Caledonia Page 8

  Leah stared at him.

  "Why would he be disappointed?" she asked. "He gets laid every single night, quite easily. That sounds like a dream come true, for some people."

  Dorian grinned.

  “For humans...maybe. A selkie's fondest wish is to be Taken, to fall in love."

  "Doesn't seem like it's done you any good," Leah said.

  "On the contrary," said Dorian. "She remains all I live for, and for a selkie, a life spent in love means a life well lived. Selkies like Magnus...consider their lives wasted. It's fine for our youth, to find ourselves with many people, of course, many selkies are like humans in that way – but Magnus is far past his sell-by date."

  "He looks the same age as you," Leah said.

  "Perhaps," said Dorian. "But not to me. Selkies can see the true age of other seal-people, and Magnus is an old, old man. Love grants true youth to the selk. We are indeed like vampires, but we are a race that feeds on love instead of blood."

  This thought seemed to have just occurred to him, and he made a moue of distaste.

  "Your woman. You knew her when?" Leah asked.

  "During the Victorian era, as Magnus says," he replied. "I met her in 1896. In Paris, which might please the romantic in you. It was the height of the Bohemian era, one of those beautiful moments in history. We – the Fae – we always know those times will only last for a moment, because we've seen them all before. It seems that the default for this world is darkness or boredom. Those moments in history are like the Fae world bleeding into this one, for a while. Those times of light are more striking, like a match that will soon burn out, and we are drawn to them, just as humans are. There is a reason they called it the Belle Époque, but it was only one of many – there were times like it before, there will be times like it again. Not always in the same city, or the same country. The beautiful age can happen anywhere. Still, it was a poignant time to be in love."

  He sighed, faraway.

  "So...she must have passed away, then?" Leah asked.

  Dorian started and came back to himself.

  "Yes," said Dorian. "I felt her going. Her soul was linked to mine, though mine was no longer to hers.”

  He paused, trying to compose himself. Leah was surprised to recognise that he was holding back tears, his long black lashes blinking them away. He finally spoke again.

  “It was a dreadful day."

  Leah stared at him, speechless for a moment.

  "Even though she's passed on...you are still not free?" she finally said. He looked at her, almost affronted.

  "Free? You assume that such freedom would be a blessing. Not for me, and not for any selkie. If she had remained with me, I would have truly loved her throughout her old age. For much like we look young to you, you will always appear young and beautiful to us. There is no difference."

  Leah shook her head.

  "Humans think they truly love," she said. "Seems that they – we – are wrong."

  Dorian looked at her with a serious expression.

  "I feel your pain," he said. "I mean that truly. I can hear it, in your heartbeat, and see it in the cast of your soul like a shadow. It is what selkies were made to do. In your feelings of loss, humans differ from selkies. Though our love remains permanent, the loss does not hurt us the way it does you. I do not envy you your humanity."

  "How long was she with you? Before she left?" Leah asked.

  Dorian smiled.

  "Three years, two months, four days, ten hours, twenty minutes, and thirty-seven seconds," he said. "But I was, for her, only a respite, and not the cure that she needed. She found that in another man, a human like yourself. She stayed with him until his death, and died four years afterwards."

  "So...you have spent the last...century in love with a woman who was only with you for a few years?" Leah asked.

  "It could have been worse," said Dorian. "I could still remain Untaken, like Magnus. As it was, I was getting a bit long in the tooth when she called me. The world has not improved much since those days. I expect another beautiful age to occur soon, somewhere on the planet. When it does, I will request a transfer from the chief.”

  Leah shook her head.

  Her thoughts were of Paris and Montmartre, cosy little cafés, and a love long since dead. The stars of Paris, they shine on, she thought, they shine today like they did then, like a Fae's love for a human. Human love, so impermanent, so inconstant, thrown away on a whim, like a laugh in a crowd or a dropped handkerchief, leaving the shadowed silhouette of this Victorian beauty, lost to time, walking broken and eternal, down the centuries alone.

