Whiskey and Water (37 page)

Jewels was the one who nodded. "We'll
be here."

"Thanks." She scooped her wrap
out of the booth, just in case, and fixed a hair clip as she stood, feeling the
music shiver through the floor. Laibach, and the DJ was stressing the system
with it.

She'd gone by Autumn's house with the
intention of talking to her about the possibility of disentangling herself from
Moira without losing contact with others in the coven —
You, and Michael,
she'd
planned to say—but then Gypsy was there and between the two of them they'd
broken it to Lily about Jewels wanting to come in and learn something of the
arts, and Jewels had turned out to be somebody she knew from the club scene and
kind of vaguely disliked, and Geoff somebody she knew rather better, if a yearlong
flirtation culminating in a blow job in a dark corner of the how-defunct
Blackthorne, when he'd been tending bar there, counted for anything.

Goth clubs did not have a long median life
span.

But he'd been sweet, and from his sideways
glances, he remembered
\
it too.

The evening's conversation had somehow,
after explanations and digressions, evolved into the three of them and a
couple of Fae of Jewels' acquaintance going out clubbing on Fetish Night. At
first, Lily's self-discipline had been strained not sneaking her own sideways
glances at the Fae, but soon enough she'd forgotten to find him magical, and
had just enjoyed sharing with Jewels in the unstinting and ever-so-slightly
competitive attention of two attractive men.

And she'd been flying that morning.

Sometimes, it seemed as if everything in
life went magical all at once. Synchronicity, or perhaps the hand of Fate.

You should know," Lily told the
stranger after they had stepped aside, "that I'm
not
interested in personal
advice from strangers. Or judgments. Especially judgments."

The older woman leaned close. She slipped
a hand into her pocket, and brought out something that looked like a popper,
amyl nitrate, a little twist of paper that bulged in the middle, except it was
silver and Chinese red instead of white. "I'm not here to offer advice,
my dear," she said. "I'm Fionnghuala, by the way. T'were rude of me
not to offer a name."

She tried to press the popper into Lily's
hand, and Lily pulled away. "I don't want that."

"You need it," Fionnghuala said.
The girl's hands were cold, but the swanmay caught them —so much larger than
her own—and folded the fingers around the scrap. "It will take you to
Hell. You, and a companion, if you choose."

"A . . . companion?"

Fionnghuala smiled. "It's traditional
to bring a date to a party. You pop the paper open, and breathe it in — '

"I know how they work," Lily
said. She tucked it into her pocket, intending to flush it when the opportunity
presented itself. "Why would I want to go to Hell?"

"Because that is where your lover
will be, tomorrow night." Fionnghuala held out an envelope of fine linen-pressed
paper, sealed with dark red wax. It was amazing what a girl could accomplish
with the joint cooperation of an archangel and the Prince of Lies. "Here's
your invitation, my dear."

Everything Goes to Hell

T
he invitation was on thick, soft, high rag-content
ivory paper with an embossed crest. Geoff ran his thumb over it before
flipping it open with his thumbnail. It felt more like stiff cloth than paper,
rich and knife-creased. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this. You want to
take me to Hell."

Lily grinned, lounging on the settee in
her cramped apartment, a clove cigarette glowing in her hand. He needed to get
over that thing about Jewels. And Geoff
hadn't
agreed to join the exodus
to Hell until he'd found out that Jewels was going, as Ian's companion.
"Who else could I ask? Without having to explain the whole
kidnapped-by-Faeries thing?"

To somebody who hadn't explained it to you
first?" Between him and Jewels and Ian, she'd managed to more or less
build a narrative of where he'd been and what he'd done. He handed her back the
paper. one struggled for a moment in the three-inch heels of her granny boots,
the red metallic fabric of her skirt whisking around her ankles.
Automatically, Geoff reached out to steady her, and she accepted, letting him
pull her to her feet. She wore a corset over the skirt; once she was up, it
pressed her spine into alignment and made her feel as light and sustained as
when Christian took her hands and coaxed her into midair. "It's funny
meeting you again this way."

