A Pale Shade of Night

A Pale Shade of Night

Chapter 13: Alexandria Part 1 -- Demon Archives and Dusty Songs

A dark night on the whipping winds soon faded to dawn, and Arcana returned to the Dark Lord bearing her catch. Distracted with his war plans, he hastily dismissed her with an impatient wave as soon as he had examined the new souls. Freedom from the Dark Lord and his oppressive fortress proved to be an amazing driving force, for within the hour she had packed, changed her appearance, and Apparated to the ancient city of Alexandria.

The modern, Muggle-filled streets buzzed with such activity that no one paid attention to the small woman that casually stepped out from between two buildings. She had well-worn, eclectic clothes and a wide-brimmed straw hat that she kept adjusting along with the wisps of frizzy, graying blonde hair that had escaped her attempts to tie them back. An old leather bag was thrown over one shoulder, finishing the picture of a traveling scholar. She walked unhurriedly amidst the bustling sea of Muggles, pausing to look in a shop window from time to time. No one would have suspected the danger that lay beneath this most innocent appearance, which was the point of the glamour, after all.

It was near midday in Alexandria. The sun was half-hidden by high clouds, and a comfortably cool breeze was coming off of the sea. Muggle tourists and suit-wearing business travelers rushed about between the tall monoliths of concrete and steel. Older buildings, lovingly preserved relics of ancient days, periodically interrupted the flow of modern life, giving Arcana an uncomfortable reminder of how quickly things changed in this world. Even so near to the sea, she could tell that the desert was near, and with luck she would not need to venture out there. The dry heat and dusty winds drew the moisture from Arcana's skin and stung it with sandy grit. She was not a desert creature by any stretch of the imagination.

Loud honking and then an even louder crash broke through the din of the city noise. Arcana stepped around a group of Muggles that had been frozen in place, riveted by the scene. There had been no deaths - she would have felt it - but she did not care either way. A couple human lives meant nothing. Several cars were stranded in the middle of the busy street, now dented and steaming. Their enraged owners leaned out their car windows and yelled at each other, making a variety of obscene gestures to punctuate their rage. Vehicles began to back up behind the wreckage, and the honking began anew. Arcana sneered and turned down a side street to avoid the commotion. The quiet Library beckoned to her with its deep vaults and shaded courtyards.

Arcana entered an older section of the city, packed with even more Muggle tourists searching for authentic souvenirs and getting ripped off by street vendors. She meandered along the winding streets until she came to one of the oldest Wizarding parts of the city. Heavily protected by Muggle repellent charms, it had existed since before she had begun visiting the mortal world. She slipped down a narrow alley, quickly stepping aside and pressing against the wall to allow passage to a group of wizards herding magical beasts that had been bred from natural camels, but no longer bore much resemblance to their ancestors. Being market day, witches and wizards packed the squares and shaded streets dressed in a myriad of fashions - Wizarding Alexandria had its tourists as well, after all. Seeing a newspaper stand, Arcana bought a copy of the Daily Prophet and promptly cringed.

Emblazoned across the top of the front page were the words, "Terror at Hogwarts, Do You-Know-Who to Blame?"

Arcana stepped into the shadows behind a booth, groaning at the terrible pun, and then scowled at the rather impressive moving picture of her astride the black unicorn, facing off against the Aurors at Hogwarts. One of those weedy students must have had a camera. The strange thing was that all the dementors seemed to have glided out of the shot. Arcana raised the paper to her face, looked closely, and caught a corner of rippling fabric at the edge of the picture. She would not have thought that dementors were camera shy. The Aurors, on the other hand, were all posing gallantly and casting ineffective spells with a flourish. She squinted, and was relieved to see that her face was concealed in the picture, probably thanks to the light glamour she had cast in Dumbledore's office. The rest of the article was rather sensational and confirmed her suspicions that the Dark Lord was not going to be pleased. Her research would need to be fruitful for her to avoid a round of the Cruciatus Curse.

Arcana gained entrance to the Great Library with little fuss and was promptly shown to the small room where she would stay while at the Library. After storing her few possessions and undoing the Transfiguration spells on her clothing that let them pass for Muggle-wear, Arcana made the trek down to the resident demonologist. The Library was full of long corridors lined with tall arched windows that overlooked vast vaulted rooms filled floor to ceiling with books. Witches and wizards from all parts of the world were scanning the shelves, reading tomes, and furiously scribbling notes.