  She nearly wept for him then, for she knew loneliness. Compounded by centuries, it was an impossible thought. She slowly returned to the present day. A thought had been bothering her, an irritating grain of sand, the inside sunset of a shining clamshell, something just out of her reach. An idea, perhaps a pearl.

  “Something about this still doesn't sit well with me, Dorian,” said Leah. “Something about this case, I mean. I just don't believe the answer is as simple as a human killer – although I never thought I would hear myself say something like that. There's something else going on here, I can feel it.”

  “I understand –” Dorian began, and then turned towards the door as it opened.

  Glorious light streamed into the station, illuminating every corner. Standing in the centre of this light, striding forward, was a vision; a fairytale prince. He had strange and wild green eyes, set back in his skull, with prominent cheekbones in a pale face. He was handsome and strong, ensconced in a momentary corona as if the light lived only to serve him. Leah was startled to see both Dorian and Magnus bow deeply to him and stand down, almost genuflecting.

  The man was breathtaking, his presence commanding and surreal.

  “Sebastian is your killer,” he announced. “I know...because it's my fault.”

  Chapter Nine

  Aonghas stood in the shadows near the doorway, holding the slip of paper between his fingers in disgust. The world was dark there, and he saw only the vague outline of a man standing against tall windows, a silhouette in the setting sun. The light that Aonghas could emanate, his eyes glowing, was dull, as if something had snuffed it out.

  “I am glad you decided to join me,” said a snake-like voice.

  The Trooping Faerie refused to move.

  “What do you want from me, Sebastian?” he asked.

  “Many years ago,” said the voice, “I saved you from a foolish mistake.”

  “Yes,” said Aonghas. “I remember.”

  Sebastian paced the floor.

  “Glasgow needed protecting,” he said. “You had already been gone too long as it was. If you had been captured, the west winds would have been open to enemies. As you know, a Guardian is only called after the former Guardian dies. They would have imprisoned, rather than killed, you. The city would have been vulnerable.”

  Aonghas nodded.

  “I thank you for your help,” said Aonghas. “It was stupid of me, and I have not done it since. You sent me this message to remind me of my debt. What do you want of me?”

  Sebastian poured himself a whisky.

  “Why don't you join me?” he asked, motioning to an empty seat next to him. “You can have a drink if you like. I am well aware of your…temptations.”

  “I prefer to stand,” said Aonghas stiffly.

  “Suit yourself,” said Sebastian. “I require your services. Or rather, for you and the other Guardians to look the other way, just this once.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “It is already done. The Fae have perished. The police are lost. I'd like to keep it that way.”

  Aonghas felt every hair on his body stand on end.

  “You are behind the killings?” he asked. “You? I never saw you as a killer, Sebastian. A thief, a criminal – not a killer.”

  “Don't worry,” said Sebastian in a soothing voice. “It will be over soon. I am nearing my goal as we speak.”

 
Aonghas felt ill. He put a hand against the wall to steady himself.

  “You could be next, Aonghas,” said Sebastian. “I need you to do this for me. Then your debt is paid.”

  “I have looked away from your crimes for too long, Sebastian,” he said.

  Aonghas straightened, standing tall, and menacing. It was time for him to take responsibility, and once again, serve his purpose.

  “I am a Guardian of Glasgow,” he said in a voice of hardened steel woven with concrete, broken fences, abandoned lots, and lost dreams.

  Sebastian set down his glass with a clink. He stood up and approached the Trooping Faerie.

  “You, a Guardian of Glasgow?!” he laughed. “A drunken, useless Elf constantly bitching about the good old days? I'm sorry. I am mistaken. You're not an Elf any longer. You're barely even a man. You have not deserved your title in many, many years.”

  Aonghas stood tall. His eyes glowed softly white, and lightning began to crackle from his fingertips.

  “Perhaps I have been remiss in my duties,” he said. “But the power has never left me. It is time I wore this mantle properly. What can you do against me, Sebastian? You are just a man.”

