Brian blinked into that stunned silence. Speech would be sacrilege. Applause would be sacrilege. The priests up on the small altar-stage laid down their instruments. One of them stepped up to a microphone and shattered the crystal mood.
"Okay folks, time for a break. We'd love to get Ish up here to sing for you, but that would be a whole 'nother world. We can't compete. All we can do is thank her for the beauty she's brought into our lives and hope it helps to ease her pain."
The words spoke of hidden undercurrents, a reminder that Brian was an outsider in this town and in this world of music. He was always an outsider, the ranger guarding the edges of the forest. Problem was, he was never exactly sure which side he was protecting, and neither provided a home.
Memories came at him, unbidden, and again took the voice of a grizzled Sergeant-Major offering advice to a subaltern still wet behind the ears. You need a home, old son. You've never really had one.
Last night with Maureen had reminded him of that. She was special. He resonated with her. There must be some way to reach her, to calm the tension. Not by using the Power. What he needed was more lasting than that could give, something real rather than a puppet on a string.
Jo deflected David to another table, leaving Brian alone with Maureen and their coffee, waiting for the applause to die so they could talk again. That simmering rage was back on her face.
"I met your sister today," she finally said, in a tone warning of hidden minefields.
"The Queen of Air and Darkness?"
"Huh?"
"Fiona. She always wanted to be Morgan le Fay when she grew up. Or Morgause, or one of the Three Witches in Macbeth. Something dark and dangerous, anyway."
"She gave me some questions to ask you."
Bloody hell. "She would."
"How old are you?"
"Oh. That one's a little complicated. The simple answer is, about seventy. Time changes around, between your world and the Summer Country."
"You look about thirty."
"And you look about sixteen tonight. Your sister looks about twenty, only because she dresses differently. We don't age the same as humans do." He held up a palm, to stop her questions. "We do get old, if nothing kills us first. With proper training, you can expect to live about two hundred years. Or you could die tomorrow, if you go around trusting Fiona."
"So you know I have the blood of the Old Ones. You're an Old One, yourself. Why did you warn me they were dangerous?"
"Because they are dangerous. The fact that you have the Blood only makes it worse." He paused and sipped some coffee as a diversion. How was he going to explain this to an innocent?
"Mostly they ignore humans unless one gets in their way. With each other, they fight and backstab and shift alliances and scheme and connive in ways that make the Balkans seem simple. Meeting you, instantly knowing you for what you are, they will assume you know things you've never learned, can do things you don't even dream about. Those differences could quickly get you dead, or made into a slave."
It wasn't helping. He could read it in the knife-edged line between her eyebrows.
"What's your real name?"
"Arthur. Arthur Pendragon." He grimaced, then shook his head at her obvious disbelief.
"It's a ritual name. There've probably been a thousand Arthur Pendragons since the original flea-bitten tribal chief in an obscure corner of Wales. There are sixteen or twenty of us alive right now. That's why we use other names. Brian Albion means me, just as much as Arthur Pendragon. Fiona's messing with your head."
"And these 'Pendragons' are all Old Ones?"
"Old Ones raised as Christians. We stand between the Summer Country and what you'd call the real world. Our job is to keep the two apart, protect humans from the Old Ones."
"Why?"
"The Old Ones don't have what you'd call a conscience. They keep slaves. They torture. They kill on malice or on whim. Each is an absolute despot in his heart. Fiona isn't helping you, she's using you for some plot she has going."
"And what you did to those fire doors last night proves you have a conscience?"
Damn. Well, you’re supposed to be good at thinking on your feet. "The traps I set on those doors were keyed to Fiona and Sean. The doors wouldn’t jam unless they tried to pass. And my spells didn’t start the fire."
He still wasn't reaching her. This involved something deeper, something more basic to her way of seeing. What he was saying didn't touch that problem.
She shook her head. "So everything’s the fault of the Old Ones? And yet all you Pendragons are Old Ones. I had a logic course in college. Seems to me that your argument is biting itself on the ass. Tell me why I should believe you instead of your sister. Fiona said you were dangerous--the kind of man who stabbed strangers in the back."
"Liam was no stranger. He killed a friend of mine--tortured him to death for no other reasons than boredom and the fact that he had the chance. In the years since, I've found five other corpses on his trail. Four of them were women. He followed you into that alley. Would you rather that I'd let him take you?"
He glanced at the crucifix she wore, such a different message than a plain cross. "Why are you a Catholic? I was raised to do this. I don't know why Liam wanted you, but it wasn't for your own good. Not something you'd choose if you had a choice." Brian allowed himself a wry smile.
"Beyond revenge, I killed him because he would have killed me. He would have killed me because he knew I would kill him. It's like cats chasing their own tails. Makes about as much
