Music and laughter and shouting filled the air in jarring conjunction with hooves on stone and rattletrap engines. From restaurants, pubs, and cafés there rose a mélange of richly textured aromas, of spices and herbs and sweets that created the recipes of a hundred cultures that had once hailed from North America, Europe, and Asia, some of which had long been forgotten in their native lands.
This was the city. Perinthia at night.
Oliver Bascombe was giddy with awe at the wonder of it all.
Frost remained unseen, drifting along high in the air above, riding the winds of the Euphrasian night. Kitsune was at Oliver’s side, however, and from the moment they had stepped out of the Hotel Fleur de Lis, her fingers had been twined with his as though they were lovers. Less conspicuous that way, she had said. And he knew she was right, but still his face flushed and his skin prickled with the pleasure of her nearness and the memory of her body, and he forced himself to remember that it was Julianna he longed to see, Julianna whom he had already hurt so much.
Hand in hand they arrived at Amelia’s, a place with darkened windows and no electricity, its sign illuminated by gas lamps, flames brightly dancing inside glass. Music poured from within, a big-band sound with horns and thumping drums, and smoke wafted out the open door, pipe and cigar and cigarette and sweet homegrown herb all drifting together.
Yet confronted with all of that, it was the sign that caught Oliver’s attention as they approached the door. Upon it was carved the name of the place, with a painting of an old airplane and the stark, plain face of a woman.
“Amelia’s,” Oliver said in a hushed voice.
Kitsune gripped his hand. Her brows were knitted with concern. “What is it?”
He smiled. “Amelia’s . . . it’s Amelia Earhart.” A soft laugh escaped him. “I guess now we know where she went.”
Kitsune made a soft, warm sound in her throat. “She was a good woman. Kind to all breeds. Her daughter owns this place now. Or is it her granddaughter? The years mean so much less to us than to humans. It is easy to lose track of generations.”
The melancholy air of this statement startled him and would have lingered longer in his mind had not the door opened just then and a man emerged in a wash of louder music and more voluminous smoke. At second glance, Oliver determined that this was no ordinary man at all. He was no giant by mythical standards but well over seven feet tall, and half as broad. His beard had once been the color of rust but was now run through with gray streaks and he wore a wide-brimmed hat that cast his eyes in shadow. His long coat was well made, neat and immaculately clean, speaking of a certain refinement, and in one of his enormous hands he clutched a walking stick that was intricately carved and topped with a bronze figurehead.
A fox.
Upon his emergence, Kitsune stepped nearer to Oliver. She might simply have been moving aside to let the huge man pass but it felt like more than that to him.
“Little cousin,” the man said, a smile spreading across his face though his eyes were still lost in the shade of his hat. He reached up to thoughtfully stroke his beard. “It’s good to see you well. The wind blew ill whispers of your fate into Perinthia.”
Kitsune did not throw her hood back but rather seemed to retreat beneath it as though she wanted to transform herself, to become the fox and slip away into the alleys of the city. He felt her stiffen as she forced herself to stare into the shadows of his face.
“I am grateful for your concern, Mr. Smith. Though I confess it surprises me.”
The man startled Oliver then by reaching up and removing his hat with a wide, sweeping gesture. He offered a slight bow and when he stood, there was only kindness in his gray eyes.
“Kitsune, I am a smith. If I arm Huntsmen and shoe their horses, it is my work, not my heart. When Herne and his wild boys chose you as prey, I did not ride with them, and I was pleased when the hunt was called off without success. Now the riders of the Wild Hunt are all dead or fled, for there are more dangerous Hunters about, as you well know. And for those I would not make so much as a chamberpot. I wish you luck, my dear. You and all your kind. And if you ever have need of me, I shall hope that I am up to the task.”
All of his charm and apparent sincerity did nothing to thaw her. Kitsune only offered a small bow in reply to his words.
The man she’d called Mr. Smith wore a resigned expression when he turned to Oliver. “Good evening to you, Mr. Bascombe. Have a care in Perinthia. It is easy to get lost here, but also easy to be found. Stay not a moment longer than you must.”