  Sebastian flung photographs from the crime scenes at Aonghas's feet. Dead faeries gazed up at him, bloodless and pale.

  “I have power you cannot imagine,” he said. “You have made your choice, and you betray me.”

  Aonghas nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  He turned to leave.

  “I certainly hope you realise that this will have...repercussions,” said Sebastian.

  “I'm counting on it,” said Aonghas, and he walked outside, trying not to show the terror he felt.

  In the rain and wind of a hazy Glasgow afternoon, Aonghas walked through the streets against the gale that was building. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. He knew who the serial killer was, and had information the police could use to catch him. He knew also that Sebastian had somehow acquired enough power to destroy the immortal. Most of them could not be killed by any means.

  He paused a moment, before a green pavilion, in a rough neighbourhood of the city. There were many entrances to Caledonia Interpol; anything that looked incongruous and beautiful in the city was often a portal to the office. Police officers in trouble would run towards anything that looked out of place, and this beautiful wrought-iron pavilion clearly did not belong.

  Aonghas placed a palm flat against one of the pillars, and looked up at the structure, a beautiful gem, a thought and memory of his world, his home. Both he and the pavilion, desperately beautiful, desperately alone. He stepped inside, and let the magic take him.

  He stood at the door of Caledonia Interpol, weighing his options, talking to himself. He made his decision, sighed, and pushed the door open.

  ***

  “That was very dramatic,” Leah whispered to Dorian, who shushed her.

  “He is still an Elf,” he said. “He has to tell the story his way.”

  To Aonghas he said, “Go on, my lord. What happened?”

  “I went on holiday,” said Aonghas.

  “What?”

  “I was tired, Dorian. I wanted to take some time off, and I went to Dublin. I hadn’t been to Ireland since Ninian's time, and it has changed vastly.”

  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window, how pale he looked, haggard and drawn.

  “I must admit, so have I,” he said. “Once, I would certainly have tempted the loveliest of the village ladies to my silver bower.”

  He looked at Leah significantly, and she snorted. He sighed, and looked down at himself.

  “But now – I do not know if it is the influence of Glasgow’s modern culture or not – I have had to be satisfied with just about anything.”

  “Aonghas,” said Dorian. “What happened in Dublin?”

  Dublin, Republic of Ireland

  The pub in Temple Bar was serving up its last round. Aonghas enjoyed the company of the Irish; the way they surrounded a newcomer and bought him all the alcohol he could possibly desire, and probably more.

  In the warm wine glow of the pub, Aonghas was laughing without a care in the world. He was unbelievably happy and hadn’t felt such a weight off his chest in centuries. He didn’t usually take holidays from his guarding place in Glasgow, but this was only for an evening. His companions were brilliant, intellectual young gentlemen – or so they had seemed through his whisky haze.

  He felt the cold of the handcuffs before they had trapped him in them – iron. True binding for the Fae, who could get out of almost anything. Aonghas groaned. The Dublin Fae Police. The Glasgow branch he had to deal with was bad enough.

  “A bit out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, Aonghas Mòr?” snarled the police officer in his ear.

  “What about you? Gone off chasing lonely travellers?” Aonghas replied to the dullahan who had him tied. Its horrific visage grinned out at him from under the creature's arm. The dullahan were headless horsemen who used human spines for whips and carried their heads in the crook of their elbows. Aonghas was surprised, as generally only Seelie Court faeries were allowed on the UK or Ireland forces. Perhaps this dullahan was reformed. But only just, he discovered, as he was thrown onto the ground.

  “There a problem here, officers?” asked one of the men he’d been drinking with, who smiled with a gold tooth. Aonghas groaned. His night was about to get worse. Leprechauns were the macho type and they didn’t really hold with pretty Trooping Faerie men, neds or no. Had he known he was drinking with leprechauns he’d have run a mile. The police could put him in jail for 1,000 years – the average punishment for going AWOL. Leprechauns could – would – and indeed had – tortured him for a time-without-time, as they could bend time into a Möbius strip and do as they pleased. Pots of gold were just a side thing, essentially their bank accounts.

