Faery tales, even true ones, must by convention begin this way:

Once upon a time, in the city of Austin, there lived a young man who was neither.

As Congress Avenue unfurls from the foot of the Capitol building, it undulates gently all the way to Highway 71, and its broad expanse was, and still is, lined with trendy shops selling everything from inexplicable sculpture to overpriced fashion to organic produce.

Tucked in among the boutiques and restaurants was a small shop that catered to a very specific, very discerning clientele: Witches.

Wandering into this shop one might find an herbal tea to cure depression, blended on the Full Moon as it shone through Sagittarius; or perhaps a statue of a long-forgotten deity, waiting to be dusted off and placed upon the altar of one who had stumbled upon the ancient beliefs of her foremothers, whether real or imagined.

And at this particular store, at this particular time, one might also find a creature out of myth, behind the counter, sipping the first of two chai lattes he would have that morning.

To all outward appearances he was a male human, 25 years old at the absolute most, with nut-brown hair and fair skin, and features that were utterly unremarkable. In fact, the average person might meet him and then forget him entirely, asking companions, "Who was that guy behind the counter at Revelry?"

This, of course, was no coincidence.

If, however, one were to look deeply into his eyes--assuming he would allow it, which of course he would not--one would see the truth beneath the veneer of a muddy hazel iris: there was light in his eyes, and not light reflected off the glass countertop or emanating from the fluorescent fixtures overhead. This light was a subtle shimmer which, if one were pressed for a description, would have to be compared to the gleam of sunlight upon a still lake.

This light belied his ordinary appearance, for those few who could see it would know in their blood that they were gazing into eyes that were very old, and very tired, and very much not human.

His name was Aidan, and he was an Elf.

Meanwhile, north along Congress and only a few blocks from the Capitol itself, a young man--who was in fact both--slept fitfully through the morning in a hotel room high above downtown Austin, pain coursing through his left hand while his right groped on the night stand for a slip of worn paper on which was written an address on Live Oak Street, several miles to the west.

In contrast to the shopkeeper's forgettable visage, this young man was strikingly handsome, with raven-black hair and eyes the grey-blue of a lake that, perhaps, sunlight had once shone upon, though just now they were slightly glazed with the affects of sleep, alcohol, and habitual sorrow. He was tall and lean, and taken to wearing a surfeit of black, which gave him the air of one who might be a creature of myth, though as far as he knew, he was relatively normal save for a few important, and unfortunate, traits.

His name was David, and he was a Witch's son.

It might not the most exciting beginning for a Faery tale, but there it is.

Part One

David woke in an unfamiliar bed, his mind full of the fluttering remnants of unfamiliar dreams, to the sound of the shrill hotel alarm clock informing him rudely that it was eight in the morning. He rolled over, whacking the snooze button and seizing the pillow with his good hand, covering his face against the cheerful daylight that immediately sent his head to pounding.

He felt like the floor of a public toilet in hell. Thankfully, when he finally dared to look out from beneath the pillow, he saw he was alone. Better nights than the last one had ended much worse.

"Jesus Christ, kill me," he murmured. He had, apparently, consumed every beer in Austin in the space of four hours. It was a miracle he'd made it back to the hotel.

His eyes shifted in and out of focus a moment, then zeroed in on the sketchpad and haphazard pile of pencils on the empty side of the bed.

The topmost page was used. David frowned.

Last he remembered, all of his art supplies were buried at the bottom of his suitcase, the albatross he couldn't leave behind…he hadn't picked up a pencil in months.

Curiosity shoved aside nausea, and he tossed away the pillow and blankets and hauled the sketchpad across the bed to look at it.

It wasn't a drawing, exactly, just a series of swirls and spirals, an interlocking pattern that brought to mind Celtic knotwork or a tangled vine. He'd used several shades of brown, and the background was a pale sort of ivory, like the fairest of skin. Though it was only a glorified doodle, the style was graceful and even, and had to have been done with his left hand. Every attempt he'd made with his right had ended in clumsy, frustrated failure.

As if on cue, his left hand began to ache dully. He looked at it in contempt, but also in wonder. Since when did he draw in his sleep? Or drunk?

David shook his head and slammed the sketchbook's cover over the pattern, suddenly unable to look at it anymore. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. However long he'd wasted drawing it, he'd pay for it all day. He groped over the side of the bed for his carryon bag, digging an orange plastic prescription bottle out of the side pocket, and sat up with a groan at the spinning in his head. He was lucky; he was one of the few people he knew that had genuinely mild hangovers. He'd be back to his usual cheerful self in a couple of hours--or, after a couple of hours and a Vicodin. He reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and took one of the innocuous-looking pills, hoping it would be enough.

His eyes fell on a scrap of paper on the table, and he touched it, fingers running over creases that had been folded and unfolded for weeks as he fought with himself. It had become a talisman against everything he had run from in Chicago, a thin thread to hold onto but a thread all the same.

David climbed out of the twist of pristine white sheets and went to the window, wincing at the brightness of the morning. The sprawl of downtown Austin spread out in all directions, and he followed the main street with his gaze, fairly certain it was Congress Avenue. One direction would lead up to the State Capitol, the other to a long strip of shops frequented by tourists and yuppies. Out beyond Congress, to the west, was 112 Live Oak, last known address of Maya Jordan, now Maya Callahan, ex-wife of the reverend Paul Jordan of East Midfield, Illinois, the man voted Most Likely to Put the Fear of God in God Himself.

He had no idea what he was going to say.

For the hundredth time he debated giving up on the whole thing, but the truth was he had nowhere else to go, and at least if he did what he had come to do it would stave off having to think about the future for another few days. He rubbed his left hand absently, imagining how the scene would play, wondering if a woman who had run away from her family in the middle of the night to join up with some hippie commune would even care about a broken, useless ghost that would call himself her son.

The congregation of his father's church had a dozen theories about Maya, but most seemed to agree she had been caught by her loving husband worshiping the Devil and had run off, leaving him to raise their only child alone with the aid of the First Baptist Kitchen Committee. David had only been three at the time, and remembered nothing of it except the sounds of his parents yelling…glass breaking…the heavy sound of a body hitting the wall and then the floor…and he remembered the beating he received for asking where she had gone and when she was coming back.

David sighed. What to open with? Hi, I'm your son--the one you abandoned to go eat babies and practice witchcraft. Why the fuck didn't you take me with you?

Maybe not.

The pain in his hand was growing steadily worse, but he didn't dare take another pill; they made him groggy, and he wanted to at least seem like he had it together when he met her. He didn't know what would be worse: coming to find her and screaming at her for all the years he had faced Paul Jordan's wrath alone, or coming to find her stoned off his ass.

He dressed slowly out of necessity, though after a year doing up buttons one-handed was second nature, and found his coat tossed over the back of a chair. He looked at himself in the mirror, suddenly nervous. Did he look like her? There were no pictures in his father's house. Certainly his hair and eyes were a contrast to Paul's All-American blonde good looks. Likewise his build was nothing like Paul's. The Reverend had the figure of a high school athlete gone wildly to seed; he was built like a linebacker, while David had spent most of his youth in martial arts once he realized he was going to be the kid that got beat up in school. A black belt was a surprisingly good deterrent to bullies.

He pocketed the hotel room's card key and took the elevator down, ignoring the friendly smiles and nods of passerby. What the hell was wrong with people in Texas? They all acted like they actually gave a damn that he had a nice day. It was unnerving after life among artists and other snobs in Chicago, who looked down their noses at everyone, especially each other. The open sincerity of the people he'd met here made him want to hide under the furniture.

Once he reached the street, he knew he needed to get a cab, but found he simply couldn't. With the brightness of a late September morning all around him and the rush of people off to the rat race, his resolve failed, and he very nearly went back into the hotel or at least took another of the pills in his coat.

He wasn't ready; fine. He was alone in a strange city with nowhere to go; fine. Perhaps he couldn't go meet Maya Callahan today--he could at least take a walk. It was daytime, after all. He was safe enough in the day. It was only at night, wandering the streets alone, that…things happened…

David closed his eyes against the thought, holding his left arm in to his chest while his heart hammered. He forced himself to start moving, picking a direction at random, ignoring a red light and the ensuing blare of car horns in his wake.

When he was calm enough to look around, he saw he'd made it to the Congress Avenue bridge, where come sunset thousands of bats were supposed to take flight and swoop out over the city in a cloud of dark wings. The bridge spanned the water far below, as well as the tiny shapes of boats, people out rowing in polluted city waters, and a riverboat of some sort offering tours. Above, the sky was a crystalline blue, and he found himself drinking in the color, imagining how he might capture it on canvas…pthalo, maybe, and white…or a touch of cobalt with the tiniest hint of green, just at the apex of the sky.

