Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (69 page)

Then he remembered Henry holding one of them gently and setting it free in a burst of brilliant light.

Jason didn’t know if he could do the same, but he’d come too far to give up now.

Jason drew in a deep breath and forced his voice to rise like a blazing light. He beckoned the abandoned and broken, the lost and vengeful with a melody that promised all they desired.

He instinctively grasped what they so craved because he knew what it was to be terrified and abandoned. He understood how betrayal burned inside and how hurt haunted memory. He knew too well how it felt to be locked away from love and life and be left with only a desperate longing.

He called them to him with the notes of blazing joy, building his song from the wonders he’d witnessed in Henry’s company, the laughter he’d shared, and the ecstasy that had delighted his entire being.

And ghosts came to him, not just a few but by the hundreds. They rose from the bleeding bodies of the living, flocking over Jason with their grasping teeth and fury.

Jason closed his eyes against their numbers and gave himself up to his song. It blazed inside him and poured out like flames from his lips. He sang with all the strength of his life, offering himself up in shining waves of respite and release. He sensed ghost after ghost reach for him and then burn away in the wake of his song, until at last his whole body felt wasted and hollow and his voice broke.

He struggled for the strength to open his eyes. When he did, he found himself standing in a long golden hall. Lamps blazed overhead and blood spattered the gilded walls. And yet Jason could feel that he still stood in the shade lands as well. Abandoned white hills glimmered like mirages at the edge of his vision. The air tasted sweet and felt empty. Overhead the faint trails of dissipated ghosts streaked the air like shooting stars.

Stunned, bloodied groups of men and women dressed in silk rags gaped at him in silence. Near the doors a small goblin clung to Gunther, whispering in a growling, low language.

Gunther looked to Jason.

“We’re going to need nurses and physicians in here,” Gunther told him. “Will you be all right on your own if I go with Gnasher to get help?”

Jason nodded mutely. He didn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to.

As Gunther pulled one of the doors open, Princess came bounding out of the night. Wild storm winds followed her, rushing over Jason as if they’d missed him.

“Looks like you won’t be alone after all,” Gunther commented. Then he and the smaller goblin slipped out into the courtyard.

Princess brushed her rain-damp body against Jason’s legs and then bounded down the length of the hall to where a dozen bodies—both goblin and sidhe—lay among fallen weapons. At the foot of a broken, black throne slumped three men. One Jason did not recognize. But the second—impaled by ivory spears—was Henry. The third man leaned over Falk, clutching at his heart.

Princess reached them before Jason but only by a moment. She stepped directly through the man who crouched over Falk without seeming to notice him.

Jason studied the man’s handsome, translucent features. He hardly seemed to take note of either Princess or Jason. He gazed at Falk with such sorrow and yet he kept his hands buried in Falk’s chest as if he were trying to dig out his heart.

“Franklyn?” Jason asked.

The man started in surprise and then very slowly lifted his gaze to Jason.

“How do you know me?” Franklyn asked. His voice was only a sigh.

“Henry told me about you,” Jason replied. He knelt down at Falk’s side. Grief and guilt distorted Franklyn’s face as he met Jason’s gaze.

“I can’t get my knife out of his heart,” Franklyn whispered. “I keep trying, but I can’t get it out. How can he forgive me if I can’t get my knife out of his heart?”

Jason considered the shadow that Franklyn was, the way he clung to Falk.

“The knife came out a long time ago,” Jason told him. “You just have to let go now.”

“I can’t.”

“You must.” Jason reached out and curled his hands around Franklyn’s forearms. They felt cold and as insubstantial as snowflakes melting against his fingers. “I’m going to help you.”

Franklyn looked frightened then, but Jason simply whispered a hoarse, aching lullaby to Franklyn and slowly, gently lifted his hands from Falk’s body.

“I deserve to suffer,” Franklyn said as he rose to his feet with Jason.

Jason shook his head, uncertain if he could force even one more word from his throat. They had all suffered. Wasn’t that what Falk had said? Probably suffered too much.

Jason embraced Franklyn, though it was like holding ice to his bare body. Franklyn melted against him and Jason found the strength to utter a final word.

“Good-bye,” he told Franklyn. And then, in a streak of light, Franklyn was gone.

At Jason’s feet Falk dragged in a slow breath. His eyes fluttered briefly open, seemed to focus on Jason, and then fell closed again.

Jason felt the shade lands slip away.

***

The doors of the Hall of the Throne swung open and a group of men and women in dull green uniforms gaped in. Despite the horror in their expressions, they entered the hall and immediately busied themselves tending to the wounded. They spoke in a bright language that Jason didn’t understand, but he thought that at least a few of them must be doctors.

Snow goblins and tall men in leather armor arrived, bearing stretchers that seemed to have been improvised from spears and blankets.

A pretty young girl with her hair in braided loops spread black cloths over the dead. She approached the throne with a drawn expression, her eyes darting to Jason and then away as if she didn’t dare look him in the face. She draped a black cloth over one body, but when she came for Falk, Jason waved her away.

And oddly she obeyed him, bowing and backing from him as she whispered, “Lasair.”

Jason felt too done in to wonder what that meant. None of the other sidhe in the hall approached him. Most averted their gazes when he caught them staring at him.

A dozen gold-skinned men dressed in silk arrived at the doors, speaking among themselves excitedly. Jewels glinted from their ornately braided hair and the rings adorning their graceful hands.

Goblins and soldiers carried the injured and dead out past them.

Gunther ducked in through the doors and offered Jason an easy salute before beckoning a man whom Jason had earlier decided was a doctor. It was nearly more than Jason could manage to lift his arm and wave to Gunther in return. But at least Gunther seemed to have things in hand. It didn’t look like they were going to have to try and fight their way out of here. That thought alone came as an immense relief to Jason.

