Bravado's House of Blues (16 page)

“But the Fae pay the price with their blood.”

“It is but an animal,” Grandma says. “A simple bird like many others.”

“No,” Katie says, setting her mug on the table and moving to stare out into the rain. “It has become tainted, as have I.”

She catches her reflection in the mirror, the scar on her face that drove her inwards, to poetry and her inner world. “It has eaten of the flesh, fed its young on the magic. It has become voracious. Seeking that which it has only tasted for one season.”

“But surely it is not the same bird.”

Katie turns to her grandmother. “I believe it is. I believe it hunts the hawthorn and roses in search for more than mere sustenance.”

She sits back down on the couch, pulling the blanket over her legs. “We must find its nest. We must ascertain that it cannot thrive.”

“And the pixies?”

“This land has been in our family for generations,” Katie says. “It is blessed and cursed, as I am. I believe we owe it to the Fae to remove this scourge.”

“But, it is just doing what comes natural.”

“Natural?” she asks. “I don’t think natural is in the equation any longer.”

The lights dim, and the fire’s glow is the only light in the room. Katie sits alone in the garden house, whimpering as the rain pelts the windows.

The rocking chair sits empty; a vague whiff of vanilla and lemon reach her, driving the memory of softer times.

She stands at last, walks to the window and stares up at the empty house. The butcher bird haunts her dreams, haunts her garden.

But tomorrow, she will find its nest. She will end the madness that has afflicted her all these years. Her cell phone lays on the table, its battery long dead. It never got a signal here at the estate, as it is.

Her college days are long past her, her family gone to the great beyond, and yet the memories haunt her. Fae touched, her grandmother had told her. And still she finds the eviscerated remains of pixies and fairies. The butcher bird eludes her hunt, but its children starve.

BLACK BLADE BLUES

T
he warrior king stood atop the hill, the light of a new dawn cresting behind him. His pompadour, tall and proud as a cock’s comb, blocked the sun, casting his face in shadow. Tiny shafts of light sprayed from the crystals adorning his glowing white armor. The ebony blade he held above his head drank in the light, casting a halo around his upraised hands.

“I declare this land free from oppression,” he called. His voice rang. “By this sword, made from the shattered horn of Memphisto, and handed down to me from my father, and from his father before him, I cast the goblins from this land.”

He swung the sword to drag it across the rocky crag and shower sparks down upon the goblin horde at his feet.

Instead, I watched the sword strike the ferricrete stage and snap. Fully one third of the blade ricocheted toward the goblins, who scattered, squealing.

Actors are so stupid—not supposed to actually hit the stage. That’s what special effects are for.

“Cut!” Carl called. Carl was the director.

JJ flung the sword to the ground, sending the goblins into full retreat. “Stupid, useless props!”

The overhead lights came up, and the soundstage appeared, shattering the image of a vengeful King of Rock-and-Roll and his mighty sword of doom.

I love my job.

“Everybody take fifteen,” Carl said into his megaphone.

Seventeen extras in horrid rubber goblin suits waddled out to the lot, lighting cigarettes, their large costume heads under their arms.

I stormed over to JJ. “You idiot! You aren’t supposed to actually hit the stage.”

“Damn thing’s too freaking heavy,” he said. “Can’t we use a lighter prop? Maybe one that doesn’t break?”

I knelt down, looking at the pieces. For a moment, I wanted to pummel JJ with the flat of the blade. I’d only likely bruise him.
Likely
.

Behind me, Carl sighed. “Do we have another black sword?”

“No,” I said. Here goes a second career down the toilet.

“Well, it’s too damn heavy,” JJ groused. “Maybe you can make one out of Styrofoam or something.”

I just stared at the back of his sweaty, over-styled head as he sauntered toward the gaggle of women waiting along the back of the soundstage.

With a sigh, I picked up the sword firmly by the handle; the broken blade lay forlornly on the rocks. It was a bad break, snapping midway to the tip. Be a bitch to repair this one. Reforging a sword was tricky business.

Julie had no problem letting me use the forge after hours as long as I covered the expenses and cleaned up afterward. Tonight’s wages would cover fixing this sword, and maybe help me afford to make a few more for the cons. Of course, I’d be on my own. Julie was a farrier, and a good teacher, but her weapon skills sucked. Believe it or not, there were a group of folks
not
from Pakistan looking to buy hand-made weapons these days. I did my level best to fill that niche. Besides, this was a special blade, not some beater we used in the Society. I should’ve never risked it here with ham-fisted JJ.

I placed the blade into the crushed velvet nest I’d hand-built for it. Who knew the case was better constructed than the blade?

“We won’t need that sword again for a few days,” Carl said, walking up behind me. “Why don’t you take tomorrow off, see if you can repair it?”