  And then the strangest thing happened. The leprechauns attacked the dullahan, forcing him down onto the floor. Aonghas gaped at them, so shocking was this show of support. One of the leprechauns sitting on top of the police officer looked at him.

  “Remember this, Aonghas,” he said. “Remember what our boss has done for you tonight.”

  Aonghas looked around the pub.

  “Sebastian,” said the leprechaun. “He isn't fool enough to show his face here. He will remind you of this, when he needs you. Be quick to come when you are called. Now get out of here! Before more of them come.”

  Aonghas didn’t need to be told twice. He didn’t much care for the police, but they were the least of his worries now.

  He had learned to fear Sebastian long ago.

  ***

  “Sounds t’me like you dinnae deserve your job,” Dylan interjected.

  Dorian and Leah were startled. They had quite forgotten that Dylan and Tearlach were there.

  Aonghas turned to look at him in slow astonishment. How could this young upstart ned have anything to say about the ancient Fae and their problems?

  Dylan crossed his arms, and looked at Dorian and Leah in defiance.

  “Wull? He's meant t’watch o’er Glesga, an’ he wandered off tae get pissed on holiday! You do tha’ at any job, you get the sack! Who knows what coulda happened? Hell, look what has happened!”

  “Who knows, indeed,” Dorian agreed. “Aonghas, what were you thinking?”

  But Aonghas was staring, seemingly amused, at Dylan, who glared at the Trooping Faerie. Dorian looked from the one to the other.

  “He doesn’t know, does he?” Aonghas asked.

  Dorian shook his head slightly.

  “I don’t think that now is the time, Aonghas,” Dorian said.

  This exchange was not lost on Dylan.

  “I dinnae ken what?” he demanded.

  He looked to Tearlach for support, but his friend shrugged.

  “You are Fae,” said Aonghas, and smiled smugly. Dorian sighed.

  “Aonghas –”

  “Wit does tha’ mean?”
he asked.

  He looked at Leah, then Dorian, then Tearlach.

  Tearlach put his arm around his friend's shoulder, grinning.

  “It means that you’re a faerie, Dylan,” Tearlach said, bursting with pride.

  “Get tae fuck,” said Dylan. “So’s yer maw!”

  “He means you’re a faerie,” said Leah. “An actual faerie.”

  Dylan stared.

  “Wit…like…wi’ wings an all?” he stuttered.

  “If you like,” said Aonghas. “I have them.”

  There was a blinding white light.

  The sound of hearts beating.

  Dylan fell to his knees, and the skin of his back split along his shoulder blades. He cried out, as blood-streaked white feathers emerged, the arch of two white wings. He sobbed in exquisite agony as the great wings pushed free, and spread out in a sound of wind and blood. The skin of his back healed instantly, the only proof of their birth was the blood streaming from the feathers. He wiped tears from his face, ashamed to show weakness, and stood, drained from the experience, as the huge wings stretched out across the room. They dwarfed him, and he shook them out, trying a few tremulous beats, cautiously newborn, testing the air.

  “That’s not a faerie – that’s an angel!” cried Leah.

  Aonghas grinned.

  “And aren’t we all,” he said. “There you go, Dylan. A ned angel.”

  “I cannae be an angel! I nick things!” Dylan said, trying to manoeuvre with the enormous wings.

  “You are a faerie,” said Aonghas. “Your imagination manifested these wings.”

  Dylan crossed his arms again and nearly fell over from the weight of the wings.

  “How do I…put these away?” he demanded. “Let’s see yirs!”

  Aonghas’s dragonfly-rainbow wings fluttered out, and the two Trooping Faeries stared at each other, both in tracksuits with shaved heads, one with transparent glittering wings and the other with soft white feathered wings that overshadowed him and the room. One wore a Rangers hoodie, the other was in a Celtic tracksuit with a shamrock tattoo on his neck. Leah smiled at this.