Songs_of_the_Satyrs (7 page)

“I promised Olivia I would take care of Sophie. Don’t let Tom hurt her.”

Ryan staggered to his feet. He glared at Rebecca. “Where?”

She nodded out the window. “The barn.”

***

Ryan stumbled out the front door and lurched across the clover-filled lawn toward the round barn. He wiped his forehead and grimaced at the bright red smear on the back of his hand. His bloodstained fingers wrapped around the iron handle and he threw the barn door open.

There, under the flickering blue fluorescent lights, knelt Sophie. Her brown arms were wrenched up into the small of her back and tied with frayed rope. Another section of rope held her slender neck down on the chunk of tree stump which Tom used to split wood.

Her eyes widened as Ryan stepped into the barn. Her lips moved but the screeching of the grinding wheel drowned out whatever she was trying to say. She winced as sparks landed on her cheek from the axe blade Tom held to the spinning stone. Tom looked up at Ryan. And grinned.

Ryan moved to step forward, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He caught his breath as the horned shadow stepped from the darkness behind a woodpile.

He glanced back at Tom, who was rolling up the sleeves on his work shirt. The gleaming axe blade resting on the floor, the handle against Sophie’s shoulder. Her lips were parted in a soundless scream, overridden by the tortured grinding of the motor.

Ryan took another step. Tom’s raised finger shook as he grasped the axe with his other hand, swung it onto his shoulder. The horned shadow behind the woodpile beckoned him.

What the hell do I do?

The shadow drew back farther. A polished wooden handle gleamed in the cool blue light where the thing had stood. Ryan’s brows knitted as he recognized the antique pitchfork. His hand shot out. He seized the long handle and lifted it out of its nook.

Tom’s laughter rose above the screeching motor. Ryan turned and pointed the tines. They both knew he could never cross the barn before the axe fell on Sophie’s neck.

Ryan watched helplessly as Tom’s callused hands swung the axe into the air, slowing as it reached the top of its arc. He shifted his grip on the pitchfork, found his center of gravity; his arm drew back as he took two great strides forward.

Step, step, throw.

Ryan followed through just like he always had on the javelin field. The axe slipped out of Tom’s fingers, fell soundlessly to the floor by the grinding wheel. Ryan started forward, but there was no need. Tom had his fingers wrapped around the tines protruding from his chest. Then he collapsed, the pitchfork handle bobbing up and down on the grinding wheel.

***

They emerged from the barn in time to see Rebecca’s Volvo fling sand and gravel into the air as it sped down the driveway, veering onto the dirt road leading to Greenfield. Ryan grasped the brown arm that clutched his waist. He pulled Sophie closer—watching the shadow move among the trees at the edge of the wood.

“See the blonde? The short, dumpy one?”

Marco jerked his head up and down.

“For the Master’s sake take her somewhere and fuck her. We’re already behind on quota for the week.”

Marco nodded again. “Yes, Leo. Of course.”

He started toward the girl and winced when he heard Leonides snort in disgust. Marco dragged his face into something he hoped looked sultry and tempting, and did what he could to inject confidence into his gait. It wasn’t easy. Leonides was a full head taller than he was. Damn it, they all were, with broad shoulders and muscles rippling across stomachs and down hairy thighs.

Another snort, and Marco stopped again. His hands started to shake as he tried to determine what he had done wrong now. He looked at his hands—his empty hands—and resisted the temptation to slap his forehead. He changed course slightly so that his path took him to a table from which he collected a pitcher of wine and two goblets, his fingers still quivering.

He closed in on the girl and she looked up at him, her expression one of gentle confusion. The male she had entered the club with snored gently beside her. Marco flicked a glance at him and looked away. The last thing he wanted to do was draw her attention to her companion. He smiled, lopsided, and waggled the goblets.

“Can I tempt you?”

The woman giggled, looked coyly aside for a moment, then nodded. “My name is Haylee.”

