Into the Woods: Tales from the Hollows and Beyond(2)
Author: Kim Harrison

"Zoe!" he shouted, knowing the three-fingered man-whore would hear him. "I’m out! Take my calls!" And with no more thought, he allowed the summons to pull him from the splash of displaced time he existed in to reality.

He traveled by ley lines, the same force of nature that kept the drop of time he existed in from vanishing. The shock of the line melting him into a thought was a familiar ache, and it was with a sly confidence that he found himself drawn to a spot far up in the mountains of Europe. He never knew for sure where he was going until he got there, but this? Algaliarept smiled as the clean mountain air filled his lungs as he reformed, the stench of burnt amber that clung to him being replaced by the honest smell of horses and cultivated flowers. This was pleasant.

The hum of a binding circle grew oppressive, and Algaliarept found himself in a dusky garden surrounded by dark pines, the sky above them still holding the fading light of the sunset and fluttering blue butterflies. The circle holding him was defined by semi-precious stones inlaid in crushed gravel. Through the haze of energy trapping him came the sound of running water and birds. Music. A small orchestra. Something was badly off. And when his eyes went to the full moon rising above the fragrant pines, his smile faded in a wash of worry. Is the bitch getting married?

A soft clearing of a throat turned him around.

"Ceridwen," he said, allowing a sliver of his annoyance to color his words, then he hesitated. She was absolutely stunning in the puddle of nearby lamp light with blue butterflies flitting about her. "Ceri, you are exceptionally lovely." Damn it to the two worlds colliding, she’s getting married. Directly. He had tarried too long. It was tonight, or never.

The slight, fair-haired woman before him modestly ran her hands over her clearly wedding garb, white and trimmed with her family’s colors of maroon and gold. Her fair hair was piled atop her head but for a few strands artfully drawn down. She was pale and lithe, having wide green eyes and a narrow chin. If for no more than that, she would be unique among the predominantly Asian women populating the demon familiar market and bring a high price. But that wasn’t why he’d courted her so carefully.

Though her eyes were cast down demurely, she knew she was beautiful, reveled in it, vainly believed it was why he was attentive and kind to her. He’d kept her oblivious to the real reason he stayed pliant to her summons and demands for knowledge when anyone else would have been met with anger and threats years ago for the audacity of being too clever to be caught and therefore was wasting his time. She carried the surname Dulciate. It was one of the most desired familiar names in the demon realm, though if the castle behind her was the level to which the elves had fallen to, there wasn’t much left to take revenge upon. Even if she were ugly, he could make more from her then seven skilled familiars. And she was skilled, thanks to him-infuriatingly clever and careful. Hopefully not careful enough, he thought, his hands clenching in their white-gloved preciseness.

Behind her on the cropped grass, a round stone table was strewn with her golden tarot cards, clear evidence that she was upset. She knew he thought little of them, having spent summers striving to break her from their grip, failing even when he proved them false as she sought counsel from a power he didn’t believe in. Rising beyond the garden was the gray-walled castle of her family. It was pitiful by the Asian standards he appreciated, but it was the pinnacle of society in this superstitious, cultural wasteland. Where he’d created a society in Asia with science, rivals had inundated Europe with superstition in their attempts to match his gains.

From the balcony walkway, clusters of overdressed women kept watch as the darkness took hold and the butterflies dwindled. As a member of the elven royal house, it was Ceridwen’s right to summon demons, expected and encouraged until she took a husband. Tradition dictated that the ruling personage in waiting was to learn all they could of the arcane. It was just as expected that her station would grant her the privacy to do it wherever she wanted. So her fluttering ladies waited in the torchlight, holding Ceri’s little dogs as they yapped furiously at him. They knew the danger, and it was a delicious irony that no one listened to them.

Looking closer, he gauged her aura to see if a rival had been poaching on his claim which could explain the three-month lapse. Ceridwen’s aura, though, was as he had left it; the original bright blue marred by a light black coating of demon smut that was all his own.

Seeing the yellow rose in his hand, a heavy tear brimmed in her deep green eyes, unusual for the emotionally balanced woman. Her head bowed as it fell, but pride brought it up again immediately. Chin high, she looked behind her to her tarot cards, beginning to cry all the more. Her hands stayed stoically at her sides, fisted as she refused to wipe her tears away.

Hell and damnation, I’m too late, Algaliarept thought, taking an angry step forward only to stop short as the barrier she’d summoned him behind hummed a familiar, vicious warning. "Love, what’s wrong?" he asked, pretending to be oblivious, though inside, he was scrambling. He had not labored seven years only to lose a Dulciate elf to marriage! "Why are you crying? I’ve told you not to look at the cards. They only lie."

Crestfallen, Ceri turned away, but her pale fingers straying to touch her tarot cards were still bare of gold, and Algaliarept felt a glimmer of hope. "I’m not your love," she said, voice quavering as she turned the lovers card face down. "And you’re the liar."

"I’ve never lied to you," he said. Damn it, he was not going to lose her to some inane cards! Frustrated, Algaliarept nudged a booted toe at the circle’s seam to feel her power repel him. Never had she made a mistake in its construction. It both infuriated him and kept him coming back, week after week, year after year, and now, because of it, he was going to lose her.

"I had to tell you good-bye," she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, pleading as she fingered a gold-edged card. "They told me not too, that with the responsibility of marriage, I must sever all ties to the arcane."

Agitated, he gripped his rose until a thorn pierced his glove and the pain stifled his fidgeting. "Good-bye, my love?" He had to make her control lapse-if only for an instant.

"I’m not your love," she whispered, but her gaze was upon the cards. There were no others like them, having been painted by a second-rate Italian painter who had attempted to put the royal family within the artwork. It hadn’t pleased him to find out Ceri was on the death card, being pulled away by a demon.

"Ceri, you are my unrequited love," he said earnestly, testing the strength of her circle until the stench of burning leather from his shoes drove him back. "Tell me you’ve not wed. Not yet." He knew she wasn’t, but to make her say the words would make her think.