Throne (22 page)

She strode away, heading north up the avenue. Her footsteps echoed off the cliff like sides of the buildings, empty hand claps that disconcerted her more than the lack of people. Where had they all gone? Kevin jogged up alongside her. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. But if it turns out that he
is
hiding in the back of a bank, you’ll owe me for all this wasted time.”

“Right,” she said. “Sure.”

They walked on in silence. A silence that grew steadily unnerving. A deep, mournful wind howled down past them, tormenting the still spaces and rejoicing in its newfound primacy. Endless windows stared down at them. The city took on a surreal aspect, and Maya suddenly felt as if she were walking the streets of a city encased within a snow globe, which was being observed from without by countless eyes.

“Asterion,” she said quietly to herself. “I wonder what he looks like.”

Maribel staggered to a stop. Though her eyes were open, she didn’t see the city before her, bereft of life and movement, a still life, a study in gray and white. Instead, she stared sightlessly at nothing, saw again Isobel’s eyes widen in shock and pain. Saw the blood splatter and pour. Saw her rise into the air, speared on the phooka’s horn.

She shivered then, a convulsive shudder that wracked her frame. Pressed her hands to her face, but they felt like dead things, and she took no comfort from the gesture. A sensation came to her then, of fingers brushing her cheek as she lay still in her bed, recovering. The gentleness in that caress, the care, the love. Desperately she tried to recall Isobel’s last words, but all that came back was her refusal to let her proceed. There had been more, but it was lost now, smeared and blended into the horror of what had transpired.

Maribel lowered her hands, stared at them. She had hated them when she was younger, the veins that marked their backs, the whorls on her knuckles, how they betrayed her age more than any other part of her. An old woman’s hands she had always thought, though Antonio, everybody, had protested she was being irrational. Looked at her hands, and asked herself,
what am I doing?

A cold wind was blowing, but it failed to disperse the cotton wool fog that hovered high above, smothering the building tops. That made it impossible to see further than a few blocks in any direction. That beaded the window fronts with water, that made the pavement slick with viscous oil and filth. Maribel listened to the desolate howl of the wind, and imagined she heard a cry twinned within it. Something howling out of the darkness and solitude. She shivered again, stepped aside, into a doorway, where she slid down into a crouch and wrapped her arms around her shins.

So far from home. How had she come so far? She tried to remember Barcelona, Las Ramblas, the mosaics and balconies, the flowers and sunshine. The sound of guitars playing, the crash of the surf. Tried, but nothing held together. Each element would rise within her mind, and then sink into oblivion as she tried to recollect something else. Barcelona failed to coalesce, and remained as distant a country as health.

What was she doing? What was this blade she sought? Why? An image of the phooka came to her, blank eyed and hideous, but she dismissed it. That wasn’t the cause, that was merely the catalyst for what was taking place. Thought of Kubu then, of its wretched face and existence, but no; Kubu wasn’t the motivating force, not really: though she yet despised it, she understood it now, at least a little, and thought of it with pity. Kubu might be the target, but not the cause. Thought of Antonio, of her photographs, of her life led before the cameras, of her reputation as his wife and not a person in her own right. Thought of her face, how revered it had always been, and how, predictably, nobody had ever thought to look beyond it.

Thought of Antonio, his face haggard, defeated, confused, afraid. Thought of Isobel, her eyes widening in pain and shock. Her blood, hot in the winter cold. Splattering, showering down. Her eyes locked on Maribel’s even as she died.

Thought of Sofia. Dead, dead before anything could happen. Stolen, taken, killed. Lifting her face, Maribel looked down the avenue. The empty lanes, a newspaper swirling down the pavement, the erratically blinking traffic lights. A vast, empty maze of streets and cross streets, devoid of life. This was the reality, the world she would live in from hence forth. Even if she returned to the normal world, if all the people came back, this was where should would forever reside.

Maribel rose to her feet. A cold certainty was coalescing within her. Without Sofia, without that bright spark, that life, the world would be empty for her. A countdown to her own death. Perhaps there might be other children, but she doubted it. She wouldn’t return to Antonio. Could not, now. No; this howling in-dark was to be her fate. And, as such, why not take up this blade? Why not strike at Kubu, strike at the indifference that had allowed all this to come to pass?

