Dark Light of Day (37 page)

The Patron of Bryde’s Day was Bryde, of course, who’d been Halja’s most powerful Mederi and who was still worshipped as a mother figure by Haljans everywhere, but Beltane’s patron was Flora, a lesser demon whose favorite followers had been maidens. Flora’s followers didn’t need to be fertile; they just needed to be sensual and desired. They weren’t trying to get pregnant. They only wanted to have fun.

According to legend, Flora had been a young demoness, beautiful in her corporeal form, and named after her one true unrequited love—flowers. Legends say one spring she took to the hills, unable to keep her hands away from the flowering buds and bursting blooms. Needless to say, her touch was deadly and caused her no small amount of remorse. In her frustration, grief, and madness, she torched the hills with a series of great bonfires. The flames rose high into the night, drawing Hyrkes from their homes, who danced and sang and drank with delight by the light of them.

Due to these beginnings, the holiday has the air of an impromptu celebration, even when it is meticulously planned. Its mood is often frivolous and playful. Unlike Bryde’s Day, where the focus is so overtly on mothers, babies, and fertility, Beltane is a festival of flowers, fire, and sexuality—sometimes with your partner, sometimes not. But while Beltane’s
anything goes
attitude was appealing to me, Flora’s story was just a tad too close to my own for comfort. So I’d never really embraced the holiday. Of course, we Onyxes had never really embraced any holiday.

Until now.

In keeping with the spirit of the holiday and my promise to Ari, I’d elected to go all out with my appearance. I’d applied shimmering champagne, gold, and bronze eye shadow all around my eyes, all the way to my brows and even underneath my lower lashes and then heavily lined them in charcoal. The effect was dramatic and almost otherworldly. The dress was even more spectacular on me than it had been on the hanger. The bright yet burnt, fiery orange color suited me and the swishy sound of the silk taffeta train pleased me. I stood before the mirror, hands on hips, swishing back and forth, assessing.

“Do you think the flower’s too much?” I asked Ivy.

“No!”

It wasn’t the first time I’d asked. The silk flower in my hair had been a last minute addition. I’d styled my hair in a large, carefully sculpted messy updo. The entirety of it had been teased, then some parts straightened, and some curled.
I then artfully arranged it in a great mass on the top of my head. A few strands were left to trail down the back of my neck and around my face. I’d found the huge orange silk flower in Ivy’s hairpin box and had tucked it up into the side of my elaborate updo, just above my right ear.

I stuck my tongue out at my reflection, laughing at the flower on one side, demon mark on the other. The tight fit of my dress molded to my every curve. To me, it looked like my breasts were in danger of spilling out of the top. They weren’t, Ivy assured me, but there would be no question of my femininity tonight.

Ivy looked radiant. The soft drape of yards of emerald green silk combined with her tall, ethereal figure only enhanced her natural grace. The front cut of her dress was low, but the back was the most dramatic part. It dipped almost (but not quite) to the top of Ivy’s buttocks, baring a wide expanse of naked back.

Ivy’s golden red hair was braided with deep green ribbons, and adorned with freshwater pearls from the mouth of the Lethe. She’d chosen to make a statement with her makeup. I hadn’t realized what an artist Ivy was until she painted her face. She’d covered cheeks, nose, forehead, and chin with a mix of sparkling, iridescent light and dark green paints. Then she’d drawn flowing swirls and whorls in black, accented with white. She looked fantastic. She grinned and we decided to wait for everyone downstairs, in the lobby of Megiddo.

Megiddo probably didn’t go all the way back to the days when St. Luck’s had been Fort Babylon, but it was easily hundreds of years old. The lobby was cavernous, with a high beamed ceiling and rows of two-story arched windows on the east and west sides. The floor was inlaid parquet, topped with wool rugs in muted colors. Scattered around the great space were small seating areas with expensive but uncomfortable-looking couches and chairs. An eclectic mix of artwork, from the tasteful to the moderately profane (this was the dormitory lobby of a demon law school in Halja after all), adorned the walls.

