A scream, taut, wailing. It resounds across the darkling hills of the Realm, echoes hollowly off the pools and the gardens, settles menacingly into the courtyard of the palace. The Sidh look up, startled. Orfide’s hands freeze upon the golden strings of his second-best harp.
No, not a scream. No throat, mortal or immortal, could produce such a sound. It knows no flesh, no touch of blood or bone. Metallic, gleaming, it holds within its sustained trembling an edge of steel.
Suddenly, it is gone. The courtyard is silent. Orfide finds his hands motionless. He pulls them away from Clesac’s strings. Lamcrann rises, taking refuge in the endlessly repeated gestures of formality. “We are honored, master bard, by your song.”
Cumad has not risen. Orfide doubts that she sees anything, so enmeshed in dreams of change is she. Her eyes might as well be windows into the starless—
He glances quickly up to the dark heavens.
—into the starless sky, for all the emotion they show.
Orfide looks at Siudb. She is not even aware of him. She also has heard, but what significance the sound has for her, Orfide cannot guess. But neither can he fathom the expression of hope that plays on her face as, hand in hand with Glasluit, she strolls off into the gardens that surround the palace.
Christa dropped Kevin off at his home in Indian Hills and returned to her house late in the day to find a familiar, battered Mustang parked in front. As she lifted Ceis from the back seat, Melinda got out of her car and approached, a blue harp case slung from her shoulder.
“I was out looking for work,” Melinda explained timidly. “I got tired of filling out applications, so I thought I’d drop by.”
She seemed younger now, with the unsurity of one who was new to the world. Only when she had a bass in her hands did she seem at all familiar. Offstage, without her music, she was another person: innocent, perhaps, but sad also, and perhaps a little damaged.
Christa put an arm about her shoulders and guided her toward the front door. Melinda, in some ways, was a child again: her child. “Have you been waiting long, Melinda?”
“An hour or so…” Melinda blinked her blue eyes, looked appreciatively at the blooming rosebushes to either side of the door. “I hope… I hope it’s all right.”
“Surely. Come in and be welcome. You brought your harp?”
“I…” Melinda did not speak until Christa had shut the door behind them. Standing in the dim hall, she hung her head. “I wanted to ask you if you’d take me back as a harp student. I learned a lot from you. I guess…” Her lip trembled. “I guess I didn’t learn enough.”
“We all make mistakes, Melinda. There is no shame in that.”
“I can’t believe that you’ve ever blown it as bad as me.”
“Indeed I have, Melinda. Much worse, in fact. Someday…” And that day, Christa knew, would have to come soon. Within a week. “Someday I’ll tell you about it. And you may indeed be my student again. I’m honored.”
But as Christa led the way to her studio, she noticed that the light on her answering machine was blinking. She let go of Melinda’s hand and punched the play button.
“Chris,” came Bill Sarah’s voice, “I’ve got news for you. Adria Records just called. They want the Axe. We’re talking big, big money… in advance, just like you wanted. I know these guys. They’re serious. We’re all going out to Los Angeles tomorrow morning: the tickets are waiting for us at Stapleton. Now, pick yourself up off the floor and call me back, pronto. Got it?” A brief pause on the tape. In shock, Christa looked at Melinda, who had pressed a hand to her mouth. Bill’s voice came back. “I guess I knew this would happen eventually.” He laughed. “Love you all. Now
call me
!”
The shock faded too quickly. Torn, panicked, Christa stared at the machine. The tape beeped, then spooled on in silence. Melinda lowered her harp to the floor, covered her face with her hands, sobbed.
“Did you hear?” Siudb has led Glasluit well out of earshot of the palace, and the open expanse of lawn about them ensures that they will not be surprised.
“I did,” he says. “It was… terrifying.”
“I think Chairiste had a hand in it.”
“But… how?”
Siudb shakes her head. She has practiced for what seems an eternity, and her fingers are sore, her long nails eroded and frayed at their striking edges. She feels that she is prepared, and she is willing to take the sound as a sign—from the Gods or from Chairiste—that the time for escape has come.
She looks at the gown she wears: shimmering gossamer and iridescent lace. “I will not do as I am. Have my clothes been kept? The ones I wore when Orfide took me?”
“They have. I know where they are.”
“Then, beloved Glasluit, I pray you fetch them for me the next chance you have, along with my harp.” He folds her hands in his, and she kisses him lightly. “It is time. Let us prepare for the mortal lands.”
