A Touch of Nightfall by K. S. Reeves (fanwork- 2003)

Chapter 1

The following is a work of fiction. It is based on the Merry Gentry series of novels written by Laurell K. Hamilton, Kiss of Shadows (2000) and Caress of Twilight (2002), both of which I highly suggest as reading material. Thusly, all main characters are her creations and her property, save those indicated few who are my own embellishments, who are the property of K. S. Reeves (me). This is a work of fandom, and as thus, is done without the knowledge or consent of the owners of these characters. Should Laurell K. Hamilton, or anyone representing her, contact anyone posting this work requesting it be removed, I, K. S. Reeves (as author of this fanwork), indicate my compliance with their actions and that this writing should be removed at their request.

The events in this story take place closely following the events of A Caress of Twilight. I have tried to remain as true to characterizations, and the rules of Laurell K. Hamilton’s universe, as my knowledge permits.

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The funeral of Gordon Reed was a uneasy affair. High above us, the sky was filled with queasy gray clouds, so that the normally dense cloud cover of L.A. had transformed the city into a furnace, slowly dripping sprays of gray rain over the proceedings.

The memorial service was being held in the Hombly Holmes residence of Maeve Reed, the widow and Golden Goddess of Hollywood, which she had been ever since exile from the Seelie Court had deprived her of her status as the Golden Goddess of Beauty. A large expanse of dead lawn had been cleared of the effects of the winter’s cold, Yule just having past, and had been covered with a spell with just enough oomph to turn it green for the length of the memorial service.

The coffin’s polished dark gleam lay at the front of the tent, under which expensive padded folding chairs had been set in long runs. I was surprised by the turn out, though I did not say so; I had forgotten that Gordon Reed had been influential in the rise of so many stars, not merely the woman who became his wife. The invitee list read like a Hollywood who’s-who, though a few years out of date; Mr. Reed had retreated from the public eye when his illness had set in.

I sat close to the widow, slightly embarrassed. Not by her, but that I was there at all. I had not known Gordon Reed, save for a few brief weeks before his death, but Maeve wanted me close for some reason, and a part of me that knew Hollywood thought I knew why. Hollywood was like the courts. They see weakness, they bite. I suppose that someone you know you can count on to a limited extent is comforting when all you’ve got are people you suspect would like to see you dead.

It reminded me of home.

I sat between my guards, listening to the priest do the recitations over the body of Mr. Reed. I was dressed in a black suit with skirt, the hem of which fell just over my knees, with the smooth jacket pulled tight. A few strings of jet beads lay pendulous at my throat and on a whim I had pulled my blood auburn hair back into a classic bun and clipped it there with a black clasp. It brought out the length of my neck, which was nice, because when you’re 5’ you need all the help you can get. I admit it; I looked damn good in black.

My guards surrounded me, making me feel slightly more embarrassed, to be surrounded by men when just a few feet away the widow had just lost the only one in her life. I had made sure Galen, perhaps the most compassionate of my guards, sat by her for the occasion. It was better than Rhys; I don’t think Maeve could have put up with knock knock jokes at her husband’s funeral. She had her head turned towards the man to her left, her head leaning on his shoulder, her fingers kneading his arm.

When the priest finished his words, and asked for the widow to come forwards and share her memories of the late Mr. Reed, the man helped Maeve to her feet. Immediately, though, ten lifetimes of sidhe survival instinct kicked in, and her face became detached, almost alien. I knew the look, the look of this isn’t happening and I can’t do this, but I have to do it anyway.

I must say that she looked stunning, her long hair blonde hair a gleam of white against the sleek svelte blackness of the dress, the high collar of which was trimmed with a tight framework of black lace, occasionally called ‘fairy lace’. She mounted to the podium, and for a moment she did nothing but stare, looking at the coffin in disbelief. She closed her eyes, and swallowed, vividly, before looking out at the sea of faces and cameras, almost unflinchingly.

“In anyone’s life, there are faces that stand out for many reasons; faces, old and new, of close friends and bitter enemies, of family, but the faces that shine brightest out of that glittering throng are those we love most deeply.” She paused, swallowed again, but continued. I knew that the words were written on the pages in front of her, and imprinted on her mind, but I was beginning to doubt she’d make it. It had been a nice touch, comparing the range of human aquaintances to the Seelie Court, but I wondered as to its prudence.

“I was, once upon a time, called Conchenn, the Goddess of Beauty and Charisma. And as such, I had many lovers, over the millennia; though forever childless, I was never truly married, and set aside many times. After my exile from the Seelie Court a century ago, I despaired of ever knowing love or child. I came to Hollywood, and set up shop trying, like so many other have, to become a Movie Star.” She opened her eyes, and there was the shimmer of unshed tears, along with the glint of something that wasn’t quite blue. Her glamour was slipping; her true eyes, with their supernatural beauty, were beginning to shine through the magical illusion.

“That’s when I met Gordon. When I met him he was twenty four, and among the most promising new managers of the day; he had already birthed a few careers, and I am glad to see that all of you, even those who traded him for other managers once he got you started, have remembered him and come here today.” she said, smiling nervously out at them. I narrowed my eyes; grief for her husband would buy her some breathing room, but I didn’t want her using his death to attack those who had left him.

“In the beginning, Gordon...” she began and continued the eulogy. Once or twice her leg shifted as though she would fall, and crystal tears trailed down her cheeks, but she kept going, her musical voice, trained by so many years of the stage, painting images in the air; Gordon at the opening at her first movie; Gordon at their wedding. Good times, good friends, good people. If she knew she was crying she didn’t show it, and the glamour slipped away from the tears, so they fell, each one a precious jewel, to break against the podium.

Her leg trembled.