Kismet," he said, with a shrug. He
was kitted out himself in Gothic finery a vintage tuxedo with frayed cuffs that
made him look like a refugee from the Addams Family, his hair freshly re-dyed
that morning so his ruddy eyebrows looked even stranger on his pallor, eyeliner
and lipstick as dark as a bruise. A mask hung around his neck: Polichinelle.
"Are we going?"

She glanced out her window at the sunset.
"Yes," she said, and tucked the invitation into her corset. She
retrieved the twist of paper Fionnghuala had given her, and weighed it in her
palm. It felt warm, the paper crisp and crinkly when she pinched the ends.
"Ready?"

"This is silly," Geoff said.

"You're telling me," Lily
answered, and broke the capsule under their noses as he leaned in close.

Geoff had closed his eyes reflexively. He
braced for bitter unpleasantness, but what diffused through the air was
pleasant, the deep musty scent of old leaves in autumn, the richness of pollen,
the warmth of moist earth tilled over in the sun. His eyes widened, his head
went back —

He found himself staring over Lily's
shoulder, at Hell.

It wasn't anything that he'd expected. No
lava pits, no lakes of flame, no writhing souls nor demons with pitchforks.
That dead-leaf scent swept around them, ruffling their clothes and lifting the
hair on their necks. They stood in a formal entryway, a tall tapestried room
brightened by soothing gaslights, cut flowers —roses and lilies—banked like
snowdrifts along the walls. That scent grew enervating as the other faded.

They were alone in the room, but Geoff
thought he knew which way to go. More roses strewed the path. He took Lily's
hand; they shared a glance, and she laughed. It sounded strained. "I have
a bad feeling about this," Geoff muttered.

Lily nibbled her lips, staining her teeth
with lipstick. "If I want to learn magic, I need to do this."

Geoff felt the need she spoke of, and
something worse and colder underneath: sucking pressure like a vacuum, an
emptiness that turned the flowers into funereal wreaths, the faintly heard
music into a dirge. The sensation wasn't . . .
crushing
so much as
haunting, as coming home to an empty house that shouldn't be. He squeezed her
hand and stepped forward, Lily's skirt rustling alongside, but she sensed his
hesitation. As they came to a cross-corridor where the foot-bruised carpet of
roses tended left, she stepped forward and took the lead in turn.

They rounded another corner and now came
upon a great Gothic doorway which soared three times Geoff's height. The doors
stood open, guarded on either side by winged figures as still as statues, that shed
radiance all about. Beyond the doors were people—a paltry gathering for such a
grand ball. Gently, Lily tugged her hand free of Geoffrey's sweaty clasp, and
presented the invitation to the angel on the left.

Or, not precisely an angel. As she handed
him the paper, she saw the ridged claws, sharply curved over the tips of each
finger, and the way his wings dripped feathers when he moved, revealing gray membrane
underneath.
A masque,
she thought, as Geoff pulled his own hook-nosed
disguise up and settled it over his eyes.

"You may pass, Mary Wakeman,"
the disguised demon said, returning the invitation. His voice was mellifluous,
soft and almost cloying. Feathers shed like snow. Goose feathers, and some
swan: the Prince of Hell was not above humiliating his own. "And your
guest as well."

"Thank you," she said. She
stepped forward, but he barred her path with one horny hand. Your mask,
Mistress Wakeman."

"Oh!" she said, and unhooked it
from the waistband of her skirt. As Geoff was Polichinelle, so she was
Harlequin. She tucked the elastic under her hair, took Geoff's elbow when he
presented it, and sailed forward.

Mary? " he murmured in her ear.

She made a face, her skin moving against
the inside of her mask. Mary Theresa. But I've been Lily for years."

Ah," he answered, still sotto voce.
"Un
nom de Goth."

She didn't quite snort.

The expected crowd wasn't—not so much of
one, anyway. Some two dozen figures, a few Geoff recognized from Faerie: the
Queen, the bard, the Prince of Hell himself. They clustered in groups, waited
upon by more faux angels. "Hell's half empty," Lily said, unable to
remember at the moment if it was a quote.

