But that was for another day, another year. Perhaps even another lifetime. For now, there were other threats and other concerns.
Smoothing his jacket, tugging at his sleeves, he stood a bit straighter and made his way up the stairs. The banister was smooth under his touch. Upon the wall beside the stairs hung portraits of long ago friends such as Houdini and Barrie and Colonel Cody. Elsewhere in the house there were portraits of Innes and Jean and the Ma’am. All were remnants of another life, melancholy echoes of another age. Yet rather than sadden him, their presence comforted him and lent him strength.
A smile pushed up the ends of his mustache as he crested the landing. Conan Doyle made his way down a long corridor, turned and followed another, and with every step he could feel the electric tingle of magick in the air. He breathed deeply, and on the air he caught the scent of flowers so sweet they could only grow in Faerie. That alone soothed him, the air of Faerie filling his lungs, refreshing him.
Ceridwen stood at the end of the corridor, her long, lithe form draped in sheer silk the deep blue of the horizon just before sunset. The wind from Faerie blew through an open door, each gust causing the silk to cling to her sensuous form in such a way as to make his breath catch in his throat. The pain of regret still lingered between them and he had not dared to suggest that they might put aside the harms of the past, but there was no denying the emotion that remained.
The door was the very one Conan Doyle had once used to leave her, to leave Faerie — he had thought forever. He had sealed it behind him, this passage between worlds, and only recently had been forced by circumstance to open it again, to return and plead for her aid. In the crisis that ensued, the passageway had been destroyed.
Now, Ceridwen had rebuilt it. The question in Conan Doyle’s heart was, to what end?
"You can return home, now," he said, damning himself for the quaver in his voice.
Ceridwen stared a moment longer through the door. As Conan Doyle joined her, he could see the trees and hills of Faerie and a stream that flowed gently along a curving path, burbling over stones.
Then the elemental sorceress, the niece of King Finvarra of the Fey, turned to him. Her features were fine and noble, cheekbones high, violet eyes wide and commanding. Yet he knew her. Loved her as no one ever had. And he saw the sadness and doubt in her gaze.
"I could," she agreed. A glint of magic sparkled in her gaze. "And I could return, from time to time. This passage makes it convenient enough. For now, though… it seems to me that the recent troubles in Faerie were inextricably tied to the misery that befell this world. The connection between the two seems stronger than it has been in quite some time, so that what threatens one realm threatens them all. It may be that a new dark age is imminent. If so, I believe that I will do more good working with you and your clan here than at home."
Her proud gaze faltered a moment and she glanced away. Then she lifted her chin and met his eye. "That is, if you have no objection."
Conan Doyle wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into his embrace and feel the soft silk of her robes beneath his touch. He wanted to laugh with surprise and pleasure. But Ceridwen would not have approved. He had hurt her badly, once upon a time. Perhaps there would come a time when all the detritus of their past could be brushed aside and the simple adoration they had once felt for each other could be reborn. For now, though, they were separated by the ruin of things that might have been. But Ceridwen wanted to stay, and that meant there was hope.
"My dear, you are welcome in my home from this night until the last night of the world."
Her pale, blue-white marbled skin flushed slightly pink, but only for a moment. Ceridwen nodded, softening. "I am pleased. We may be at the forefront of a new round of Twilight Wars, and there is no one at whose side I would rather fight."
The blush of a smile whispered across her face and in her violet eyes he saw the innocent heart he had known, years before. It was gone, then, hidden beneath the hardened wisdom of the time since, but as Ceridwen nodded her thanks and then set off down the corridor away from him, Conan Doyle found happy contentment in the knowledge that it was still there, within her. Regardless of what might or might not happen between them in the future, he silently vowed never to disappoint her again.
The roads were still slick with recent rain but the sky was crystal blue, the kind of day that seemed like a gift. Nigel Gull did not like the rain. It spoke to him with the voices of the dead, yet only in unintelligible whispers. The ghosts of words he couldn’t really hear. Now he sat in the back of the limousine and glanced at Jezebel, sleeping soundly where she lay sprawled on the seat, and he cherished her. She was always looking out for him, poor girl. Gull intended to return the favor.
The windows were down slightly, and there was a salty tang to the air that blew in. A stranger to Boston, he had known it was near the ocean but had not understood exactly how integral was the relationship between city and harbor. Gull breathed in deeply, savoring the breeze.
"We’re coming up on it now," the driver reported.
Gull raised an eyebrow. Jezebel did not stir, but Hawkins glanced curiously out the window. Gull leaned over Jezebel and caught sight of a row of well-kept brownstones on one side and a perfectly manicured little park on the other.
"Which one is it?" Hawkins asked, his voice a rasp. He stared out through the glass like a caged lion, confident that one day he would be free.
The brownstones had been built so that they shared a single face, and yet those faces had been individualized over the years. Some had flowers in window boxes. Bright curtains hung in the windows of one building. Another had the frames around every window painted a bright yellow, and a door of the same color. But at the corner was the one Gull was searching for. He could sense the magick emanating from it, could taste it on the air even more strongly than the salt of the ocean.
"There," he said. "That one."
Hawkins leaned toward the front seat and instructed the driver, and a moment later they parked beside the curb in front of the home of Arthur Conan Doyle. At last Jezebel came around. Her eyelids fluttered, and she turned to give him a sleepy smile.
"That was fast," she mumbled.
Gull patted her shoulder. "Rest a while longer, Jez. Think I ought to have a word before we drag out the luggage." He glanced at Hawkins, who nodded and leaned forward to explain to the driver. Gull paid little attention to the words as he opened the door and stepped out.
For several seconds he only stood there, staring at the house. It was solid and respectable — precisely the sort of place Conan Doyle had always favored — but otherwise unremarkable, save for the magickal defenses around it. They were substantial. Gull thought that they might pose a challenge even to him, should he be inclined to try to force his way in. But he thought that he ought to try things the easy way first.
Basking in the coils and jets of magick that swirled around the house he approached the steps. It was very much like walking under water. An ordinary man would not even have noticed, but Gull was a powerful mage and the defenses dragged at him. Had he any ill intentions they would already have immobilized him. Or he would have destroyed them, one way or the other.