Normally those kind of thoughts hurt, reminding him of what he could no longer do, but today he held the old daydream close, extending it, naming colors for the distant haze of trees and the silver spires of high-rises downtown, the pink-tan of the Capitol's granite dome over his shoulder. Congress wove up and down away from the Capitol, out toward the south, and he followed it mindlessly, painting the morning in his mind.

He'd barely spent any time outside in the last six months, so the novelty of walking gradually calmed him enough that he noticed the way people reacted as he passed. Most of them were bundled up against what was a relatively warm morning for someone from the North, but he was probably still a little odd-looking on a bright Monday morning dressed in black from head to foot, including a long leather coat that had been a birthday present from his father, last year, when they were still speaking. Women gave him appreciative little smiles, some more forward than others, and a few of the men gave him the Elevator Look he was used to getting in clubs and bars in Chicago. It was oddly comforting, and made him feel a little more like himself--the self he'd been, Before.

He shoved both hands in his pockets and paused at an intersection, taking in his surroundings. Up the hill was a tiny coffee shop, and past it started the stores and boutiques he'd noticed from the hotel window. He had no interest in home furnishings, having no home, but coffee was another story entirely. He had been an artist, after all; the only people who drank more espresso were the writers.

David approached the shop, which was more of a permanent stand than a store and was surrounded by metal tables and chairs. Most were occupied with a fascinating variety of people, an even more eclectic mix than he'd seen at the Institute. Men in three-piece suits, a couple with dreadlocks, a woman in dirty overalls and a baby in a sling on her shoulder, a guy on a unicycle, a homeless man in a pink tutu deep in conversation with a rabbi…

"Welcome to Austin," said the girl behind the counter with a grin. "You must be new in town."

He turned to her. "Is it that obvious?"

"You've got that look like you wandered into an episode of The Twilight Zone. Trust me, the weirdness will wear off in a few days."

He couldn't help but smile, noticing that she looked fairly normal except for the rings in her nose and eyebrow, the barbell in her tongue, and her t-shirt which read, "I haven't been the same since that house fell on my sister."

"What can I get you?"

David glanced at the menu. "A mocha."

"Whole milk, skim, or soy?"

"Whole, please."

She accepted his money and set about fiddling with the espresso machine, and he settled on a stool, looking with half interest at an old issue of the Austin Chronicle. The girl handed him his drink, and he sought the sugar dispenser, not caring about nutrition or caffeine or any of the thousand evil things in what he was drinking that Michael would have had vapors over. Beating the hell out of things three times a week had kept David in excellent shape, and it was the one thing from his old life he hadn't completely given up after losing his hand, so their friends had watched him in agonized envy as he ate dessert and pizza without moaning over calories or reps at the gym. Repressed anger might be poison for the heart, but it was remarkably good for the metabolism.

The press of people at the stand was a little more than he was comfortable with, so once he'd stirred and tasted he slid off the barstool and started to leave.

It was then that his gaze lit on the table farthest from the stand, and on its single occupant, a young man sipping what smelled like tea and reading something with aged leather binding titled Glamour: A History of Magical Illusion.

He might not have taken much notice of this particular person; he was okay-looking, but nothing special, and was dressed simply in jeans and a forest green shirt with no coat, as if the cold didn't touch him. Nothing about him called David's attention…except…

The young man looked up, and David found himself falling into the greenest eyes he'd ever seen…a strange dark shade like summer leaves, so intense they seemed to burn with a strange light from their depths…and David felt, somewhere inside in a place that had been asleep longer than he'd been alive, a spark of what he could only call recognition.

A number of tiny details registered: dark brown hair, falling into a triangular face; slender, graceful body like a dancer's, legs propped up on an empty chair; a silver pendant, a five-pointed star in a circle. He smiled, and David felt time lurch to a halt. Something in that smile made the whole world, the past, the emptiness of the present, fall away, and it was as if David had walked out into the sunlight after a lifetime in darkness, feeling the first kiss of warmth on his skin.

It wasn't attraction--it was utter fascination. He couldn't look away until the stranger did, lowering his darkened emerald eyes back to the page he was reading as if nothing extraordinary had happened. The only indication that the stranger had even noticed him was a flicker to his eyes, almost like fear, that was immediately put aside in favor of the far more interesting book.

David sought the nearest chair, uncaring how ridiculous he must look, and sank into it heavily. He wanted more than anything to go over and introduce himself, to say…or ask…something. He didn't know what. He took a few deep breaths, and amazingly, he felt calmer and steadier than he had in days. He decided that, to hell with it, he would say something--he'd been shot down before, after all. In truth he wasn't really interested in this one that way; he couldn't say what he wanted, but he knew it was more than flirtation.

But when he looked up, the table was empty.

*****

Aidan's hands were shaking as he unlocked the front door of the store and let himself in. He didn't stop shaking, in fact, until he had relocked the door and escaped to the back office, where he all but collapsed into a chair and put his head in his hands, letting the Veil fall for just a minute before he lost control of it completely.

That boy had seen--

He realized he still had his cup from the coffee stand, and took a slow sip of still-hot liquid, letting the familiar spicy milk taste soothe him. He'd had the same thing every morning for years, and the comfort of habit did a lot to restore his calm, but the facts were still the same however calm he was.

It was getting worse. His strength was eroding; at this rate he had another three months, perhaps, before he had to barricade himself in the house and pray none of the neighbors ever caught a glimpse of him. Not a year ago he had been able to walk around town unafraid, but since Maya…without her, he had to depend entirely on his own magic, and it simply wasn't strong enough to maintain the illusion all day, every day, and still let him use his powers for anything else.

If that mortal had seen him, how long until the Hounds caught his scent? Thousands of years of ancestral fear gripped him. The human hadn't seen all of him, that much Aidan knew, but he'd seen something, and that was too much.

Worse yet, his own senses had reached out toward the human, sensing the worlds of hurt and sorrow that Aidan's very being cried out to ease--his kind were meant to heal, and seeing someone so obviously in need of his skill was more than he could take. He'd almost dropped the Veil right then and there to offer the full complement of his power to a random mortal on the street…

…and now, here it was nine, time to open the store, and he was on the verge of a breakdown. Of all the days for Jess to take the afternoon shift!

Aidan breathed slowly and deeply, pushing his whirled thoughts into order, refusing to fall apart. He was part of an ancient and powerful heritage, and he would not shame his lineage by cowering like a human.

Carefully, one layer at a time, he drew the Veil back over him, feeling the false image of himself settle over the truth. Ears rounded, skin a uniform Caucasian beige, hair all the same color, eyes a muddy hazel that wouldn't earn a second glance. Nondescript. Nonthreatening. And, above all, human.

He rose, straightening, squaring off his shoulders. His people had lived under the Veil for centuries; Guardian or no Guardian, he could handle it. He had to, for Jess's sake as well as his own. If the Hunt came for him they would most likely kill her too. He would not let Maya's fate become hers as well. He pushed more energy into the Veil, shoving the memory of the strange human at the coffee stand back where he could forget about it, and went back into the store to flip the sign to "Open."

There were almost never any customers this early--those who bought metaphysical books and occult supplies weren't generally morning people. He busied himself with the morning ritual, following the same routine he had since he'd started working at Maya's side, years ago. He reshelved the book he was reading, on the off chance someone might want to buy it, then went into the back room to switch on the CD player Jess had hooked up last summer. Soon something wild and Irish fought its way though the ancient wiring and out into the store, and the music had the desired effect; by the time he had booted up the computer and bar code scanner, he was approaching cheerful.

Still, the fear remained. It had been his constant companion for the last eight months, since the call had come…since his safe, quiet little world shattered in a rain of broken glass and bullets.

At the thought, he looked up at the far wall of the store, a deep and echoing grief in his heart. The wall was painted a flat blue to cover what the humans had done to it, and the last traces of the mural Maya had so lovingly painted were erased, as her life had been that night…

The bell jangled, and someone came in. Aidan, behind the counter, forced himself to smile. "Good morning. Can I help you?"

A woman, mid to upper thirties, dressed in a typical outfit for people he and Jess associated with--an Indian-print dress and about six pounds of silver jewelry, including a pentacle pendant very much like the one he wore himself, only larger. She had shockingly dyed red hair, a popular shade in the Pagan community, and pulled a slightly grubby little girl along behind her. The child looked bored.

