Emerald City Dreamer (12 page)

"
Oh, I'm sure I've seen its like. And what if you catch a faeborn? What then?" His voice was full of skepticism.

"
I'm not sure. If it's anything like Haun, I would kill it myself. Any not like Haun would be new to us."

"
And if not?"

Jina squirmed. Some of these same questions had passed through her mind, especially over the past couple of days, but she'd never had to answer them before, not to herself or anyone else.

She didn't answer now, either.

"
You guys dwell on the negative too much. Like I said, 'As a man thinketh.' I like you Jina, but I'm not sure I can join your secret group. If you're willing to stop at nothing to fight 'evil', using such broad-sweeping definitions, your order seems a little bit... well, like a cult."

His words stung. The Ordo wasn't a cult. Trey's rejection of the Ordo felt like a rejection of her. The light of an outsider's opinion of their group lit up her own secret doubts, and made her wonder if she'd been going down the wrong path all along.

Trey had finished his drink and he turned to leave.

"
Wait. I didn't just want you for the Ordo." She took a step closer to him, until she could feel the warmth coming from his body. "Want to go out sometime?"

"
That sounds... That sounds nice. I'm busy until next Tuesday, though."

"
Tuesday, then. Six-thirty?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"
And since you're so busy, there's another time you may want to reserve. I'm having a party the next night, at 619 Western. Want to come?"

"
That place is crawling with fae."

"
It is?" Jina asked, shock ringing in her voice.

"
Yes. But I'm not really scared of them. I'd love to come to your party." He leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight, Jina. Thanks for the drink."

RAINWATER STILL GLISTENED on Jett's black leather boots. The cold iron gate stood in opposition to her, blocking her way, though nothing a thick pair of winter gloves couldn't defeat.

With a mighty shove to the left, she opened the heavy gate and entered the 1910 Otis elevator. Once inside, she closed the outer wooden door with one hand, and let the gate crash closed under its own force like a giant accordion that had been squeezed together too hard.

Long ago, the artists of 619 Western had painted the walls purple and the ceiling bright green. A pastel sketch of the Cheshire Cat hung on one side, and the original black and white checkered floor - which completed the motif of Wonderland's own elevator - was chipped and scuffed with age.

She pushed every button on the antique panel, ensuring the car would stop at every floor. Then she took off her leather jacket and shook water from it before putting it back on over her lacey tank top.

A maintenance door sat in the back corner, only two feet high. Jett crouched down to it and knocked.

As if the deadbolt lock were not there, the elf door swung open, and a smiling pygsie crept out. Barely 18" high, the little fellow had a long nose, a hunched back, and too-thin, too-long arms and fingers. His eyes curled at the corners to match his smile. He wore an apron that was as covered in paint as his dreadlocked hair. In his hand he held a paint brush, which he leaned on like a staff.

"
Jettt," he said, "Itt has beennn a long time, my lllove."

"
Yes it has, Perstin. I've brought you a gift." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a bag of fair-trade organic chocolate-covered coffee beans. She held a shiny black bauble of caffeine out in front of him. Grinning even more, he grabbed it with both hands and shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

"
If you promise not to gobble them all up at once, I will give you the rest."

Perstin nodded enthusiastically. Jett took one for herself, and gave him the bag.

"
Are you keeping everyone out of trouble?" she asked.

"
Certainllly, my lllove. Chased outtt the trow, only seelie haunt six-nineteen now. The rats are not so easillly chased."

"
You are brave, Perstin. Ignore the rats, and you will not come to harm."

"
Rattts are not to be fffeared, but these nest in the art supplies and chew up the cannnvas."

The artists at 619 Western claim it is the largest art enclave in the region, and possibly in the world. Jett was pretty sure that was true. Located in Seattle's Pioneer Square, close to the water, it housed over 100 studios and galleries. Artists, mostly painters and photographers, lived, breathed, worked, and showed here.

Jett pursed her lips. "How fare the dreamers?"

Perstin gripped his paintbrush and stood up as straight as he could, like a palace guard, the bag of coffee beans slung over one shoulder. "Safe and ppprotected, their ideas, tttoo. No one to stealll them away. No buggane or fuath or kobbylnau."

"
Good little man. You are a stalwart protector of this realm. Are there any new dreamers of exceptional brilliance?"

"
Nnnay, Lady Jettt. I would ccconjur one for you, I woulddd."

She patted him on the head. "I know you would, little Perstin."

The elevator had reached the top floor, so Jett pushed all the buttons for the downward journey to the correct level. The creaky car lurched a little.

Perstin had lived here since the 1960s, when 619 had been the site of a novelty importer, distributor, and retail store complete with a mechanized gorilla by the front door. Jett suspected Perstin had come in with a shipment of sea monkeys and x-ray goggles, but he never would tell. He would also never leave.

"
I painttts for the painters alll night, and hang the paintings where they cannn see. And nary do they knnnow where they come from! See if you can spottt them among the other picturrres."

"
Good little Perstin." She gave Perstin a kiss on the forehead.

The elevator faltered to a stop.

Jett vigorously fought to keep the gate from crushing in on her. Then she waved goodbye to Perstin as he slipped into the darkness behind the maintenance hatch. She no longer needed the protective gloves, so she placed them in her pocket.

