Two hours before the scheduled start of the play, Matt’s doorbell rang. He checked his waistcoat and his collar. The waistcoat was fine. The collar he couldn’t see. For the thousandth time he regretted not having a mirror. For the thousandth time he told himself he would buy one. For the thousandth time he forgot his resolution the moment he made it. His final checks complete, he picked up his great coat and walked down the stairs to the front door.
He opened the door. Michaela stood there, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Matt couldn’t quite tell why. She had her fedora and trench coat on. Her glasses dangled from her trench coat pocket and cinnamon eyes too perfect to be real looked up at him shyly. She motioned him down, and when he bent, she darted in for a kiss.
“Can we go back upstairs a moment?”
Matt smiled down at her, his look half a leer. “Are you sure we have time?”
She smiled back at him, her own expression just as suggestive as his. “That’s not why. I like the way you think though. Can we?”
He sighed. He got the impression she had even more repressed affection than he did, and her emotions ruled her more in any case. He’d been serious about the time; it took him nearly an hour to get ready, and it took an hour to walk to the museum, so if they did anything that disrupted his outfit, they would wind up being late.
“Go upstairs? Certainly. Do anything that requires privacy? Sadly, no. After the play?”
“If you think you’re leaving me hanging after this play, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Okay.”
She slipped past him and walked up the stairs, skipping up them two at a time. When she reached the top, she tried the handle, frowned when she realized it was locked, and moved through the door. He followed at his own pace, unlocked the door, stepped through, and stopped in shocked awe.
Matt had seen her in her trench coat. He had seen her in a businesswoman’s attire of severe skirt, blouse, and sport coat. He’d seen her naked, albeit from too close a range to really appreciate. He’d never seen her dressed to impress.
She stood in the center of his room, eyes darting shyly from the floor to him and back. Her trench coat and fedora had disappeared. Her hair cascaded free, curling down to frame her face, cloak her shoulders, and spill over her breast and back. Her dress gleamed and glittered, the fabric underneath the sequins a brilliant jewel-toned red. It made her look like someone had coated her in rubies from shoulders to mid-thigh. The colors shifted as she lifted herself to one toe and spun in a slow circle, lifting her arms as she did. Black elbow length gloves with a velvety sheen encased her hands. Her dress left her legs bare from thigh to knee, where her supple black leather boots started. The long heels on the boots forced her legs and back to arch, and the extra inches under her toes let her look him nearly in the chest. He knew that the arch must be a pain to maintain but couldn’t bring himself to care.
She looked gloriously, breathtakingly beautiful. When she’d finished the slow spin, she looked up at him. He recognized the yearning and insecurity in her gaze. He realized that she’d worn it all to please him, and that nearly broke his resolve to see them out to the play. He looked down at her and smiled. He wanted her right here, right now, but more than that he wanted everyone in the world to see how gorgeous, how marvelous she was.
“You look incredible. I didn’t know you had an evening dress.”
“I didn’t. I’ve been putting my salary into the bank for years. Half of it anyway. The rest goes to charity. I’d put it all to charity, but I need enough to pay for a new identity now and then.” She closed her mouth with a snap.
“I wish it were warmer, so you could walk to the museum like this.”
She grinned up at him. “Really?”
“Really. You look incredible.”
“Let’s go then.” She held up her hand for him to take.
“Where’s your coat?”
She laughed, the sound a pure, clear note that made motes of light dance in his eyes. “Frank, are you frustrated that we can’t… you know… consummate things?”
Her question confused him, but he owed it to her to answer honestly. “Yeah, a little, but we figured something out, right?”
“Yeah. Well. You’ve paid the piper. Now it’s time to dance.”
“Huh?”
She moved, and he found his arms full of woman, a kissing, squirming, affectionate woman. When his resolve ran out and his hands started to wander, she moved again, and once again stood in front of him, every detail picture perfect, as if they hadn’t just been necking.
“Not human, remember? I get cold, just like everyone else. I just don’t care. Frostbite is for other people.”