Gunther and the doctor stepped out into the rainy courtyard.

Jason gazed down at Falk. If only he would wake up. Jason’s gaze suddenly fell on the iron shackles binding Falk’s wrists. He knelt, caught them in his hands, and called on them—as he had called on the storm winds—to release Falk. The iron stung his hands, but he didn’t let go. He’d fought goblins and conquered a world of furious ghosts; a set of bracelets wasn’t going to stop him now.

The metal cracked in his grip and the iron chain fell away.

Jason swayed and stumbled back, nearly delirious with exhaustion. He slumped onto the black throne, wanting only to rest there briefly.

Suddenly a sound like fanfare filled the air and gleaming sparks lit the battered black surface of the throne. If Jason had possessed the strength he would have leaped clear, but as was, he simply watched as gold filigree spread through the dark stone and sprouted up from the back of the throne to reach all the way to the roof of the hall.

Jason scanned the room for Gunther, hoping the agent would offer him some sign of just how badly he’d screwed things up.

 He didn’t find Gunther, but the view that greeted him seemed almost incomprehensible. All across the hall, men, women, and even goblins stared at him as if in awe. After a moment, some burst out in laughter; others cheered. Many, even those among the wounded, dropped to their knees before him. The girl with her black blankets knelt with her hands raised toward him as if she were warming them before a fire.

“Lasair,” called a man in leather armor as he too knelt.

Beyond the open doors the rain seemed to suddenly cease and sunset rays of light poured into the already bright hall. Jason couldn’t be certain, but it almost seemed that the entire building was rising upward.

As more people poured in through the great, golden doors only to drop to their knees, Jason began to wonder seriously if he was dreaming.

Then Gunther appeared at the door and sidled his way through the growing crowd to approach the throne.

“I leave you alone for ten minutes and you become the high king,” Gunther commented. “Not exactly discreet.”

Jason frowned at Gunther’s words. Then he realized that Gunther was making fun of the ridiculous scene he’d made. He wondered how long this was going to take to straighten out. Outside the hall, bells rang out and Jason thought he heard distant voices rising in cheers.

“Sorry,” Jason rasped. He flopped his hand off the arm of the throne, trying to reach the body sprawled there. “I found Henry.”

Gunther’s eyes dropped to where Falk lay in the shadow of the throne. He winced at the sight of the spears jutting from his body.

“He’s alive,” Jason assured him.

Gunther nodded and then crouched down at Falk’s side. With what struck Jason as practiced efficiency, Gunther jerked the spears from Falk’s body. He groaned.

“Time to wake up, Henry.” Gunther stood and surveyed the crowd gathering at the foot of the throne. “You’re going to miss the high king’s coronation.”

Jason mouthed a dry rasp of a laugh at Gunther’s sarcasm.

But then Falk’s eyes opened. He stared up at Jason for a moment, then offered him a weary smile and clumsily sat upright.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Henry told him. He tugged self-consciously at the sweat jacket he wore, as if he could shield Jason from the sight of the wound in his abdomen.

“Neither are you,” Jason replied hoarsely. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Henry sounded almost surprised. “I feel better than I have in a long time…You don’t look so good, though.”

“What kind of thing is that to say to your knight in shining armor?” Jason murmured.

“Nah, you’re Prince Charming,” Falk told him. He scowled out over the gathering in the gallery of the hall. “Looks like you’ve got quite the audience.”

Jason just shook his head. He would tell Falk all about it later and Falk would probably laugh at him. But he didn’t mind that because they were going to be all right now.

That knowledge seemed to release what little energy Jason retained. He leaned back into the throne, hardly feeling Princess’s weight as she leaped up onto his lap. Jason let his eyes fall shut.

Outside the hall, voices rose in a song. Jason didn’t recognize the words, but it sounded welcoming. He was sleeping when Falk stood, touched his brow once lightly, and then left him.

Chapter Eleven

An unctuous, onion-perfumed steam clouded the view of the world beyond the plate-glass windows of the HRD Coffee Shop. Henry thought that was just as well. The gray December sky and fine drizzle of rain only reminded him of the Tuatha Dé Dannan Islands.

Not that it would be piss and misery there anymore. According to Shadow Snitches and at least one drunk ambassador, High King Lasair had brought blue skies, abundant harvests, and a new charter of rights to his subjects. Apparently Jason was shaping up into something of a populist monarch, despite the opposition of his courtiers and ministers.

Henry tried to picture Jason wearing the golden crown and saffron robes of the high king, but the closest he could manage was a memory of the way he’d looked, satisfied and stretched out, sleeping on a divan with Henry’s battered trench coat lying across his naked bronze body.

Not exactly the stuff of royal portraiture.

Certainly not what Henry should be thinking about now that Jason had returned to the nobility of his birth right. A high king didn’t need a rangy, half-dead relic for company. But it had been beautiful while it lasted…

Henry took a swig of his coffee and scowled. It was short about four shots of whiskey to really do him much good.

He picked up the festively decorated invitation that he’d been considering throwing away for over an hour now. Inside, a photograph of Gunther and the various poor souls he’d roped into assisting with the social outreach program that he disguised as a Christmas cookie-making party stared back at him. Henry recognized Gunther’s current boyfriend—the vegetarian—holding up a snowflake-shaped cookie cutter. Agent August and some feral-looking man made eyes at each other from behind him.

Not Henry’s kind of thing at all—too many people, not enough rotgut.

And yet, for the first time since he’d been a young man, Henry found himself welcoming the thought of company, craving noise and novelty. It was ridiculous. After ninety-four years wandering alone and half lost in the desolation of the past, he had no right to turn up at some Cookie Jamboree—or whatever the hell Gunther was calling it—like a repentant alcoholic uncle.