Marie Brennan - Midnight Never Come

Not so much respect, though, that they didn’t question certain things. “My lady,” Gertrude said, “she will be expecting you to do exactly that. You have not come back, which means you know of your peril. If you are not simply to walk into her claws, then you must try to draw her attention away. But she will recognize any diversion as just that — and ignore it.”

From across the rose-guarded room, Rosamund, who had been silent for several minutes, spoke up. “Unless the diversion is something she cannot ignore.”

“The only thing she could not ignore would be—”

“A real threat,” Lune said.

Something Invidiana truly did have to fear. A war on her very doorstep, that she must send her soldiers to meet, or risk losing her throne.

The list of things that fit that name was short indeed.

Gertrude’s face had gone white, and she stared at her sister. Grimness sat like a stranger on Rosamund’s countenance, but if a brownie could look militant, she did. “We could do it,” she said. “But, my lady, once such a force is unleashed, it cannot be easily stopped. We all might lose a great deal in the end.”

Lune knew it very well. “Could anything stop them?”

“If she were to draw the sword out again — perhaps. That, more than anything, is what angers them. They might be satisfied, if she renounced it.”

“But Invidiana would never do it,” Gertrude said. “Only Suspiria, and perhaps not even her.” She stared up at Lune, her eyes trembling with tears. “Will we have her back, when you are done?”

The unspoken question: Or do you go to kill her?

Lune wished she could answer the brownie’s question, but she was as blind as they. The angel’s power waited within, alien and light, but she did not know what it would do. Could a faerie spirit be damned to Hell?

Her reply came out a whisper. “I can make no promises.”

Rosamund said heavily, “With that, we must be content. We have no other choice.”

“You must move with haste.” The knot of tension in Lune’s stomach never loosened, except for a few timeless moments, in the angel’s presence. “Use Vidar.”

“Vidar?”

“Corr was his agent, or at least an ally. He bade me be silent about any others I might find at court. I do not know his scheme, but there must be one; we can make use of it.” Her vow did not prevent her from telling the Goodemeades; the last person in creation they would share the information with was Invidiana. But she had never expected to use such a loophole.

Rosamund came forward, smoothing her apron with careful hands, and put an arm around her white-faced sister. “Make your preparations, my lady. Gertrude and I will raise the Wild Hunt.”

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 9, 1590

The sun’s heat baked his shoulders and uncovered head. His ride had been a long one, and he was tired; he swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, handing off his reins to a servant. They were gathered by the riverbank, an elegant, laughing crowd, playing music, reciting poetry, wagering at cards. He longed to join them, but ah! He was so thirsty.

A smiling, flirtatious lady approached him, a cup of wine in each hand. “My lord. Will you drink?”

The chased silver was cool in his fingers. He looked down into the rich depths of the wine, smelling its delicate bouquet. It would taste good, after that long ride.

With the cup halfway to his lips, he paused. Something…

“My lord.” The lady rested one hand gently on his arm, standing closely enough that her breasts just touched his elbow. “Do you not like the wine?”

“No,” he murmured, staring at the cup. “That is… ”

“Drink,” she invited him. “And then come with me.”

He was so thirsty. The sun was hot, and the wine had been cooled in the stream. He had not eaten recently; it would go to his head. But surely that did not matter — not in this gay, careless crowd. They were watching him, waiting for him to join them.

He brought the cup to his lips and drank.

The liquid slid down his throat and into his belly, chilling him, making all his nerves sing. No wine he had ever drunk tasted thus. He gulped at it, greedy and insatiable; the more he drank, the more he wanted, until he was tipping the cup back and draining out the last drops, and shaking because there was no more—

There was no sunlight. There was no meadow by the stream. There were courtiers, but the faces that watched were wild and inhuman, and all around him was darkness.

The lush faerie lady stepped back from him, her face avid with delight, and from some distance away Invidiana gave sardonic applause. “Well done, Lady Carline. Achilles, you need not restore his gag.” The Queen smiled across the chamber at Deven, letting all her predatory pleasure show. “He will speak no names against us now.”

The cup fell from Deven’s hand and clanked against the stone, empty to the dregs. Faerie wine. He had refused all food, all drink, knowing the danger, but in the end his body had betrayed him, its mortal needs and drives making it an easy target for a charm.

Even if Lune came for him now, it was too late.

He reached for the names that had been his defense, and found nothing. A mist clouded his mind, obscuring the face of… what? There had been something, he knew it; he had gone to church, and prayed….

But the prayers were gone. Those powers were no longer within his reach.

Laughter pursued him as he stumbled away, seeking refuge in a corner of the chamber. Now, at last, the stoicism he had clung to since his capture failed him. He wanted more; his body ached with the desire to beg. Another cup — a sip, even—

He clenched his hands until his knuckles creaked, and waited, trembling, for the next move.

LONDON: May 9, 1590

The moon rose as the sun set, its silver disc climbing steadily into the sky.

The curfew bells had rung. London was abed — or ought to be; those who were out late, the drunken gentlemen and the scoundrels who waited to prey on them, deserved, some would say, whatever happened to them.

On the northern horizon, without warning, storm clouds began to build.

They moved from north to south, against the wind, as clouds should not have done. In their depths, a thunder like the pounding of hoofbeats against the earth, up where no earth was. A terrible yelping came from the clouds, that more skeptical minds would dismiss as wild geese. Those who knew its true source, hid.

Brief flashes of lightning revealed what lay within the clouds.

The hounds ran alongside, leaping, darting, weaving in and out of the pack. Black hounds with red eyes; white hounds with red ears; all of them giving that terrible, belling cry, unlike any dog that ever mortal bred.

Horses, shod with silver and gold, flaring with spectral light. Formed from mist, from straw, from fae who chose to run in such shape, their headlong gallop brought them on with frightening speed. And astride their backs rode figures both awful and beautiful.

Stags’ horns spiked the sky like a great, spreading crown. Feathered wings cupped the air, pinions whistling in the storm wind. Their hair was yellow as gold, red as blood, black as night; their eyes burned with fury, and in their hands were swords and spears out of legend.

The forgotten kings of faerie England rode to war.

It went by many names. Wisht Hounds, Yeth Hounds, Gabriel Rachets, Dando and His Dogs. A dozen faces and a dozen names for the Wild Hunt, united now in a single purpose.

They would not involve mortals in their war, and for decades their enemy had lain safe behind that shield. But something else was vulnerable, could not be hidden entirely away; to do so would negate its very purpose, and break the enchantment it held in trust. And so it stood in the open, unprotected, on Candlewick Street.