Music to My Sorrow Read online

  Like Heavenly Grace Fairchild.

  Oh, she would be the perfect tool in his campaign—if she were only in his hands and under his control! Gabriel kept his face smooth with an effort. He knew precisely where she was, now—and had for several months—but he dared not attack her openly, either as Prince Gabrevys or as Gabriel Horn. She was protected from both his personae—by Bard Eric Banyon of Elfhame Misthold, and by Ria Llewellyn of LlewellCo.

  But now . . . now the darling girl was coming home to the bosom of her family. Now he could take her, with law and cunning on his side, and no one would be able to stop him. Once he had her back in his hands—even for a few hours—there were a number of things he could do to convince her that it was in her best interests to remain with him forever.

  And once he had her back, she would do just as he wanted. She would sing the songs he wanted her to sing, and spread Billy Fairchild's new gospel far and wide.

  The music video reached an end. The screen went black. There was a faintly confused silence, broken after a moment by Billy's enthusiastic clapping.

  "Ain't that just the caterpillar's meow? I don't know how you do it, Gabe—that's fancier than one of those Star Wars movies!" Billy said happily.

  "Our technicians are happy to do the Lord's work, Reverend," Gabriel said smoothly. "All Fairchild Ministries has to pay for is the computer time." Not that there'd been any computers involved, of course. No special-effects house in the World Above could duplicate what Gabriel and his minions could provide through illusion and magick. . . .

  "Well, that's just great," Billy said again. He paused. "I don't suppose you could get that Judah Galilee feller to cut his hair?"

  Gabriel smiled faintly. "I believe it's a part of the image. We must temper the wind to the shorn lamb, as you know."

  And when the time was right, he intended to shear the Reverend Billy Fairchild. Thoroughly. Far more thoroughly than any of the suckers in the Casino.

  * * *

  Everything was going wonderfully well. It was clear to Billy that the Lord was smiling on the new direction his ministry was taking. He looked down at the gleaming mahogany sweep of his desk, and idly picked through the samples of new merchandise that Gabriel had left him.

  New T-shirts. Not the passive victim-Jesus that Billy remembered from his childhood, the one that encouraged people to lie down and let their enemies do whatever they liked with them. This one was dynamic, a real action hero, with a scourge in one hand and a staff in the other, striking out at His enemies just as Billy exhorted his followers to strike out at theirs. And if His enemies looked an awful lot like the enemies America faced today, well, all the better. God's Ministry should move with the times. "Guts Ministry," they called it.

  Bumper stickers and key chains, all with the "Red Nails" logo and the slogan "They Killed Him." Billy liked that a lot—it had a lot more punch than "He Died for You." He thought he'd work it into the next few sermons—and that would tie in to that long-hair band's CD release as well.

  But good as this music thing was for the Ministry, Billy didn't intend to hitch his wagon entirely to Gabriel Horn's star. Not entirely. He'd dragged himself up from nothing—just another backwoods preacher with a bus, moving from one wide spot in the road to another, and he hadn't gotten where he was today by putting all his eggs in somebody else's basket. Gabe might have a lot of good ideas, but it was time to show him that Billy still had a few of his own.

  His phone beeped gently, and Billy picked it up.

  "Reverend Fairchild? Your three o'clock appointment is here."

  "Thank you, Miz Granger. Send him in."

  A moment later the door opened.

  The man who entered wore a well-cut, well-tailored suit, but no amount of fancy sewing could disguise either the color or the fabric. It was a shade halfway between the green of a dollar bill and the lurid green of a St. Paddy's Day hat, of some dense, faintly shiny, obviously unnatural material. A pair of reflective sunglasses were hooked over a breast pocket, their lenses the same shade of green—it appeared that the man was very fond of green—and strapped to one wrist was an exceptionally large and exceptionally ugly black plastic wristwatch. It seemed oddly out of place on the man's wrist—he was the sort of man who seemed as if he would be more comfortable wearing a whisper-thin gold Rolex, such as Billy wore himself. Perhaps he wore the thing for medical reasons. Perhaps it wasn't a watch at all.