“Nice to meet you, Haylee,” he replied, forcing his grin wider and hoping he would be able to remember the name long enough. “I’m Marco.”

He handed her a goblet and poured from the pitcher. It was just wine. All of the guests had already been slipped their faerie-enhanced roofies, and the pitcher held nothing more than a cheap Californian red. Marco sloshed wine into his own goblet and put the pitcher on the floor.

He looked into the cup. It might be rubbish, but it was still wine. Just holding the goblet was making his heart beat faster. He raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply. His head swam and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth with a sudden desperate thirst. He lifted the wine, trying for a sip. As soon as it touched his lips he upended the goblet and drained it, wine spilling from the sides and dribbling down his face like blood. His ego engorged as fast as his penis. Dropping the goblet he carried on drinking from the pitcher. Marco held his hand out to Haylee. Her whole attention was raptly focused on his groin. He had to give her a nudge to snap her out of it.

“Let’s go somewhere away from this crowd,” he suggested, and she took his hand.

***

A little over an hour later Marco stumbled into a storage room next to the kitchen. He closed the door quietly, leaned against it, and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. He hung his head, only to be confronted by a view of his partially flaccid penis. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on not throwing up.

He had left Haylee, wearing nothing but a contented smile, sprawled on a couch in a secluded corner. As soon as their sexual energy discharged into the collector, the effects of the wine evaporated and left him drained. He felt unclean and used. He covered his face with his hands. Before his heart rate or his breathing had returned to normal, the door shoved him mightily in the back and there was an angry hammering.

“Marco?
Marco?
I know you’re in there. Get back out on the floor. Pull another pathetic stunt like this tonight and I’ll pull your fucking head off and grind you for hamburger.”

The door slammed into his back again, lower this time as if it had been kicked. Marco waited long enough to make sure Leonides had gone before he stood. It was different for the others. As soon as they had finished with one customer, they reached for another pitcher and moved on to the next. Some even took the famous rhomboid purple helpers. Not that they needed them. Not for stamina, anyway. But there was the rumor that the drug made them bigger than any faerie magic could, and it was cheaper. There was a lot of bravado bullshit about getting off on the look of delight and fear in the eyes of the women. Marco had tried one once. All he had got out of the experience was a bright red face and blocked sinuses. And another reason for the other satyrs to mock him. He had avoided the pills since.

He looked both ways along the corridor. Nobody was in sight, although he could hear clattering in the kitchen and ribald revelry in the “grotto.” He closed the door and hurried off, hoping nobody would see him. Then he realized he was wasting his time. Leo would tell the others anyway.

He pushed through the double doors on the Mundane side and stepped down the short corridor. The disgusting creeping sensation of passing through the portal to the Unreal slithered across his body. At the other end he pushed the vine curtain aside and stepped into the grotto.

As he made his way back to the middle he passed Haylee. She was still asleep, and would be until the night ended. They had taken everything they could from her, for tonight. He turned to walk away, then leaned over and pulled a fake fur comforter across her. She was still naked, and he thought she looked cold. Or that’s what he told himself.

By the time Leonides called the night to a close, Marco had screwed two more women. The others had each doubled that. Every night the club attracted almost two hundred couples, drawn by the rumors that exactly what was going on was going on. Nobody went away able to prove anything, but then nobody went away feeling anything but happy—even if they weren’t sure what they were so happy about. The Faerie saw to that, as they saw to the comatose males. Even there, exceptions were not uncommon.

After the clientele—or “donors”—had left and Leo had locked up the Mundane entrances, the grotto dropped fully back into the Unreal and a shudder of relaxation rippled around the whole group. Some made sounds of disappointment, but to Marco it was a relief and a release. For a moment, at least. Leonides called them all to the heart of the grotto. It was time to see how much energy they had collected for the night. They gathered around the oak at the centre of the clearing, and Leo opened the moss-covered panel in the trunk, almost reverentially.

The hopeful anticipation popped like a bubble and was replaced with a group groan. Behind the panel, the collector crystal showed only a little over three quarters full. They had missed quota again.

