Whiskey and Water (27 page)

"I thought about it," he said,
cutting himself another slice of bread. Autumn had the good honey. "But who
wants to work that hard?"

"I own a nursery," she said,
with a dry halfway laugh. "I'm the wrong one to ask."

"So what should I be asking?" He
stretched his feet under the table, sock heels slipping on worn linoleum. The
warm draft from under the refrigerator blew across his toes. "Carel's not
really in Texas, is she?"

She stopped with a slice of bread halfway
to her mouth. "Setup," she said.

"You wound me."

She didn't laugh. Her hand trembled as she
balanced the piece of bread on the rim of her bowl. "Gyp~"

"I can
see
something's wrong,
Autumn. Ever since you and she got together, there have been things you
haven't been telling anyone. I worry." He gave detailed attention to the
movements of his fork as he teased out a cube of eggplant and speared it
through. "I'm just looking to be a friend."

She grinned stiffly and gulped wine. And
sat back in her chair, loose joints in the wood complaining, and folded her
arms. "What's in the ratatouille?"

"Eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes, and h
erbes
du Provence."
He answered with his mouth full, and took another bite.
"And a small blessing. Pocket-sized."

"Uh-huh." But she picked up her
fork again. The seduction of good food, and warm company. "You wouldn't
believe the truth if I told it to you."

'I do believe in Faeries. What else do you
need?"

"Hah!"

Autumn." He let his fork clink on the
edge of the bowl as he rested it. Look. You're shedding fairy dust every time
you move and you're obviously worried sick about Carel. And whatever else
you've got going on. Would it kill you to tell me?"

Well, Carel might." But she didn't
close the door any tighter than that. Instead, she kept eating, and got up for
seconds when she reached the bottom of the bowl. He was right. She could push
it aside all she wanted, dig trees until the cows came home, work her hands
blistered — and she would still be left standing helplessly on the sidelines,
the princess in the tower, while Carel rode off to a war she couldn't even
describe.

Autumn did not fancy herself a Penelope.

Standing before the stove, her back toward
Gypsy, she closed both hands on the pull bar of the oven and sighed.
"Funny you should mention Faeries," she said.

She turned, hands crossed behind her back,
and leaned on the oven door. Gypsy watched her, letting his arms fall to the
table. "Don't set yourself on fire." "The burners are off."
She took a deep breath, tasting it, and let it out again. "Hell, Gyp. Have
you ever seen a unicorn?"

It is not many times in one's life that
one can count upon the Devil to make obeisance. But there he was, kneeling
before the Queen, shadows a circlet on his golden hair. She touched his
shoulder, where a wing should have been, and bid him rise.

"You don't actually come in
supplication," she said as he rose to his feet, so close she could feel
the breeze his body made uncoiling.

He bent over her hand, brushed it with his
lips, and stood, lips quirking. :The forms must be observed.:

"Must they?"

:If not us, who? Your mother sends
greetings, Your Majesty.:

"She would." The Queen began
walking, bringing him along with a gesture. She glanced over her shoulder and
caught Carel's eye. The Merlin moved forward, falling into step at the Queen's
left hand as Lucifer did on her right. "And you are nothing but her messenger?
I find that unchancy."

His smile was unbearable. She would have
glanced away from its brightness, but she was Queen.

Instead, she lifted her chin and smiled in
return. She had felt worse pain, now and again.

Angels have always been messengers, Your
Majesty. Don't I seem a common sort of errand boy to you?:

The Queen could almost stop her hands from
shaking. "An uncommon one, maybe — "

"Then let's have the message."
Carel, more plainly than the Queen would have dared, for after all she owed
Lucifer no fealty now. Keith had settled that debt forever.

:The Prometheans think they own me,
Mistress Merlin. They also think they own
Him.:
Polite as the very
devil, not to say the name of the Divine in Faerie.

"And are they right?" Carel's
earrings spun as she flipped her braids over her shoulders. She had long, strong
fingers, lightly fleshed over the bones.