Closing the case, I snapped the latches and hefted it up by the handle. “I’ll do what I can,” I said, smiling at him. “Plus, there’s an antique auction in Seattle tomorrow. I’m hoping to get over and see if they have anything interesting.”

Carl laughed. “You’re quite the weapons nerd, Beauhall.”

I stuck my chin up, tilting my head to the side. “You making fun of me, boss?”

He stepped back, hands in front of him, palms out, laughing. “God, no. I would never tease a blacksmith. I mean, with arms like yours . . .” he trailed off. “And any woman who collects swords, no chance.” He gave me his best Boy Scout grin. “Too many sharp pointy things to be concerned about.”

I smiled. He was cute, in a baby-face sort of way. Not a bad director, either. More Ed Wood than Woody Allen, but his films didn’t make me want to hurl. “All right, boss. I’ll see you on Tuesday then?”

“You’ll be bringing me a new ebony blade for JJ to abuse?”

“We’re still doing wide-angle shots?”

“Yes, close up shots aren’t until next weekend.”

“Okay, I’ll have something you can use.”

He grinned, but said nothing further.

I gave him a moment. “So, I’m not fired?”

“Not today.”

“Great,” I said “We’ll see how Tuesday goes.”

Jennifer, the Director of Photography, came over shaking her head, complaining about the lighting. She was one of those high maintenance photography directors who was worth every minute of time she sucked out of Carl. She’d have him tied up forever. The hangdog look on his face as I snuck away almost made me feel sorry for him.

Thing about Carl’s films: most of the shoots happened after hours because nearly everyone had a day job, just to make ends meet. Tonight’s was no exception. I had arrived here in Everett’s industrial area around six forty after a hard day at the smithy. A quick shower at home, some decent clothes that didn’t smell like smoke, and a drive-thru meal in me, I was good to go.

Carl worked a deal with the city to keep costs low so we shot from seven until midnight on good nights. Tonight was not a good night.

It was two thirty in the morning by the time I walked across the parking lot under sodium lights. As I was loading the case into my Civic, one of the goblins, a rather tall guy, black hair and beard, broke away from the smokers and sidled toward me. I didn’t recognize him, but extras came and went with some regularity.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said in a heavy Nordic accent.

“Something I can do for you?”

“I’d like to ask you about your sword,” he said, speaking to my face instead of staring at my breasts. Just made eye contact. It was refreshing.

I closed the hatchback, gripping the car keys in my left hand. “She’s a beauty,” I said, and meant it. I liked that damn blade. But the craftsmanship left a lot to be desired.

“She?” he asked, taken aback. “You believe the sword to be female?”

“Oh, are you of the camp that all swords are phallic because of the sheath thing?” I asked him.

He blinked. “I . . . Well . . . I just wanted to know where you got it.”

Ah, a groupie. “I bought it in an estate sale, a couple years ago.”

“Sweden?” He asked.

I laughed. Like I could afford to travel. “Why Sweden?”

“Because, you realize, the blade is Swedish.”

Gotcha. I loved meeting other weapon geeks, but especially loved when they get things wrong. “By the markings on the blade, I’d say Norwegian, but I bought it in Seattle. There is a rather large Scandahoovian population here.”

“Well,” he smiled. “I see how you Americans would mix up the lot of us—Swedes, Nords—Vikings all.”

“Yes, there was a serious amount of raiding and trading all through the Baltic. The Germanic people got around. And for the record, Beauhall is Swedish, so I get the connections.”

“My error,” he said. “I was led to believe you were Celtic.”

“I get that a lot.”

I stood there, holding my keys, waiting for this to go . . . well, anywhere. He fidgeted a bit, scuffing his boots on the blacktop.

“Well, nice to have met you,” I said, and walked around to the driver’s side door.

“Why do you degrade it so?” he blurted out.

I looked back at him, standing in the circle of light cast by the street lamp. He was gawkish and his skin almost glowed, it was so white. Black beard, black hair. Something about him struck me as odd.

“Mock what?” I asked.

“Fafnir’s Bane.”

A song ran through my head. It was one my girlfriend Katie sings sometimes at those science fiction conventions we attend.

I met a Swedish guy in Dublin

who was going to school in France

said he’d show me Odin’s Gungnir

if he could get inside my pants.

“Fafnir’s Bane?” I asked. “You mean Gram, Sigurd’s blade?”

I smelled stone then, like a gravel road when it first starts raining. I’ll never forget that. The guy stepped toward me, keeping on the other side of the car, his eyes huge, drinking in the light. “Yes,” he hissed. “You have become the caretaker, the guardian. Of those who have held that sword, I would expect you to be different.” He paused, drawing in a rattling breath. “I can smell the forge on you.”