Almost
en masse,
hostile eyes turned to find Marco and glare at him. He wanted to protest, to shout out that even if he had doubled his efforts, they still would have been short. But he kept his peace. If he spoke out, offered excuses, it would only make things worse, and it might be the final straw that drove them to violence. He could feel it flowing just below the surface, looking for an excuse to flood outward.

Leo lifted the crystal out of its holder and shut the panel. That was the signal to disperse. Satyrs drifted from the grotto in small groups, muttering to each other and casting glances about, as if looking for Marco. But he was nowhere to be seen. He was not hiding—exactly—but he had found a seat on a couch that happened to be out of the way.

Leo found him. As if on a route he would have taken anyway, he casually passed Marco, just close enough to glare at him before walking off, slowly shaking his head.

“Tough night, huh?”

Marco flinched before he realized the voice belonged to Alphrein, their provider of all things faery, who was looking at him over the back of the couch. Marco wondered what the faery was standing on in order to do that.

Alphrein climbed over and sat at the opposite end of the couch. His legs pointed straight out, and the couch looked like more of a bed for him. Marco nodded, then turned his face away and covered it with his hands as he propped everything up on his knees.

“What’s the problem?” Alphrein asked. “Dey giving you da goils when youse want da guys?”

He laughed at his own humor and his terrible faux-Brooklyn accent. Marco wished he would go away, but when he sneaked a look out the corner of his eye, the faery was still there. He sighed and straightened up.

“There’s no problem. Honest. Just a bad night.”

“One bad night is not what I hear.”

“I can handle it.”

“Sure. That’s why you’re so happy to walk out with the rest of your clan instead of hiding here until they’ve all gone.”

Marco couldn’t find anything to say, and he was starting to feel uncomfortable under the diminutive faery’s gaze. “Everything’s fine,” he repeated.

Alphrein shrugged and jumped down from the couch. When he stood in front of Marco, they were eye to eye.

“Okay,” the faery said. “But when you decide to admit there’s an issue, come see me. I may be able to help.” He walked off, disappearing into the undergrowth outside the grotto.

Marco also rose from the couch. He started to walk toward his own nest, and wondered if the faery might have the right of it, after all. He stopped in his tracks, shook his head sharply and barked a cynical laugh. Who was he kidding? The faerie never offered help without a price, and often offered help where there was nothing that needed fixing.

He carried on to his nest, musing over how close the faery had come to tricking him.

***

A week later, Marco lagged behind after everybody else had left. Only this time he sat on a stool in the middle of the grotto, hoping Alphrein would wander by.

“You look awful,” the faery said, sneaking up behind him, making him flinch again. But it was less of a flinch and more of a panicked jump, really. Marco closed his eyes and took a deep breath when he realized who it was.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he muttered.

“I know,” said Alphrein, grinning widely. “But why the long face? I hear you guys made target five days out of seven, and I even overheard the lovely Leonides saying you were actually pulling your weight for a change.”

Marco put his head in his hands and groaned. Somehow that made it worse. “I have been trying.”

“And that’s not good?”

“No.” He drew the word out, whining. “It just makes me feel terrible, and the harder I try, the more I do it, the worse it gets.”

“Seriously? But I thought that’s what satyrs were all about; par-tay animals of the multiverse.”

“Well maybe I’m just different,” Marco snapped.

Alphrein raised his hands defensively. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Try convincing Leo.”

“So what is it that’s screwing you up so bad? I was under the impression that once you guys hit the vino, everything kind of took care of itself.”

“It does. But afterward, it’s horrible. Such emptiness. The others just pick up another pitcher and start again, but it makes me sick. I just wish I didn’t have to drink the wine in the first place, then none of the rest would happen.”

“So why don’t you stop?”

“I can’t. I try but eventually the wine wins. I have to go out there and take a drink, and then . . . well. And Leonides is constantly on my bad, so even if I could stay off the wine, he would kick my ass for not working.”