I don't think the damned were
invited," Geoff said, as a servitor angel paused with his tray. Geoff handed
Lily a red wine, and paused with another in his hand. "Have you seen what
you've come to see?"

"No," she said, turning slowly,
heel and toe. "I haven't ..." She paused, and quickly sipped her
wine, rolling it across her tongue until she felt able to speak. "Is that
hi
m?"

Geoff followed where she stared.
"Yes," he said. "It is."

Lucifer Morningstar held court alongside a
curved, small stage without a single musician on it, from which sweet melodies
nevertheless flowed. He was clothed in white from head to toe, a suit of
archaic cut that displayed his calf in hose and a high-heeled, buckled shoe, a
coat of brocade silk and matching breeches cut close to the leg, argent as his
mantling wings. Silver buttons up each thigh that held tarnish in their
creases, dark as the shadow of his crown. Even the leather of his rapier
carrier was white, the buckles silver. But the swept hilt of the sword
suspended from it was elegant, practical steel, the arch of the guard
reminiscent of ostrich plumes, and though he wore a white velvet mask, the hand
that rested nonchalantly on his pommel was innocent of any glove.

The conversation was idle, painfully so.
Lucifer stood with the Queen and Cairbre —the Queen costumed as Eostre, with
flowers twined through her long dark hair in place of the souls that the Mebd
had worn there, and Cairbre in a conquistador's helm and breastplate, wrought
from silver rather than steel. Matthew the fallen Mage stood nearby, not
actually costumed, but still resplendent in his gaudy coat and clothes borrowed
in Faerie. He did not speak, and seemed to turn all his attention to the drink in
his hand whenever Lucifer glanced at him.

Such a pretty thing, and so flawed at his
heart: it made the Devil's fingers itch to mend him.

The Queen's patent unwillingness to show
distraction, on the other hand, amused him. She tensed each time someone
entered the ballroom, but she would not turn, and she would not ask after her husband.
Such pride, and yet the pride of folk who were not angels, be they iron folk or
moonlight, was barely pride at all.

She didn't notice when Christian's witch
appeared, the mortal boy on her arm, and she didn't notice when they turned
this way and that, accepted wine from a tray, and retired to a corner to
observe. The Devil noticed, though. Everyone was waiting for something: an
arrival, a departure. It made a pleasing sort of allegory.

As for himself, Lucifer was waiting for
the poet. The Devil didn't turn a calf for just anyone.

Nor did he
wait
for just anyone,
either—however fashionable their lateness might be. Still, a ripple swept the
sparse crowd of guests and the attendant demons, and Lucifer turned on his
jeweled shoe to find the source, already smiling.

His poet would
never
disappoint
him.

The invisible musicians seemed to take a
breath, to pause for a moment, and then a high, skirling lift of violin and
flute picked Kit up and swept him into the room. He'd spent what seemed half a
lifetime on his costume—time held no meaning in Hell, even less so than in
Faerie—and he knew every eye in the room was upon him.

He'd left his bard's cloak in his room
this once, and wore rose-red, a doublet and breeches in an old, old style. His
mask was red as well, sequined so it scattered light as he advanced, alone,
among the revelers. They drew back as he came forward, and there was nothing to
conceal what he wore harnessed on his shoulders: the sooty half-furled wings,
like a vulture's, the feathers charcoal and inky and black. And much better
made than those sported by the befeathered demons: Kit's wings did not shed a trail
like bread crumbs behind him when he walked, for trampling underfoot.

Every guest watched as Lucifer came
forward, abandoning his conversation with no more than a heedless turn of his
head. He came to Kit on a moment of indrawn breath, as every eye watched, every
mouth stilled. And Kit stood smiling, arms crossed, and let the Devil come to
him.

You wanted a masque," he said, when
Lucifer was close enough that an unraised voice would carry. "Is this
costume enough, Prince of Lies?"