Thea Harrison: Serpent's Kiss

Did the Wicked Witch of the West have a sense of humor? Rune had seen her at inter-demesne affairs over the last couple of centuries. While he might have heard her say something once or twice that seemed laden with a double entendre, or he might have thought on occasion that he’d seen a sparkle lurking at the back of those fabulous dark eyes, it seemed highly doubtful. She seemed too intense for real humor, as if laughter might fracture some kind of critical weapons system inside.

On Thursday, the sixth day, his iPhone pinged. He dragged it out of his jeans pocket and checked it. He had received an email from Duncan Turner at Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law, headquartered in San Francisco.

Who the hell?

Oh riiight, Duncan Turner was Duncan the Vampyre. Duncan had been part of Carling’s entourage as she traveled to Adriyel, the Dark Fae land, for Niniane’s coronation in her position as Councillor for the Elder tribunal.

The Elder tribunal acted as a sort of United Nations for the Elder Races. It was made up of seven Councillors that represented the seven Elder demesnes in the continental United States, and it had certain legal and judicial powers over inter-demesne affairs. Their main charter was to keep the current balance of Power stable and work to prevent war.

Among other things, the Councillors had the authority to command the attendance of residents of their demesne when they were called to act in their official capacity as representatives of the Elder tribunal. Like jury duty for humans, demesne residents either had to comply or provide proof of their inability to serve.

Rune wondered how many billable hours Duncan had lost for the privilege of attending Carling on the trip to Niniane’s coronation in Adriyel. Not only had Duncan proven to be an asset on the trip, he never showed a hint of frustration, impatience or resentment. He had been the ideal travel companion, and while Rune distrusted such exemplary behavior, he had grown to like the Vampyre in spite of it.

Rune clicked the email open and read through it.

Rune Ainissesthai

First Sentinel

Cuelebre Tower

New York, NY 10001

Dear Rune:

RE: Per verbal contract enacted 23. 4. 3205, Adriyel date.

As payment for services rendered by Councillor Carling Severan, please present yourself at sundown tomorrow at my office in Suite 7500, 500 Market Street, San Francisco, CA 94105. Further instructions will be given to you at that time.

I hope you have had a good week, and look forward to seeing you in due course.

Best regards,

Duncan Turner

Senior Partner

Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law

Rune rubbed his mouth as he read through the message again. His already grim mood darkened further. Ask Carling if he could do something quick, huh? Take out the trash. Do the dishes.

Bloody hell.

Until he knew what was expected of him, he decided it might be a smart thing to have comfortable accommodations arranged, so he reserved an open-ended stay in a balcony suite at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco, opting for the suite’s more modest size in favor of the room’s view and French doors that opened onto a wrought-iron balcony. Then he said good-bye to his peeps, packed a duffle and fought a nasty short battle with the pride of Wyr-lions that was the Cuelebre Enterprises army of attorneys, for the use of the corporate jet. Despite their vociferous objections, the argument was over the moment he pulled rank. He sent the group of pissed-off cats scrambling to book first-class tickets for their corporate meeting in Brussels.

He could have flown in his gryphon form from New York to San Francisco, but that would mean he would arrive tired and hungry at the law offices of Turner & Braeburn, which did not seem to be the best strategic option when facing an unknown, potentially dangerous task. Besides, as he told the cats, he had some important last-minute things he had to take care of during the flight.

And he did. As soon as the Lear had left the tarmac, he stretched out on a couch with pillows propped at his back and a pile of beef sandwiches at his elbow. He punched a button that opened the shutters that concealed a fifty-two-inch plasma widescreen, settled a wireless keyboard on his upraised knees, a wireless mouse on the back of the couch, and he logged into the World of Warcraft’s game Wrath of the Lich King via the jet’s satellite connection.

After all, he didn’t know when he was going to get the chance to play WoW again. And it was damn important to do his bit to save all life on Azeroth while he could. Booyah.

He played WoW, and ate, and napped while the Lear shot westward through the sky, hurtling toward the death of the day. It felt good to be on the move again, albeit in such a leisurely fashion, and Rune’s mood lightened until he felt almost cheerful again.

Then the pilot’s voice overrode the game on the Lear’s sound system. “Sir, we’ve begun our descent. It should be a smooth one. We’ll reach SFO within the half hour, and we’re already cleared for landing. San Francisco is currently at a balmy seventy-four degrees and the skies are clear. It looks like we’re in for a beautiful sunset.”

Rune rolled his eyes at the travelogue, logged out of WoW, stretched and stood. He stepped into the luxuriously appointed bathroom, shaved and took a five-minute shower, dressed again in his favorite jeans, Jerry Garcia T-shirt and steel-toed boots, and went to check out the scenic action in the cockpit.

Pilot and co- were a mated pair of Wyr-ravens. They sat relaxed and chatting, a slender, dark-haired quick-witted couple who straightened in their seats as he appeared. “Dudes,” he said in a mild tone, resting one elbow on the back of co-’s chair. “Chill.”

“Yes, sir.” Alex, the pilot, gave him a quick sidelong smile. Alex was the younger and the more aggressive of the two males. More often than not, his partner Daniel, who was the more laid-back of the pair, was content to play backup. For the longer flights, they tended to switch hats, one flying pilot for the flight out and the other piloting the return trip.

The Lear would be serviced and refueled overnight, and the ravens were headed back to New York first thing in the morning. Rune asked, “What are you guys going to do with your evening—have dinner out, take in a show?”

As they chatted about restaurants and touring Broadway shows, Rune gazed out at the panorama spreading out underneath the plane.

The San Francisco Bay Area was awash in gigantic sweeps of color, the bluish grays of distant landmarks dotted with bright sparks of electric light, all of it crowned with the fiery brilliance of the oncoming cloudless sunset. All five of the Bay Area’s major bridges—the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, Hayward-San Mateo Bridge and the Dumbarton Bridge—were etched in perfect miniature in the watercolor distance. The southern San Francisco peninsula sprouted skyscrapers like colossal flowers in some god’s back garden. At the other end of the Golden Gate lay the North Bay area, which included Marin, and Sonoma and Napa Counties.

Sometimes there was another land in the distance, sketched in lines of palest transparent blue. One of the Bay Area’s Other lands had started appearing on the horizon around a century ago. It seemed to sit due west of the Golden Gate.

The island had first been sighted around the mid-nineteenth century and had caused major consternation and a remapping of shipping lanes. Much research and speculation had gone into the singular phenomenon, sparking ideas such as a Power fault that might be linked to California’s earthquake faults, but no one really understood why the island appeared at some times and disappeared at others. Eventually an adventurous soul discovered that the island disappeared once ocean-faring vessels sailed close enough. After that the traffic in the shipping lanes returned to normal.