Maribel pressed her hands against her face, smoothed back the skin of her cheeks, rubbed her knuckles into her eyes. Smoothed back her hair, lustrous and long and black. How Antonio had loved to play with it. The memory failed to bring back even sadness. Maribel raised her chin. These empty streets were as home to her now as any place. Barcelona was no longer for her; that had been another person. No; for her it would be shadows and silence and solitude.

So be it.

She began to stride down the street. This was the House of Asterion, and her search would not be a meticulous one, taking in each building, store, shop or alley. No—if this was his House, then she was his guest; it would be his duty to find her, and welcome her to his home.

With each step, fear fell from her like leaves from a tree. It no longer mattered to her, not truly, if she succeeded or failed. What was there to strive for? The only true goal was now beyond her. The shadows that filled the alleys held no secrets, harbored no potential horrors. Whatever might lie within them would be dealt with if they emerged, or not. She thought of the things she had seen, felt. Thought of blood, and pain, and things beyond her ken. None of it touched her. She walked as if in a cloud, an enervating mist of detachment and inviolate indifference.

Movement. Maribel stopped. Asterion? A young man had turned the corner a block away, rounding the green support column that held up the façade of a Starbucks. He took a few steps, then saw her and stopped. Curly brown hair, a distinctly ugly face, lean and wearing too little clothing for this cold. They stared at each other, and then an even younger girl walked out and joined him, and Maribel thought that she heard the distant peal of a bell.

Something about her. In this monochromatic world, her tan skin seemed to glow with health and vitality. Her chin was lifted at a defiant angle, and her hands rested lightly on her hips. They stared at each other, and then Maribel began to walk once more. Shortly thereafter, the other two did the same, approaching while speaking quietly to each other. When they were five yards apart, they stopped. Examined each other further.

The young man, in his early twenties perhaps, positioned himself to one side and angled his body between them; a protective position. He watched her carefully, his sensual mouth cast into a light frown. But it was the girl, the girl that she watched, stared at. She could feel the tension between them, causing the air to grow charged as if with electricity. Almost she expected the hair on her arms and head to begin to rise. Almost.

“You’ve come for the sword,” Maribel said at last. Her voice cold, certain.

“Not really,” said the girl. “More like we’ve been told to stop you from taking it.”

Maribel absorbed this. “Who asked you to stop me?”

“Old Man Oak. A fox called Guillaume. The Seelie Court.” Maribel felt weight behind those names, some stirrings of power, but they meant nothing to her. The girl looked carefully at her face, searching for something. “The Seelie Court,” she said again. “Your enemy?”

“I don’t have any enemies,” said Maribel. “Unless you count Kubu as one. And he’s an enemy to us all.”

The girl and the man exchanged puzzled looks. “But you work for the Unseelie Court,” she said. “They’re bad. They’re opposed to the Seelie Court.”

“So you say,” said Maribel. “That means nothing to me.”

“Well,” said the man, speaking for the first time. His left hand was in his pocket, holding something. “Be that as it may. You ain’t going to be getting your pretty hands on that sword. So.”

“I mean to,” said Maribel. She did. There was no bluster, no threat in her voice. If anything, she felt tired, annoyed, perhaps, by this interference. The young man pulled out a worn handle of wood from his pocket, and then flicked open a razor blade, long and straight and wickedly sharp.

“Don’t think you’re going anywhere,” he said, and smiled apologetically. “I’ve never hurt a woman before,” he continued, and then stopped. “Okay, I’ve never
cut
a woman before, but this is pretty serious. So. I guess I’d have to if you tried to get by us.”

The girl was staring at the man with a mildly shocked expression. “That’s Tommy’s,” she said. The man nodded. “How did you grab that?”

Maribel closed her eyes. The wind whistled about her, stirred her hair, blew thick strands across her face. She felt something rising within her. Annoyance, turning into a low snarl of anger. Her patience was wearing thin. With her eyes closed, she could sense the girl before her, a green spark of light, tinged with golden yellow. There was some power to her, but nothing to match her own. Nothing to match that which was welling up from her depths. Suffusing her.