Lisa was cautious: rather than quit her job, she used her sick time. Devi, equally careful, wheedled a leave of absence from the music store. Still, as they waited at the airport gate for the flight to California, Christa saw eagerness in the set of their shoulders, heard it in their quiet conversation. For years, her bandmates had scrimped to make the rent, had played for little money and less recognition, had hoped that, someday, their chance might come. And it had.
The morning mist left the runways, and the sun slanted shallowly through the tall windows. Beside Christa, Monica zipped up her leather jacket. “Jeez, they believe in air conditioning, don’t they?”
“Did you convince your boss to let you come?”
“Nah. He wouldn’t go for it. So I quit.” Christa looked surprised, and she went on. “I fill a hiring quota, and I know how to be pretty meat. If this doesn’t work out, I can find another receptionist job easy.”
But Christa could not find another band. And she was frightened—terrified—that the contract
would
work out, that Gossamer Axe would suddenly have records to make, tours, commitments, and no time…
Melinda was sitting off by herself, staring at the runways as though they were roads that would take her anywhere but home. Christa gestured to Bill and he rose, joined her, spoke to her casually.
… and no time to rescue Judith. The gate was in Colorado, not in California, New York, or Japan. Gossamer Axe could take her far away. But if she left the band, she would have nothing, and Judith would be gone forever.
She shivered and zipped up her own jacket. Her hair flamed against the black leather, and the
failge
glowed softly at her wrist. At her feet, Ceis rested within its flight case.
“But, you know,” said Monica, “I think this is gonna work out.”
Monica was right. Much as Christa wanted to deny it, she knew presciently that the contract offer would be good, that she would have no plausible reason for objecting to it. Gossamer Axe would be signed within days, and the advance check would be in their hands within a week.
During the flight, she reclined her seat and pretended to sleep, but her thoughts were racing wildly. If the offer was good, she would have to sign. There was no doubt about that. But neither was she willing to doubt that, come Midsummer Night, Gossamer Axe would assemble by a lake in Gunnison National Forest to battle with immortals.
The limousine at the doors of Burbank Airport told Christa that Adria Records was wooing them. Guitar case in hand, she regarded the long white car, wavered a little, nearly fell.
Bill caught her arm. “Have you eaten, Chris?”
She could not remember.
Lisa and Devi leaned toward her. “Chris? What’s wrong?”
“It’s… it’s too much…”
“She needs to be fed,” said Bill. “We all should have something more than airline food. This could get pretty intense.” He gave instructions to the driver to take them to a restaurant, and he threatened to spoon-feed Christa himself if she did not eat.
Christa ate mechanically, without tasting the bland food; and then she found herself in Hollywood, in the spacious lobby of a tall building. A woman came toward them, introduced herself as Jessica Conway, and escorted them up to the main offices.
The oak door led into a world of thick, lush carpeting, chrome furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows. It was all designed to intimidate, but Christa was beyond such emotions.
Judith. Judith
. The name hammered at her, and when she faced Harry Veltmann, the head of the Artists and Repertoire department, she was close to tears.
The figures Harry quoted were large, the benefits excellent, the offer—on the whole—kingly. What Adria Records asked in return was not unexpected.
“We’re talking five albums to start off with,” said Harry. “We usually make it two, with the band on probation, so to speak, since first albums usually don’t do too good. Van Halen did better with Warner, of course, but Van Halen was an exception.”
Lisa looked up. “So is Gossamer Axe.”
Harry nodded, thoughtful. “I believe you. That’s why we’re making it five.”
“Five is okay. We can give you five.”
“Christa?” said Harry. “How is your original material? Can you handle five LPs?”
Christa looked at the guitar case at her feet. Once, she had been a harper. But her harps were gone. In their place… “I…” Save for Melinda, who kept her face averted, the women were looking at her with pleading expressions:
Don’t mess it up, Chris
.
She gasped as though she had swum up from the bottom of the sea. “I can,” she said.
Harry’s next words crushed her. “You can go out and look at some studios today. We want you comfortable, but we want to start in two weeks.”
The room blurred. Christa fought with the vertigo. “Two… weeks?”
“Fifty grand apiece? Up front?”
“Two weeks?” she cried. “But… but I… we can’t…”
Harry, on the surface, was unruffled. He stared at her for a moment, evaluating. “Okay, Chris. Give me a date.”
“Ah…” Christa looked at her bandmates. Melinda was plainly frightened. Lisa was frankly puzzled. Monica, as usual, was leaving the details to others.
Devi regarded her calmly. “This has something to do with what we were talking about, right?”
“It does.” Christa’s voice was hardly audible.