Oliver stared at him. “How do you know my—”
Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow, a small smile on his face. He put his hat on, casting his eyes in darkness again. “Don’t be ridiculous, sir. You’re a wanted man. That is public knowledge. And anyone who knows what is being done to the Borderkind, and hears the whispers, will know who you are the moment you are seen with Kitsune.” He glanced around as though waiting for something. “I’m sure our friend Mr. Frost is not far away. I wish you all a safe journey.”
With that he clutched the bronze fox head of his walking stick and set off down the street. Oliver and Kitsune watched him go for a few seconds. A gust of frigid wind swirled about them and Oliver thought he heard Frost whispering something on the air, but could not make out what it was.
“Come. He’s right about one thing,” Kitsune said. “We must not linger.”
Oliver sought out the departing man again but had lost sight of him amidst a throng of people and creatures roving through the street. “Who the hell was that guy?”
“Wayland Smith. A single man for a thousand myths. We’ll speak of him another time, perhaps. Tonight we have other things to attend to.”
Kitsune lowered her hood, the fur cowling on her shoulders, and stepped through the front door of Amelia’s, into smoke and the blare of big-band music. Trumpets and trombones and skittering drums. After glancing round in search of any sign of Frost, and finding nothing, Oliver followed.
The first thing he noticed was that the percentage of nonhumans was far higher in Amelia’s than it was out on the street. Though there were only gas lamps outside, there was electricity within. Behind the bar a neon sign for Champale, which he’d never heard of, flickered as if on the verge of being extinguished. On the left were booths and high cocktail tables and on the right was a long mahogany bar that ran forty feet toward the back of the place. At first glance, it was a dive. At second glance it became clear that it wasn’t just a bar.
Amelia’s was a nightclub.
Past the cocktail tables and the bar were stairs that led down into a much larger room with high ceilings and a broad, gleaming dance floor surrounded by tables that were attended by waiters and waitresses in black tie. The juxtaposition was startling. The brightest lights were on the band, perhaps because many of the creatures inside Amelia’s preferred to be in the dark, or at the very least the shadows.
Not merely goblins and fairies and the like, but other things. Unique and unfamiliar . . . at least unique in his experience. In one corner of the bar were two creatures that might have passed for men in bad light, were it not that they were twice as tall as a man and had long bat wings that furled around them like a grandmother’s shawl.
“Keen-Keengs,” Kitsune whispered, nodding toward them. “Australian legend.”
As they worked their way through the bar she continued to identify many of the creatures they encountered, though there were many she did not know the proper name for. A giant, hideous cannibal called the Kinderschrecker unnerved him the most. Then he saw the Hsing-T’ien, which had no head at all, but a wide, vicious-looking mouth in the center of its chest. It stopped him in his tracks and Kitsune was forced to drag him deeper into Amelia’s.
Hanging from the ceiling were chains with perches that in another place would have served for birds. Here they provided a place for Jaculi to roost, the fierce winged serpents coiling round the wooden bars, their tails hanging down almost far enough to touch the heads of those below.
Some of the patrons clearly recognized Kitsune, whispering behind their hands, but others actually seemed to know her. Oliver felt oddly comforted when she raised her hand to wave to a tall, painfully stooped creature with pale green skin and arms that reached nearly to the floor. With him was a humanoid serpent with arms but only a snake’s body below and a face that was not quite a man’s and not quite an asp’s.
The long-armed creature made his excuses to the serpent man and made his way through the bar to join them. Oliver glanced around to see if they were being observed, but no one seemed to be taking any particular interest in his and Kitsune’s arrival.
The fox-woman hugged the hideous creature, whose flesh had the texture and gleam of a frog, and Oliver couldn’t suppress a small shudder at the sight. Her smile revealed far too many sharp teeth. The sight always unnerved him and yet somehow it no longer detracted from her beauty.
“Grin, this is Jack,” she said, gesturing to Oliver. It took him a moment to realize that he was Jack, which meant the creature was called Grin.
“Jack, meet Grin. An old friend.”
“Another Lost One named Jack,” Grin said, his voice a quiet burble. “Isn’t that odd how so many of the humans who find their way here are called Jack? I wonder if there’s anything to that?”
Kitsune cocked her head and looked at him. “You have become a philosopher in my absence?”
Despite its grotesqueness, the creature managed to look sheepish. “Not quite. Just odd, I thought.” Then he gave a surreptitious glance around. “Anyway, I guess you’re not here for a drink, eh? Looking for other Borderkind, yeah?”