"Blessed be," the woman said, her voice surprisingly shrill. "I've been all over town and everybody seems to be out of mugwort. Tell me you have some."

Aidan smiled again and inclined his head to the right, where shelf after shelf of neatly-labeled herbs and resins waited in alphabetical order for whatever ritual purpose the practitioner had in mind. "As a matter of fact, we do."

"Is it local? I only buy local and organic."

He raised an eyebrow at the tone of her voice, one he had heard many times. There were some humans that made everything, even nonconformity, a competition. "It is indeed. I grew it myself."

She apparently thought that was good enough, and let go of the little girl's hand to go and plunder the jars. He heard her murmuring with approval at their selection. Maya had known what she was doing. This woman must not have been long in Austin if she hadn't heard of Revelry, which had a far-reaching reputation as the best store of its kind in Central Texas. Even normal people shopped there when the natural remedies craze swept through town.

He peered over the counter at the child, who was sucking on her fingers, eyeing the jewelry selection in its glass case. Her eyes had a faint light to them, and he wondered if perhaps somewhere far in her family history she had a touch of Fae blood.

His suspicions were confirmed when she looked up at him and her big eyes widened with delight--blood called to blood, and she grinned broadly.

He bit his lip. Her mother was absorbed in the herbs, and a spark of defiance found him. He winked at the girl, and let his Veil slide ever so slightly, so she could see his ears.

She giggled joyfully, clapping her hands, earning a stern "Amber, be quiet" from her mother, who didn't turn around.

As he drew the Veil back up, he reached under the counter and pulled out a piece of butterscotch. He suspected her mother wouldn't approve--it wasn't remotely organic, but then, neither was her hair color. As he handed it to the child, he exerted a tendril of power, and the candy took on the appearance of a small, pale yellow stone. She giggled again and put it in her pocket, where it landed with a click against what he knew were other rocks, real ones, picked up from all over town. Hopefully her mother wouldn't notice her sucking on one later.

Finally, the woman made her way up to the counter, pausing to pick up a roll of charcoal tablets for burning incense and a vial of the ridiculously expensive but certified-pure sandalwood oil they had imported from the East. He couldn't help but feel a very human satisfaction at the amount of money she spent; shops like Revelry barely kept their heads above water at the best of times.

She left without saying anything, dragging the girl along, but the child looked back over her shoulder and smiled one last time, then waved. He waved back.

He was still smiling as he retrieved his chai and put it in the small microwave they had in the back room. It was nice to see someone of his blood, even as little as the girl had. It had been months since any others had come through town. Maya had been a sort of dealer in Elves--she helped match them up with Guardians when they had to run from their homes, and gained them safe passage all over the country using connections in all the major cities. She had been part of the Fae Underground, as it was jokingly called, but now that she was gone there was no reason for his kind to come here. Without Maya it was no longer safe…and neither was he.

He missed seeing others. He missed Maya. Again, his heart felt heavy as he went to straighten up the mess the woman had made rummaging around in the herbs. At least, when he had a Guardian, there was one other person in the world that knew him for what he was and had seen all of him, without glamour or pretense.

He sighed. Jess would be in by eleven, and it would not do for her to see him moping about while there was new inventory to stock and a half-inch layer of dust over most of the books. He got back to work, tightening the lids on the jars the woman had loosened, inhaling the woody scent of plants he had raised from seed and cutting, nurtured with his own hands as he, once, had been nurtured. Most of his garden was going dormant for the winter; he could, if he wished, keep it green year round with his magic, but such a thing would be a violation of natural order, and Elves only mucked about with the Earth Mother when absolutely necessary. This was, he reminded himself, Texas--even in the deepest winter some things would still be green.

*****

"Hello," he said, squaring off his shoulders. "My name is David Jordan. I'm here to see Maya Callahan."

He shook his head. "Is Ms. Callahan home? I…my name is…damn it."

It was no good. He leaned forward, resting his head on the steering wheel, mentally cursing his own cowardice. He'd made it to Live Oak Street this time; at this rate it would be a month before he got to the front door.

David sighed, lifted his head. It was a nice neighborhood. Old houses, with huge dark oaks in their front yards and ivy growing over the fences. Real sidewalks, real driveways. The house in question was at the end of the street, a corner lot that probably had an enormous backyard opening onto a swathe of undeveloped woods. Austin was like that; at once urban and natural, big trees and big buildings side by side. He'd heard it was the last bastion of sanity in Texas, and given its population of students and techno-wizards and hippies and executives, he could believe it.

"Not today," he muttered, starting the car. "Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow."

Six days, and he still couldn't face her. At least he was learning his way around town; he guided the rented Camry along the meandering streets, back to Congress, toward the hotel. It was late afternoon, but there might be time for a walk to the coffee shop, already a daily ritual. He told himself it was because they made excellent mochas.

Once on the street again, he pulled his coat tight around him and started to walk, trying to shore up what little determination he had left. He had come all this way. He had sunk most of his savings into leaving Illinois. Eventually he was going to run out of money--his hotel was no flophouse, and the sheer amount of alcohol he was pouring into his fear every night was going to bankrupt him if nothing else did. He was afraid to keep drinking; his father drank.

That last time, the Reverend had shown up drunk to the hospital, no doubt trying to drown the realization of what had happened to his only child, the horror of it all. Paul hadn't given a damn that David nearly died; he had given a damn that the whole congregation knew why. Only someone with half a bottle of whiskey in his bloodstream would throw a vase of flowers at someone confined to a hospital bed. The water had soaked through David's bandages so that the nurses didn't see the tears when they came to clean up the mess.

It was over after that. They hadn't spoken. There had been no more visits from Paul or from the Kitchen Committee; no casseroles, no concern. That was about all Baptists were good for anyway, David had decided. Guilt, false sentiment, and casseroles.

The day had waned into twilight by the time David slowed down enough to take in his surroundings. He had walked furiously, head down, without even looking at a traffic light, and his anger had taken him farther than he had walked before. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that he knew he hadn't turned, he wouldn't be sure where exactly he was; Congress was a series of hills, so his view of the Capitol was obscured unless he stood on tiptoe to see the top spire.

Shit. Now he was going to have to walk back, and it was almost dark.

A touch of cold fear worked its way along his spine.

He could call a cab. That's what he would do. All he needed was a pay phone.

That would take a little walking, at least. There weren't any around here. He had wandered past the trendy shops and cafes, almost to an elementary school. The only other thing nearby was a church, and he would rather be assaulted by every inbred mullet-bearer in Texas than set foot in a church.

Nothing for it but to start walking.

He was tired, though, and couldn't keep up the speed that had brought him here. The weight of the day was taking its toll, and he trudged slowly up the hill and over its crest, his legs protesting and his hand beginning to ache again. If the coffee shop was still open when he reached it, it would be a good place to stop, have a beverage and a pill, and call a cab. Good plan.

In the meantime, he kept his head down, and tried not to think about how dark it had suddenly become.

There was nothing to fear. The street was well lit, there were plenty of people about, he would be fine. There was nothing to fear.

Even as he tried, and failed, to convince himself of that, he became aware of something strange, a strange sound: drums.

David paused, looked up, his terror on hold for a moment. Drums?

There were plenty of live music venues in this neighborhood, but what he was hearing didn't sound like a band. It sounded like…well, he didn't know what it sounded like. But it wasn't a band.

As he kept walking it grew louder, until he realized it was coming from a storefront in a row of shops. The overhanging sign in front of the door said, "Revelry," painted silver and white on a blue background, with a moon and star as embellishment. David stopped in front of the store, but its windows were covered over with blue curtains, obscuring all but a sliver of wavering light that he thought might be from candles.

The rest of the shops on the row were closed, but the parking spaces were all filled. It looked like Revelry was having a party.

David moved closer to the door, listening hard, his whole attention focused on the sound. It brought to mind African tribes calling the rain with gourd rattles…cloaked figures on a hillside dancing around a towering bonfire…Kachina dolls…

A murmur of voices began to weave over and around the drumming, and he thought he heard the jingle of a tambourine.

"Air I am
Fire I am
Water, Earth, and Spirit I am…"

Men's voices, women's voices, reaching…David felt himself reaching too, his fingers touching the glass lightly, wanting…there was something here…

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Startled, his trance broken, David wheeled around to face the woman who was getting out of her car, a round frame drum in one hand, a grocery bag in the other. She was shorter than him, and broader, and dressed in what he could only describe as a purple velvet sack tied with a sparkling pink sash. Around her neck she wore a large silver pendant: a star in a circle.

