid. She wondered what dark magic the Elf-woman was teaching him, that he was forced to give his own blood and health for the sake of his craft.
At last the loneliness and the fear became too much for her. One moonless night, when she had turned over the hourglass three times after sunset and her husband still had not emerged, she went to the workshop and quietly slipped inside. There she found her husband lying naked on the floor, his body bleeding from a dozen long, shallow cuts, while Melodia rode him to the heights of passion, lapping up his blood with a serpent's tongue that no Elf had ever possessed.
Rosanna cried out, an anguished sound that shook the rafters of the workshop. Her husband was oblivious to her presence, but the creature astride him turned its inhuman gaze upon her and grinned.
“Did you think that genius came for free?” the faery asked, mocking her. “It must be paid for, with blood and life. He gave himself to me willingly, Rosanna. He is mine.”
Rosanna fled back into the house and hid herself in the indoor washing-room — an extravagance in those days, but one that their wealth had easily been able to afford. She sobbed uncontrollably, the grief pouring out of her broken heart, for she knew that what the faery said was true: her husband was lost to her, now and forever. She would never be able to match the terrible, alien beauty of the thing that had captured her husband's heart.
Unless…
Her eyes fell on the straight razor that her husband used to shave.
“Blood and life,” she whispered. “Paid for with blood and life.”
Almost without knowing what she was doing, Rosanna removed her clothes. She took up the razor in her trembling hand and climbed into the bathtub. She plugged the drain, then unfolded the razor and stared at her reflection in the blade.
By blood and life her husband had bartered away his soul for genius. By blood and life she would buy him back.
The vision faded, and with it the song came to an end. As before, there was not a dry eye in the house — but this time the people wept not for their own pain, not for the loss of a loved one or for the suffering inflicted on them by an uncaring universe, but for the grief of one woman. Their hearts swelled with compassion for this lost and lonely soul, a woman who had lost her beloved to one she had called friend; a woman who had, at the last, given all she had in a desperate, futile attempt to win him back.
The maestro spoke. “Rosanna gave her life to save her husband, but she failed. Emilio Venturi went mad upon his wife's death; consumed with guilt, he sought to honor her memory through the creation of this instrument. The faery who had captured him perverted that noble effort, and what should have been her homage became her prison. The pain you have heard in Threnody's music is her pain, amplified and perpetuated through the centuries. And while many have been healed by the power of this instrument, I will not be the channel for something that heals one person's pain by exploiting another's.”
The man bowed his head, and silence fell in the recital hall. No one in the audience dared to break it.
At last, the young woman spoke for the first time. “You have all seen Rosanna's story,” she said. “Remember it. Tell it to your friends and to your children. Remember her sacrifice, and how her pain has brought you healing. Remember, and honor her.”
The people in the audience murmured agreement. At a gesture from the woman, a group of men and women began circulating through the crowd, passing out small cups of red wine. The last of these was brought to the woman, who held it aloft before the crowd.
“To Rosanna Venturi,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears. “Let her name, and her love, be remembered always.”
As one, the crowd resounded, “To Rosanna Venturi!”
They drank together, and without another word the spotlights were extinguished. The people filed out of the hall, speaking quietly to one another of the story they had heard — a story that, they knew, would be fixed in their minds forever.
When the last members of the audience had gone, a pale, luminous form took shape on the stage. The ghost of Rosanna Venturi looked out over the empty seats with an expression of wonder on her tear-lined face.
“They listened,” she said, as if in amazement. “They heard.”
“And they will remember,” Abbey promised. “The suggestion I put behind it will make sure of that. Word about you will spread. In five years, we'll never hear about the genius of Emilio Venturi without hearing about the sacrifice of Rosanna along with it.”
Rosanna nodded once. “It is just. He was a great man, and I have never wished to see his achievements taken from him. I only wanted…”
“To be known?” Abbey suggested gently. “To be loved, as you loved?” She gave the other woman a sad smile. “We all want that.”
The ghost returned the smile. “I suppose so.”
Abbey hesitated, then asked, “Do you think you can forgive him now?”
Rosanna closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes. He did not mean to imprison me; I understand that now. What he did, he did for love. I only wish that I could tell him I forgive him.”
“You may be able to,” Abbey said. “He could be waiting for you, on the other side.”
“I hope so,” Rosanna said, looking up at the ceiling. “I can feel the place beyond, calling me.” She looked over at Threnody, which Wells held on his lap beside her. The glowing red chain still ran from her ankle to the violin. She reached down and took the chain in her hands. A brief tug, and the chain came loose and vanished into smoke.
A rush of wind ran through the recital hall, pungent with the scent of cinnamon. The Leanan Sidhe appeared on the stage behind them, her lovely face dark with fury.
“I am most displeased, children,” she said. Her voice was like ice, and Abbey's heart felt like it froze in her chest at the sound of it.
Rosanna was not impressed. She got squarely in the Fae woman's face, putting her hands on her hips. “As am I, Melodia — and with far more cause, I think. And these people are under my protection.”