“Chris?” said Bill. “Harry’s open. Make an offer.”
“The…” She had to name a time for her world to change forever. But, with Judith by her side, she could face anything; without her, nothing would matter. “The… the first of July.”
“Good enough,” said Harry. “You got a lawyer out here, Bill?”
“Damn straight. The best. Geoff Swanson.”
“I’ll have hard copy on this by noon,” said Harry, “and Geoff will have it by closing time. Can you rush him a little?”
Bill laughed. “If I pay him enough.”
There were rooms waiting for them at the nearby Hilton, all expenses paid, and Harry suggested that they take an hour or two to rest. Jessica escorted them back to the limousine and saw them off, but, waiting at the curb, she touched Christa on the shoulder. “I need to thank you,” she said.
“Thank me?” The others had already entered the car. Christa and Jessica stood alone, the passing traffic masking their words. “For what?”
“For your music,” said Jessica. “With all this business talk, some things don’t get said. I heard you play in Denver. You made me feel different. You made me feel proud.” She smiled. “Thanks.”
Jessica had just paid her the highest compliment a harper could receive, and it pulled Christa out of her whirl of thoughts like a friendly hand. “Brigit bless, Jessica,” she said softly, and, as she turned and entered the limousine, she found that she could face her bandmates’ questioning stares with comparative equanimity.
Just after dinner, Melinda rapped softly on the door of Christa’s hotel suite and stuck her head in. “Chris,” she said softly, “we’re having a band meeting in me and Lisa’s room. Could you… uh… come?”
Christa nodded, picked up Ceis, and followed Melinda down the hall. Since she had boarded the United flight that had brought them to California, she had been expecting this. She had hoped that she would be the one to decide when and where to tell the band of her origins, but the record contract had taken the matter entirely out of her hands.
Melinda paused at the door. “This wasn’t my idea.”
“We’re still friends?”
“Yeah, Chris.” Melinda bent her head. “I know it’s gonna be weird. But we’re still friends.”
They entered the room hand in hand. The others were already there. Lisa’s expression was that of a woman about to check the contents of her fuel tank with a lit match. Devi had apparently advised her to use a flashlight. Monica plainly did not want to know, but in light of the trip ahead, felt that it was necessary.
Christa sat down on the edge of Lisa’s bed. “I’m here.”
Lisa fidgeted. “Chris…” She looked at Devi. Devi looked back. “It’s like this. We… uh… always knew that you had some personal things in your life. Like plans or something. You know, stuff you didn’t want to talk about. But with this contract and all, it seems to be getting in the way, and we’re thinking that… uh…” She turned to Monica as though for encouragement. Monica shrugged. Lisa plunged on. “We’re thinking that maybe it’s time for you to tell us what’s going on.”
Ceis lay in Christa’s lap. She stroked the smooth wood, idly snapped a switch back and forth. “It is, surely.”
Melinda had huddled in a big chair by the window, her face buried in her knees. She did not look up.
“You all know that I didn’t grow up in America,” said Christa. “I told you that I was from Ireland. I must apologize. It was not quite a lie, but it was close enough.” Her tongue fought her, but she mastered it. “I was born in the sixth century. Ireland wasn’t even Ireland then. We called it Eriu, and I was trained as a harper. Trained in magic.”
She went on. She told them about Judith, about the harpers’ school, about the Sidh. She described the two hundred years of survival, the battles with Orfide. The tale could have gone on for many hours, but she kept it short.
“I’d given up hope,” she said finally. “But Melinda introduced me to rock and roll, and I knew then that at last I’d found something that could defeat Orfide. The rest…”
No one spoke. Lisa looked stunned; Devi, thoughtful. Melinda was clutching her legs so hard that the tendons of her hands stood out taut as bass strings. Monica seemed sad, almost sympathetic.
“The rest you know. I have to fight Orfide this Midsummer. That’s June 21. I…” Christa’s voice broke. “I hope you’ll come fight beside me.”
Silence. At last, Devi spoke. “You’ve always been honest with us, Chris.”
“I have. I am being so now.”
“I know.”
A police helicopter slowly traversed the night scene outside the window, strobe light flashing whitely. Down below came the sound of a car horn, its pitch rising and falling as it Doppler-shifted past the hotel. Melinda stood up, shaking, and ran for the bathroom. The door slammed behind her.
Christa sighed. She had forced Melinda enough. She would not intrude. “What say you, then?” she said to the others. She felt weak, dizzy: the strain of the last two centuries was catching up with her.
