Chapter 9 #3
I caught pieces of conversation from attendees here and there, gushing about the lavish entertainment that would come later in the evening.
Apparently, there would be access to pre-recorded siren songs that promised to hit better than any drugs.
I recognized a few of the guests, unsettled to realize some of the jovial faces were politicians and figureheads from companies I recognized. Of course they were.
An alcove cut to our right, curtained by swathes of black curtains and a myriad of stage lights.
An auction, I realized, which had already begun.
The auctioneer’s fast-paced ramble on the microphone barely competed with the hushed roar of excitement surrounding the stage.
From what I could surmise from the projected list, two items had already been claimed.
Lee followed my lead toward the stage, cutting our way to a gap by the stairs. This area was partially curtained off, where employees waited on pins and needles to wheel in the next item. We waited for the next roar of applause for a winning bid before quietly stepping into the shadows backstage.
We kept far enough down the steps that the assistants at the front lines didn’t stop the two lone figures in the wings.
“These look nice,” Lee murmurs. He set his champagne down, leaning down to inspect a set of gemstones set in a rather grim-looking diadem. “You think they’re cursed?”
“Blessed by Celtic gods,” I said, reading from the calligraphed tag attached to its cushion. I wondered if that translated to gem magic.
Before I could act on it, Lee snatched up the diadem and bent it—hard.
I watched the ancient, blackened metal groan under his hands, nearly snapping. Several of the opalescent gems dislodged, dropping into his palm. He offered me the gems before setting the now-mangled diadem back on its cushion.
“For your collection, loverboy,” he said, giving my pockets a knowing glance.
Eyeing him uncertainly, I accepted the gems with a muttered thanks.
Something larger was wheeled closer on the stage, but a layer of the stage curtains obscured it from my view.
I eased closer to catch a peek at the glass.
A cylinder nearly six feet in height was mounted upon a wheeled platform.
The auctioneer called for attention and introduced the next item up for grabs, and as something shifted within the glass enclosure, I realized it was more than just an item.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we will present to you one of the crown jewels of our auction tonight: the last niamh.”
Judging by the curious murmurs and uncertainty that ran through the crowd, most of the onlookers were as clueless as I was. I shifted closer to the stage, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature before it was wheeled away.
At first glance, it appeared humanlike and decidedly female.
Long white hair flowed over her shoulders, matching the gown that clung to her petite frame.
She appeared even smaller than she was, huddled defeatedly on one side of the cylinder, forehead slumped against the glass.
At first, I thought she was unconscious, but her dark eyes were half-lidded and despondent.
Everything about her reminded me of a dying flower.
Her lips were moving. I eased even closer to catch what she was saying. Some sort of chant or spell?
“An ancient Irish spirit—a summoner of forests and chaos,” the auctioneer went on.
“She also possesses incredible glamour abilities and healing properties. Don’t let that sweet face fool you; she has been linked to countless deaths from her motherland.
But worry not. The iron constructs of her enclosure keep her capabilities muted, and she has proved to be docile with proper handling. ”
Finally, I was close enough to catch her whispers.
“My fault, my fault…” Over and over.
I stiffened when she suddenly lifted her gaze and caught my eyes. Her lips paused. The grief did not fade from her face, but it made room for the barest touch of curiosity as she regarded me. But those sweet eyes didn't discount how much bloodshed had likely followed in her wake.
“Sir,” an employee said, snapping me back to attention. “You’re going to need to stand back.” He eyed me nervously, clearly worried about being chewed out by some rich prick for being told what to do. I played along somewhat, glowering snidely as I backed away.
The niamh was wheeled out onto the stage proper. The murmurs of interest grew into excited shouts as the bidding war began. As I pictured the niamh huddled in her enclosure before those greedy eyes, my heart turned heavy, and I wondered when I had started pitying monsters so easily.
The answer was easy enough to trace.
I scanned the faces around me—whispering bids to each other and watching the niamh eagerly. And then I froze—catching sight of a familiar gait among the well-dressed guests.
Unlike the other partygoers who swivel their gazes raptly towards the various displays, this particular woman walked in carefully measured arcs.
She was slower, with a low center of gravity like a fighter, watching exits and vantage points before allowing her gaze to lower anywhere else.
It was a woman who had learned the hard way time and again to be cautious, and she sticks out in this sea of frantic, jovial energy.
Finally catching sight of her face, my heart skipped a beat.
“Tammy,” I breathed.