Music to My Sorrow Read online

  There would be other ways for Prince Gabrevys to make his displeasure known—subtler, surer ways. And Jormin was certain his master would find them.

  Meanwhile, he had his own part to play in his Prince's current affairs. . . .

  * * *

  When Eric reached Misthold again—finally having convinced Lady Day to proceed at something less than a headlong gallop—he found Prince Arvin out riding with a number of members of the Court. Beth and Kory were with him—no surprise there; Arvin liked Beth—but Jachiel was with him as well, riding beside Lady Rionne, and that was a surprise. Eric had gotten the vague impression that Sidhe kids were kept tucked off in some well-guarded pocket Domain until they reached adulthood—whatever the Sidhe considered that to be.

  He looked a thousand times better than the half-dead street rat, thoroughly poisoned on Baker's chocolate and Coca-Cola, that Eric had rescued last fall. His hair was still black, but now he glowed with health. His face brightened when he saw Eric riding toward the party, and he glanced toward Arvin.

  The Prince waved permission, and he spurred his elvensteed toward Lady Day. Rionne followed closely.

  "Bard Eric," Jachiel said, reining in. "It is . . . good to see you return in health from Elfhame Bete Noir."

  "It's good to be back," Eric said. "It was an interesting place."

  Rionne made a sound that might have been a snort, and might have been a cough. "And did you find Prince Gabrevys in health?" she asked neutrally.

  "Unfortunately, he wasn't home. I spoke to his Bard."

  "Jormin!" Jachiel said in disgust. He hesitated, on the verge of saying something more, then changed his mind. "Magnus . . . Ace . . . are they well?" he asked eagerly instead.

  "Very well," Eric said. "They miss you, of course. Magnus is living with me, and Ace is living with Ria Llewellyn—I don't think you met her."

  "But I know of her," Jachiel said seriously. "She is Perenor's child, but she renounced all ties to the Dark Court—and to the Bright as well." He sounded impressed. "Some day I hope to meet her." The hero worship in his voice was plain.

  Ria has a fan in Underhill? Wait till I tell her that. Mind, he could understand. Jachiel couldn't be entirely comfortable here in Misthold. It must be tempting for him to think that he might be able to tell both sides that they had no holds over him, and go his own way.

  "And I have . . . a letter for Magnus. And one for Ace. I cannot use the Internet. The treaty will not permit it. Not yet. But Prince Arvin says I may write—if someone will take the letters," Jachiel added hopefully.

  "I can take them with me," Eric said. "And Lady Day can bring back replies." He had no doubt they'd want to answer Jachiel's letters. "I'm sure we can work something out. Maybe we can use Lady Day as a courier."

  "I hope so," Jachiel said. "I miss them very much."

  Eric couldn't help it; though Lady Rionne tensed, he reached out and patted the boy's hand. "They miss you, too. That was the last thing Magnus said before I left, that he was waiting to hear from you, and I know Ace feels the same way. I promise, we'll work out something."

  By now the rest of the party had joined them. Eric rode aside with Dharniel and Prince Arvin and made his report, repeating exactly his conversation with Prince Gabrevys's Bard.

  "And so our message is delivered, and Bard Jormin undoubtedly makes all haste to his Prince's side to lay it before him," Arvin said.

  Dharniel emitted a sharp bark of mirthless laughter. "Wherever he is—stirring up trouble, I have no doubt!"

  "Perhaps this will distract him," Arvin said, smiling wolfishly. "Indeed, I know it would distract me. But that is a tale best left for the future to tell. Much as I could wish that you would stay longer, Eric, I know that you will not."

  "I would if I could," Eric said. "But I'd better get back while there's a hope my apartment is still in one piece. I'll come again as soon as I can."

  "A longer visit next time," Prince Arvin said firmly.

  Once again, Eric collected hugs from Beth and Kory—and the letters for Ace and Magnus from Jachiel—and rode out through the gates of Elfhame Misthold.

  It had been his home for longer than any other place since he'd first left Juilliard, but fond as he was of it—and the friends it sheltered—Misthold wasn't home any more. The World Above was where he belonged.