He laughed, extended his arm for her to take. “Well then, my lady, let us be off to the theater!”
***
They entered the museum with only minutes to spare. They’d been lazy about their walk, stopping to see the sights, stopping even more often just to look at one another. She didn’t care. For one night, she refused to fall prey to despair, to fear, to the worry that Belle was looking over her shoulder. She had a man she adored who adored her right back.
She looked up at him, pulling him to a stop outside the doors. “There are going to be children in here.”
He looked down at her, smiling. He had no idea why she was mentioning it, she could tell, but he also didn’t care. She smiled back at him. “We can’t do this in there.”
She leapt up into his arms and kissed him again, thoroughly, then dropped back onto the step. It gratified her to see his eyes, blue and green, glowing with happiness and clouded just a touch with desire. He held out his arm and they entered the museum.
***
The central hall of the museum had been cleared and set up with a small stage and chairs. At the back of the room a series of long tables held trays of food and big pitchers of drinks. Matt wandered past the tables, Michaela on his arm. The food looked cheap but arranged and presented beautifully. The snacks lay on silver warming trays, the punch in cut crystal bowls, with fabulous gold-chased crystal goblets. A discreet plaque on each table noted they were provided by Sammie’s catering service. Michaela didn’t notice or didn’t care.
The horde crowding the hall had already savaged the food on the tables. The adults had eaten standing near the tables. The students in the crowd, however, had returned to their seats and ate as they waited for the show. They filled most of the auditorium and made all the noise that could be expected from a crowd of kids big enough to fill the great hall. Matt led Michaela to seats near the front, enjoying the stunned silence that followed her progress. He heard no catcalls or wolf whistles. The crowd was too young, her beauty too stunning for that. He looked down and saw her looking faintly embarrassed but refusing to duck her head or look away.
They reached their seats as the lights went down. The noise followed close behind the lights, leaving them in quiet dark. Matt smelled a wash of old earth and peat roll over him. When the lights came up, he was looking at a block party in south Philly. The three guards who had been dragooned into acting as extras were somehow a crowd. Phil, leaning against a rickety card table, was somehow a teen-aged Latino girl, new to her sexuality and the power it contained. Micah was a young black Irish tough, reveling in the strength of his youth. Matt lost himself in the play.
He almost missed it when a security guard came quietly up to Michaela.
“Detective Miles?”
“Yes?”
“You’re needed down at the station. The captain said it was urgent.”
Matt heard the curses Michaela didn’t hurl at the messenger. She stood, kissed him on the cheek, and scurried away. He missed her already. He was so caught up in missing her that he almost missed it when a wash of sanguine power flooded the room.
He glanced about, trying not to panic anyone. That much power, borne of blood and hunger, couldn’t be a good sign. He tried to see what had changed. Nothing, as far as he could tell. The lights were still dim. The crowd was still enthralled. The actors were still acting far beyond their normal skills, bolstered by just a touch of divinely inspired madness.
Something about that caught Matt’s attention. He sniffed the air. The lingering traces of blood nearly made him miss it, but something about Phil’s magic had changed. Something subtle. He closed his eyes and lost himself to the smell of it, trying to figure out what had gone wrong.
It took him until the final act to figure out what had changed, and when he did at first, he couldn’t figure out why. Somehow that burst of blood magic had released all of Aunt Phil’s Fae power. That didn’t make sense. Her magic was based in life, blood magic based in death. Father’s books said the two should cancel one another out, even if they tried to make the same thing happen. Matt watched Phil carefully as she stumbled into the last scene, a look of confused anguish on her face. Silver glinted across her body, marking the piercings at the edges of her tattoos.
Matt realized what was wrong. Moving carefully to avoid attention, he pulled his wallet from his pocket. He kept some old coins as keepsakes, including a steel dime from long before he’d been born. He placed the dime between his teeth and twisted. It bent. He touched it with his tongue, blessing the long months spent memorizing the tastes of metals for his father.