“I was a fucking mess when I first met you,” said Devi bluntly. “You saved my ass.” She got up, went to Christa, held out her hands. Christa took them. “I believe you, Chris. I’m with you.”
“But that’s impossible,” said Lisa, “Stuff like that just doesn’t happen.”
“You’re saying that Chris is lying?”
“No, but… I mean… What the fuck happened to common sense?”
“This is rock and roll, Boo-boo,” said Devi. “Common sense went out the window a long time ago.”
In the bathroom, the toilet flushed, but Melinda did not reappear. Lisa looked at the door. “You don’t think she’ll… hurt herself, do you?”
Christa shook her head slowly. “She can’t. Not after what I did to her on Beltaine.”
Monica finally spoke. Her eyes were moist, and her words came out with a nervous giggle. “It all fits together, doesn’t it? The way you act, and the stuff you couldn’t tell me. And the ghost, too, right? Is Ceis in on this?”
“Ceis was the ornate harp in my studio, Monica. But the night before Beltaine, Ceis entered my new guitar, and the harp was no more.” Christa held up the gleaming instrument. “This is Ceis.”
*peace*
They all heard it. Monica laughed again, a little hysterically, and Devi put an arm about her. Lisa blanched.
“That was the guitar? It talks?”
Christa nodded.
The drummer stared for a moment, then fainted.
Christa dropped Ceis onto the bed and saved her from toppling out of her chair. Lisa recovered quickly enough, but her brown eyes were bewildered. “Jesus Christ! You came up with some weird shit, Chris. Couldn’t you just be gay or something like that?”
“I
am
gay, Boo-boo. It’s for to save my lover that I need you.”
“Yeah… well…”
Devi stood before her, hands on hips. “You running out on us, Boo-boo? Or are you going to help us kick some Sidh butt?”
The drummer put her face in her hands. “Oh… God… my grandmother was a witch, and that was bad enough. Now my bandleader turns out to be a… a…”
Monica spoke suddenly: “A friend? Is that it, Boo-boo?” She tottered to her feet. “Chris is my friend. When I needed help, she took me in. Shit, she went after Ron like a buzz saw the first time I showed up. She didn’t have to do that. And if I can handle ghosts, I guess I can handle anything.” She turned to Christa. “You gonna mind if I ask lots of dumb questions?” Christa shook her head. Monica hugged her. “You must have been hurting like mad all this time,” she said, and Christa clung to her, her face against the stiffness of bleached-blond hair.
Melinda came out of the bathroom, face washed, strands of hair dripping around her face. She leaned heavily against the doorframe. “I’m okay, Chris. Just real scared.”
Christa did not let go of Monica. Kevin was a thousand miles away, and the warmth of human flesh was a comforting reminder of friendship and love. “Are you frightened of me?”
Melinda brushed drops from her cheek. “I’ve been scared since I first met you. You always knew what you were doing, and I didn’t. Sure, you fucked up, but you’ve been trying to fix it ever since, and that’s a damned sight more than I ever did.”
Christa waited.
“Count me in,” Melinda said abruptly. For an instant, Christa saw a flicker of robes the color of a summer sky and piercing blue eyes that flashed, stern and kind both. Melinda turned toward her bedroom. “I’m gonna sleep,” she said. “See you in the morning, huh?” She stopped at the door. “I haven’t had any trouble sleeping lately, Chris. Did you fix that, too?”
Christa shook her head slowly. “You did.”
Devi waited until Melinda had closed the door, then turned to Lisa. “We’re waiting, Boo-boo.”
The drummer stared helplessly. “What the fuck am I supposed to say? This is unreal.”
“So is MTV.”
“I don’t live in MTV!”
“You do now.”
Lisa’s curls had turned damp. She lifted a strong hand and wiped at her brow. “Oh… God… grandma…”
“I won’t push you, Boo-boo,” said Christa. “ ’Twill be rough at Midsummer. Orfide is a skilled bard, and he will throw everything he can at all of us.”
Lisa deliberated. “My grandma said that magic would save my ass someday, Chris. Are you up for it?”
“On my honor before the Gods,” said Christa, “I pledge my protection to you all, to the best of my powers, in this world, in all the Worlds, for as long as I have strength to call my own.“ The oath did not sound as imposing in English as in Gaeidelg, but her tone conveyed her sincerity.
For some time, Lisa said nothing. Then, finally, she took Christa’s hand. “Okay. You got me, Chris.” She looked at the guitar where it play on the bed. “Ceis?”
*Lisa*
With a glance at Christa, she forced a nervous smile. “My… my friends call me Boo-boo.”