  When he passed through the Everforest Gate, Eric felt the weird wrenching sensation that came with going from Underhill to the World Above, and suddenly, for the first time since he'd gone Underhill, he could tell what time it was.

  Pretty close to four in the morning. If we hurry, we can make it to the city before the commuter traffic gets really heavy.

  "Well, go on," Eric said. Lady Day snorted derisively, and a moment later Eric dropped several inches, landing with a thump on the leather saddle of his touring bike as his elvensteed became his elvenbike. He looked pretty silly sitting there in velvet and armor, he imagined, so while he was still in the ambient magickal field of the Gate, a touch of magick and a chorus of "Fine Knacks for Ladies" turned steel and velvet into the modern leather armor of a knight of the road.

  Headlights flared to life, and he turned Lady Day in the direction of the main road.

  * * *

  When Magnus got over to Ria's apartment, he found that Ace really was upset. She'd overcooked the roast, and she'd already thrown out the side dishes.

  But even an overcooked roast was fine with Magnus, and he said so. They shredded the beef in its own juice, then made sandwiches, and sat in Ria's enormous kitchen, while Magnus waited for Ace to tell him what was wrong.

  "You'd said you'd had a bad day, too," she finally said. She hadn't eaten much, just picked at her sandwich and drunk a cup of coffee. Magnus didn't care much for coffee, but he was such a frequent visitor that the icebox was kept stocked with Cokes, which neither Ace nor Ria cared for. He rescued the other half of her sandwich and added it to his own plate. A few months on the street had given him an aversion to wasting food.

  "Not one of my best," he said cheerfully, setting aside his anger in the face of her obvious distress. "The parents showed up at Ria's with their stupid lawyer and I had to see them. And then—you'll love this—when Eric told them—again—that I was his kid, they said, 'Fine. We'll just sue for custody of our grandson instead of our son and so there.'"

  Ace stared at him, jaw dropping. "But . . . they could do that. And you'd still have to go back to them. Aren't you worried?"

  "Not worried," Magnus said honestly. "Suing isn't winning. Eric and Ria are both pretty sure about that. Mad, yeah. If I had these Bard-powers that Eric talks about sometimes . . . well, I guess I wouldn't bother with lawyers. I'd just fry them."

  Ace laughed. "I guess after today, I might join you. You see . . . I'm going to have to go to New Jersey."

  "Where your dad is?"

  Last winter, Ria had helped Ace file a Petition of Emancipated Minor Status. Ace had turned seventeen last month—her birthday was Valentine's Day—but that still meant a solid year before she could claim the privileges of adulthood that would keep her out of her exploitative televangelist father's grasp. If she could manage to get herself declared an Emancipated Minor, she wouldn't have to worry about hiding from Billy Fairchild until she turned eighteen.

  She'd thought Billy was still in Tulsa, but when Ria's lawyers had gotten ready to serve the papers, she'd found to her horror that the Billy Fairchild Ministries had relocated . . . to Atlantic City, New Jersey.

  "That's right," Ace said bitterly. "Daddy's bought himself a pet judge—and that means instead of the case being heard in New York, where it ought to be, I'm going to have to go down to Ocean County and appear in a courtroom, and tell some judge—who won't listen—why this upright, God-fearing, pillar of the community shouldn't get his daughter back! And he'll be there, sure as taxes, him and Mama and Daddy too."

  "Him? Who?" Magnus asked, puzzled. She obviously wasn't talking about her father.

  "Gabriel Horn," Ace said, an
d her face crumpled. She looked as if, given just a little push, she'd cry. And Ace never cried. "Oh, Magnus—he's about the worst man I've ever known—even including all the ones I met after I ran away! I can't let him get his hands on me again!" That was real desperation in her voice. Magnus knew it when he heard it.