His stomach turned over. His mother had one of those. She'd kept it hidden in her dresser. He remembered how upset she had been when he'd found it one afternoon--

"I asked you a question," the woman snarled, facing him in a cloud of rage.

"I…I'm sorry," he stammered, gesturing helplessly at the store window. "I wasn't doing anything. I just…I heard the drums, and…"

"Thought you'd come throw a brick through the window? Are you one of those Fundie assholes who did it last time?"

David had no idea what she was talking about, but he shook his head violently. "No, I swear, I don't even live here."

"Then what--"

"Is there a problem here, Rowan?" came a gentle voice.

David turned back toward the door, and his stomach did another somersault.

The young man he'd seen at the coffee shop his first day in Austin stepped out of the store, letting the door swing shut behind him. Inside, the drumming had peaked and was fading, allowing his voice to carry easily on the night air.

"This asshole was lurking around the store," Rowan replied, pointing a long-nailed finger at David. "I asked him what he was doing here and he wouldn't tell me."

The young man came closer, and David shook his head, groping for the English language that seemed to have deserted him. "I was just walking by," he insisted. "I heard the drums and was curious. That's all."

Hazel eyes, dark in the streetlight, swept over him, and David had the sense he was being looked through, more than looked at. The answer, though, was directed at the angry woman. "I think you may be overreacting, Rowan. I really don't see any reason to attack a pedestrian for wondering what we're up to in there."

Rowan had the good grace to look sheepish, or almost. "But Aidan--after what happened to--"

"I know," Aidan said, cutting her off firmly but patiently. "But that's over with. We can't suspect everyone just for walking past. Why don't you take your things inside, and I'll take care of this?"

Rowan didn't look mollified, but something mildly authoritative in Aidan's voice was enough to make her shake her head and lug her burdens past them and into the store, giving David a dirty look as she passed.

Once the door had jingled shut, Aidan looked back at David. "I remember you," he said with a smile that was both wry and kind. "I saw you at Jo's last week."

"Um…yeah. You're right."

They stared at each other for a moment, David suddenly at a loss for what to say or do next, but finally Aidan asked, "Is something wrong?"

David forced a smile, though his hand chose that moment to cramp so badly he had to clench his teeth. "I'm fine. Thank you. I hope I didn't disturb your…whatever that was in there."

Another smile. "Not at all. Forgive Rowan; we had some…vandalism…a few months ago, and everyone is a little on edge. There's nothing like a hate crime to make you live looking over your shoulder."

The truth in the words stung. David nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah." He held his arm to his chest, unable to meet Aidan's unnerving gaze anymore. "Anyway, I…it was nice to meet you."

"You didn't," was the reply. "Perhaps you should."

David looked up to see he had extended a hand. "Aidan Grey," he said. "Welcome to Austin."

Without thinking, David held out his hand. "David--shit!"

Pain lanced through him as Aidan took his broken hand and squeezed it slightly. David pulled his arm back, tears filling his eyes, and turned away so they wouldn't be seen.

"Are you all right? Let me--"

"No--no, it's fine. I'm fine. Excuse me." David pushed past him, thinking of nothing but escape.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

He started to jerk away and keep walking, but something made him stop and look back.

"Let me help you," Aidan told him softly, reaching out, and David couldn't stop him from touching the hand, holding it lightly between his own. His eyes clouded, staring at the bent fingers, as if he could see straight into the bone.

David felt dizzy and sick, and above all terrified; no one had touched him in months, let alone the most vulnerable part of his entire body, where all his pain and shame both seemed to have concentrated. The night began to spin around him, and his vision went spotty and gray…

…and then there was a second of warmth, and it was over. The world righted itself, and he stood holding his arm against him like always, Aidan several feet away, looking concerned.

"I don't think you should walk back to your hotel alone like this," Aidan said. "I would drive you, but my housemate has our car tonight. Let me call you a cab."

Numbly, David nodded.

"Would you like to come in and wait? It's getting cold."

David shook his head. "I'll wait out here," he all but whispered. His mind was full of fog and white light; when he looked at the strange young man, it was as if that glow surrounded him, especially his deep green eyes.

Green? No, hazel. Hazel. Weren't they?

When at last he was curled up in the back seat of a yellow taxi and pulling away from the curb, he glanced back at the store, where Aidan was watching him, an odd and almost fearful expression on his face. David tore his eyes away, closing them, and told the driver where to take him. He leaned into the seat, which smelled faintly of Lysol, and thought longingly of the bottle of painkillers and the other bottle of Scotch waiting in his hotel room. He would need both tonight. Lots of both…

It was then that he realized his hand had stopped hurting.

Part Two

Jess almost didn't hear the doorbell over the sound of six cats whining for their breakfast. As it rang, she was on her knees in the kitchen scooping kibble into three matching blue bowls, while the Feline Horde swarmed around her like sharks surrounding a wounded seal. She shoved Marj, a brown tabby who had to weigh at least half as much as a Ford F150, out of her way and got to her feet, frowning. What was that noise?

It came again. Doorbell.

"Damn," she muttered, dusting off her knees. "Must be the UPS guy."

Luckily she was dressed already; last time a delivery person had shown up she had been finishing up a rather messy herbal experiment that, in the end, required her to strip off her clothes directly into the washer so as not to stink up the house. She had therefore answered the door stark naked. To his credit, the UPS man had kept his eyes glued firmly to her face, though he turned bright pink and tripped over the garden hose on his way back to the truck.

Today she was due at the store by noon, and before feeding the Horde she'd been occupied bottling up the last of a batch of the herbal shampoo she'd concocted to add to their body care line, which thus far had proven very popular. Today she smelled like lavender and rosemary, and had on jeans and an Austin Celtic Festival t-shirt with only a couple of holes in it. Decent enough for even the mailman.

The bell didn't sound again, and she saw the silhouette of her visitor retreating just as her hand closed around the doorknob; she flung the door open, and stopped short.

The young man making his escape was most certainly not a UPS guy, or a mailman, or any permutation thereof.

He turned back toward her, seeming surprised that she'd answered--and, she thought, afraid, though why anyone would be afraid of a size-14 redhead who hit 5'5" in her stocking feet was beyond her. "Hi," she said, smiling. "Can I help you?"

He swallowed, and came back toward the door. "I…I hope so."

She waited, sizing him up. His clothes, urban black and sophisticated, immediately marked him as Not From Around Here, or at least, not Pagan; Pagans had, while not a uniformity of dress, at least a marked disdain for the czars of fashion and tended toward the postmodern thrift store look. And while he was absolutely good-looking, even gorgeous, there was a shadow in his grey-blue eyes…eyes that, she realized with a lurch, she had seen before.

"My name is David Jordan," he said finally. "I'm looking for Maya Callahan."

Jess nodded. Of course he was. But that meant she was going to have to tell him…

"I'm sorry," she said, and even after all these months she couldn't keep the grief from her voice. "Maya…she died. About eight months ago."

Shock washed over his face. "God. I…"

He looked like he was about to fall over, and she couldn't help it; she reached out and took his arm to lead him into the house.

He jumped, jerking back, and there was pain on his face--physical pain.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean to--"

"It's all right," he said, shaking his head. "It wasn't your fault. I…I should go. I'm sorry to take up your time, Miss. Thank you."

He started to leave again, but she said, "Wait. Please, come in. I knew Maya--if there's anything you want to know about her, I can tell you. Please, come in."

He looked like he wanted nothing more than to flee, but after a moment relented, nodded. "All right."

"Good." Jess ushered him into the house, careful not to touch him; the way he held his arm up next to his body she was pretty sure it had to be broken, although it wasn't in a cast or even a bandage. She led him into the kitchen, which still smelled comfortingly of herbs mingled with coffee and dry cat food; as he sat on one of the barstools, one of the Horde, Basil, left his bowl to come and weave circles around the newcomer's legs.

She offered him some coffee, and he accepted; there was a moment's awkward silence as he stared into his cup, as if divining for questions from the rising steam. Then, he asked, "Are you…were you her daughter?"

Jess smiled. "No. I moved in about two years ago. She had a couple of extra rooms, and I rented one of them after I escaped from Dallas. She and her son lived here alone before that."

"So, she…she and John Callahan had a child?"

Again, Jess smiled, this time inwardly at the thought of Aidan as anyone's child. "No, he's adopted. Maya had a habit of…taking in strays, you could say."