  Billy got to his feet and came around the desk, holding out his hand.

  "Mr. Wheatley. A pleasure to meet you."

  * * *

  Parker Wheatley had not been pleased to lose his comfortable and influential Washington post and see all the careful work of years destroyed overnight. However, he knew who to blame—Ria Llewellyn and Aerune mac Audelaine.

  Aerune, for promising him support and then vanishing when Wheatley needed him most. Ria Llewellyn, for setting up the tissue of lies and perverted truths that gave his colleagues on the Hill no choice but to dismantle the Paranormal Defense Initiative.

  Fortunately, Wheatley had been prudent. Much of the equipment Aerune had given him with which to hunt Spookies—unduplicatable by Earthly science—had been stored at a secret off-site location. He'd been able to steal it—though it wasn't really stealing, since it was rightfully his—before anyone bothered to inventory it.

  But to effect his revenge against those who had destroyed his life, he needed to rebuild his power base.

  With a little thought, he'd realized there was a ready market for his services. The Christian fundamentalists believed that practically everything was Satanic, from Buffy the Vampire Slayer to Harry Potter—and if the Spookies weren't strictly Satanic, they were out to enslave and destroy humanity, they didn't worship Jesus or the Judeo-Christian God, and they had pointed ears and unnatural powers. By just about any test of the fundamentalists, they qualified as demonic.

  The newly christened Satanic Defense Initiative had done a booming business, if not the same sort its predecessor had. Wheatley had been in great demand as a speaker about the Satanic Infiltration of Humanity, and how the government had shut down the project to discover Satanic Agents In Our Midst due to pressure from above.

  It was stomach-turning work, but Wheatley had done a number of things he didn't like in his career. Meeting with a tub-thumping—but very rich—televangelist was only the latest in a long series of such things.

  "So tell me, Mr. Wheatley," Billy Fairchild said, when they were seated. "What can I do for you?"

  "It's not what you can do for me," Parker Wheatley said. "It's what I can do for you."

  By now, his pitch was a practiced one. He explained about the creatures that had infiltrated humanity for unknown reasons. How they were nearly undetectable—except when they struck.

  "You certainly didn't call them demons when you were in Washington, now, did you, Mr. Wheatley?" Reverend Fairchild said with a confidential smile.

  Parker Wheatley allowed himself a small smile in return. The rich were rarely stupid. "You'll understand that 'demon' was not a word that would advance anybody's career in Washington, Reverend Fairchild. But I can't imagine what else they'd be, frankly. They certainly aren't human. They don't seem to come from outer space."

  "And you say they're everywhere?"

  "They're a lot more places than people think!" Wheatley said urgently, absolute honesty plain in his voice for a moment. "I've never captured one—not alive—but I've come close. Very close."

  "But you have gotten your hands on a few?" Reverend Fairchild said shrewdly.

  Wheatley grimaced. "Back in the early days, when we didn't really know what we were up against, we captured a few. Most of them escaped, but we managed to kill one. We tried to do an autopsy. The body just . . . dissolved. We'd had cameras running, of course. But there was something wrong with the film and the tape."

  Scrubbed by high-intensity electromagnetic pulse, the technician had said. They hadn't completely understood the Spookie allergy to ferrous metal in
those days, or realized that they were just as dangerous dead as alive.

  "After that, we tracked them. We were able to develop a good idea of their . . . interests."

  "But the government shut down your operation, Mr. Wheatley," Reverend Fairchild pointed out. "That doesn't sound as if you were doing very well."

  "I can only assume they thought the PDI was becoming a little too successful," Wheatley said. "Believe me when I tell you that these creatures can look as human as you or I. And the level of influence they can exert over real human beings is literally ungodly." Wheatley lowered his voice to a confidential tone, even as he hated himself for pandering to this yahoo. "In fact, loose talk about conspiracy theories aside, I have to tell you that I think the real reason I was shut down is that They have someone—perhaps more people than just one—at the highest level under their influence. The highest," he repeated, nodding in the general direction of Washington. Then he allowed his voice to take on a more normal tone. "Now, I've been speaking out on the subject for a while, but to do any real good—to get my hands on some subjects for interrogation—I'll need a serious sponsor willing to put real muscle—spiritual, financial, and political—behind the Satanic Defense Initiative. Whoever takes that on won't have an easy time. The demons have left me alone, so I believe, because they think I'm no longer a threat. If I become one, I can't say what will happen." He blinked, and put on a brave face. "Whoever stands with me will have to have the cloak of the Lord over his shoulders."