  "Well, he won't," Magnus said decisively. "For one thing, Billy Fairchild has a lot of money, but trust me—Ria Llewellyn and LlewellCo have more. In the first place, she likes you. In the second place, she doesn't like Billy or people like him. And Eric and Hosea and Toni and those guys talk a lot about ethics and morals and doing the right thing, but I think that all that matters to Ria is taking care of the people she cares about, and keeping them from getting hurt." Then he shrugged. "Besides, there's one place where they can't find you, and if you have to, you can go there. We both can go there." He didn't want to, but if the choice was some weird fairyland or Stalag Banyon, he'd take the weird fairyland—and he was pretty sure Ace felt the same.

  Ace inspected him critically. "You're a lot like Ria, you know?"

  Magnus was too smart to assume it was a compliment. "If you mean I think it's more important to protect my friends than my enemies, you're right. So when do you have to be there?"

  Ace drooped. "Ten days. I got the papers today."

  "Plenty of time for us to figure out how to make them really sorry they ever messed with you, then," Magnus said with malicious relish. "So . . . what's for dessert?"

  Chapter 3:

  Darkness On The Edge Of Town

  The Heavenly Grace Cathedral and Casino of Prayer was the anchor building in a twenty-five-acre business park on the outskirts of Atlantic City. So far, the rest of the park was still "under development," but it was entirely owned by Fairchild Ministries, and it was Billy's intention to make it a Christian oasis in the Godless wilderness of Sin and Vice that was Atlantic City. A television station and recording studio were under construction, and as projects were completed, Billy intended to consolidate the components of the ever-growing Fairchild Empire all in one place—as well as attract like-minded tenants.

  His departure from Tulsa had not been entirely his own idea, though by now he had mostly managed to banish those painful memories from his mind and convince himself that it had been. How could his spiritual brethren have been so blind? He had been doing the Lord's work—and with Heavenly Grace gone, he'd needed to put a little pepper in his sermons to keep his market share.

  "Heavenly Grace," he'd always told her, "you are the keystone of my Cathedral of the Airwaves." But she hadn't cared, the ungrateful serpent's tooth—she'd fled like the Prodigal into the fleshpots of Babylon. They'd managed to hush it up, but that hadn't done anything toward replacing her. And a man had to do something.

  He'd thought he'd found the perfect solution, with Gabriel Horn's help, giving his flock a message of strength and power to bear them up in these times of conflict and uncertainty. And for a while, it had seemed to work.

  Then one night he'd received an unexpected visit.

  They were quiet men, men of God, men whose faces were familiar across the nation. Spiritual advisors to presidents and even kings.

  They'd come to talk to him.

  His wife Donna had served coffee, fluttering like a setting dove with the glory of having them in her house. They'd praised her and flattered her, and Billy had desperately wanted her to stay, because he knew that whatever they'd come to say, they wouldn't say it in front of her. But Donna was a good woman, with too much sense to stick around when men had come to talk man-talk. She'd gotten everyone settled and taken herself off to her part of the house.

  And then they'd gotten down to business.

  Oh, they'd been slick! He was outclassed, and part of him had to admire that, even while he hated them for it. They suggested it might be a good idea for him to move himself elsewhere, that he might even like to be closer to little Heavenly Grace during her schooling. They offered to buy out his holdings, find jobs for any of his people who didn't want to come with him, so that nobody would suffer by it.

  And then they slipped in the steel.

  "You can understand, Brother Fairchild, that loose talk about bombing out the enemies of Christ does not go down well in Oklahoma, particularly when you're calling the FBI and the Federal Government the Enemies of Christ as well as Infidels who truly deserve to be chastised with the Lord's rod. . . ."

  Bitter memories, best forgot.

  It was Gabriel Horn who showed him the honeycomb concealed within the lion's maw. It was time for him to take on a real challenge, Gabriel said. There were plenty of God-fearing Christians in Oklahoma—and plenty of blind, self-satisfied Pharisees, too. Why not take his Ministry among the pagans, the heathens, those wallowing in their sins instead? Fight the Enemies of Christ in their stronghold?

  And so Billy had moved the Fairchild Ministries to New Jersey.

  Of course, here his message had to be presented a little differently than it had been back home. But Billy had always been adaptable.

  * * *

  "First order of business . . . the casino revenues."

  Gabriel Horn hated the weekly business meetings. Well, perhaps "hate" was too strong a word. They bored him desperately. But Billy thrived on them, and he wasn't ready—not yet—for an open break with his cats-paw.