"Did she ever talk about where she came from? About her previous marriage?"

She had. Jess's smile faded. "Some. She said she was in an abusive relationship and ran away. She also said she had to leave her little boy behind."

"Had to," David muttered into his cup, and there was an old, old bitterness in the words. Even if his features hadn't already told her who he was, the tone of those two words would have been all she needed.

Jess caught his gaze and held it. "I know if she could have taken you with her, she would have."

He looked down. "But she didn't."

"You would have liked her," Jess said. "She was…everyone loved her…or almost everyone. Our whole Community thought of her as its matriarch. If you had only come a year ago, I know she would have done everything she could to make it up to you."

He nodded, unconvinced. Apparently all of Aidan's talk about compassion and healing had rubbed off on her; seeing the pain in his tired eyes made her ache inside, as much from empathy as from shared mourning. She, at least, had had the chance to know Maya, to be taken in and rescued by the warm embrace of her love and laughter. David, Jess sensed, had lived many years without knowing such a love could even exist.

"I'll show you her picture," she said, sliding off her stool. "I swear you look just like her."

Jess went into the living room, where Maya's portrait still hung over the house altar on the fireplace mantel. She heard David come up behind her, and gestured at the frame. "There she is."

Maya laughed out from the image, her jet black hair and its few strands of gray loose and wild around her shoulders, her eyes full of humor and joy. She had been one of the most powerful Witches Jess had ever known, but also one of the kindest and most generous; even sharing her energy with Aidan to keep him Veiled, she had always had plenty of magic to give anyone in need, and even now her warmth filled the old house as it had once filled the store as well. Staring at the portrait, Jess felt her eyes start to burn, and she had to look away.

"Are you all right?" David asked. The concern in his voice sounded much like Maya's, too.

"Yeah," she replied. "It's just…we all miss her so much."

"How did she die?"

Jess took a deep breath, centering herself. "There was a robbery," she said, going with the popular and accepted version of the story for now. "She ran a store downtown, and she was there late one night doing inventory. Someone broke in, and she was shot."

As she spoke she saw David taking in the shelf beneath the picture, and the strange assortment of items that made up their family altar: a statue of Gaia, the Earth as Her pregnant belly; several half-burned candles; a bundle of Aidan's white sage and lavender that they burned to purify and protect the house; a hand-painted pentacle that Maya herself had made not a month before she died. There was a tiny red Ho-Tei with his infectious laugh, and a sand dollar Jess had brought back from a trip to the Gulf Coast. They were all sacred items, some all the moreso because they were part of a memorial.

David stared at the altar hard, his eyes narrowing, and Jess suddenly remembered that Maya's ex-husband had been some kind of nutbag Fundamentalist preacher who tried to "beat the Devil out of her" when he found out she believed that God might just be beyond his limited vision of a white bearded man in the sky.

Uneasy, Jess took a step back, but she needn't have bothered; a moment later the suspicion and half-formed anger left David's face, and he sighed. "So it was true."

"If you mean that she was a Wiccan, yes, it was."

He looked at her. "What exactly is a Wiccan? Is that another word for Witch?"

She grinned. "You're looking at one. And they're not exactly synonyms, but in Maya's case both words fit. Don't be scared--I can only turn you into a toad on alternate Thursdays when Saturn is in Scorpio."

Surprisingly, she saw the faintest hint of a smile around the edges of his lips. "I don't mean to sound condescending. I just never understood what could have been so important to her that it was worth risking his wrath over...and worth running away for."

Lifting her eyes to the altar, to the smiling face of the Mother Goddess, Jess smiled back. "There are some things that are so much a part of you that you can't deny them, even if it costs you everything."

His smile widened just a hair. "Like being gay?"

"I guess. You'd have to ask--oh shit!"

She had made the mistake of looking up at the clock; it was 11:45. David looked alarmed, and she explained, "I'm supposed to be at the store in fifteen minutes. Maya's store--I help run it."

Before he could say anything she added in a rush, "You should come with me. You can see where she worked. The store was like her second home. We can talk more. And later…I've got pictures and stuff of hers we still haven't unpacked, if you want to help, there might be something in there you'd want."

She flew around the room grabbing her coat, her keys, and the crate of shampoo bottles, and though he seemed bewildered by her sudden change of speed, he silently reached out and took the crate from her with his right arm and followed her through the kitchen to the garage, where Maya's old Ford truck stood next to the Civic Jess had fled from Dallas in, which she now essentially shared with Aidan, when he was inclined to drive, which was basically never.

"Where are we going?" David asked as she pulled hastily down the driveway, praying none of the outdoor Feline Horde was in the way. "I'm starting to get used to Austin, but all these neighborhood streets have me totally confused."

She noticed his vehicle, a blue Camry with an Enterprise Rent-a-Car sticker on the bumper, parked at the curb. "Congress Avenue," she said. "Do you know where that is?"

He smiled almost to himself. "As a matter of fact, I do."

*****

"Thank you for coming by," Aidan said wearily, forcing himself to smile courteously even though it was the last thing he felt. "Blessed be."

The departing crowd didn't acknowledge the farewell, but bustled out the front door with a jangle of the bell and a renewed round of chatter that reminded him unpleasantly of the flocks of grackles that besieged Austin in the Springtime leaving every stationary object coated in bird droppings.

It had been a busy morning, and his head hurt fit to split; his healing talents would work on himself, but he had to have a few minutes' peace and security in which to drop the Veil and work the magic. He could do some rudimentary healing on others without lowering it, but on himself he required much more concentration. There had been so many customers he hadn't had five minutes alone in the shop since opening.

It was two days before the Autumnal Equinox, one of the eight high holy days of most modern Pagan religions, which meant everyone was stocking up on ritual supplies. Revelry was known for its handmade herbal blends of incense, tea, bath salts, and a variety of other products in addition to the herbs themselves. The Equinox incense he'd created this year had flown off the shelves; he was glad he'd written down the recipe this time.

This last group of well-meaning shoppers had included a child that insisted on opening jars and knocking things over; his mother had paid no attention to him whatsoever, preferring instead to loudly critique the book selection's lack of a particular author she wanted. Meanwhile her friend, a frowsy woman in batik, had flirted relentlessly with Aidan, who was as polite with her as with any human female, but did not acknowledge her interest. She had not spent a penny, in the end; he would have bet that, had he returned her advances, she would have bought half the store.

He shook his head, and regretted it thanks to the headache. He couldn't help but find a touch of bitter amusement in the thought of taking such a naïve woman to bed and, amid his halfhearted attempts at foreplay, letting the Veil slip so she could see exactly what she had snared--would she be terrified, disgusted, or even more attracted? With humans you could never tell. Luckily for her and for himself, he had long ago vowed not to mate with any but his own kind.

His amusement faded again into sadness, and he leaned his head in his hands, elbows on the counter, staring blindly down at the jewelry display. All pretense of hope had long since fled, but still sometimes he couldn't help but wish…

He heard keys rattling, and the groan and shudder of the back office's warped door giving way to let Jess in the back. "Hey you!" she called.

"You're late," he said tiredly, not turning around.

"I'm sorry, sweetie." Papers shuffling, something heavy settling; she had probably brought the new batch of shampoo. "I got held up. Wait until you see what I brought."

"In a minute," he told her. "I need you to cover the front for me so I can take a break. My head is killing me, and I can't heal it unless I--"

"Aidan," Jess interrupted urgently, "Before you finish that thought, there's someone I think you should meet."

He lifted his head, swept with his senses--it hadn't even occurred to him she might not be alone. Who on Earth would she bring to work with her? He got a brief flash of presence as he turned around…

…and froze.

"This," Jess said, "Is David Jordan…Maya's son."

They stared at each other for a minute, each taking in the shock of seeing and assigning an identity to the other.

"So he is," Aidan managed, just as David said, "You?"

Jess blinked. "You two have met?"

Aidan nodded, straightening. "Briefly, the other night after the drum circle. He happened to walk by and ran into Rowan."

"Poor you," she noted. "But what a strange coincidence."

"Right," David said, bewildered. "So…this must be the inside of Revelry."

"It is." Aidan started to offer his hand to shake, but remembered how David had reacted last time and thought better of it.

"Anyway," Jess said, smoothing over the moment as best she could, "David, this is Maya's adopted son Aidan, the one I was telling you about."

David smiled a little. "So we're related. At least on paper."

Aidan smiled back. "Not really. The adoption was never made legal."

About fifty questions flew across David's face, but he simply said, "Oh."