  It nearly gagged him to say that drivel. Cloak of the Lord, indeed! The cloak of the U.S. government hadn't done any good, and that was something Wheatley had possessed slightly more faith in.

  "But this isn't entirely about my needs, Reverend Fairchild. I told you that when I was working for the government we'd managed to develop a sort of profile of the sort of people that attract these creatures, and believe me, sir, you fit the bill."

  "Because I am a man of God, you mean?" Billy said, blinking smugly, sure of his own sanctity.

  "Because you're a powerful and influential man," Wheatley said bluntly. "They're attracted to that. Sometimes they use it for their own ends, when they can, sometimes they just destroy their victims. Particularly when there are children involved."

  "Children?" Billy said sharply.

  Wheatley smiled to himself. He'd thought that barb would hit home. "They're attracted to children—all ages up to the late teens. We don't know why. We think it's a lot more than just that children are easier to tempt."

  As you should know, sending your buses out into the suburbs to pick up latchkey kids with promises of prizes for the older ones and candy for the little ones. And of course, how could parents object? Aren't the kids going to be safe with people of God?

  "Perhaps it's that children are easier to corrupt as well: we do know that the creatures—the demons—keep human slaves. A lot of the kids they target just vanish forever. Some of them show up again years later, but they're the wrong ages—years older or younger than they ought to be." Wheatley shook his head. "It's a tragedy. I've speculated that the demons are relatively few, so they're trying to build a Satanic Army out of these children, brainwashing them and turning them into recruiters for the Devil. Certainly their pawns can go where the demons can't, and that might be enough of an explanation. But your daughter's safely off in school, isn't she?"

  Wheatley knew very well she wasn't. He might be a Washington outsider now, but he hadn't quite lost all of his old contacts. He knew Heavenly Grace Fairchild had run away from home several months ago. He knew she was living with Ria Llewellyn now. But if he could get Billy thinking she might be in the hands of the Spookies—maybe Spookies using LlewellCo as a front—

  "Yes. Yes, she is," Billy said slowly. "And you think I'm at risk?"

  Parker Wheatley smiled. Gotcha, Elmer Gantry! "I can't say for certain. Certainly you're the type of man, with the type of organization, that would attract Spookie interest—as we used to call them." He waited.

  "Suppose I were interested in sponsoring your . . . Defense Initiative," Billy Fairchild said slowly. "It would have to be done tastefully, and with dignity."

  "Believe me, Reverend Fairchild," Parker Wheatley said, oozing earnestness. "I'm only interested in telling people the truth, not turning the truth into a sideshow that would only discredit my—holy—mission."

  "And," Billy said, a faint note of triumph in his voice, "I'd need a little something to go on with. Oh, I believe that Satan and his minions are among us, but I need some indication that these demons are as widespread as you claim."

  Wheatley kept his face bland. Not as good as he'd hoped for, but probably as good as he was going to get. And with the Ria Llewellyn connection here through the daughter, Parker Wheatley very much wanted to forge an alliance with Fairchild Ministries, Inc.

  Revenge, as the saying went, was a dish best eaten cold.

  He nodded and spread his hands to indicate honest agreement. "I tell you what, Reverend Fairchild. We're both hardheaded old horse traders. You give me six months and reasonable funding. I'll start with Fairchild Ministries and work out from here, seeing what I find. We turned up a whole nest of the things in Las Vegas just before we were shut down, so who knows what we'll find in Atlantic City? If I don't find anything at the end of that time, we part ways as friends, and you'll know that everyone in your Ministry is just what they seem to be—God-fearing and human."

  There. Plant the seed of suspicion. Make Fairchild think that he just—might—have a wolf in the fold. Make him wonder if that wasn't the reason his daughter ran away. Make him nervous and start him looking over his shoulder at shadows.