  "Up again this week, Reverend Fairchild. The good people just love doing the Lord's work at the tables and the slots—"

  Billy nodded wisely. Gabriel Horn suppressed a sneer. It hadn't taken much effort at all to convince all of Fairchild's people that there was no sin in gambling if it was done in the name of Jesus. And the house took ten percent, and that went right back into the Ministry; truly it was blessed work! Besides, it wasn't as if the people throwing their money away were the Lord's true sheep, who deserved to be fed and guided. These were the Devil's own lambs, and deserved to be sheared. So Gabriel and Billy told them, and so they believed.

  "Plus we have offering buckets scattered around the floor for praise-offerings if people feel they've been extra-lucky." Marvin Garibaldi was the casino manager, a new hire—one of the few new hires on Billy's staff who wasn't one of Gabriel's people.

  "Good, good," Billy said. The various departments around the table reported in: merchandise sales were up, both in the casino and by direct mail, the publishing company would be showing a profit by the next quarter, the Hour of Praise had been picked up by several more stations.

  "And now, I think Mr. Horn has a special treat for all of us," Billy added.

  "Indeed I do," Gabriel said. He got to his feet and picked up the remote lying on the table in front of him.

  There was a wide-screen plasma television built into the wall of the room behind him. The DVD was already loaded.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, reaching the youth market has always been the most difficult part of our Ministry. With the launch of the Red Nails label, Fairchild Ministries is able to reach out to that market share that would otherwise not be able to receive our word, through the medium of Christian-oriented heavy-metal. The best thing about this sort of music—though I grant it may not be to the taste of everyone here—is that, properly packaged, our videos will be picked up by mainstream outlets such as MTV and VH-1, spreading our message even further. We'll be launching the label with a free concert here in just under two weeks time: Pure Blood will headline what I consider quite an impressive roster. And now, a sample."

  He pressed the "play" button and sat down.

  The darkness on the screen faded to reveal the leather-clad figure of Pure Blood's lead singer, Judah Galilee, standing in a field of human skulls. His waist-length hair was the lurid color of fresh blood. As he writhed and howled in torment to the opening bars of "They Killed Him," the song Gabriel intended as the hit single off their debut album, Pure Sacrifice, the camera pulled back to reveal a horribly tortured and very fair-skinned man hanging from a cross.

  The viewers around the table gasped and recoiled.
r />   The images on the screen dissolved and intercut with dizzying quickness: the blond muscular Jesus scourging a horde of dark, ratlike Pharisees from a shining white Temple. Jesus being tortured by those same Pharisees while a group of soft, indecisive Romans looked on. Jesus being dragged to the Cross by more dark-skinned people, while, mixed into the watching mob, other, lighter-skinned people fought helplessly to save him.

  Mixed into the footage, in almost subliminal flashes, were shots of the falling World Trade Towers, burning American flags, street scenes from the Middle East. And through it all, the message of the music beat: look what they did—look what they did—

  Gabrevys ap Ganeliel had to admit that Jormin's talents were impressive. But what Bard's weren't?

  Since he'd come to the World Above to entertain himself—and Billy Fairchild could be very entertaining, when he didn't vex one half to madness!—Gabrevys had taken care to acquaint himself thoroughly with the petty factions of mortalkind, the better to manipulate them to his own ends. He'd discovered that there were something called Christian White Supremacists, and it had been an easy thing to nudge Billy's ministry in their direction. They had money and influence, and Billy wanted both. They wanted strife and war among the mortalkind, and so did the Unseleighe Prince calling himself Gabriel Horn.

  And to recruit new young fools to their cause, these human Whites seduced their young through music, which was the easiest thing in both the worlds for one of the Unseleighe to manipulate. Jormin would craft the songs his master asked of him, and mortals would find them irresistible. Not every song would carry Gabrevys's hidden message of hatred and factionalism, but enough.

  But there were markets Pure Blood couldn't touch. Most of the "Christian Rock" venue was still dominated by pretty, soft-voiced girl singers.