Brush of Darkness (6 page)

“It’s Himself, then, is it?” I quipped in an Irish brogue that would have killed a leprechaun. I rose up on tiptoe to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Very chichi.

“Abby, so glad you could make it.” His eyes lingered on Brystion, and then he winked at me. “Nice to see you brought a friend.”

“Strictly business.” I corrected him without looking at the incubus. “How are you feeling these days?”

“Ah, well, you know how it is.” He shrugged. “Some weeks are better than others, but each day is a gift, I always say.”

“Yes.” My mind strayed to a not-so-distant, giftless day of my own. “It is.”

“So, who is your gorgeous, ‘strictly business’ friend?” I could almost see Topher trying to sketch the perfect lines of the man beside me, but something told me Brystion wasn’t one to allow himself to be captured so easily.

“How horribly rude of me.” For a moment I was tempted to just leave it at that, but I turned toward the incubus, manners and protocol butting heads with a rush of indignation and fear. “Brystion, this is Topher Fitzroy, the resident artistic genius responsible for this exhibit. Topher, this is Brystion . . .” My voice trailed away awkwardly. “Just Brystion, I guess?”

“First-name basis only, my dear, is a fine thing.” The artist grinned. His smile faded when he looked at Brystion. “Is something the matter?”

I glanced over in surprise. A dark shadow had crossed
over the incubus’s face. “You say you’re responsible for that?” His hand gestured toward the painting of his sister.

“Of course,” Topher said, his expression suggesting the question wasn’t even worthy of being asked. “It was a special commission and well worth every penny, if I do say so myself.” He gazed at the painting fondly, but there was a tightness about his eyes where his smile never quite reached.

Brystion drew a ragged breath. “She would
never
have sat for you. You don’t have the soul for it.” He loomed over the artist, the edges of his skin blurring away for a moment. I blinked. He was about to drop his Glamour.

Shit. Not that I knew just what an incubus actually looked like, but judging by the darkness that was sliding up the back of his neck, it wasn’t overly human. Hysterical visions of people running for the exits pursued by a massive cock and balls filled my mind, and I let out a gasp of laughter despite myself.

“That’s enough.” I let my voice drop into something soothing and quiet, the way Moira did when she was trying to stave off an argument between Paths. I inserted myself between the two men, stroking the crest of Brystion’s wrist with a careful thumb.

The daemonic races in particular respond to physical stimulation, even if it be a simple stroke of the hand. A tiny distraction may be the difference between life and death.
Moira’s lilting voice echoed through my mind, even as I remembered the elegant scrawl of her notes on the tattered book she’d given me to study.

The incubus started beneath my touch, but his attention remained fixed on Topher. “Your Dreams are empty, mortal,” he rumbled, eyeing the other man like he’d found the remains of something dead and furry beneath his foot. With a shake, he pulled away from me, his eyes growing dark once more as the lines around his body shifted back into his
Glamour.

“I beg your pardon?” Topher’s lips paled beneath the soft light of the gallery. For a moment, his face came alive with that old spark, and I marveled to see it. A flush of anger colored his cheeks and chased away the pall of death that had surrounded him for months. He was brilliant for a span of seconds and then it faded, leaving him wan and drained. He raised his head proudly. “I assure you, I can and
did
paint her, just as was requested. Succubus or not, she sat for me by choice.”

“I doubt that. Where is she?”

Topher’s face became impassive. “Short of this picture, I have not seen her since the night she posed for me.”

Brystion snorted. “You did a shit job on Abby’s as well. Whatever talent you once had is gone. Have some dignity and get on with your life.”

The artist’s mouth flattened into a sour line. “My dear,” he said, waving over the security guard. “I’m going to have to ask your friend to leave. He’s causing a scene, and I’m afraid my nerves can’t take it. Would you mind escorting him out?”