Matt identified the taste and all at once knew what had happened. All the steel in the room had been transmuted to silver. Phil’s silvered steel studs normally restrained her powers as the daughter of The Morrigan. Now they were nothing but silver. Someone had freed the magic of Ophilia, the Muse of Insanity, in a hall full of children.
***
Michaela stormed into the captain's office, ready to demolish whatever lowlife had forced her back to work in the middle of her date. If Belle was making trouble again, she was going to take her apart piece by piece. She looked at the captain, murder clear in her eye, and waited for him to speak. For his part, he stared at her, stared at the still shaking door, and settled down to wait. After waiting for a long, steady ten count her patience ended.
“Well?”
The captain was unfazed. “Well, what?”
“Well, what was so important that you interrupted my first night out in... in way too long?”
“Nothing.”
“What!” she sprang forward, slamming her fists down on his desk. Into his desk, to be precise.
He looked down at them, looked back up at her, and spoke with slow, careful precision.
“I didn't call you in tonight. Neither did anyone else. I threatened them with dire consequences if they did.”
Michaela’s blood turned to ice. If no one had called her, that meant someone wanted her out of the way.
“Belle.”
“What was that, Detective?”
“The woman who fell apart in holding cell two. She... had friends. They hold grudges. They're going to hit the Leo de Milan Museum. Frank is there with his parents and... Oh, God preserve, a group of kids. Send backup!”
Before she finished her last word, she sprinted out the door. Michaela hit the steps and moved down the empty stairs, taking them two flights at a time. When she hit the street outside, she couldn't do that without being seen, but the museum was only a few dozen blocks away. She leapt into a sprint. When Michaela’s boots threatened to trip her, she moved, and they were gone. She sprinted on in her bare feet, flashing past slow-moving cars and pedestrians with equal grace. Somewhere in the far distance a police siren wailed. They would be useless against Belle, but they might be able to clean up the mess.
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Michaela got within sight of the doors. Two goons, associates of Sal Six Fingers, stood just outside the closed armored doors. She didn't slow down. The goons were hired muscle, used to beating up store clerks. Michaela was the Captain of the Host incarnate, roused to battle. She leapt, stiff-arming one and laying her shin across the other's neck. They dropped. Before they hit the ground she moved through the door.
***
Matt realized what was happening but saw no way to safely stop it. As long as the Muse remained satisfied, she wouldn't harm the audience on purpose. She had so much power available to her, especially with the audience enraptured and feeding her, that she might destroy them accidentally. He slipped out of his seat and crept to the side of the stage. Stuffed beneath a stool that had been disguised as a stump, he found a copy of the script. As he’d suspected, highlighter marked the guards’ lines.
He scanned through the last few pages. He’d remembered right. A fake suicide followed by a real one followed by another real one. The Muse wouldn’t be satisfied by play acting on that. Fortunately, Micah was easily proof against small arms fire, even from the heavy pistol the script called for. As he watched the stool grow roots and moss, he realized how important that was. The blanks in the gun wouldn’t be.
He just had to worry about Aunt Phil and whoever had transmuted her studs. On stage, Aunt Phil wandered through an unnamed graveyard, eventually stepping into a walk-in crypt. She recited her lines, tossed back the contents of a small vial, and fell back, senseless, onto the crypt’s marble slab.
Matt caught sight of a movement in the center aisle of the audience. A willowy blonde woman in a conservative ladies’ suit strode down toward the stage. She carried a bulky package in one hand. It looked like a half dozen undersized grey bricks lashed together. When she was halfway down the aisle Micah came into the graveyard...
On stage. Remember, on stage!
Matt knew if he let himself believe the play was real, he would be drawn into it, controlled by Aunt Phil’s magic. Grimly, he forced himself to see things as they were, not as the magic wanted them to appear.
Micah came on stage and saw Ophilia's still form laying on the slab. Table! He rushed to her, and his lines spilled from him in a storm of illusion-driven anguish. At the end of his soliloquy, he lifted the gun to his temple. Before he could pull the trigger, the blonde woman in the aisle called out.
“Micah!”
Matt knew that voice. The sound tickled his ears, a smell tickled his nose. Micah's head came up. For a moment his eyes cleared, and a single word growled from his mouth.