:After a fashion.: Something flashed
behind him, a sweep of white feathers, glazed blue in the moonlight. : Insofar
as they work to control all stories. Jane Maga wished you to know that she does
not welcome Fae intrusions into her domain.:

"Hardly a revelation."

The Queen heard it this time, and there
could be no doubt from Lucifer's half smile that he did, as well. Carel was
defending her; that note in her voice was a flat territorial growl.
"And?" the Queen asked.

:If you deliver her the miscreant, along
with Master Marlowe and her other runaway Mage, all is forgiven.:

Under the jasmine arbor, the Queen paused.
"Did she happen to pass along a reason why I should turn her prodigals
over? Or does she expect my filial devotion to carry the day?"

:She said to appeal to your better
instincts.:

"There's a lost cause. If I had
better instincts, they'd tell me to protect Matthew and Kit, not hand them
over for . . . what, reeducation?" The Fae formality slipped into
unadorned Midwestern English.

The Queen's steps picked up speed. She
lifted her hem to allow herself a swinging stride, out of place in the
silver-gilt stiffness of the gown as her face and posture became animated.
Carel was not as tall, though more practically dressed. She hurried to keep up.

Lucifer paced them easily. When the Queen
turned to him, a stare that layered ice over heat like the core of the sun, he
balanced himself to a stop with his wings, unveiling them broad and worthy in
the moonlight.

:She offers peace,: the angel said. :She
offers an end to the war.:

The Queen stopped so short her gown
overbalanced her. Carel's quick hand on her elbow saved her an upset, though it
cost her some dignity. She turned, gravel knobby through the soles of her
slippers. "A true end. Not a cease-fire."

:Gestures toward an eventual alliance.
Promethean and Fae.: We've won
out
of your service, Morningstar. Would I
blithely walk in again?"

Rose-pink lips caressed the smile
thoughtfully before he let it out into the air. :She will rebuild the
Prometheus Club, Your Majesty. She's begun doing it already. And though you
rule a thousand years in Faerie, you will not reign forever. Think of war.
Think of your son.:

"When do I think of anything
else?" the Queen asked. Carel's hand tightened on her elbow. She turned,
away from Lucifer and his temptations, and glanced back up the path and the
sloped flight to the assembled Magi, mortals, and Fae, all of them pretending
they were not sneaking glances at the Devil, the Merlin, and the Queen. Marlowe
stood apart from the others, arms crossed, one foot kicked up as he leaned on
the rail. He was watching Matthew and the English Mage with the graying black
hair, their heads bent close, as they argued the terms of the duel.
Can he
beat her?

That was what it came down to. A deal with
Jane, or a deal with Marlowe after he defeated her. If he could defeat her.

If the Queen was willing to help him
destroy her mother.

Lucifer folded his wings.

"I'll think on it," the Queen
said, quietly, turning. She waved both Lucifer and Carel away when they moved
to follow her. "Leave me alone," she said. "And send me Whiskey.
I'm going for a walk."

I Guess the Lord Must Be
in New York City

"Y
ou know, Felix," Matthew said,
"I haven't thought of you in years." It was a calculated cruelty, the
more so for its truth, and Matthew felt a little guilty for not disliking
himself more when he could apply it with such precision. "You haven't
changed a bit."

Felix rubbed his nose with one finger and
offered a pinch-mouthed smile. "If we're indulging in pleasantries,
Matthew, the only response I can make is that you have changed rather a
lot." The finger flicked left and right, indicating Fae and devils and
misplaced mortals. "I'm surprised to find you in such mixed company. What
happened to the boy who wanted to see them all dead like the parasites they are?"

"He reassessed his opinion that the
iron world was any better," Matthew answered. He pushed his hands into his
pockets to hide the way his fingers wanted to tighten, and pretended a relaxed
slouch. "And you? I imagine you've been busy? Going up and down in the
world, as it were?"