Maribel opened her eyes. “I’m going now,” she said. “Move aside.”

“Sorry, sweet tits,” said the young man, grinning an ugly grin at her. He waved the razor before him, cutting at the air. “You move, I give you a neck tie smile, or something.”

Maribel felt no fear. No concern. Instead, she allowed her anger to swell, to surge for a moment, and extended her hand in the man’s direction. An image of Isobel’s eyes flashed through her mind, her hands limp and bloodied, and the young man was lifted off his feet and thrown back as if tackled by a charging rugby player. With a grunt he crashed onto the road beyond, rolled, and lay still.

Maribel looked at her hand. What surprise she felt was muted. She turned to look at the girl, just in time to see a brown fist come swinging out of nowhere. The girl cracked her across the cheek, smacking her head back, a flash of pain and white light blanking out everything for a moment, and then Maribel regained her balance, blinked tears from her eyes, and stared at her.

Extended her hand.
Pushed
. And felt her despair and resignation flare out of her, only to hit some resistance, to curve around the girl like a wave hitting a rock, or wind hitting the trunk of a great tree. The girl staggered back, however, legs buckling. Her eyes went wide, and she gaped at her.

“Move aside,” said Maribel. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
But I will
, said a voice deep within her.
I will if I have to’i>.

“No,” said the girl. “I won’t.”

Maribel took a stride forward, and flung out her hand. A crack like the breaking of lightning, and her anger was a whip, snaking out to lash around the girl’s neck. The girl screamed, grabbed at her throat. Maribel narrowed her eyes, tightened her grip. Felt the girl’s neck close. Drove her down to her knees, and stepped right up to her. Looked down into the glazed eyes, the rapidly reddening face.

“I don’t care about you. About your Courts, or friends, or thoughts and opinions. I am going to get the blade. And you won’t stop me. Try, and I’ll kill you.” The words rang true in her mind. She could, she realized. She could kill. Didn’t want to. But if there was no other option?

The girl was gurgling. With a wave of her hand Maribel released her, allowing her to topple over, clutching at her throat, choking and gasping. Maribel looked from the girl to the man, who was trying to sit up, face pale, arm flopping at his side.

“Leave me alone,” she said. And continued walking, leaving them both behind. Down the avenue she strode, the wind pulling and tugging at her clothing, causing her hair to flare behind her, strands blowing like whips. She simply narrowed her eyes, and walked on. She was drawing closer. She could sense it.

She turned a corner, and there before her lay a park, or no, not exactly such; rather, a park had overgrown the street, had uncoiled tendrils of greenery, cracked the asphalt, pushed trees up where before cars had edged forward in traffic. A winter garden, black trunks and spindly bushes, a carpet of leaves, a solid block of improbable growth. A thin layer of virgin snow lay over boughs and dusted the paths, frosted the dead grass and crunched underfoot as she approached. The lonely call of the wind, and little else came to her ears.

Maribel approached cautiously. The black hound in the tunnels below had acquiesced to her approach, but perhaps this Asterion would prove less than amenable to having his sword taken. Entering the outskirts of the twilight grove, she slowed and came to a stop. There, in the center, sat an altar of natural rock. Gray and harsh, its flat surface was draped with a crimson cloth, on whose folds lay a curved blade, broad and wicked.

“Welcome,” said a voice, deep and grave. It sounded like great rocks shifting beneath the mantle of the earth. Turning, Maribel saw Asterion, or parts of him, as he moved slowly around her, shielded by trees and thick webs of branches. Tall, broad shouldered, she thought for a moment that she was gazing at the phooka’s big brother. But no; his head was that of a bull, thickly furred with white curls, the horns horizontal, wickedly tipped, the finest ivory.

Asterion stepped clear of the undergrowth, emerged before her. Ponderously powerful, solemn in mien and strangely beautiful, he stood still, observing her. His eyes were blue, an intense, electric color, and bronze tattoos of Celtic design were carved deep into his cheeks, around his white muzzle, about his gentle eyes.

“Asterion,” she said, naming him, and he nodded.

“You are welcome to my house, daughter of Winter. You have come for the blade.”