“Gelt.” Matt froze; Teresa Gelt had been a bogeyman for him, a villain from his godparents’ courtship. Micah and Phil used to threaten to send him back to her when he was naughty. If she was here, she intended no good.
“I suppose it is. I have a present for you.” She tossed her bulky package underhand. Micah caught it one handed, and Matt finally got a good look at it. His guts clenched as he realized there was enough explosive in those bricks to destroy most of a city block. Everyone in the room would die. Even Teresa Gelt couldn’t get away. Then again, maybe she didn’t intend to.
There was a timer on the explosive, but it wasn't running. Micah looked up at Gelt, a sneer on his face. “You think I’m going to do your dirty work for you?”
“Of course you will. After all, the show must go on.”
Micah's sneer dissolved into a look of pure horrified disbelief. A moment later, awareness left his eyes, and Romeo dropped to his knees, weeping for the loss of his beloved Juliet.
Teresa Gelt laughed, and the sound killed all joy in the room. Matt realized just then what he had to deal with. His hand dug in his pocket for the rosary beads he still hadn’t returned. He straightened and stepped into the center aisle between Belle and the stage.
“Belle Isle. I will not let you do this.”
Her laughter this time was the death of hope. “Of course you won't. You’ll try to stop me, and your precious godparents will still die, and then I will kill you while that little bitch Michaela looks on. You have lost.”
“If you had won, you wouldn’t be trying to make me give up.”
“I’m not trying to make you give up, boy. I’m gloating and watching you despair. Know the difference.”
From behind him, Matt heard three electronic beeps. He spun away from Belle and ran to the stage. Before Micah could press the button to start the timer, Matt had him by the wrists, holding him away from it.
It was hard. Micah was strong, terribly strong. The power of the Words in Micah’s head, the magic that animated him and would force him to destroy himself, gave him strength. Matt gritted his teeth and held on for dear life, his own and his godparents’. Pain spiked through his head, and he knew he couldn’t keep this up forever, but Matt refused to let Micah’s Words destroy him.
Belle’s voice slithered through the room. “Let him go, mortal.”
“Never!”
“Let him go, or I’ll kill all of these.”
Matt turned his head so fast it hurt. Belle stood there, gripping one of the audience members by the arm. The girl stood slack, entranced by Phil’s magic, staring at the stage. Belle met his gaze, and the girl’s shirt evaporated into dust.
“Let him go, or I destroy every soul in this room.”
***
Michaela ran across the thick carpeting of the museum, bare feet noiseless on the carpeted floor. She reached the entry to the great Hall just as Belle made her announcement. She looked around the room. Matt hadn’t seen her yet; the lights too dim and the angle bad. Belle hadn’t seen or heard her either. In seconds, Matt would release Micah or Belle would begin killing. She had no idea why Belle wanted Micah released, but the reason couldn’t be good.
There was just one problem. If she killed Belle’s body, she would just possess one of the mesmerized audience members. If she didn’t kill Belle on the first stroke, the demon would start killing the audience in her rage. Michaela stood frozen with indecision for a moment, and in that moment voices from memory washed over her.
First, she remembered the old priest as he quoted her badge, “Serve and Protect.”
Then the voice of the Presence echoed through her, etching itself into her soul. Show me who you are.
Her eyes narrowed. Her spine itched, but there was no time for that. She reached into that deep well of power the Presence had gifted her with. All in one motion, she summoned her spear, threw it, and moved.
She arrived with one hand clutching the arm of the girl Belle was holding. She moved again, dropping herself and the girl through the floor. The girl shrieked as the skin of her arm started to dissolve. Michaela reached over, focused her will, and drew Belle’s evil into herself. She felt it tearing at the Power in her, tearing at the marble that made her, weakening the magic that bound her to her Earthly body.