  "If I do find something, well, you'll have nipped the canker in the bud—and between us, we may well have performed a valuable service to humanity." Wheatley smiled now, a smile of supreme self-confidence. "We'll have all the evidence that anyone could want And I don't need to tell you that good works on this scale will get you more than just a pat on the back."

  Think about the book deals and the talk shows, Reverend. Think about how much it will increase your market share if you can exhibit a real live demon in an iron cage in that fancy prayer-casino of yours.

  Billy got to his feet. "Let's shake on it, Brother Wheatley. That sounds like a fine idea. I'll have Miz Granger draw up the papers and set up a drawing account. And you can meet with Andrew about doing fifteen minutes on next week's Praise Hour, to let my congregation know that Reverend Billy isn't soft on demons any more than any other enemies of Christ. We'll go over the script together, put a little pepper in it, what do you think?"

  "A fine idea, Reverend," Parker Wheatley said deliberately.

  And a better idea to get the rest of your people looking over their shoulders, too.

  * * *

  Eric walked into his apartment about forty minutes before Magnus was supposed to get up to get ready for school. Fortunately today was Friday, and he didn't have any lessons to give today, so as soon as he got Magnus out the door, he intended to hit the sack for a few hours and catch up on missed sleep. It had been a long night, and he always got together with Hosea at the end of the week for a lesson in Bardcraft—not that their work together bore a lot of resemblance to the training he'd received from Master Dharniel.

  But he had no complaints of Hosea's progress as a student, and he knew if Hosea had any problems with his teaching, Hosea would let him know, tactfully but firmly. The Ozark Bard wasn't the least shy of speaking his mind when he felt that the situation called for it, and he had a good sense about people—better than Eric's, Eric sometimes thought.

  Eric had figured the living room would be littered with pizza boxes, or the remains of whatever kind of takeout Magnus had decided on—his brother wasn't any better about cleaning up after himself than Eric had been, well, for several years past Magnus's age—but to his surprise, the only thing in the living room that hadn't been there when he left was one very large stone gargoyle.

  "Enjoy yerself on yer jaunt, d
id ye, laddybuck?" Greystone asked, turning his head. The gargoyle's black eyes twinkled at his own joke.

  Greystone was Eric's oldest friend at Guardian House, and in a sense, Greystone was the House, for he and his fellow gargoyles had been—crafted?—at the same time as the House itself as a combination security system and set of guard dogs to protect both the House and its Guardian inhabitants. It had been a mixture of Greystone's curiosity about Eric that first night, and Eric's calling-on spell to find a friend, that had begun their friendship, but it had deepened all on its own. Greystone was curious about the things he could only hear from his perch atop the building—like movies and television programs—and Eric was happy to let his friend sate that curiosity with his DVD library—and even surf the Internet.

  He glanced at the television. Greystone had been watching Trigun—one of Magnus's additions to their DVD library, and not something Eric would have bought for himself. Greystone usually preferred classic movies. But Eric supposed all popular culture was equally bizarre from a gargoyle's point of view.

  He gathered his scattered thoughts and answered the gargoyle's question. "Oh, it had its moments. Sometimes I wish the Unseleighe would find a new interior decorator, though. It looked like a Gothic playpen down there, or maybe an old Frank Frazetta painting. Everything quiet here?" he asked, unzipping his jacket.

  "Quieter here than where you were, I fancy." Greystone snorted. "The lad went on up to Ria's penthouse for dinner—though naturally she wasn't there for it—and got home full to the gills with bad news and roast beef. Both of which he shared with me. There's a bit of the beef left in the kitchen, and I don't doubt he'll be opening his budget of sorrow to ye by and by."

  "Can I get a preview?" Eric asked, sitting down on the arm of the couch.

  "Well, 'tis no secret, and he expects you and Ria between you to pull the proverbial lapin out of the chapeau, I'm warning you now. Young Heavenly Grace's father has found a judge to block the Grant of Emancipated Minor status. There's to be a hearing, and she'll have to go down in person."