Down seven flights of stairs, through an elaborate entryway, and past convoluted wards, Arcana found herself deep within the bowels of the Library complex where the most dangerous texts were kept. The old craggy witch, Isabella Cumanus, nearly hidden behind stacks of ancient books, sat behind the same equally ancient desk, hunched over in exactly the same position as the last time Arcana had seen her. Librarian was not the proper term for Isabella, and neither was Curator, though that was her title. Rather, her job consisted of a combination of guardian, researcher, and record keeper, weighted heavily toward the guardian aspect.

Sharp, dark eyes looked up from parchment and squinted suspiciously at Arcana from between stacks of books. Isabella was very possessive of her charges.

"You're back," Isabella ground out in Italian. "Druids don't toy with demons and neither should you, girl."

"Only fools toy with demons, and they don't live for long," Arcana snarled back in a voice deeper than her own. Isabella's abrasive greeting had not changed since she had last visited. The witch would never consider anyone outside the Summoners Guild worthy of demon secrets, even though that very same Guild had thrown Isabella out on the streets some four decades ago after some quickly hushed up debacle. It was difficult to get access to this section of the library, and Isabella did not have many visitors.

Isabella smirked coldly, stretching her wrinkled face into a macabre mask. "The Muirgheal clan has dirty secrets indeed."

Arcana shrugged, irritated with the Dark witch's banter. "We all have secrets, and I am here for more, but if you are not up to the challenge of the hunt . . ." Arcana trailed off with a sneer. Isabella gave a harsh laugh and set aside her ratty quill.

"Nonsense. I know you are no druid, Maga. For whom do you search?"

"That I do not know."

*** *** *** ***

The first day Arcana spent in the Demon Archives with Isabella was unproductive at best. The second day proved equally useless, and gave Arcana a terrible headache. At the end of the third day, Isabella swore a tirade in Italian and rudely kicked Arcana out of her library for the night. Arcana did not mind terribly much leaving the deep vaults and returning to her room to wash away the cloying scent of burnt sage, rosemary, and dittany that Isabella used for general purpose magical cleansing. The foul nature of the contents of the vaults meant that the pungent mixture was always smoking in ugly clay vessels set on every free horizontal surface and some vertical ones.

Whispering books, screaming books, books that could corrode skin, books whose words seeped into the mind, trying to drive the reader mad, and worse filled the shelves of the Demon Archives. Arcana heard all of their cruel whisperings in her mind, felt their corruption in her very soul, and could almost see the horde of faceless tormentors as they strained against their magical bindings, reaching for her, their ghostly hands grasping at her limbs. Spending hour after hour in the Archives surrounded by that horror was a nightmare and was awakening some old memories that she would have been pleased to leave in their dusty corners in the back of her mind. The Dark Lord had better compensate her handsomely for enduring this, Arcana thought with a sneer, though she knew that would never come to pass. Her only compensation would be the absence of agony, if she were lucky.

Arcana locked her door and sat on the narrow bed to unlace her boots. When they lay discarded on the floor, she stretched her feet and sat with her back to the cool wall with her legs crossed on the bed and began the lengthy process of clearing her mind. The influence of the Archives was still reaching out and whispering, faint tendrils of its corrupted magic brushing against her soul. After an hour of mediation, the smoky magic faded and gave up. Arcana did not know how Isabella lived with that horror every day, but then again she was human and did not have the same dangerous sensitivities as Arcana.

Three days with absolutely no results, and only four more to go. Arcana tried not to think about what the Dark Lord's reaction would be if she returned empty-handed. She shuddered as a phantom pain coursed through her, still vividly remembering the agony of the Cruciatus Curse even though it had been cast on her months ago. It had not used to hurt like that. The curse had always been hideously painful, yes, but not that unbearable, mindless, inescapable torment; another sign of the Dark Lord's growing power, and of her weakening.

Seeing the sun dipping toward horizon, Arcana shook her head and pushed her worries aside. Husaline, the Head Curator of the Library, had been nagging her every day since she had arrived to join him for the evening entertainment in the courtyards, and she had finally relented and promised to come tonight.

The series of interconnecting courtyards was the center of the Library's culture. Witches, wizards, and some non-humans, the scholars of the wizarding world, mingled, drank, and argued into the small hours of the morning. Once there, Arcana quickly found herself with a cup of mint tea in hand courtesy of one of the serving wizards. She mentally stepped away from the din of conversation and traced the constellations in the clear night sky with her eyes, wishing she could have enjoyed the night in a more peaceful manner. The air was cool and crisp, with a light breeze that rustled the leaves of the exotic vines that clung to the thick columns and the walls, saturating the courtyard with the perfume of their flowers. She pushed some frizzy hair away from her eyes, wishing for the thousandth time that she could wear her own skin in public.