The faery rolled her eyes. “Out of my way, you will-o'-wisp. I must have words with my protege and his troublesome little friend.”
She stepped forward and brushed her hand at Rosanna, as if she could blow her away like a puff of fog.
Rosanna caught her wrist and stopped her dead in her tracks. She was no more solid than she had been a moment before, but the spirit's grip held the faery like iron — and, like iron, it burned her. The Leanan Sidhe recoiled from Rosanna, cradling her injured arm.
“What is this?” the faery hissed.
“What it is,” said Janus, emerging from behind the curtains, “is your debt.” He strode forward confidently, Elemacil still in its sheath. They wouldn't need the sword this time, something they had realized as soon as Rosanna had told them her story.
The Leanan Sidhe looked incredulous. “Debt? What debt?”
“Your debt to me,” Rosanna said, her voice just as cold as the faery's had been a moment before. “I gave you my blood, my life, and four hundred and fifty-six years of my pain. You accepted these gifts. You used them to create your art, to draw new servants to yourself, to spread their fame and the glory of their achievements.”
“You know the laws that govern the Noble Fae,” Janus said. “Any sidhe who accepts a gift is bound by his debt until it is repaid.” He nodded toward Rosanna. “Now that she's free of your little soul-trap, Rosanna called in her marker. As the appointed mediator for this district, I recognized the claim. The fact that she's dead doesn't make a bit of difference.”
The faery glared at all of them, but there was no longer any terror in the sight of it. With her debt unsatisfied and all of them under Rosanna's protection, she was powerless to touch them.
“What,” she grated, “do you want, mortal spirit?”
“I place a geas upon you,” Rosanna said. “You shall not raise a hand 'gainst man or woman, child or beast. You shall bind no spirit against its will. You shall only feed on a mortal's life and blood if he give them willingly. Where before you have spread grief and sorrow, I now charge you to spread joy and delight. Let your talents be used to uplift and enhearten the race of men, and not to remind them of their suffering.”
“This cannot be!” the Leanan Sidhe protested. “Pain is essential to art! It is only the suffering of mortals that gives their work weight and substance!”
Rosanna smiled grimly. “Then you must learn to broaden your horizons, Melodia. Think of it as a challenge, a test of your skills as a muse.”
The faery ground her teeth together. “How long must I labor under these ridiculous strictures?”
“I gave you four hundred fifty-six years of pain,” Rosanna said. “I demand from you four hundred fifty-six years of joy. Do this, and keep all the conditions of my geas, and your debt shall be satisfied. Do I have your word?”
The Fae woman shot an accusing look over at Janus. “You find these terms reasonable, mediator?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “They seem fair to me. Of course,” he added, “if you find them too burdensome, I could impose an alternate punishment … say, banishment from the mortal plane for the next five thousand years?”
The faery actually winced at that. “Very well.” She turned back to the ghost. “You have my word, O wife of Emilio Venturi.”
“The word is given,” Janus said formally. “The geas is set. This parley is closed.”
“And so is my business here,” Rosanna said. She rose up into the air, spinning around to look at each of them in turn. “Fare well, my friends. I go now to the realms beyond, and pray that I shall find my Emilio waiting for me.” She beckoned to the violin, and a host of fainter ghosts poured out of it, four hundred and fifty-six years' worth of captured spirits. “I will lead these others with me, that they might find the rest they deserve.”
Abbey, Wells and Janus all bowed to her.
“Fare well, Rosanna,” Abbey said. “May Eli make the path straight for you to Paradise.”
Rosanna beamed at her. “And for you, my friend. Peace be with you!”
A brilliant light appeared above them, as if someone had slid open a door to another world. Rosanna and the other spirits passed through it in the blink of an eye, and then it snapped shut again.
“And good riddance,” the Leanan Sidhe muttered. She turned to Wells and extended a hand. “Well, come along, Isaac. We have a heavy geas to repay, and I would as soon begin it quickly.”
Wells lowered his head and sighed. “I am sorry, my lady … but I can't go with you.”
The faery snorted. “Nonsense. I agree, it will be more difficult to make a name for you under that woman's conditions, but I've no doubt my talents will be sufficient—”
“No, Threnody,” Wells said. It was little more than a whisper.
She glared at him. “That is not my name.”
“Of course it isn't,” Wells said. He sat down heavily on his stool, looking like a worn-out husk of a man. “But it's the name you earned, isn't it. Threnody, the funeral dirge. The song of death. Mortal suffering is the only thing you know how to find beauty in; everything else is meaningless to you.” He shook his head. “And now you've been charged to give the world four hundred years of joy and delight? I truly hope you can do it. Perhaps, by the end, you'll be able to see beauty in more than just our pain. But I cannot help you, Threnody. I cannot give the world joy and delight. There is none in me to give.”
“Isaac…” For the first time, the Fae woman looked truly sad. She came over and knelt before him. She placed a gentle hand on his knee, then reached up with the other to caress his face. “I could teach you joy.” She spoke softly, almost tentatively, and now Abbey realized that the bond of affection between a Leanan Sidhe and her host was more than just one-way. Wells mattered to her, in a way that other humans never could.