As it were," Felix answered. He
seemed genuinely at ease, amused, while it was all Matthew could manage to keep
his own voice from shaking. He didn't
want
to face Jane, even
indirectly, and he was already regretting having told Marlowe he'd stand as
his second.

On the other hand, it wasn't as if he
could have lived with himself if he d left the poet to face her alone. Sometimes
a man had to get involved.

Felix cleared his throat. "Are you
with me, Matthew?"

Matthew nodded, forcing his attention back
to the conversation at hand. He would rather have been anywhere else. Tilting
at windmills. You name it. "Jane's the challenged party," he said.
"Choose your damned venue. We'll be there."

"The Arthur Kill," Felix said.
"The marine scrapyard."

"Damn," Matthew said. A heck of
a choice, and not good for Kit, whose familiarity with modern naval technology
might not be strong. He couldn't come up with an immediate reason to dismiss it
from consideration, though, and the crumbling ships had been used as a Mage's
dueling ground before. "All right. This week." The less time Jane had
to prepare, the better.

"Next week," Felix answered.
"Think of it as a concession. It will give you time to familiarize your
man with the . . . turf. And maybe shake the dust of Faerie off your own boots.
Ad it were."

Matthew glanced at Kit, who stood under
the arbor, arms folded, studiously ignoring them. "What's wrong with you,
Felix, is that you're too goddamned small and too goddamned smug. You never
cared for anything but the power, and it wasn't enough, and now you're like
a—a spurned lover, and I'm the other man. And it's twenty years ago now. Let
it
go."

"You really think I'm motivated by
envy? How about justice? Fairness? You only ever wanted
revenge."

Matthew took the hit well, he thought,
though it stung enough to silence him for a moment. He grabbed a quick breath,
and shot back, "You should have been born a Faerie. You'd have fit right
in."

"Funny you should say that,"
Felix answered, cheerfully examining his fingernails. "Considering where I
find you."

"Sunday," Matthew said.
I
should not let him bait me.

"Sunday," Felix agreed.

Marlowe hadn't moved in minutes. He stood
a little apart from the others, near an immense burgundy-blossomed lilac that
embraced the balustrade, shading and scenting one entire corner of the patio.
The leathery hearts of its leaves brushed his shoulders, their shadows sharp as
blades in moonlight that laid the patio brighter than a candlelit room. The
blossoms nodded over his hair, heavy stems echoing his bowed neck. Out of
earshot and nearer the wisteria trellis, Matthew and Felix stood closer than
they wanted to, the devious breeze that teased a few strands out of Matthew's
ponytail powerless against Felix's slicked dark waves.

The table the Queen had occupied was
empty. Jewels and Geoffrey sat side by side now, his hand resting on her
forearm as if she needed the reassurance more than he did: a blatant lie.
Jewels leaned against him, upper arms brushing, but her attention was firmly
fixed on Ian, whose black-clad form made a knife-cut silhouette against the golden
stone of the palace wall. Cairbre crouched beside the bench on which he'd
played, packing his mandolin carefully away—thick velvet wrappings inside the
hard wooden case—and Morgan and Whiskey still sat at their table, toying with
trifle and port as Merlin and the Devil returned. "She wants you,"
Carel said to Whiskey.

Whiskey nodded and set his napkin aside.
Three steps from the table he shifted midmotion, showing Lucifer all the regard
he might a fence post, clearing the steps with indifferent power. Lucifer
stared after the water-horse as he cantered in pursuit of his mistress, all
collected grace and dignity. Then the Devil looked up and caught Kit watching,
tucked a stray curl behind one ear — a picture of innocence — and beckoned. And
Kit, squaring his shoulders under his particolored cloak, went before he paused
to think if he willed it or not. He felt the eyes upon him as he moved: Felix
Luray, Matthew turning in his chiming coat, Carel reaching out to brush his
sleeve and letting her hand fall before it clove the silence Kit wore like a
cat's bared teeth and prickled fur.