I shrugged helplessly at him, my cheeks burning beneath the onslaught of stares from the other patrons. I tugged at Brystion’s shirt, my face stony. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

He was silent as I led him outside, but the anger that radiated from him made me want to retreat to my bedroom and hide beneath the blankets. It didn’t stop me from opening my mouth again though.

“Hey, awesome job at embarrassing the living shit out of me in front of my friend.”

“There is no way Sonja would have gotten near him, let alone sat willingly in chains. In
chains,
Abby!”

“Okay, but that doesn’t give you the right to be a dick. You said she was missing. Did it ever occur to you to be nice
to someone who might have seen her recently?” He made a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, keeping pace with me as I headed back to the Pit. Not quite an acknowledgment of guilt, but not admitting anything either. Typical male.

We walked in silence for several blocks, my feet knowing the way back without my having to think about it. Past the pawnshop and the Bagel Café, Fiddler’s Green Fine Irish Gifts and the Opera Alley where the buskers performed. A glass player sat there tonight, perched behind a table full of elegant crystal, his fingers nimbly plying his trade. It was late enough that most of the shops were closed, but we moved through the waning crowds without issue, the vibrato of the glass music echoing eerily between the buildings as we walked.

“And I happen to
like
mermaids, you know,” I said finally, unable to stand the quiet. I didn’t know what else to talk about but the paintings.

“He made your tits too small,” he grunted as we turned the corner, ignoring my muffled snort of mock outrage. “That and the expression on your face . . .” He paused, studying me from beneath his sweep of dark lashes. “You seemed . . . sad.”

My shoulders tightened beneath the added scrutiny. “Yes, I suppose I was.” The sign hanging from the shutter of the Pit creaked lightly in the breeze, the faded paint gleaming under the dim streetlight. “You almost lost it in there, didn’t you?”

“You’re changing the subject.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted away from me.

“Yes. Is that a common thing for incubi? I’ve never seen that happen before.”

He exhaled sharply and then sighed, leaning up against the glass window of the storefront. “No. It shouldn’t have
happened. I suppose I owe you for stopping it.” His head tipped backward, his eyes shutting. One eye cracked back open at me, a soft halo of gold flaring from beneath the lid. “So do you normally dance at work?”

“Now who’s changing the subject?” I folded my arms over my chest in the universal gesture of
I’m horrified. Please fuck off
. “And I hardly think waggling my hips up the aisle counts as much of a show.” My face blazed hot in the darkness. “How much did you see?”

“Enough.” He chuckled bemusedly. “Why Tom Jones?”

I blinked. “Why . . . what?”

“Tom Jones. You were listening to him when I came into the store.” His eyes lit up with amusement and I bristled.

“Yeah, I was. What’s your point? It’s a free country.”

“Word on the street is that your little enchanted iPod there can play just about every song in existence. Why in the hell would you choose to listen to Tom Jones?”

“It reminds me of my mother,” I said softly. “He was her favorite. She . . . died . . . rather recently.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” His voice gentled. For a moment, I hated him for it. Hated the way that awful aching guilt pushed its way to the forefront, hated the way it echoed in the familiar words of pity, the murmurs of condolences, the sound of screeching metal and slurred, drunken apologies.

Helpless, I let the memory wash over me, a bittersweet wave tinged by the copper taste of blood and the blinding gleam of headlights. It was wrapped in the perfect stillness of the asphalt and pine trees through the cracked windshield, overcome by the repetitious seat-belt chime and the cloying scent of fluid leaking from the engine and the remainder of my mother’s brainpan in my lap.

“I don’t want your sympathy, Brystion.” I backed away from him, my eyes beginning to burn. I blinked rapidly
against the threatening tears. “I don’t want anything from you at all.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but I fumbled at the lock, turned the key, and didn’t look back as I stepped inside and slammed the door behind me.

D
amn the incubus, anyway.

I was in a foul mood. The evening had been about as successful as diving into an empty swimming pool. Based on the wretched slide of emotions tearing at my heart, I think I would have chosen the pool.

