In one smooth motion, she drew her saber and swept it in an arc overhead. It sheered through the vine above her like butter, and the slipknot landed harmlessly at her feet.
Tane recoiled, preparing for the next swing of the sword to take his head.
“Relax,” Columbia purred. “You know I’m more subtle than that. It’s purely ornamental.” Still, she brandished the saber in the soft glow of the moonlight. “Do you know why this steel—and that of my armor—is crimson? I infused it with my own blood so all of this could travel with me. Quarts upon quarts of my life force siphoned off over the course of several sittings. I am accustomed to sacrifice.” She sheathed the blade. “What I’m saying is that I much prefer for people to shed their own blood.”
Tane opened his mouth to respond, but the world tilted around him. The tumbler slipped from his hand and shattered on the tile floor. He blinked rapidly and stared at the remnants of scotch pooled around the shards of glass, then glared accusingly at Columbia.
She held up her hands in defense. “It’s not what you think—it’s not poison. Well, I guess technically it is. Have you heard of Nocturne, the party drug? It’s a fast-acting sedative that’s all the rage among the kids these days.”
The forest spirit didn’t respond. He had collapsed against the safety bars, a glaze descending over his eyes like a milky curtain.
“In theory, you could curl up on the floor and wake up in the morning a little foggy, but otherwise unharmed.” She paused, then repeated, “In theory.”
He knew he should fight to stay awake, but he was tired, so very tired. If he could just close his eyes for a moment …
He lost consciousness and dropped to the deck, not even reacting when he landed on the broken glass.
But then Tane’s eyes shot open. Without a word, he rose to his feet, awkwardly, stiffly, as if he were a zombie relearning to use his body. He cricked his neck and turned methodically to look at an item he hadn’t noticed before: a pair of white feathery wings. He casually slipped the straps over his shoulders.
“They always tell you to follow your dreams,” Columbia said, though she knew Tane couldn’t hear her. “The problem is that some dreams are nightmares.”
Now more certain of his limbs, the sleepwalking Tane stepped up onto the railing. He glanced back at Columbia with unseeing eyes. “It’s time for me to soar,” he announced cheerfully.
Then he gracefully pitched himself off the railing, wings bristling in the wind before he disappeared from view.
Even thirty floors up, Columbia could hear the dull thud that followed.
She cast a final look down at Tane’s broken body splayed out face-down in the bed of a gravel truck below, his blood already seeping into the cargo. Then she dematerialized, just a dark wisp of vapor carried off by the harbor wind.
The Songstress
It was Friday night, and as the temperature plummeted out on the streets, Boston’s trendiest nightclub was just heating up.
Located on the roof of a luxury tower in the Seaport neighborhood, the Coconut Grove drew patrons of all ages, from young professionals barely out of college to wealthy investment bankers blowing off steam after a long day in the Financial District. Some came to drink whiskey, listen to jazz, and pretend they were living in the Roaring Twenties. Some came for the spectacular city views, or to soak in the starlight filtering through the club’s panoramic glass dome.
Others came here for more personal reasons.
Cairn lurked in the back of the club, watching from the shadows beneath one of the Coconut Grove’s palm trees. She had shown up every weekend for the last month. Each time, she listened as Delphine performed her set.
Each time, she left before Delphine finished her final song.
Tonight, the songstress took the stage in a form-fitting sequined dress, her hair pulled taut above a flapper headband and a teal peacock feather. She was breathtaking. At the tables surrounding the stage, men and women alike leaned forward, holding their breath in anticipation. For a moment, the club remained silent except for the clatter of ice cubes in someone’s highball glass.
When the band began to play and Delphine launched into song, Cairn could practically hear the collective lovesick sigh from the audience.
A rattling noise made Cairn jump, but it was just the Coconut Grove’s resident mascot. A lone jaguar wandered laps around a fenced-in metal track that wound through the vegetation above. The spotted cat peered curiously at Cairn with its big yellow eyes, intrigued, then disappeared up the track into the palm fronds.
After the first song, Delphine sat down at the piano. Her fingers hovered over the keys. “I’m going to slow it down for this next one,” she said. “It’s an old ballad that’s been on my mind a lot recently.” Then she began to sing:
I fear it might be dusk for us
The writing’s on the wall.
I thought I knew you intimately
But as it turns out, not at all.
This fragile war between
my head and heart:
Do I settle for a simpler love?
Or surrender to your eternity
of masks and shadows?
I can’t discern what’s victory anymore …
Cairn was so entranced by the song—and the next four that followed—that she didn’t sense the stranger’s presence behind her until he cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, “you could hear the music even better from a table closer to the stage.”
The voice belonged to a Hispanic man in his forties leaning casually against a palm tree. He wore an ivory linen suit and his amber eyes peered at her curiously from beneath the brim of a fedora.
“I prefer the acoustics back here,” Cairn said. “Exactly how long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough. It’s my job to make sure all my guests have anything they desire.” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the stage.
“You own this place?” Cairn asked, suddenly feeling queasy. For the past six weeks, she’d used her mother’s old driver’s license to con her way past the bouncer, who wasn’t particularly attentive to detail.
The man stepped out of the shadows and extended a hand. “Alonso Cordova.”
“Ahna,” Cairn lied in case he checked her ID. “Impressive club you’ve got here. Plant a few more palm trees and I could almost forget we’re in a city that will probably get its first snowfall by morning.”
Alonso reached up and ran his fingers along the jaguar track. “Growing up, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to be a restaurateur or a zookeeper. Then I thought: why not both?”
Cairn nodded back toward the audience, which was applauding the end of Delphine’s latest song. “I imagine this is the only place in Boston where you can dine with a jungle cat.”
“You’d be surprised,” Alonso replied. He threw back the last of his rum and held up the glass. “Can I offer you a drink from the bar? Something age-appropriate, of course—a juice box or perhaps a sippy cup?”
Cairn blanched. Busted. She edged toward the elevators. “Would you look at the time …”
Alonso blocked her exit. “I’m not going to kick you out. How could I fault you for wanting to hear the soul-stirring vocals of Delphine Simone?”