She was here for Ramon's showing at First Thursday art walk, when galleries, shops, and restaurants in the neighborhood opened their doors to show local art to all comers. Ramon never felt the need to rent permanent space here. Tonight, he borrowed a studio from a friend who was out of town.

She wandered the slipshod halls of the enclave, passing a few artists and early artwalkers as she went.

Jett loved the flow of aisling here, though it was thin and tenuous. Many of the artists at 619 weren't dreamers. They copied, repeated tropes, and were generally uncreative or amateurish. Nevertheless, there would be an abundance of toradh here tonight. She could feel the edges of it from a block away.

Jett wandered the building to admire the art before the throng showed up to pack the halls. She also searched for the young man Ivy described, on the off-chance he would be here. For her, luck often had a way of defying probability, especially when she helped it along.

Through each room, she heard different styles of recorded music, bleeding into each other at times to make a cacophonous symphony. Color and lack of color bled together through sketches, abstract, realist, impressionist, and pop art paintings; a fine mix of the meaningful, beautiful, raw, and provocative.

She reveled in it.

Now and then, in amongst the other paintings, she would spot a small canvas with Perstin's distinctive abstract style: sometimes bright, sometimes dark, but always vivid, colors bleeding into one another and into the touch of glamour that only she could see. The 619 patrons could only sense it on a deeper level.

She overheard one person ask a confused artist for a price. Perstin had been hard at work for sure.

At a dirty window at the end of a hallway, Jett stared out at the Viaduct, like an elevated sailor's bunk, the cars on top passing quickly on their way to the north of the city, and on the bottom bunk, speeding south on Highway 99. The dirty concrete structure cast a twilit shadow on the puddles and streets and buildings below. The piers of the Puget Sound lay just beyond.

Jett lifted an arm. She could hear the rats begin to scurry, all at once, in the walls. She closed her eyes, and at her command, they fled the building.

She could see them in the parking lot below, spreading like an oil spill towards the belly of the Viaduct. When they reached the concrete pillars, they scrambled up and entered the highway where they met their deaths beneath the wheels of hybrids, SUVs, and semi-trucks.

An artist smiled at her from the end of the hall as she turned. She let the corner of her mouth turn up just a bit.

She found Ramon in a room with floor-to-ceiling paned windows, giving a partial view of the water and the city. He stood atop a ladder, centering a four-foot tall painting on the wall.

Even though he was the brugh's enthralled human dreamer and her
ceile
, she gave him a wide berth of independence. Hard work led to inspiration. So did suffering, and he got enough of that on his own, without her help.

"
Jett!" he exclaimed when he saw her. He jumped down to give her a kiss. "Almost done." He grabbed another picture from the pile.

The paintings were large, featuring broad brush strokes, colorful, like cartoon characters. Jett closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the room, not just old paint dust and distant mildew, but the
blas na haislinge
, the taste of Ramon's work.

"
They're beautiful as always, my enchantment. You will sell a few of these tonight."

"
Not that I need the money, Jett. You provide for me well enough."

"
The spring rains will one day turn to the barren of winter."

Eventually, Ramon would grow old. Or burn out. Jett inspired him, yet sooner or later, he would be unable to provide the toradh that made him useful to the brugh. His geas ensured he would obey her command to save money when he could.

"
In that case, here's to hoping I sell a painting," he said, hanging the last.

"
You will sell more than one," she asserted.

A few small groups wandered in and gazed at the paintings, commenting with enthusiasm. They wore clothes in autumn colors even though it was spring, and various tactile textiles: loose knits, smooth silks, tweed, corduroy, hats, piercings, and perky hairstyles. The quirky Seattle fashions gave off little bursts of their own aisling like released steam

Ramon hung back and listened to their comments, mostly positive. Now and then he would insert himself into the conversation. People liked to meet the creator; that was one of the draws to art walk.

One couple looked ready to buy a bright green and orange painting of a pelican gulping down a fire hydrant. She sampled the small sliver of toradh they gave off in appreciation. Delectable toradh.

But soon the tiny rivulets were overwhelmed by another source, in another room. Was someone painting?

Then she heard it: soft notes from an acoustic guitar fell upon her ears, carrying with it a rich
blas na haislinge
. A dreamer, and a potent one at that.

The music's call lured her through the maze of studios to a tiny room on the east side of the building. There, in front of a microphone, eyes half-closed in ecstasy, stood a young woman singing a soft ballad. Orange city-light shone through the window, glinting off her silver nose ring and tinting her hair.

The aisling of a newborn song washed over Jett like warm water. With every sense heightened, she felt tense and relaxed at the same time. There was too much to absorb, so she let it pass through her and around her like an abundance of mead going to waste. Jett closed her eyes and just listened. The moment seemed to last forever.

When the song ended, Jett opened her eyes to the sound of applause.

"
Hi, my name is Jina Harper," the woman said into the mic. "I wasn't on the schedule, but my friend Brandon asked me to play a little. And I'm always eager for an audience, even an intimate one like this. Here's one of my favorites." She began another song, but the aisling had the patina of something oft-played - yet still powerful, like Mozart's Symphony No. 40.