"Um…how about I go and get us all some lunch?" Jess asked. "I could run over to Zen and bring back Japanese in ten minutes or less. Do you like Spring rolls, David?"

The dark-haired human nodded, and Aidan was amazed that he had not seen the family resemblance the second they'd met; David's eyes were Maya's eyes, except that Maya's had never shown fear or uncertainty, and those seemed to be all David's were capable of.

"Aidan, do you still need a minute to…" Jess trailed off, inclining her head toward the office.

He shook his head, and it was true; his headache seemed to have vanished, though it would most likely return any minute.

Jess left through the front, and they were alone together, neither entirely sure what to say or how to react to the situation. Aidan didn't really know how to deal with strangers one on one, and this one…well, he found his usual aplomb distinctly un-plombed, faced with the son of his Guardian, who had no idea what his mother had been and what she had meant to Aidan's people.

Finally, though, David pretended to be interested in the store itself, and stepped out from behind the counter to look around. "There doesn't seem to be a lot of space," he pointed out, confusing Aidan until he amended, "The other night it sounded like there were a lot of people in here."

Aidan nodded, understanding. "The shelves are all on casters. We pushed them out of the way--we hold drum circles here on the Full Moons, sort of a monthly social and potluck for new people in the Community to get acquainted."

"And is this where…" David trailed off, looking up at the blank blue wall as if he could see what had once been there.

"Yes," Aidan said softly. "She died where you are standing."

David looked down quickly and automatically moved over, going pale. He covered his reflexive horror reasonably well, though, by gesturing at the wall and saying, "Was something painted here once?"

Aidan joined him, reaching up to touch the wall, unable to keep the grief from his voice. "Maya was an artist. She painted a mural here of the four Elements and the seasons--it was beautiful. When the…men…broke in, they destroyed everything they could, including the mural."

"They didn't steal anything?"

"No. They came here out of hatred, not greed."

"I wish I could have known her," David said. "She seems to have been loved by a lot of people. All I remember is being left behind."

"I understand."

"And she was an artist," he went on, as if he hadn't heard Aidan speak. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised." He looked down at his crossed arms for a moment before something seemed to occur to him, and he lifted his gaze uncertainly to Aidan. "The other night…what did you do to my hand?"

Aidan shrugged. "I did what I could. I wish I could do more."

"But what did you do?"

The Elf tried to think of a way to explain it that wouldn't sound insane to someone who knew nothing of their world and probably already thought his mother had been some sort of lunatic. "Have you ever heard of energy healing?"

"What, like Reiki?" David looked like he was suppressing a derisive laugh. "Sure, I knew someone back in Chicago who said he could do that kind of psychic healing stuff. He even offered to do it to me a few times, but he was…well…"

"A flake?" Aidan ventured.

"That too," was the reply, and though he smiled, there was no humor in the words. "And I walked in on him and my ex in the shower together a month after I got out of the hospital."

Truth be told, Aidan had absolutely no idea what to say to that, but luckily Jess returned, her arms full of takeout, so the conversation was effectively derailed.

As they ate, David made the mistake of asking Jess to tell him more about the religion Maya had practiced, and she launched into her Pagan Public Relations lecture. Aidan watched the human surreptitiously, wondering what he made of it all--not only was the worship of the Goddess and Her Consort still alive, it was thriving, and the idea that there were people running around practicing magic had to be, if not wholly unbelievable, at least a bit odd to the boy.

"…not Satanism. You can't worship what you don't believe in," Jess was saying.

"Good point," David replied a bit absently, poking at his food with a fork. He had politely declined chopsticks, and Aidan could imagine why; if he'd been left-handed, he probably couldn't use them, or anything else, with much dexterity.

As if she'd been sharing his thoughts, Jess asked, "So how did you break your hand?"

The boy's face went from pensive to panicked. Aidan admonished her, "Jess, that's a little personal for someone you've only known two hours."

Jess blushed. "Sorry. I'm nosy."

David favored her with a smile, and Aidan couldn't help but notice how it transformed his grave face into something that bordered on angelic. "It's all right. It…I was jumped by a bunch of thugs in an alley one night. It would have needed at least three operations, and I couldn't afford it…and even if they'd done them, it would never be the same."

As he spoke, Aidan let his vision shift from ordinary sight to immortal sight, one of the few things he could do without affecting the Veil. He stared at David's arm, following the sleeve of his shirt that was pulled down over the permanently twisted and bent fingers, looking beneath the flesh and muscle to the bone beneath. Sure enough, there was a pattern of badly healed fractures and breaks…a radial pattern…

"A boot heel," he heard himself murmur. "They smashed your hand while you were down."

David started, and stared at him. "How did…"

"Didn't you have insurance?" Jess asked, steering him away from that particular question, bless her.

He shook his head. "My father was going to pay for it, but he changed his mind. After I got out of the hospital I got a job with benefits, but by then it was too late for them to do anything. It doesn't matter anyway."

"But you're in pain," Aidan said softly, still staring at his hand. Angry red lines of energy snaked out from the breaks in all directions, throbbing in time to the human's heartbeat.

"Everyone's in pain," David snapped, then seemed to hear himself and apologized, his ears turning pink.

Silence fell, and even Jess had trouble thinking of anything to say for a minute, but David apparently wanted to make up for causing the awkwardness. "So…you said there was a holiday coming up?"

Jess nodded, and took the initiative to start her second lecture, this one on the Pagan festival calendar. She was clearly relieved to have something to talk about that wasn't potentially hazardous.

Meanwhile, Aidan continued his unnoticed examination, this time superimposing lines of a different color of energy, this time his own, if he were to heal the shattered bones and restore their use; he wouldn't be able to do it all at once, for mending a bone too rapidly left it brittle, and besides he wouldn't want to have to answer any questions about miracle cures, even from Maya's son.

Maya had been a rare and precious woman, and Aidan had trusted her with all his being; Jess came in a close second, though he still had his secrets from her, and she had never seen him completely unVeiled. He couldn't be sentimental and assign Maya's compassion to her offspring, particularly fearful, bitter offspring raised by a hellfire-spouting husband…but he could still do something to help.

The true power of his blood might be denied him in this place, but there were still some things he could do. He hadn't been here to save Maya; he hadn't even foreseen her death. He had failed her when she had never once failed him…the least he could do, for her memory, for her sacrifice, was try and fix some part of her child. David's heart was in all likelihood beyond repair, but his hand…now, that would be easy work, if he could figure out a way to do it without revealing too much of himself.

"Earth to Aidan," he heard, and looked up to see them both staring at him.

"What?"

Jess looked concerned; it wasn't like him to space out mid-conversation. "David was just telling us how he's staying at the Radisson up Congress, and I asked what you thought of him maybe coming to stay with us instead."

"I don't want to be a bother--"

"Nonsense," Aidan told him with a smile. Sometimes the Goddess had a plan of Her own, and all an enterprising Elf had to do was let it unfold. "We would love to have you."

Part Three

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asked, still peering out the front curtain, watching for the Camry.

Aidan flopped onto the couch, feeling every moment of his age and about a hundred years' more, but still smiling. "It was your idea."

"I know," Jess nodded. "But that doesn't mean it was a good one. It popped out before I had a chance to think--this could be really dangerous, Aidan. What if he finds out?"

"Hold that thought," he replied, rubbing his temples.

In the two years since Jess had moved in, he had pushed the boundary of what was allowed by Elven custom; their law had it that only a Guardian or another Elf was permitted to see beneath the Veil, but he had lowered various layers of it here and there, giving Jess glimpses of his real appearance when necessary.

She already knew he wasn't human; what further harm could it do for her to see his ears? His rebellious streak, which Maya had cautioned him against a number of times, had him on the verge of simply dropping the damn thing here at the house and to hell with the rules.

He let go of the outermost layer so he could deal with the headache that, as predicted, had returned with a vengeance and grown worse as the afternoon wore on. Drawing a long, slow breath, he allowed energy to gather around his hands, and then placed them against his forehead; the coolness of the magic was like an ice pack, only much more effective, and the pain vanished before he could even exhale.

He looked up to see Jess watching him, shaking her head.

"I wish it was that easy for the rest of us," she said. "Humans have to work a lot harder to do half as much."

He leaned sideways into the cushions, still weary; magic couldn't do much for exhaustion, and even without David to consider, it had been a long day. "True," he replied, "but then, if you go out without your makeup on, nobody will murder you."

She smiled sympathetically. "It's a good thing, too. I'd have been dead years ago. But that still doesn't answer my question."

