I stayed silent a while, contemplating Marsilia. She'd been making an effort to be human tonight—though she'd only been moderately successful. Tentatively, I decided that she'd been mostly honest about what she wanted from me and why. I was pretty sure that she thought I held the key to finding this sorcerer—either through my resistance to vampire magic or through my "ability" to speak to ghosts.
It wasn't like I saw ghosts all the time or anything.
I was already a freak, a shapeshifter not tied to the moon who turned into a coyote. Neither human nor werewolf or fae. I didn't like thinking I might be even odder than I'd thought.
I looked up to see Andre watching me patiently. To my werewolf accustomed eyes, he didn't look like someone who was one of Marsilia's most capable warriors. There was no width in his shoulders, no substance to his muscles. She could have been flattering him, since he was in the room, but I didn't think so.
"Did she teleport?" I asked. I'd been told that will-o-wisps were the only creature who could really teleport.
He smiled and shrugged. "I don't know how it is done. But it is one of the reasons we are certain Stefan is gone. If he were still with us, he could not be easily imprisoned."
"You don't sound upset," I said. I didn't want to think about Stefan being dead—permanently dead, I mean.
He gave me a shrug that might have meant anything. "I think Stefan is gone, Mercedes Thompson—I wear the white to honor him, as does the Mistress. But there is nothing I can do about his death except hunt his killer." He paused and set his glass down very gently. "We do not know each other well enough for me to cry on your shoulder."
The shadow of anger in his voice made me like him better.
"All right," I said. "Why don't you show me how to find Stefan's house."
We'd made it halfway to the door when the crowd quit letting us through. Andre was quicker than I was. He stopped where he was while I tried sliding around a particularly sizable woman who was standing in front of me.
"Hold up, ducks," she said in a voice that was low enough to vibrate my sinuses. "I smell a human in a fae tavern." On the tail of her words, the music stopped and the sounds of people talking and moving died down.
Once I realized she was talking about me, though she spoke to the room at large, I thought of several clever, but stupid remarks about her sense of smell—I wasn't human at all, not in the sense she meant. Stupid because only a very unwise person jumps up and down shouting on top of a beehive.
Sometimes, when one of them have committed a terrible crime, the whole wolf pack enjoins in the punishment, tearing the violating wolf to bits. But before it starts, there is a moment of oppressive stillness when the culprit is alone, surrounded by the pack. Then one wolf moves and starts the feeding frenzy. This crowd had that feel, as if they were waiting for someone to start something.
"I have Uncle Mike's permission to be here," I said softly, giving no challenge. I didn't know what kind of fae she was, what to do to avoid a fight.
She opened her mouth, obviously unappeased when someone shouted, "A forfeit."
I thought the shout might have originated at the bar, but it was immediately taken up by a throng of voices. When they quieted, the woman in front of me looked around and asked the room at large, "Wot kind of a forfeit then, ducks?"
Forfeit, I thought, some kind of gift, maybe. Or sacrifice.
Uncle Mike pushed forward, through the crowd until he stood in front of me, his face thoughtful. It was a sign of his power that they all waited for his judgment.
"Music," he said at last. "My guest will offer us a gift of music for our hospitality."
The big woman sighed as Uncle Mike stepped back and swept the fae near him away until I could clearly see the small stage where three musicians still stood. There were two guitarists and a string bass. I don't know where the sounds of drums had come from because there were none in evidence.
One of the guitarists grinned, hopped off the stage and motioned to the others to do likewise. Leaving the platform tome.
I lifted my eyebrow at Uncle Mike and began walking to the stage. Andre, I'd noticed, had drawn back in the crowd. They wouldn't bother him, not a vampire. Neither would they have bothered one of the werewolves. I, who was neither werewolf nor vampire, was fair game.
I wondered if Uncle Mike would have let them tear me to bits if he hadn't been aware that, pack or not, the wolves would avenge me—fat lot of good vengeance would have done me. Uncle Mike's suspect help was of more use.
When I stepped onto the stage, one of the guitarists tried to hand me his instrument with a flourish.
"I appreciate the gesture," I told him carefully, "but I don't play." I didn't play anything except piano—and that very poorly. I was just lucky that the piano lessons had included voice lessons, too.
I looked around for inspiration. The obvious answer was to pick a Celtic song, but I rejected it as fast as it came to mind. Folk songs, for the most part, have dozens of variations and dozens of people claiming that their version was true. In a group of mostly Celtic fae who were looking for a reason to kill me, singing a Celtic song would be stupid.
There were a few German fae here, and the Germans were not nearly as picky about their music, but the only German song I knew was "O Tannenbaum," a children's Christmas carol that wouldn't impress anyone—not that my voice was going to impress anyone anyway. I had pitch and volume, but no real talent.
Which made the choice of song very important. We played a game and if I cowered too much, not even Uncle Mike could save my skin. A subtle insult would be best. Not a slap in the face, but a poke in the side.
I also needed a power song, because my voice isn't pretty and soft. Something that sounded good a capella. Despite the air-conditioning, the room was stifling hot and my thoughts felt sluggish—of course that might have been the fear.
I wished it was winter and the air was cool and crisp… Maybe it was that, maybe it was the lingering thought about "O Tannenbaum," but I knew what I was going to sing. I felt my lips curl up.
I took a deep breath, properly supported with my diaphragm, and began singing. "O holy night, the stars are brightly shining …"
So in the sweltering heat of a July night, I sang a Christmas carol to a room full of fae, who had been driven out of their homelands by Christians and their cold-iron swords.
I've heard that song sung softly, until the magic of that first Christmas seems to hang in the air. I wish I could sing it that way. Instead, I belted it out, because that's what my voice does best.
I closed my eyes to my audience and let the simple belief of the words run through me like a prayer until I got to, " Fall on your knees." Then I opened my eyes and glared at the woman who had started all of this and I sang the rest of the song at her.
When the last note died away, the big woman threw back her head and laughed. She turned to Uncle Mike and patted him on the shoulder, sending him half a step forward.
"Good forfeit," she said. "Huh." Then she stomped off back through the crowd toward a corner of the room.
If I'd been expecting applause, I'd have been disappointed. The room settled down and the fae went back to doing whatever they'd been doing before I'd become so interesting. Still, it hadn't been any worse than singing at the Friday night performance in front of Bran at Aspen Springs.