Black Spring

“I am sure Alerian did not choose it with your sense of aesthetics in mind,” Nathaniel said as we headed down the side of the building toward the sidewalk. “It is close to the river, close to the water.”

“Why not Lake Point Tower?” I asked. “It’s right on top of the lake.”

“Do not ask me to explain his reasons,” Nathaniel said.

“It would be nice if this Alerian-radar-thing we have also came with some handy illumination-of-intentions,” I said as we entered the building under a veil.

There was far too much glass and white and modern-looking furniture in the lobby for my taste. The ceilings were extremely high and there had been some attempt at softening the effect of all the sharp angles by placing huge potted plants at strategic intervals.

We maneuvered easily around the bustle of people in the lobby—guests checking into the hotel, businessmen speaking staccato into phones as they hurried to meetings.

Outside the glass the Chicago River was bluer than usual and it looked . . . “Alive” was the only word that seemed to fit. Normally the river is a muddy-looking churn. Even on sparkling summer days the water never really looks appealing the way Lake Michigan can. But now the river seemed like a powerful, electric thing, like it was giving off its own energy.

“It is because of Alerian,” Nathaniel murmured quietly in my ear, his hand on my elbow.

“I know,” I said, just as quietly. People tend to freak out if they hear disembodied voices. “How is it that nobody else seems to notice? Everyone seems so relentlessly normal.”

“They may notice,” Nathaniel said as we approached the elevators. “But not the way you or I would. They would simply remark that the river looks pretty today.”

“It looks pretty, all right, but it also looks wrong,” I said. “Don’t survival instincts exist anymore?”

“There would likely be less crime if they did,” Nathaniel said.

We fell silent as we entered an elevator behind an exhausted-looking family of tourists. They did not notice our presence; nor did any of them remark when Nathaniel pressed the button for Alerian’s floor and the button seemed to magically light up on its own.

Of course we were invisible to mortal eyes, but you could still hear us if you listened closely, and you can always smell another person near you—their shampoo or body lotion or cologne. But the family remained oblivious, bickering about where to go for lunch.

I guess what Nathaniel said was true. Most people had no survival instincts. No flicker of awareness on the back of the neck, no sense of wrongness. I’d have been dead long ago without those little cues.

And yet despite seeing the evidence of vampires, angels and werewolves with their own eyes, there was no sense of concern, no frisson of alarm evident on the faces of the family who clattered out on their floor without noticing the presence of two creatures that could have killed them all in an instant.

It made me angry. I’d pushed my mind and body to the brink over and over, trying to keep oblivious cows like those people innocent and safe. They couldn’t even have the courtesy to be aware of their surroundings.

My baby shifted, his wings fluttering more rapidly as my anger built. Nathaniel’s arm went around my shoulders as the veil dropped away.

“Madeline, calm yourself,” he murmured. “You are in no fit state to confront Alerian.”

I nearly roared at him in response, then realized my anger was out of proportion. I took a deep breath, trying to push away the haze of red.

“It is the shadow,” Nathaniel said. “It magnifies your emotions.”

“I can’t stand it,” I said. “If I don’t keep perfect control at all times, it looms up, tries to influence me. And it’s all because of that damned Puck.”

“Yes,” Nathaniel said. “But do not think of him now. It will affect your ability to deal with Alerian.”

The elevator doors opened and we moved into the hall. There had been no discussion where to go. The two of us moved in perfect synchronicity, Alerian’s presence pulling us like a homing beacon. I’d half expected my uncle to have taken a fancy penthouse suite, but we appeared to be on a floor of regular rooms.

Of course, when we knocked on the door and Alerian answered, I realized “regular” was relative. This wasn’t a roadside motel, after all. The room behind my uncle was richly appointed, with floor-to-ceiling-window views of the Chicago River.

“Nathaniel. Madeline,” Alerian said in a voice as cool as the sea. His hair was blue-green again and so were his eyes, shifting like waves. He was so clearly not of this world that I was surprised he’d been able to stand so close to the mayor without eliciting concern from the mayor’s bodyguards, even with his unusual hair color covered up.

The three of us stood there for a moment, Nathaniel and I side by side, our hands clutched together, and Alerian across from us, ancient and roiling with power beneath the surface of his gaze.