I pushed the thoughts away and turned my attention to the controlled chaos of the Midnight Marketplace. I had enough trouble as it was without putting my mother’s death under the Freudian microscope.

“Chaos” may actually be too kind a word. If the bookstore was shabby and used, the Marketplace was anything but. Glittering and warm, it had an aura of hominess that shone about the place. Rich woods, soft carpets, and magnificent tapestries—all of it lush and comfortably mystical. Small balls of witchlight floated up by the ceiling, adding a sparkling glow to everything the pastel hues touched.

OtherFolk could visit the Marketplace at will, beyond the limits of the CrossRoads and without the use of TouchStones. I wasn’t entirely sure how it worked, only that the store resided in its own little dimension. It was separate from our world, but anchored here by me. Or more realistically,
by Moira, using me as her TouchStone. The Doorway itself was really the key to the whole thing. By whatever magics Moira employed, the Door only appeared at midnight in the courtyard behind the bookstore, the frame gleaming silvery blue against the back wall. The irony of it all was that only a mortal could open it. Yay, me.

The Marketplace was in full swing this evening. I usually enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the crowd, the strangeness of the pointed ears and feathered wings, goat hooves and lion’s tails. But tonight I couldn’t help but wonder at Brystion’s words, not liking the uncomfortable tingle that tightened around my chest.

Was it really true? Did they all think I was some kind of idiot? A front for a Protectorate who no longer wished to protect?

My hands twitched on the counter and I took a deep breath. For all I knew the incubus was a lying piece of shit who was only trying to manipulate me for his own ends.

And doing a damn good job of it, apparently.

I eyed the ancient oak door speculatively, wondering if he would show up here as well. Some perverse part of me hoped he would.

The door chimes rang out and I glanced up, hiding a mild twinge of disappointment when it wasn’t Brystion. Only for a moment though, and then I gave the Gypsy a genuine smile as he sauntered through the doorway. He was one of my regulars. He rarely spoke, leaving anything that needed to be said to the fiery gleam in the almond depths of his eyes.

He muttered a question in that liquid voice of his, and I shrugged. “It hasn’t come yet, but we’ll be getting a delivery tonight. Might be in there.”

A wan smile spread across his face as he bowed and made his way to his usual corner in the back of the store. A
few moments later an elegant strain of a mystical Romany czardas wove its way through the room. There was a pause and a near audible sigh from the other patrons as the haunting notes rang out with a distant, secret sorrow. He came here on most delivery nights, searching for an answer that I had no way of giving him.

I bit my lip and tried to lose myself in the roll of the music, the last of my anger at Brystion sluicing away and leaving me with a hollow ache in my chest. All I could feel was the pain of the recent past. How long had it been since the accident? Eight months? A year?

Being ageless had a peculiar effect on mortals. The days seemed to slide by, blurring one into the next. I’d lost track of time and it was very disconcerting. It was easy to see why OtherFolk were often so jaded, but that really wasn’t an excuse. Maybe Brystion had been right. If I couldn’t manage to keep myself together for six months, how was I ever going to last seven years?

The specifics of my Contract were rather clear on that account though. I served Moira in whatever capacity she dictated. In return, I no longer aged. Not quite the same as being immortal, but I’d taken the offer without too much thought.

There was always a price though. A price I’d have to learn to deal with.

“How much is this?” A gnarled hand thrust what looked like a pile of loose seaweed in my face. Her knuckles were large, wrinkled tree knobs, but her manicure blazed in a perfect shade of emerald green. The hag’s piggish eyes gleamed at me from beneath a greasy fall of salt-and-pepper hair. She shifted her substantial weight, grunting impatiently.

“One moment.” I flipped over the lavender tag hanging from the center of the pile.
D7
. I searched through my
spreadsheet until I found the matching value. “That’s Mermaid’s Tangle. Two coppers a strand.” I did a quick figure in my head as I counted up the strands. “This will be about one gold piece if you buy the whole hank.”