The excitement I’d felt while getting ready with Ivy upstairs faded and the anxious, edgy, jittery feeling I’d started the day with returned. I wandered around Megiddo’s lobby, adrift, looking for a piece of artwork or furniture to anchor myself with. My teeth chattered, my palms were sweaty, and my throat was dry. I was a Maegester-in-Training with a class position of
Secundus
. I had killed a demon (albeit a small familiar I still felt grief-ridden about) and I was doing an adequate job of controlling my client so far (in fact, he’d been chivalrous enough to walk me to the library the other night, right?). And I was more than holding my own in my Hyrke law classes. I should not have been this nervous.

But, tonight, it seemed, there was no end of things to get worked up about: my provocative appearance, fear and longing of greater intimacy with Ari, wonder and worry over Peter and the Reversal Spell, my earlier discussion with Night and Ivy about Vigilia, and the overall unsettling feeling of upcoming Beltane and the
anything goes
mentality that came with it.

Hung above a massive, beautifully ornate stone and tile fireplace in our lobby was a large, evocative oil portrait of Flora. Her swelling breasts and generous hips beckoned, her luxuriantly rich, deep, dark tresses flowed like the water in the river she walked along. She was lovely, youthful, and strong. She was
happy
, traipsing through those blooming fields, her long skirts swirling, hand poised to pick a single flower. Behold, Flora, surrounded by life and its never ending colors: lilies of the purest white, trees a verdant green, the river a bright blue, and the sky the lightest pink. In the picture, it was sunset, the moment before it all turned to dust. In the time it took Flora to pluck one stem, everything in the picture would be gone. The artist had captured the last moment of Flora’s joy so clearly it pained me just to look at it.

I could not have said why I did it. It was a reaction, an instinct. I just wanted to burn away that brief burst of indescribable pain. I wanted to be comforted by something I
could
touch, something I could look at without wanting to weep. My magic swirled around me, a whirling vortex of
energy that began in my core and then radiated outward, spinning furiously until I finally flung it into the hearth, setting the unlit wood on fire. The roaring flames danced and moved. They were real. They were warm. And they were oddly purifying.

I heard a low whistle. I turned from my fiery creation to see Fitz and Babette slowly approaching. Ivy was some distance away, mouth agape.
Great,
I thought,
now I’ve gone and done it.

Fitz came within a few feet of me and gave me a courtly bow. Babette made a similar move, but while Fitz was clearly enjoying himself, Babette looked terrified.

“What are you doing, Fitz?”

“You look like the demoness herself, a deity to be worshipped.”

“Hardly,” I said, laughing self-consciously.

“Beltane is near, is it not? This is the time of year when the veil between past and present is lifted. Who’s to say you are not—just for tonight—our patron personified?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I protested and then added, “But thank you,” as humbly as I could after a compliment like that.

“Hello, Babette,” I said, turning to Fitz’s date, hoping for a more normal conversation. “You look terrific.” And she did. She wore a simple gray tunic dress with white embroidery that Mrs. Aster would have loved. But her understated appearance set my teeth chattering again. Would Ivy and I be the lone standouts among a sea of serviceable gray, black, and white?

Night and Peter arrived next. I could tell from Peter’s face that he had seen me light the fire, and was not best pleased about it. His gaze raked over me, zeroing in on exactly those parts I was most anxious about, my demon mark and the flower in my hair. I introduced him to Ivy. He shook her hand unenthusiastically. Night’s eyes, however, widened in delight when he saw Ivy.

“Ivana,” he said, taking both of her hands in his and gently squeezing them. Ivy’s face paint hid any telltale blush.
She smiled, her grin wide and white against the green paint. Night himself had cleaned up well. He had borrowed a fawn-colored silk frock coat and matching pants from Peter. Underneath he wore a plain white tunic. He’d opted to leave the bronze buttons undone and had left his hair unbound.

Further introductions and amicable greetings were made. A few minutes later, Night offered Ivy his elbow and she took it. Fitz and Babette started making their way toward the door. Peter stayed back with me, leaning in close and whispering in my ear.