"You mean, is it a good idea for him to stay here? Probably not. Will he find out what I am? Quite possibly. Do I care? Not remotely."

"Why don't you care?"

He shrugged. "At the moment I'm too tired to care, Jess."

Her sympathy deepened, and she came over and fluffed his pillow, then patted the top of his head affectionately. "It's getting harder for you," she observed.

"Every day."

"How much longer do you think you can hold out?"

"Truthfully? Maybe three months. After that…"

She sank onto the couch at his feet, displacing Rosemary, one of the Feline Horde. The pale gray cat cast her a baleful glare and set to licking herself as if she were above such things as being pushed off a sofa.

"What if we tried warding the store?" she asked. "I mean, moreso. We put up much stronger shields after Maya died, but we could make them stronger, even as strong as the ones here. Then at least you could still work."

"I don't know. I'll think about it later…for now I think I need to go to bed."

"So early? Don't you want dinner?"

He shook his head, sliding off the couch, his heart as heavy as his footsteps as he headed for the stairs. "I need rest. I want to start working on the boy's hand tomorrow if I can."

"How are you going to do that without freaking him out?"

"I'll figure that out tomorrow too."

He took the stairs up to his room, one of four bedrooms in the house; the master suite, downstairs, had been Maya's, and neither he nor Jess had had the heart to move her things. Mostly the room looked as it had the day she had left for the store and never returned; Aidan imagined that David's presence would change that, give Jess incentive to start going through their departed friend's belongings and at least trying to move on.

The house was his haven, and the bedroom he had occupied for nearly twenty years was like his own tiny oasis in a world that grew increasingly more mad as the years wore on. Twenty years…Maya had been young when he had been brought to her, himself nearly twenty already but still in what a human would see as a child's body. Elves aged very slowly, and as they reached Aidan's current age, the process slowed down even further; if nothing killed him, if by some miracle he survived, he could live for centuries.

If.

He closed the door behind him and went to light the single glass votive on his personal altar, sitting down on the floor before it. It had been his first bookshelf, way back when, though as soon as he learned English he had devoured every book in the house and then started work on the Faulk Central Public Library's collection. Still, here were the first volumes Maya had given him--visitors to Revelry had thought it odd to see a boy of no more than ten sitting in the corner reading Shakespeare, Edmund Spenser, Tolkien.

On the shelf were his own sacred relics--another portrait of Maya, this one smaller, and one of Jess; a shell he kept filled with water; an incense burner; and various leaves and stones from the garden that he brought in after tending to the herbs.

Alongside Maya's portrait was a small carved box containing the emblems of Guardianship: twin rings, exquisitely worked in Elven silver, signifying the magical connection between Guardian and Guarded. When worn, they became invisible to anyone without Fae blood; Maya might have been cremated with hers, had he not slipped it from her finger when he and Jess saw her at the funeral home that last time, before her body had been yielded up to the fire. Her ashes were scattered in the corner of the garden that she had loved best, the morning glory bower Aidan had planted ten years ago. Her ring, and his, were kept safe in the box, awaiting…

Awaiting the impossible, he reminded himself firmly. Maya was gone. He was on his own now.

Jess had offered herself, but while she was certainly powerful enough, they simply didn't have the emotional connection required to sustain such a bond; Maya had been the mother that fate had denied him, and the second she had put her arms around the traumatized and half-starved Elf child and offered him a home, they had been connected in a way he would not have believed possible after seeing so much death.

She had known full well how dangerous it would be, taking him in, but she had not hesitated. Such a child, she had said, needed more than the average Guardian, and though she had a network of possibilities waiting to be matched to Immortals all over the world, she couldn't trust anyone else to protect him, to understand what was at stake.

For a while he just sat staring at the candle, letting the Veil fall gradually, piece by piece, feeling himself emerge from the mask. And a mask it was--it was stifling, and hot, and kept him from truly feeling anything on his skin. It took years for him to get used to the feeling of wearing gloves even when he wasn't; he remembered crying, late at night, with the relief of banishing the glamour, and with the injustice of having to wear it at all.

Here, though, in the candle-flickered silence, he could breathe again. Here he was safe.

For now.

Distantly he heard the doorbell, heralding David's arrival; Aidan had to wonder at himself, inviting a near stranger into their haven. Things could go so very wrong--there was always a chance, however unlikely, that David would discover his secret and go public with it, sentencing Aidan to death. It was a miracle that the men who had murdered Maya had not known she was a Guardian in addition to a Guide; they had killed her for helping his people, but had not known he lived with her. Great lengths and many sacrifices had gone into keeping Aidan's existence a secret.

Too many sacrifices…and that, perhaps, was both why he wanted to help David, and why he was not afraid of discovery by the human. Letting David believe that his mother had been gunned down in a robbery or by anti-Pagan zealots was a betrayal of her memory. She had done, and given, so much more than that. Her son should know.

Of course, that didn't mean Aidan wanted to be the one to tell him.

He'd start with the boy's hand. Maybe the next step would reveal itself to him then.

"Goddess," he murmured, eyes still on the candle, "I know that You know what You're doing…I just wish I did too."

*****

David arrived that evening at the house on Live Oak to find Aidan had already gone to bed, which was something of a relief. He couldn't help but feel uneasy in Aidan's presence after that afternoon--there was too much knowing in those hazel eyes, and David felt a strange contradiction of emotion under that gaze, at once terrified and mesmerized. It wasn't a comfortable feeling.

The solution, of course, was to move into his house.

Whatever madness had seized David to accept Jess's offer, before he knew it he was sitting on a creaky but comfortable double bed in an upstairs bedroom, his two suitcases on the floor before him, staring around at the little room as if he had stumbled headlong through the looking glass.

A cold Autumn rain had followed him to the house, and he sat listening to it hammering the roof and windows, listening to the trees outside rattling and rustling in the wind. He would have expected such an old house to be drafty, but it was remarkably well-insulated, and in fact felt safer than anyplace he had ever slept; just putting his things away in the antique chest of drawers and getting ready for bed, he found that the anxiety he had lived with as long as he had lived with a broken hand faded gently into the background, unable to withstand such a tranquil atmosphere.

Perhaps it was the bundle of dried herbs hanging over the bedroom door--he had no idea what they were, but he had a feeling they were more than decoration. Perhaps it was the long strand of ribbon through a series of naturally holed stones that hung above the bed.

Perhaps it was the painting he found himself staring at for nearly an hour, depicting a pregnant woman reclining beneath a tree, surrounded by fruits and vegetables, a wreath of flowers in her hair. The style was a combination of near-photographic realism and a certain impressionistic fantasy, with the background fading into an almost dreamlike suggestion of fresh meads and forest.

His eyes lit on the signature in the lower right corner. Maya.

When he saw that, he felt hot, helpless tears stinging his eyes, and the frightening urge to curl up and weep like an orphan…for an orphan he was.

His mother was dead. He had been too late--and though he had told himself over and over he only wanted to confront her and rail at her for abandoning him, now he understood that he had really wanted so much more than that. And he would never have it. She had, again, abandoned him.

Paul Jordan had never been a father to him. He had been a warden, holding the keys to the kingdom of heaven, keeping them just out of reach. His approval had been impossible to attain, and David had given up on it early in life. There was, he figured, something fundamentally wrong with him--Maya hadn't wanted him, and really Paul hadn't either, whether because he looked too much like her, or because he wasn't the pious and servile good Christian boy that Paul demanded represent his family to the congregation.

And finally, when it really mattered, when he could have shown even an iota of love to his only child, he had piled more violence on top of violence, and let it be known to the church that his son was dead.

David wiped his eyes impatiently, pulling his gaze from the painting, looking instead at a more fitting symbol of his life than some fantasy Mother-figure: his hand. Oh, he could have had the surgery anyway, and paid for it a month at a time for the next decade…but why bother? At that moment, when there was still a chance it could heal properly, he had never wanted to create again, barely even wanted to live.

He stared at his hand, forcing the fingers to straighten as much as they could, biting his lip at the pain even as he welcomed it. Pain had been the only thing he felt for so long, it was the only way he knew he was alive. Pain, and fear, were all there was.

And yet…

Here he was, in this house, where the air itself seemed to negate that reality. Even in Maya's absence, he had been taken in, sheltered. And here in this house lived someone who had, without provocation or demand, made the pain vanish.

As he climbed into the creaky four-poster, into its forty seven pillows and thick comforter, he looked back up at the painting, and found that the woman's joyful, loving gaze made him feel safe, and protected, even loved.