"Did you hear that Lithuania just made Transmogrification of humans illegal?" Arcana overheard one exasperated and rather questionable-looking wizard ranting to his companion. Both appeared to have spent too long inside damp dungeons, as the hems of their dark robes were molding. Transmogrification was a branch of Transfiguration dealing with very permanent changes in the shape and appearance of living things. It was popular, especially among Dark witches, but few witches or wizards wanted to test new spells on themselves.

"Next it will be Russia! What's the harm in it anyway? It's only a few Muggles. If this keeps going, I'll be stuck working in some remote jungle in central Africa," the wizard grumbled, taking a swig of something that was giving off noxious vapors.

Over by a fountain, a Chinese witch in red silks was arguing with a very blonde wizard about the various attributes of their preferred rune sets. One huddle of wizards was engaging in some real time Arithmancy, sketching symbols in the air and poking at floating equations with their wands. A group of dwarves was discussing magical metallurgy in the corner, while a lone palomino centaur was gazing up at the sky, oblivious to the heated arguments around him.

Skirting a pair of dour-looking Dark witches, Arcana helped herself to the well-stocked buffet and went in search of a quiet corner. She slowly picked her way across several crowded courtyards until she found one she had not been in before. It was quiet and nearly empty, making it perfect in her opinion. With luck she might manage to remain here unmolested for the entire evening. Arcana sat on the edge of a marble fountain and ate, enjoying the moment of peace. The humidity of the gurgling water felt good after spending so much time in the desiccated vaults. The Library's charms were designed with books and scrolls in mind, not patrons. This morning her skin had itched abominably and only the liberal application of salve had made it bearable.

A marble unicorn sculpture in the center of the fountain tilted its head and regarded Arcana with a curious look. It resembled the lightly built pure white unicorns she was familiar with in the fae realms, not the sturdier beasts that roamed the forests of this world.

"Ah the unicorn," exclaimed Husaline, walking out from a shadowy archway. "Many mysteries there, Rowan Fairith of Muirgheal." He watched amusedly as the statue tossed its mane and turned around, marble hooves clicking on its base. "High strung, that one."

Husaline was a thin, old wizard with dark leathery skin that had seen too much sun. He was dressed in layers of light earth-tone robes, and wore a maroon turban with a large golden insignia representing his rank as Head Curator pinned above his forehead. Despite his age, his mind was sharp, and he was nearly as well known as Dumbledore in this part of the world. Being considered a great wizard, his sanity was questionable - more questionable than that of wizards in general.

"Come," he urged with a smile. "I didn't drag you away from demonic scrolls to sit alone. There is a small group that you must join." He noticed Arcana's empty cup. "Ah! And I would be a terrible host to let you go thirsty. Come."

Arcana relented and left the quiet to go with Husaline, glancing back to see the unicorn statue watching her with blank eyes over its shoulder. She hid a frown, wondering what good her glamour was if a piece of enchanted marble could see through it.

The group that Husaline was so eager for Arcana to meet was crowded in the center of private courtyard, talking animatedly. Their banter nearly drowned out the sound of several small gurgling fountains. An abundance of torches lit the courtyard and created a warm, intimate atmosphere. Upon approaching, it clear that the group had huddled so close together in order to be within easy reach of a continuously refilling table stacked with dishes and platters containing a greater variety of food than the main buffet. Husaline refilled Arcana's cup with warm mint tea from one of several silver pitchers, and she nodded in thanks.

"Ferril's Bane is going to be the end of me," ranted a balding Eastern European wizard. "They've started raiding Muggle factories." He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper that Arcana could easily hear. "I even heard they're recruiting at Durmstrang now. Duels breaking out all over the school these days."

Arcana sipped her tea and nodded to several witches and wizards as Husaline introduced her. She grabbed a low cushion within arms-reach of the table and sat at Husaline's side. This was politics, she realized upon catching bits of other conversations. They wanted to know about Britain, and that meant they wanted to know about the Dark Lord.

"Ferril's Bane is worrying," Husaline muttered to Arcana, leaning close. "Their numbers are growing. Still, the . . . situation in Great Britain." He shook his head in exasperation. "We should have known the Potter child wouldn't be the end of it. No one wanted to see a wizard like that rise again."

Arcana refilled her plate from the table. "No, but we rarely get what we want." She noticed several wizards surreptitiously listening in. It was time for Muirgheal to say her piece.

"You can feel the tension in the air," Arcana said softly, scowling at the selection of appetizers on her plate. "Aurors are everywhere. After the attack on the Ministry of Magic, people are scared, thinking Death Eaters are going to jump out from behind every dustbin, cursing anyone who looks like they have Muggle in them."

