A Stroke Of Midnight

He raised his hands upward, cupped as if he truly held something. He called that sickly green fire to his hands. It was the painful flame that I’d seen eat along a body. It could cause death if you were mortal, or excruciating pain and madness in the immortal. Now he used it to burn away the spell that had clung to me.

Rhys’s voice came from behind us. “What’s wrong?” He had a gun naked in his hand, but held along his body so the police probably wouldn’t see it from a distance. He saw the green light, and said, “What is it?” with a new urgency in his voice. “What am I not sensing?”

Galen answered him. “Someone put a spell on Merry.”

“On both the human bloods,” Frost said.

“It would have been contagious to the human police,” Doyle said. The green flame vanished, leaving the night a little darker. He turned to Biddy, where she half sagged in Nicca’s arms. “Let her go, Nicca.”

“She will fall.”

“Only to her knees in the snow. It won’t hurt her.” Doyle’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

Nicca still held her against him. His wings flared out once, then clamped tight again.

“It’s all right, Nicca,” Biddy said in a soft voice, a little breathy. “Doyle will help me.”

It was Hawthorne who came to him, and began to gently draw him away from her. “Let the captain help your lady.”

Nicca allowed himself to be drawn away, but when Biddy collapsed into the snow, he moved to catch her, and only Hawthorne and Adair on each side kept him from grabbing her before her knees hit the snow.

Rhys gave a soft whistle. “That would have done bad things to our nice policemen.”

“Yes,” Doyle said, as he knelt in the snow, his greatcoat spreading out like a pool of darkness against the white. He passed his hands above Biddy, much as he’d done me, but he hesitated close to her belly. “That someone could lay such a thing on her while she wore this much metal…” He shook his head. “It speaks of great power.”

“Or mixed blood,” I said. “Those of us with a little human or brownie or a few other things can handle metal and magic better than a pure-blooded sidhe.”

His mouth twitched. “Thank you for reminding me, because you are exactly right.”

“Can you trail it back to its owner?” I asked.

Doyle cocked his head to the side, the way a dog does when it is puzzled by something. “Yes.” His hands tensed above Biddy’s body. “I can remove it, but I can also add magic of my own, and force it to fly back to its owner.”

“You mean not just track it, but make it run back home?” Rhys asked.

“Yes.”

“You have not been able to do that in a very long time,” Frost said.

“But I can do it now,” Doyle said. “I can feel it in my hands, my stomach. All I have to do is remove it, and add my power at the moment of its release. It will be a chase to keep up with it, but it will work.”

“Who will go with you?” Frost asked. “I must stay with the princess.”

“Agreed.”

“I will go,” Usna said. “No dog can outrun a cat.”

Doyle gave him one of those fierce smiles. “Done.”

“I, too, will go.” It was Cathbodua, once a goddess of battle, now a refugee from Cel’s guard. Her cloak was formed of black feathers, so that it sometimes seemed as if her fine black hair was part of the cloak, and if you looked at her from the edges of your eyes, her hair looked as if it were made of feathers. She was Cathbodua, battle scald crow, and though diminished in power, she was still one of the few in the courts who had kept her original name. Rumor had it that she had not been as abused by Cel, for he feared her. Dogmaela, who stood in armor next to her, had been nicknamed Cel’s dog because she was given every awful task he could find. She had publicly denied him sex, and he’d never forgiven her. Cathbodua had done the same thing, and not suffered overly much for it. There was something about her, standing there in the snow, all black and feathered, with some air of… power that would give a braver man than Cel pause.

“You think you can keep up, birdie?” Usna said.

She gave him a smile cold enough to freeze the smile from his face. “Don’t worry for me, kitty-cat, I won’t be the tail end of this race.”

Usna made a cat-like growl. “Remember who the predator is here, birdie.”

Her smiled widened, and filled her eyes with a fierce joy. “Me,” she said.

“Us,” Doyle said. “Keep her safe, Frost.”

“I will.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Rhys said. “I’m not fast enough to keep up, and apparently I can’t be trusted with the safety of the princess.”

“Help her with the humans, Rhys.” Doyle glanced at Cathbodua and Usna. “Are you prepared?”

Cathbodua said, “I am ready.”

Usna said, “Always.”

Doyle turned back to Biddy. “This may hurt.”

“Do it.” She braced herself, hands in the snow.

Doyle flexed his hands, so that they looked like black claws against the silver of her armor. Biddy let out a sharp breath. His magic flared even through the shields that I held in place to keep me from being overwhelmed by the magic of faerie. Her aura, her metaphysical armor, flared like a flash of light that covered her body. Doyle plunged his hands into that flare of light and came out with a round ball of light, but the light wasn’t the clean yellow-white light of Biddy’s aura, it was a dark sickly yellow with an edge of orange flame to it. Doyle cupped his hands more closely around it until the flickering of the orange flames spilled out from between his fingers.

He stood carefully, as if he held a very full bowl of very hot soup. He stepped around Biddy, and the other guards spilled away so that there was nothing between him and the mounds but empty snow.

Usna and Cathbodua moved up on either side of him. Usna undid his long cloak and stood dressed mostly in leather, his breath fogging in the cold, his face eager, eyes shining with anticipation. Cathboda’s face was like pale marble, perfect, beautiful, and cold. Far from flinging her cloak off, she gathered it more tightly around her. I realized that her breath did not fog in the cold. I had a moment to wonder why, then Doyle flung his hands skyward, and the flame was now a bird, a falcon made of red and orange flame. It flashed shining wings once, twice, to gain altitude. Doyle undid his long black cloak and let it fall to the snow. He undid his weapons and flung them all to the snow. The falcon beat its wings twice more and stared down at us all with eyes made of fire, an arrogant look, as if to say, “You will never catch me.” Then it was gone, streaking like some hand-sized comet, flaming into the night.

Doyle was simply gone. I know he ran, but it was like trying to watch darkness fall. You never really saw it happen. He was a tall dark shape, loping over the snow. Cathbodua was with him, though she didn’t seem to be ru

“He has his work cut out for him,” Rhys said.

“Yes,” Frost said, “you ca

“And anger travels on the very wind,” Dogmaela said.

“Anger?” I made it a question.

“She is the scald crow. She is the dissatisfaction that drives men to quarrel.”

“She starts the fight, then feeds on it,” Biddy said, as Nicca helped her to her feet.

“She did once,” Frost said, “but that is no more.”

“You think not,” Dogmaela said. “Cathbodua still enjoys a good quarrel, make no mistake about it, Killing Frost. She grows bored with so much peace.”

“This is not peace,” Frost said.

“Perhaps,” she said, “but it is not battle either.”

“Let’s hope not,” Rhys said. “And now, children, let’s go talk to the nice policemen before they freeze their badges off.”

“Badges?” Dogmaela said. “Is that some new slang for balls?”