“You're wrong about me, Isaac,” the faery insisted. “I do know of beauty in other things. Come with me and I will show you wonders to make your heart sing.”
Gently, Wells reached up and removed her hand from his cheek. “Perhaps you could, for another,” he said. “But to me, you will always be Threnody. I will look at you and see the monster who created an instrument that kills; who imprisoned an innocent woman for over four centuries for the sake of art.” His face hardened. “Gods curse me, if I let myself learn joy from such a creature as that.”
“Isaac, please.” There were tears running down the Leanan Sidhe's face now, and Abbey didn't think they were for show. “If I leave you, you'll die.”
“I'm dying anyway,” Wells said. “Your feeding doesn't stop it, it just slows it down. And I would rather live six weeks as a free man than six years with you for company.” He brushed her off and walked away from her, up to the edge of the stage. “Leave me now, Threnody. Before, I wouldn't look on you because I was in awe of your beauty. Now, I can't stomach the sight of you.”
For several long seconds, the Fae woman stared at him. Then she put her head between her knees and sobbed. Abbey had never heard anyone sound so wretched, so lost and alone. She found herself moving toward the woman, to comfort her.
Janus stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Leave her to her grief,” he said. “She's caused enough of it. She deserves to know how it feels.”
Deliberately, Abbey reached up and lifted his hand off of her. “If she is human enough to feel grief, then she's human enough to receive compassion.”
“She is evil, Abbey,” Janus hissed. “She's a manipulative, murdering psychopath. She doesn't deserve your pity!”
Abbey looked at him intently. “You can't teach kindness with a whip, Janus.” She cocked her head. “I would have thought you'd have learned that by now.”
Then Abbey went to the Fae woman and wrapped her arms around her. She tensed against Abbey's touch at first, but then melted into the embrace, the sobs wracking her whole body. The two men left and the hall went dark, but still Abbey held her, long into the night.
When Abbey came to the boarding house the next morning, Wells had already packed his things and was giving the flat a final cleaning.
“Moving on?” she asked.
“Moving, at any rate,” Wells said ruefully. “Moving 'on' would imply progress toward some sort of destination — apart from the one we're all moving toward.”
Abbey flinched at that. She hadn't intended for the conversation to come around so quickly to his illness, but she supposed it was only natural for him to be thinking about it. “Do you have anyone to stay with?” she asked. “Any friends or family?”
He sat down on the arm of the couch. “Not really, no. I never married; first I was too young, then I was too busy, and then I was too old.” He shook his head. “And academia is a lonely world. A bunch of swelled heads, full of our own knowledge and achievements, all desperately trying to impress one another with how clever we are. True partnerships are damnably rare, and it's even rarer to find one that goes beyond the professional. The last time I had a friend close enough to come sleep on his couch for a few weeks, I was probably still in graduate school.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.” Abbey came over and leaned against the couch beside him, putting her hand atop his. “Why don't you come and stay with my family for a while? One and a half men, three and a half women, nine kids from four to zero — it's a little crazy sometimes, but never boring.”
Wells laughed. “Only in Metamor could I get invited to a house with one and a half men in it.”
Abbey grinned. “Is that a yes?”
The old professor looked down at his hands, visibly self-conscious. “It all sounds lovely, my dear, but I hate to impose.”
“You won't,” Abbey assured him. “Look, if it's the money you're worried about, don't even think about it. Between this job and one I did for Janus last month, you are not gonna be any kind of strain on our budget.” She gave him a sad little smile. “Also, we have connections at Eastside General Hospital. For … when you need it.”
Wells closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “I'm not accustomed to charity, Abbey.”
“Come on,” Abbey chided him. “You're not a faery. You're not going to be bound to a geas just because somebody helps you. Besides, you've helped a lot of people over the last year. As far as I'm concerned, you've earned this.” She squeezed his hand. “Please? It would mean a lot to me. I love music, and I know I could learn so much from you.”
He smiled. “Appealing to my vanity? You do understand academia.”
Abbey winked at him. “Whatever it takes.”
He was silent a moment longer, then looked at her. “You're sure your family won't mind?”
“Already okayed it before I made the offer,” she said. “They're looking forward to meeting you. Lila, Dane and Eva want Uncle Isaac to tell them bedtime stories.”
“Oh, now that is dirty pool!”
“Like I said, whatever it takes.”
He glared at her a moment, then shook his head, laughing. “Very well, then; I surrender. Take me away, fair maiden, to your strange land of delights and wonders!”
Abbey laughed along with him, then helped him gather his possessions and carry them down to the bus stop. In one hand she carried the Venturi violin — just a violin now; Threnody no longer. She looked forward to hearing it again, now that its music would not be stained by the torment of innocent souls. She imagined the long winter nights to come, and Uncle Isaac playing a merry jig on his fiddle in the living room. It would be a good thing, a blessed thing, and she welcomed it.
That was the one thing the Leanan Sidhe had never realized, she thought: It was true, suffering shared could bring people together.
But so could joy.
FIN