Husaline smiled grimly. "And that is exactly what he wants them to think. Is the Ministry fighting back actively this time? I haven't spoken with my old friend Dumbledore. My hands are full with the Library."

"Personally, I try to avoid the Ministry given my non-citizen status. It's been getting rather dicey, especially with the new Minister of Magic, Scrimgeour trying to prove his worth. I was almost cornered in Diagon Alley a couple months back." Arcana shifted on her low cushion to balance the plate on her knee and then muttered a stabilizing charm to keep it there. "The Ministry will just polarize the war, no matter the advice they get from Hogwarts. Their citizens are terrified, rightly so, so they must do something, even if it is the wrong thing."

That line of conversation continued, other members of the select group offering opinions of various worth, and Arcana, playing Muirgheal, danced around any mention of the Dark Lord, not needing to fake her nervousness. She could not risk revealing that she knew more than she should, and was glad that she had read up on recent news to know what had been made public. The witches and wizards did not seem too disgruntled by her evasiveness, since no magical person hailing from Britain could hear about the Dark Lord without twitching.

Arcana excused herself soon after the group had exhausted the subject of British Wizarding politics, but not before Husaline persuaded her to return the following night. She had a feeling he had been touting her storytelling skills, and she loathed the idea of performing for the crowd like a dancing monkey. Arcana stopped to look at a painting of a caravan of wizards camping in the desert, but she realized her mind was elsewhere upon catching herself humming an old tune. The song died on a dissonant note, and she sneered before continuing toward her small room.

Irritated or not, she had unconsciously started pulling old ballads and epic poems from her dusty memory. Fae enjoyed stories much more than often-dull history, and she could not help but collect them as she traveled. A few more tales flitted through her mind, and she chuckled, thinking it might not be so bad after all, and it would not be the first time Muirgheal had entertained at the Library. They would get what they deserved if they did ask.

After bathing, a most annoying task while glamoured, and applying more salve to her dry skin, Arcana settled on a story. She opened the windows, even though it was cold outside. Shivering was a small price to pay for a respite from the musty air she would be breathing all day tomorrow. She shook her head in resignation at the spark of excitement that had been lit inside her just because of one silly story.

Her protective bitterness suddenly fled in the light of that joy, and a lonely hollow gaped in its place. It lasted but a moment before cold apathy swelled to fill the void. Playing Muirgheal for so long a stretch was a strain, especially when the false-being had a much richer life then she.

Arcana sneered at the silent stars with Muirgheal's steel-blue eyes and scratched an itchy patch of skin. If she survived Lord Voldemort, she swore that she would include two new clauses in every contract she signed: no Dark Lords and no demons.

*** *** *** ***

The morning of Arcana's fourth day in Alexandria began with another bath to wash off the previous night's moisturizing salve so she could apply a fresh layer to her dry skin. Seeing the sunrise, she waved her hand toward the window, and the curtains swished shut as if yanked sharply. Arcana shook her head, not meaning to have put that much force into the spell. She could almost feel the Demon Archives reaching out to her already.

Isabella was not at her desk when Arcana reached the Archives, but the fae heard harsh whispers and sensed the witch setting wards. When the wards had settled, Isabella walked out from behind the forbidding shelves. She was stooped with age and moved slowly, but she held her wand steady and appraised Arcana with a scowl.

"You had better be ready, Maga. I still can't read you," Isabella grumbled, referring to Arcana's mental preparedness to handling the dangerous magic in the Archives. Arcana made no comment.

Isabella crossed her arms, still holding her wand. "I think I know what you are looking for, Maga, but I tell you now, you don't want to find it!"

"It is not so much want as necessity, Isabella," Arcana said coolly, ignoring the way the back of her neck prickled. The books were already whispering to her.

"The Guild doesn't summon the Idimmu, Maga." Isabella crooked her ancient finger at Arcana, and her face split into a dark grin. "But I am curious now. You will have your name, and more if it is here. It is your body and soul, not mine, that will be forfeit if you attempt to summon."

The Iddimu? a familiar voice from Arcana's memory whispered apprehensively through her mind.

Arcana stiffly followed Isabella into the Archives. Books rattled against their chains as she passed, and Isabella had to stop several times to re-ward them, after glowering at Arcana. The Guild was wise in thinking that the Idimmu, the great demons, should never be summoned. For a moment, Arcana was thrown back into her past.

The Idimmu . . . the Idimmu can only be summoned after intense and thorough preparation, Arcana. We have not dared for . . . a long time. It is too dangerous for us.