Kitsune nodded. Oliver moved in to try to shield their conversation from a group who were drinking and talking around a nearby cocktail table.
Grin got a bit twitchy then, gaze darting back and forth between the two of them. Those long arms swung around nervously. “Lailoken’s down in the club. Got a girl with him. There are Stikini here as well, four of them together, but you don’t want to talk to them.” The creature nodded toward Oliver. “They’ll eat your Jack.”
Kitsune gave him that slight, mischievous grin. “That would be bad.”
“Word’s getting out,” Grin said in that sticky, burbly voice. “A lot of the travelers are dead. Not a lot of killings in Perinthia yet, but the Borderkind in the city have heard and most have gone underground.”
“We’re going to need to find them,” Kitsune said.
A flutter of alarm went through Oliver. He frowned and watched her closely. They were supposed to be looking for a Mazikeen— from what he understood, a kind of sorcerer— but she was asking about Borderkind. His conversation with Frost earlier in the day came back to him now and he had to wonder if his companions were abandoning him to the more pressing concern of the conspiracy against the Borderkind. He supposed he wouldn’t have blamed them, except that his life depended upon them.
Oliver spoke up. “We also need to find a—”
“Hush, Jack,” Kitsune growled.
It startled him so much that he did fall silent, glaring at her. Grin laughed wetly.
“Bloke’s not housebroken yet, I see. Ah, well, you’ll get him sorted. Anyway, you want to find some of those that’ve gone under, you’d best talk to Jenny.”
Kitsune flinched visibly. “Jenny? I’d been told she was dead.”
The pale creature frowned at that. “Nobody’s told her, apparently. You didn’t see her at the bar?”
“I suppose I did not think to look, given that I’d thought her dead.” Kitsune put her hands together and bowed her head. “My thanks, Leicester Grindylow.”
“Not at all, Kit. Least I can do.”
Kitsune slipped her hand into Oliver’s and he was surprised by how warm her touch was. She pulled him along as though he really were her pet, dragging him toward the bar, weaving in amongst people and monsters who did not look as though they would give way for a petite little woman no matter how beautiful, yet she managed to make a path for them without trouble. A pair of hairy, stinking trolls narrowed their eyes and snorted at Oliver and looked as though they were going to make trouble, but then a breeze from nowhere pushed them a step backward and a rime of ice formed on their beards and eyebrows. Their eyes lit up with alarm and they turned to seek out trouble elsewhere. Trouble they could control.
The way she glanced back at him, tugging on his hand as though to show him off to her friends, Oliver felt like he was back in college, at some bar in Boston with Jessie Colbert, a girl he’d dated for about a month. The dissonance between then and now was jarring and he felt disoriented. The smoke and the music didn’t help at all.
At the bar, Kitsune nudged a pair of ordinary-looking men out of the way. Beyond them, Oliver saw the Jenny that Grin had been talking about. He hadn’t made the connection between the name and Kitsune’s insistence that she was dead. Now he did. The bartender wore a faded red corset and a gauzy slip instead of a skirt or pants. Her skin was sallow and pockmarked and she looked like some dead thing who had drowned in a lake or a pond and been dredged up days or weeks later. Her eyes bulged from her face. Even in the dim light of the bar and the haze of smoke he could see that her hair was a stringy, unwashed green. But her most striking feature was her mouth. It was far too wide, going almost to the bottoms of her ears, and she had a mouthful of fangs stained with mossy sludge almost as green as her hair.
Jenny Greenteeth.
She was pouring a whiskey when Kitsune bumped up to the bar with Oliver in tow. He made polite murmurs to those he had to sidle up beside to join his companion. A trace of an icy breeze brushed the back of his neck and it was reassuring to know that somehow Frost was with them.
When Jenny Greenteeth glanced up and saw Kitsune, her hand shook so much that she spilled whiskey on the bar. Then she hid her surprise beneath her reaction to the spill, cursing and grabbing a towel to wipe up the mess, apologizing to the customer who’d ordered it. Kitsune obviously wanted to speak with her but Jenny shook her head once, curtly, and then gave a tiny nod to indicate that they should follow. She whispered something to a Keen-Keeng who was bent over the counter sipping at a foamy stein of beer, and he climbed unceremoniously over the bar to take her place.