Now I was insulted. I’d showered and everything. “Look, I’m exhausted. I’d be happy to talk swords with you after I’ve had some sleep. You could come by the shop one day this week, if you like—”

I fumbled in my wallet and pulled out a slightly bent business card.

“—and discuss it further.” I held out the card.

He straightened, ran his thick fingers through his hair. “I sleep during the day. Work nights.”

Yeah, I bet he did. This was annoying. “I gotta go.”

I took a step back, and he reached for the card. He had big hands, rough from hard work. When his fingers touched mine, I caught a flash of heat and the distinct smell of hot metal.

The contact was brief, but for a split second there was a connection. Forge and hearth, hammers and tongs. This man worked metal, worked it with his body and his soul.

Under that funky costume, I bet he had shoulders like an ox.

“Good night, Ms. Beauhall.” He nodded once, stepping back from me. “I’ll be in touch.”

I watched him as I ducked into the car.

I backed out of the space, keeping him in my mirror until the last moment. He stood there, staring at me with his hands tucked inside the rubber goblin head.

Big hands, thick fingers. I needed to call Katie.

I stopped at the shop. I kept the good swords in a safe there. Julie wouldn’t be in until nine the next day.

I opened the safe and looked at my collection. There were some old blades in there. Some really old, but the black beauty was my favorite.

I was too tired to work, but I really wanted to fix the sword. Maybe tomorrow after we got the order out for Broken Switch Farm, Julie would help me repair this one.

The shop was strange at night, cold with the forge banked and the industrial ventilation turned off. I could smell sweat and smoke baked into the timbers of the place. Julie would be up in her trailer on the back of the lot, but the forge faced the main road. I wasn’t exactly isolated, but for a moment, the emptiness scared me.

I placed the two halves of Gram on the anvil—funny how the name filled the blank spot in my brain. It felt right. I leaned against the horse trough we used to cool horseshoes and studied the broken blade.

Another of Katie’s songs swam in my head. Something about a dwarf from Dover and bending over . . . her lyrics trended towards raunchiness. But the line about the Dwarvish lover with big hands and their trysts in the dead of night made me think of the Swedish guy back in the parking lot.

Gram ended up in the safe with the rest of my treasures, and I slunk home, exhausted, and praying for sleep.

Katie met me at Monkey Shines for coffee before the auction. I’d slept poorly, with nightmares of ogres and trolls. When I described the events of the night before, she got really excited.

“He’s definitely a dwarf,” she said over her mocha latte.

Katie lived the fantasy shit like no one else I knew. She spoke Elvish and even some Dwarvish from Tolkien, followed jousting troops like pro sports teams and delved into myth and legend like most young women followed movie stars or rock bands.

“He was an extra on the
Elvis Versus the Goblins
thing I’m doing up at Carl’s,” I said, toying with my chocolate croissant. “I highly doubt a dwarf would be in Seattle, working on a low-budget movie. Besides, aren’t dwarves short? This guy was easily six foot.”

Katie waved a hand in my direction, like she was shooing flies. “You are so naïve. This isn’t Disney.” She leaned toward me. “If you have
the
Gram, and this dude is a dwarf, maybe he’ll help you reforge it. Give you some tips.”

“Well, I’m gonna fix it tonight, after Julie knocks off for the day.”

“Oooh,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Can I come?”

I rolled my eyes. She’d bring her guitar and sing while I worked. It was cute, and somewhat annoying. “Fine, but you need to bring the beer for after.”

She sat back, a twinkle in her eye. “No drinking while you are working hot metal,” she said. “I’ll bring something special for after.”

The auction was a bust. There were two hunting knives and a commemorative sword celebrating the end of the Spanish-American War. Nice stuff, but too young for my tastes.

I made it back to the smithy by one o’clock and helped Julie pack up for our trek out to Broken Switch Farm. They had seven horses and a pony, so it was after dark by the time we got back to the forge.

“Katie’s coming over tonight while I reforge the black sword,” I said as she filled out the deposit ticket to take the day’s earning to the bank. “I need to fix it before the shoot tomorrow night. Carl needs it.”

She looked up at me, her half-moon glasses hovering near the tip of her nose. Her complexion was ruddy from working over the fire for all these years. But she had an incredible body for someone in her forties. I hoped I looked as good when I was her age. As it was, being twenty-eight was no great shakes. My arms were great, but I was a little dumpy.

“Make sure the tools are put away, and keep track of the propane.”

“I thought I might use the Centaur tonight.”

“The propane would be cheaper,” she said shaking her head. “But I know how you are. Just keep track of how much coal you use. We’re running low.”

I returned to sweeping down the shop. I loved starting a new project. By the time I heard the crunch of Katie’s tires on the gravel drive, Julie had retired out to her trailer. I carried buckets of coal from the dwindling supply out back into the building and started the Centaur forge. I’d need a good thirty minutes or more to get the coals heating evenly.