“You are an inspiration, Noon,” he said smiling. He was dressed in pure white; everything he wore—pants, shirt, even his brocade vest—all were as colorless as the lilies in the portrait above the mantel. “I have a surprise for you later,” he said, offering me his elbow.

I didn’t accept it. But I could tell when Ari walked in, he didn’t like what he saw. His signature smarted like a sunburn. I wanted to assure Ari that I wasn’t breaking my promise to go with him to the ball. That, nervous though I was, I’d been waiting for him.

In the time it took my heart to contract, Ari was through the doors of Megiddo and beside me. He brushed Peter’s arm away and placed his hands on my shoulders. His hands felt hot and fiery and my skin seemed to glow beneath them like windblown embers. His gaze swept over me, taking in every detail. His hands slid slowly down my sides until they were resting on my hips. I was now oblivious to everyone else in the room. I could not have said where they stood, or what they thought, whether they watched or had left. Buried under the onslaught of Ari’s passion and possession, I was only aware of him. He bent his head to my neck and kissed me there, briefly and chastely. He raised his head and smiled.

“A flower, Noon?” he said playfully. “I wouldn’t have thought of it. But it suits you. You look stunning.” He managed to pack a considerable amount of meaning into that one little word. It was clear that, though he’d asked for a real date, it would take little convincing on my part for him to
agree to skip the ball and move immediately to
after
. I swayed and Ari kept tight hold of me as he turned to face the now gawking crowd of my friends.

Peter was openly scowling and Night didn’t look very happy either. That was my fault, I realized, because I’d never even told Night about Ari. I’d never been sure how to explain him.
What place in my life was Ari supposed to occupy?
But his role for tonight, at least was clear.

“Ari, this is my brother, Nightshade,” I said motioning to Night, who stepped forward. “Night, this is Ari Carmine, my date for tonight.”

If Ari was unhappy about my stated limitation on the duration of our involvement, he didn’t show it. Night, however, frowned and glanced at Peter, whose jaw was clenched with naked animosity.

“Carmine?” Night said dubiously. Mederies couldn’t sense Maegesters magically, but Night’s other five senses worked perfectly well, along with his common sense.

Ari shrugged, but smiled to soften it. “Carmine’s no more an accurate surname for me than Nocturo is an appropriate praenomen for you.”

I stiffened and tried to pull away. Regardless of my feelings for Ari, I wasn’t going to let him pick a fight with my brother. I was regretting how I’d handled this introduction, that I hadn’t told Night about Ari earlier. But Ari held me close, his grip tight.

“Carmine is a name that was generously given to me by my adoptive parents—Hyrke parents from Bradbury,” Ari explained, his tone light. “Noon and I are classmates.”

“You mean you’re both training to be Maegesters,” said Night. But, like Ari, his tone was casual. Night was just calling it like it was. “You’re the one who went with Noon to meet Heather at the train station last night.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter’s eyes widen and then narrow. But Ari nodded, looking almost pleased. Night looked at me, carefully studying my face. Finally, he nodded and stuck his hand out to Ari, who accepted it, shaking it
steadily. Night was a Mederi, who Ari could easily burn into small dry bits of bone and tissue. But Night wasn’t cowed and I knew Ari respected that.

Ari grinned and called out to Fitz, “You’d better watch out, Dorio’s going to want to trade suits with you.” Fitz was wearing an outlandishly long purple brocade jacket with green silk pants, a canary yellow vest with brass buttons, and a gold pocket watch.
Only at Beltane,
I thought, rolling my eyes. All of the St. Luck’s students laughed, even Babette. Ari complimented Ivy’s body art and her warm response was a further clue to Night that Ari was no stranger to the friends I’d made since I’d left home. He seemed a bit crestfallen to be so ignorant of my current life and times and I vowed to try to make it up to him. I didn’t know what to do about Peter. I smiled tenuously at him, but he just scowled and looked away. I started to go to him, but Ari’s hand tightened around my waist and he pulled me closer as we exited Megiddo.

“Do you know what Flora’s true form was, Noon?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Fire,” he said. “Her true form was breathtaking.”

Breathtaking
, indeed. As in
life taking
. But I didn’t say it. I really did want to try to have a good time tonight.