“Gordon means so much, to so many people, because he gave of himself in a way I’ve never seen anyone do. He gave his time to good causes, aside from his money, which he donated generously to almost every cause to cross his feet. He was always there for people who needed career advise, or for anyone who just needed an ear in a time when things were dark. And yet he managed to be as attentive a lover, a husband, as any I’ve known. And I know...”

Here her voice, and face broke, she gave a racking sob which shook her entire frame, as though someone had struck her right in through heart. Her hand slipped to her abdomen protectively, her hands flexing. Her lips parted, luminous and soft, flashing her teeth. She closed her eyes tight, pulling lines her face, as though the next words were too much for her to bear.

“And I know, he would have made an excellent father.” A hiss went through the tent, rising to the ceiling. Had she just said what they though she said? I, sitting at the front with my guards, and knowing all too well how she had achieved her pregnancy, suddenly felt twice as uncomfortable as before. The thought danced through my head that this was nothing but a publicity stunt, but that thought vanished as she collapsed, sobbing, to the floor. Her glamour broke, shattering, and with the ripping of the magic as it swept past me came an emotion of pure heartbreak.

Lights began to supernova around me as a million cameras started buzzing into high gear. People had wanted to see Maeve Reed’s sidhe side for ages, but to my knowledge they had never gotten to see it. As the cameras went off, Maeve looked up, alarmed. Her crystal tears set rainbow light dancing away from her, her white skin glowing as though the sun had wrapped her in its essence. Her hair bleached to white, each strand almost luminous. She saw the cameras, and suddenly her eyes were simply there, transformed. Rather than Aryan blue, they were their true color; storm blue, spread through with veins of gold and copper lightning.

Her face was the image of agony.

Another image flashed into my mind. The picture of a younger girl, another sidhe, with moonlit skin and tricolor green and gold eyes blooming with tears of inner misery, her face framed by luscious red curls. It was my own portrait of pain at the death of my father, and the bastard who had taken it had pasted it on every newspaper and magazine in the world. Me, alone with my grief, alone, horribly, horribly alone.

Maeve Reed was a bitch, but there were few people I would wish that on, and just being a Prima Donna didn’t plant you there.

I stood, but a hand on my arm stopped me. The cameras had whirred to an even higher pitch behind us. A dual portrait of Maeve Reed, Golden Goddess of Hollywood, and Princess Meredith Gentry, co-heir to the throne of the Unseelie Court, would fetch an even better price than that of Maeve without her glamour. “Princess, you must not. Taranis will throw a fit.” whispered Doyle, in a voice which floated into my head from where he sat, looking gorgeous in the black-as-midnight suit which matched the dark glow of his own ebony skin. I glared at him, but his grip remained firm.

“Are you going to do something, then?”

“For any of us to...”

“And you?” I shot, turning to Frost, but he looked at me past his mask of sidhe arrogance. I knew the look, it was the one he wore when hiding what he felt. Even before he opened his mouth I knew he was going to agree with Doyle. I knew they were right, but I couldn’t just let it happen; I wasn’t that cold. I turned and saw Galen squirming uncomfortably, playing with his green hair. I had permitted him a thin emerald tie for the occasion, which brought out the green of his complexion. Beside him, Nicca had turned his face away, his curtain of dark brown hair hiding his expression from view.

“Galen, Nicca, go help her.” Galen near jumped to his feet, green eyes shining. Nicca was slower, but, like a good submissive, he stood. His eyes, however, flickered to Doyle first, who’s hand increased its pressure; not enough to hurt, but enough to make me consider obeying him. In theory.

“Princess-”

“Forget it, Doyle. Galen and Nicca are not high rank enough for anyone to give a shit what they do. You’re right, Taranis would throw a fit if you, or Frost, or I, stood in the limelight, but Galen and Nicca are much freer than that. And I’m not going to let any of these reporters pull a fucking Barry Jenkins and paste Maeve Reed’s pain over everything short of condom wrappers and commemorative plates. Nicca, help Galen.”

Nicca wove between the chairs, an act which showed him to be far more graceful than looks belied, and reached Maeve’s side as Galen lifted her from the ground.They stood on each side and helped her walk to across the platform. They almost had to lift her to carry her down the stairs, but luckily her legs kicked in enough to stumble down them, sparing us a scene which truly would have been staged. She collapsed into her chair, and those to either side huddled in to comfort her. Marie, her personal assistant, who had seen her boss without glamour before, was one. I think other might have been Gordon’s brother, though it was anyone’s guess as to if he had ever seen her without magic before. I didn’t know if she took the glamour off when sure of her company, and it would have been unfey to ask. A priest stood up for come closing prayers, and then, in odd contrast, a pagan minister stood and offered some prayers in a tongue I didn’t know. I was willing to bet that it was mostly for Maeve’s benefit, the fey’s religion being pagan itself, but to my surprise, as the benediction ended, I heard a few of my guards muttering it under their breath. I looked around and Rhys caught my eye, his eyebrows furrowed in interest. When I asked him what it was, his expression changed into a delicious curve of a smile, which he held for a moment before he elaborated.

“That prayer invoked several of your ancestors. Oh, I doubt the minister is a sidhe worshiper, she probably got it from Maeve, but it is interesting all the same, that you sit here as your ancestors are invoked to guide Gordon Reed to peace.” That made me pause for a moment, and then I turned away from him, my eyes catching on the shift of the light as Maeve’s glamour returned. But the pain in her face had redoubled now that she was free to release it, and her shoulders shook convulsively every few seconds as she dug her face and fingers into the arm of Gordon’s brother. I couldn’t speak for my ancestors, but at that moment, if having Gordon in a better place would have made her happy, I would have moved Heaven and Earth to take him there. --