Guardian of the Dead (20 page)

He left. I slumped over the table, and thought hazy, confused things about the way his head had felt heavy and hard against my shoulder, about how he twisted his fingers while he talked and retreated behind his hair when he didn't want to answer questions. The thoughts got mixed up with thoughts of Blake kissing me in the car, and how I had wanted him to at first, tainted memories that made me feel grubby and ashamed.

In any case, I couldn't fall for Mark now. I had to concentrate on my research.

Most of the books on my printed list were still on the dull metal shelves of the Folklore section. I took them all down, settled myself at a spare desk nearby, and tried to concentrate over the thrumming in my veins.

The results weren't reassuring. Not every book mentioned the fairy people, but those that did all mentioned their immense magical power and incredible sacredness. Cooked food or its smell were non-sacred, and could drive them off or keep them away, which explained Reka's ‘allergy'. The books were vague about their appearance. Sometimes they were supposed to have reddish skin and blue or black eyes. Sometimes they were pale-skinned and light-haired. Mostly, the books agreed that they were beautiful, but there were plenty of more monstrous figures too, like men with huge claws for fingers and a taste for human flesh. There was a story about a giant patupaiarehe woman who had a beak for a mouth and speared birds upon it, and one about a man who took the form of a giant lizard, although another book with the same story classed that one as a
taniwha
, one of the huge, man-eating water monster–guardians.

The patupaiarehe were reputed to sometimes steal human wives or husbands, to live in the thick fogs of the forests and coasts, and to be visible only at dusk and dawn. They were musicians and singers, and their music was magic, capable of curse or transformation. Clearly, though, it was possible to beat Reka. In most of the stories, the humans encountering patupaiarehe avoided potential disaster.

Even as I finished that thought, I saw the problem with my smugness. Of course, I could only read the stories based on the tales of survivors. How many people had simply vanished, their stories never told? I flipped through the titles. And how come so many M
ori stories were written down by people with P
keh
names? How much of this was worth believing?

It took longer than I'd thought, even skimming through repeated material, and it all began to blur in my head. I drifted off into unpleasant visions of Reka turning me into something horrible and yanking Kevin into the mists, and I came back to myself with a jerk. I was ostensibly reading one of the stories of M
ui and his brothers. The trickster-hero had been human, sort of, but he'd known many spells, and used various magical items that he'd stolen or been given by his ancestors. That wasn't very useful for my purposes, unless I could find someone willing and able to cram years of lore into my head in an afternoon, and then produce my grandmother's sacred jawbone. I imagined Nanny Spencer pulling herself out of her ransacked grave to shamble after me, scolding with her unhinged skull.
Eleanor, you thieving
magpie! I should have known you'd come to a bad end! Your sister
would never disrespect me so!

I was trying to stifle my half-hysterical giggles when my mobile phone rang.

Everyone in close proximity twisted in their seat and glared as I fumbled for it.

I glanced at the caller ID and hunched over it. ‘Iris?' I whispered.

Her voice was sharp with alarm. ‘She's
here
. She got here just after we did, and Kevin's acting really
weird
. Ellie, what the hell is—' ‘I'm on my way,' I said. ‘If Mark Nolan turns up, he's there to help. Let him in. Okay?'

‘Mark
Nolan
? Ellie!'

I clicked the phone shut on her panic and punched in Mark's number.

‘She's at Iris's,' I said. ‘With Kevin, now!'

‘Coming,' he snapped. ‘Go!'

I abandoned my books, grabbed my bag, and ran like hell, ignoring the death glares from the library's other patrons.

I jumped down the bus steps before the door had even finished opening, and raced around the corner to Iris's place. The faded-green door was locked. I pounded on it with both fists, and nearly overbalanced when Iris pulled it open.

She was still small and delicate, still neatly dressed in a black skirt and white cashmere cardigan, but she looked undone in a way that was foreign to her. There were two red spots in her cheeks, and her eyes were wild, her mouth tight with fear.

‘Is he okay?' I demanded.

She nodded and grabbed for my hand. I let her draw me over the threshold. The air inside felt different, charged with something that prickled down my spine. I shut the door behind me, snibbing the lock open for a fast getaway.

‘What
is
she?' she whispered.

‘Bad news,' I said, and remembered that one of Iris's majors was M
ori. Maybe she'd worked it out.

But no epiphany showed on her frightened face: ‘We're going over lines.'

‘No. We're leaving.' I strode down the hall to the living room.

Iris had an allowance from her parents and lived by herself in the tiny house. I usually considered that yet another reason to be envious and hateful, but today I was just grateful she didn't have nosy roommates to get in the way.

The two of them were sitting around the glass-topped coffee table, Kevin in his favourite chair, Reka on the couch, in the space closest to him. Her head snapped round when I entered. She was wearing brown today: a burnished-copper dress that pooled around her feet, and a darker half-cloak that swung over one shoulder. She glanced up sharply as I came in, and despite all my rage, I nearly stepped back.

Menace drifted from her like smoke on a still day.

Kevin finished a speech and cocked his head at Reka like a puppy awaiting a treat.

‘Kevin, I need you,' I said. ‘Please, come home with me.'

He looked vaguely troubled. Reka put her hand on his knee and his face settled into pleased contentment. My jaw clenched.

‘We're rehearsing,' Reka said.

‘We're rehearsing,' he agreed.

‘Kevin,
please
.' My voice cracked with the force of the plea. Reka snatched her hand back as if it stung. I deliberately stepped into the gap between her and Kevin. I heard her breath hiss between her teeth, but didn't dare turn to meet her eyes, instead focusing all my attention on Kevin. My body felt like such a fragile barrier.

Kevin frowned. ‘What's wrong?' he asked, sounding more like himself.

I paused, caught.

‘Could you get me a glass of water?' Reka asked sweetly.

Kevin leapt to his feet and hurried into the kitchen before I could grab his arm. I spun, staggered backward into his chair, and kicked it away. It crashed into the wall, but Kevin didn't charge back in. I heard the pipes complain, and then the gurgle of running water.

Reka leaned back as if on a gilded throne and regarded me with mild interest. ‘Goodness, Eleanor, are you stupid or just mad?'

‘Apparently insanity is your specialty.'

Her face went glassy smooth. ‘Mark's father is no business of yours.' She spread her hands in what could have been regret. ‘Kevin is stronger. He believes in many of the old ways. He won't suffer so much.'

Iris was edging behind her, in the doorway to the hall. Three-inch heels or not, she looked ready to leap forward and wrap her manicured hands around Reka's elegant neck.

Reka must have felt the hatred aimed at the back of her skull. She shifted to keep us both in view. ‘Did Mark bother to tell you why I need Kevin?'

‘You want kids. You incredible bitch.' The tap was still gushing. Was he trying to find an appropriate glass for his lady love, or was he getting his head clear? I edged closer to the kitchen door.

Reka sniffed and uncrossed her legs. ‘I could be doing a great deal more than taking one man for a short time. Really, you girls have no idea how much I love your grubby little species.'

My lip curled. ‘We're a
hobby
.'

‘Don't trust Mark too much, Eleanor. He's got his own goals.' Abruptly, her eyes blanked out to that solid green. ‘Oh, I'm tired of both of you. Eleanor Spencer, you are a lumbering waste of half a talent, and as for you, Iris Tsang, you simpering,
useless
—'