She had no time for that now. She moved again, leaping up into the audience. To her right, her spear stuck out from Belle’s gut. The demon still moved, her hand reaching for the spear’s haft where it protruded from her ribcage. Michaela grabbed the next closest audience member to Belle and moved again. She landed on the floor of the basement next to the first girl she rescued. The girl cried, obviously in shock. The new rescue, a boy no more than ten, blinked at the sudden light of an exposed bulb.
Belle’s evil tore at her still. Her back burned and ached. She moved again. Grabbed another mesmerized child. Moved again. And again… and again… and again. Each time faster than the previous, as she understood the room better, as she knew where to move to grab the next closest hostage. Each time Belle’s touch burned at her more. Each time she moved into the room, she landed facing Belle. She watched the demon in stop motion as it grabbed at Michaela’s spear, screamed its demonic pain to the uncaring sky, and shoved its power of uncreation into the haft of Michaela’s spear.
When the room was half clear, Belle’s scream became something else. The words were broken, stuttering with her moving, but Michaela knew the intent at once.
“Stop her!”
Shadowy figures moved from the adjoining rooms, men in cheap suits and cologne. Men who looked on the children in the room as just another set of marks. Michaela couldn’t do this on her own. She didn’t have to. She moved another child to the safety of the basement and called out through the growing haze of smoking caramel.
“Frank! Slow Belle down!”
She moved, and moved, and moved again, and then she faced a thug with a drawn knife. One hand went into his gut, another slapped his temple, hard, and she moved his unconscious body downstairs as well. He deserved prison. He might deserve death. No one deserved what Belle would do to any humans left in the room.
Michaela’s shoulder blades itched like they wanted to tear through her skin. Her spine burned like it was about to liquefy and leak out through her pores. Belle’s evil tore at her. If she had a moment to stop, a moment to focus, she might be able to stop it. That would leave her without the power to save the others from Belle.
She moved back into the fray. Over and over, stealing hypnotized children from a room of death and madness, delivering them to a basement full of their waiting, wailing peers. Every few trips she knocked a mobster unconscious and moved him downstairs as well. The Hall smelled of Ophilia’s primeval forests and Belle’s Hell-born sulfur. The basement smelled of frightened children and unconscious mobsters. Both rooms stank of burning sugar.
Michaela felt it when her spear finally disintegrated. Frame by frame, she saw Matt lunge into action against Belle, his walking stick a blur of motion. His expression was furious, and incongruous tears leaked from his eyes. Only a few of the guests remained, all adults. One at a time, Michaela pushed herself to move them to safety.
She moved back to the room, and it was empty save Matt, Belle, and the motionless pair on the stage. Michaela fell to her knees, unable to keep herself upright, her back a mass of flames where Belle’s evil tore at her. She raised her head to see Belle finally manage to grab the length of Frank’s walking stick. He leapt away from her as the stick fell to powder, the lead medallions in one end falling to the ground unharmed. She saw Matt scan the room, heard him shout to her.
“Michaela! The bomb!”
She followed his line of vision to where Micah knelt over Ophilia’s unmoving form. In his arms he clutched an oblong gray package. Red lights blinked at one end. Matt wouldn’t make it in time. Michaela tried to move and couldn’t. All the power left to her was fighting Belle’s touch, fighting to keep her in her form.
Show me who you are.
She felt herself begin to fail, and for the first time in six thousand remembered years knew fear for herself. Every time Michael fought, he knew without a doubt that if he fell, he would be welcomed into his Creator’s arms, recreated at His need, and sent back in to fight once more. Michaela was certain of nothing. If she spent herself, she wouldn’t be recreated. She would just… end.
Show me who you are.
She couldn’t cry, but she knew now why Children did.
***
Matt watched Michaela try to push to her feet, only to collapse again. With preternatural clarity he saw the timer counting down. Time seemed to freeze. Michaela looked up from across the room, looked at him with longing so palpable he could almost feel her touch from where he stood. Her mouth moved, and the words “I’m sorry,” drifted to his ears. He hesitated for a split second, and a railroad spike of pain from temple to temple interrupted his calculations of time and speed and how best to defuse a bomb. In that second, the timer clicked to zero.