And whether by magic, or by chance, or by miracle, for the first time in a long time, he fell into a dark lake of oblivion, without the aid of drugs or whiskey, and without a single nightmare to hunt him through the whispered landscape of sleep.

*****

Jess couldn't help it; despite the overall gravity of the situation--Aidan's strength failing him, Maya's absence, her son's arrival in their lives and all the less-than-good things that could come of that--she found the whole thing rather amusing.

She turned off the kitchen lights and double-checked the outside doors to make sure they were all secure, then made her way up to her bedroom, smiling to herself. Aidan, for all his Immortal power, could be a real dumbass sometimes.

She was sure that, if she said anything this early in the proceedings, he would insist the timing was a coincidence--that just as he was losing his ability to Veil himself without help, someone would appear out of nowhere who just happened to be a) part of Maya's powerful lineage, b) in need of Aidan's particular blend of skills, and c) dead sexy.

Silly Elf.

Still, it wasn't quite that simple. There was no way to know, just yet, if David actually had any of his mother's magical talent, and even if he did, he'd have to be as strong as she had been. That would require training, and more than that, it would require him to believe in things like magic, and so far he seemed barely tolerant of the idea.

Jess, however, trusted her intuition, and in this case her intuition had painted itself bright blue and was waving its arms frantically like a crazed football fan, holding a giant foam finger that said "HE'S THE ONE!"

She paused at Aidan's door, holding very still, and eased it a few inches open.

He'd fallen asleep with his altar candle still burning, so a wavering and watery light bathed the room and its occupant. Even without the candle, however, she could have seen him perfectly; his skin, relieved of its smothering glamour, shone faintly in the dark.

She also thought it was funny that he believed she'd never seen him. He let her have a peek here and there, but as far as he knew it only went as far as his ears and eyes. Living with an Elf for two years, it was inevitable she would see more than that; typical human roommates would have at least walked in on each other in the bathroom.

Watching him sleep, she felt a fierce protective anger at the thought that anyone, human or otherwise, would ever try to destroy such a kind, healing presence in the world--that applied as much to Aidan as it had to Maya. The same mindless hatred had echoed throughout history, from the Inquisition to the Holocaust and beyond, and she knew that Aidan's people had suffered along with every midwife or Jew who had met a tortured and senseless death at the hands of those who gambled away the blood of the innocent for the sake of their own power.

Maya had told her once how Aidan had been found as a child, wandering alone in the scorched ruins of his home, the only survivor of the Hunt's attack on one of the last remaining Elven settlements. He had been there for weeks, hiding, after his entire family--his entire life--had been killed in front of him, then stacked up like kindling and burned. Jess had heard his nightmares, heard him cry out in a strange language that flowed like water over stones, and it made her wish she could be his Guardian just so she might have the chance, one day, to avenge that loss.

For all his age and wisdom, sometimes he seemed so young and vulnerable, she could understand why Maya had decided she had to keep him. She couldn't even imagine what it must be like to be so afraid, knowing that a moment of slipped attention could bring him the same horrific death as thousands of his kind.

But now it would all be okay. Now there was hope. It was a slim and fragile one, to be sure, with a broken hand and a scarred and battered heart, but one way or another, it was all going to work out.

She would make sure of it.

"Good night, little brother," she whispered as she closed the door.

*****

He would have thought it impossible, but in the course of just a few days, David's life went from weird to decidedly weirder.

Not that long ago, still hanging with the Institute of Visual Arts crowd in Chicago, he would have found this whole situation utterly ridiculous, the stuff of derision and wild laughter among Michael's friends. They had all taken great pride in being smarter, better, and more "in tune" than everyone else; they considered themselves the architects of the life force, channeling that creativity into art installations and gallery openings.

Michael himself had been a sculptor, sort of. He had made extremely ugly and high-concept pieces out of found objects and garbage, and called it social commentary on the throwaway nature of American life.

As it turned out, American life was not as throwaway as, say, a depressed and handicapped lover, when one found oneself in bed with a Reiki master and "performance artist," which translated to "failed dancer with a gimp knee."

That entire episode--the confrontation, packing his things, calling the airline--seemed so far away, so unreal, which was ironic considering three days after moving into the house on Live Oak, David found himself out in the garden on a sunny Sunday morning, helping two Witches gather herbs.

David wouldn't have known chives from cactus when the morning began, but within an hour he was on his knees next to Jess, following her lead as she clipped stems of lavender and tossed them in the basket on the ground and receiving a crash course in herbalism in the process. He recognized the plant as one of the herbs that hung in bunches all over the house, including in his room; the scent was unmistakable. The patch was one of the largest in the herb garden, as apparently they used it heavily at the store for various mystical products.

"You have to harvest them before they flower," Jess was saying, the snips of her garden shears rhythmic and purposeful. "That way you preserve more of the oil, which is where all the useful properties come from."

David considered the shears in his own hand, and the bunch of stems held in his left--this, at least, was something he could be helpful with, as it required less finesse than whatever Aidan was doing to the white sage. The scent of the lavender merged with the heady smells of all the other herbs and made him a little drowsy, especially with the sun gradually warming overhead and the cheerful birdsong in the broad dark oaks that ringed the yard. The morning was practically Hallmark-card idyllic; all they were missing were big floppy straw hats and lemonade.

He'd been right to assume the house had a huge backyard; most of it was taken up with the gardens, herbs on one end and vegetables on the other. There were green growing things everywhere, many still heavy with fruit. He had expressed surprise that so much was still there this late in the year.

"Well…" Jess had replied, giving Aidan a sideways grin, "this is Texas, you know. It stays warmer longer. And Aidan's got quite a green thumb."

"Green thumb," David had repeated, raising an eyebrow. He gestured at the riot of botanical splendor all around them. "I'd say it's a safe bet he has a green everything."

Now, as he looked around the garden, he felt more relaxed than he had in years, and kept having the urge to smile for no reason. Weird.

He heard Aidan say something, and looked up. "What was that?"

Aidan grinned. "I was talking to the plant."

Weird, weird, weird. Yet, David decided as the morning wound toward noon, it was a pleasant sort of weirdness, far easier to accept than the contrived eccentricity of the art crowd in Chicago. For all their quirks, these people were genuine…genuine what, he still wasn't sure.

Finally, Jess stood up, dusting off her jeans. "How about I go in and fix us some lunch? I'll bring it out here."

David started to offer to help her--he had this sudden paranoia about being left alone with Aidan--but she vanished before he could get a sentence together. He sighed, and sat back, his knees aching from being too long in the same position. He hadn't been this filthy in years; he'd never spent a whole lot of time outside, and spending his hours in a faded grey t-shirt and jeans up to his elbows in soil and herbs was a stark contrast to his former Sunday morning habit, which usually consisted of sleeping off a night's drunkenness and reading the paper over an entire pot of black coffee.

It surprised him to admit that he liked this better.

He had always been a bit phobic of silences, so he asked, "What do you do with that?"

Aidan held up a sprig of the downy grey leaves, and said, "We burn it, mostly. White sage is a strong protectant and purifier. The Native Americans use it for blessings; anyplace you burn it becomes holy ground."

David wanted to scoff, but he thought of the way the inside of the house--and Revelry--felt, and couldn't dismiss their beliefs quite so easily. "Do you use it yourself?"

"All the time. It smells a little like old socks, but it's very powerful."

Aidan ran his hand along one of the plant's central branches, smiling as if the sage were a favorite child…and David thought the sun must be affecting his vision, because it seemed just for a second that, once again, there was a light behind Aidan's eyes, a light that shouldn't be there. He stared, trying to make sense of it, unable to. There was such a sense of otherness about Aidan just then, a sense that he almost blended into the garden, or arose from it like a slender sapling. It was almost as if…

Rather than follow that thought to its unsettling conclusion, David asked, "How long have you been in the Witch business?"

Still smiling, he answered, "Since birth."

"How old were you when Maya adopted you?"

"About ten, in hum…" he trailed off, looking embarrassed for no reason David could fathom, then repeated, "Ten."

"So I guess you remember your birth family. What happened to them?"

The smile faded, and Aidan's expression became both deeply sorrowful and acutely uncomfortable. "They died."

"God, I'm sorry," David said. Damn it--he should have asked about the plants again, that would have been easier. He couldn't help it, though; he had to know: "Was it an accident?"

Aidan met his gaze squarely, and David's heart did somersaults; not only was the light still there, it seemed to do things to David's vision again, and