Michaela teleported from where she knelt to where Micah cradled the bomb. She disappeared again, and someone replaced the railroad spike between Matt’s temples with a railroad tie. A marble statue, devoid of life, appeared kneeling in front of Matt. He reached for it, but before he could touch it, its own weight pulled it apart, a rapidly dispersing cloud all that remained.
Braying, triumphant laughter leached the color from the room. Belle’s voice, vicious laughter in every word, rang through the hall.
“What an idiot. First wastes her spear by missing my heart, then she wastes her power saving those squalling brats and my minions, then she wastes herself saving a windup doll and a child of darkness. So precious!”
Something snapped inside of Matt. The spike of pain through his head disappeared, and he heard once again the Words that had defined his life for longer than he could remember.
Truth and Justice. An endless quest for Truth and Justice. Truth and Justice.
He could barely feel his hands moving as they wrapped half of the rosary beads around each of his fists. He didn’t stop to think about what he was doing, or what it might cost. He knew what he had to do. Matt turned, his gaze seeking out Belle’s. When he had her attention, his voice boomed out through the room, overwhelming her cackling laughter.
“Belle Isle. You will surrender yourself for punishment now, or I will subdue you.”
She looked at him as if he’d gone mad and begun gibbering. “Stupid human. I am so thrilled with Michaela’s destruction; I will allow you your choice of death.”
Matt didn’t speak again. Belle’s had made her position clear. Without any preparation, he sprang at her, one massive fist slamming into her forehead. She went down in a heap, sliding backwards a few feet before she came to a rest. Matt could feel his hand tingle where her aura of unmaking touched him, but the Words in his head screamed and it went away.
“How dare you touch…”
He didn’t let her finish. His fist came around in an uppercut, catching her as she tried to stand. She flew backward, airborne until she hit the far wall. She impacted above the doors, bouncing off the lintel and landing crumpled in a heap once more. For a moment, Matt felt pity for the woman Belle had possessed. If anything remained of her in there, she must be feeling everything he did to Belle. If she was a willing vessel, she deserved it, but if she wasn’t… Matt stopped himself. He was actually feeling sorry for Teresa, who had been a bogeyman to him since he was six years old.
Belle was up again. The Words in his head forced him to motion. His feet hit the floor in a slow, steady rhythm, keeping time to the Words. Truth and Justice. Truth and Justice.
“Stupid mortal! I have my own powers and the powers of the form I inhabit. Do you know why they call her Gelt?”
The pain of the Words in Matt’s head made him monosyllabic, “Don’t know. Don’t care. Surrender. Now.”
Belle raised her arms, and the gold-chased crystal ware from the refreshment tables lofted into the air. Disparaging laughter filled her voice. “Gold likes her.”
A hundred crystal glasses flew at him, shattering into fragments as they came. Matt felt the pain of a thousand cuts, but they didn’t slow him in the slightest. Belle’s eyes widened as she realized his advance continued implacably despite her barrage. Then he was on her. He grabbed her arms, each of his hands wrapped with rosaries. She lunged at him, but he forced her down, pushing her to her knees. She dissolved the floor beneath her, leaving her dangling, but he didn’t release her.
She stared balefully up at him. Her voice ripped the color from the air, leaving it devoid of anything but her loathing of reality itself. “So, you’ve captured me. Release me, or I’ll dissolve this body like the other. Perhaps I’ll take the Muse next? To wield my own power and that of The Morrigan’s heir would be intoxicating. What do you think?”
“You will surrender. Now.”
She snorted her derision. “So boring. So be it. When next we meet, I will wear Ophilia’s face.”
Matt’s hands burned, and the Words in his head became an endless, screaming roar. Truth and Justice. Truth and Justice. Belle’s eyes widened, but her face and form remained static. “So. You’ve some power. Let’s see how much you have.”
The Words echoed through his mind, scouring him clean of anything else. Truth and Justice. Truth and Justice. He clung to one more thing, clinging to it, forcing it through the maelstrom of destructive and confining power that roared through his mind. One thing, one person that had etched herself into him in two short days.