Isabella took Arcana deeper into the Archives than she had ever been before. The high ceiling was stained black with soot from the constant smoke of incense, which irritated Arcana's nose. The demon magic kept wrapping around her, and when she pried it off, more took its place. Isabella stopped at an open space between the towering shelves. The tendrils of magic released Arcana with a disappointed sigh, and she stepped further away from the shelves.

The floor was patterned with protection circles, inlaid in silver upon the flagstone floor. Isabella sharply pointed to where she wished Arcana to stand. Arcana went there without complaint and watched Isabella Levitate a heavy tome from a particularly menacing shelf, all the time muttering a myriad of wards and protection spells. The temperature of the room plummeted and the torches flickered as a strong wind rose, bringing with it the stench of sulfur, but even in the dim light Arcana could see the runes on the binding. She quickly averted her eyes, hearing a dark, inhuman chuckle echo in her head.

A tasty fae . . . oh yes, we would take you with us . . . down into the deep.

The voice ceased abruptly as Isabella finished the last warding spell, and Arcana shuddered. This was pure madness. The rotten Dark magic weaving around Isabella and the books was nauseating. Arcana wrapped her arms around herself and fought to retain her sanity, not daring to call upon her High magic in this terrible place. It would wake the demon books, and they would tear her apart.

It went on and on, and Arcana stood there, frozen in place with her eyes clenched shut, trying not to listen to Isabella pulling information from the book by force. She was so cold, like when the Dark Lord had cast the Blood Chilling Curse. That horrid laugh broke through Isabella's wards and rattled in Arcana's head.

We await you, tasty fae. Foolish fae . . .

The voice faded when Isabella slammed the book shut and hauled it back to its shelf. The witch grabbed Arcana's arm with surprising strength and pulled the fae back out of the Archives. Arcana followed dumbly, shivering from the cold and her instinctual fear of that voice and that corrupted, evil power.

"Never, Maga, in all my years," Isabella spit out, scowling down at Arcana, who was leaning against the witch's desk for support. Isabella's normally neat grey hair was mussed and there was a thin sheen of sweat on her wrinkled face. "Only a lich would have a chance at surviving summoning that! And only one living wizard has that kind of power. You certainly could not handle it."

"I don't want to summon it, Isabella, but I need to know how," Arcana said weakly, her reasoning sounding hollow in her own ears. She drew herself straight and scowled, wishing she could think clearly enough to come up with something more convincing, but the demon magic was swirling feverishly around her head.

"Really, Maga, I'm not senile. Whatever mess you've tangled yourself in is going to be your end." Isabella frowned. "Get out of my Archives before you pass out on my floor. Come back tomorrow and I might tell you the name of your murderer."

Arcana could not help but smile bitterly. Isabella regarded her with suspicion. "I'll let you know if you get it right," Arcana muttered darkly, and walked away before she said anything even more foolish.

The sun was at its zenith when Arcana reached the ground level of the Library. She squinted and turned away from the harsh light streaming through the tall windows that lined the corridor. Like all other windows in the Library, they were made of glass and wrought iron, tainted iron, and faced the courtyards. Beautiful marble, laid in intricate patterns back in the late Roman era, ran along the entire length of the hallway, but Arcana hardly noticed the artistry as she walked in a daze of demon magic.

The outside of the Library was, and always had been, an impregnable fortress capable of repelling both Muggle and magical attacks. Numerous repairs and scorch marks on the outer walls were a testament to those that had failed to breach the Library's protections. As with many Wizarding complexes, the Library was also much larger on the inside than on the outside, and it was continually being expanded to make room for its ever-growing collections. After more than two thousand years, the place had become a labyrinth, or rather a huge, though beautifully maintained, mess. Stairways did not always lead to the same place at all hours of the day, and some connected floors were not physically adjacent to each other. Since Apparition was impossible within the Library's walls, many patrons made use of the flying carpets that were staffed with mostly reliable guides to ease the daunting tasks of navigation and transportation.

Silk curtains fluttered near an open door that let a hint of sea breeze sneak past the Library's extensive atmospheric charms. Arcana caught the scent of lunch drifting from the courtyards and her stomach growled. She grabbed a few things from the buffet and ate them on the way back to her rooms with a scowl on her face. The tattered ghosts of voices whispered in her head, and phantom hands grasped at her limbs. If it had not meant getting cursed within an inch of her life, Arcana would not return to the Archives ever again. The effects of the demon magic were getting worse. On some level the books recognized what she was, and they were hungry. It would be a much faster death than if an actual demon took her, but - she shuddered and stopped that train of thought. Her skin prickled as a husky laugh echoed in her head, and Arcana turned her full attention to stripping away the demon magic before it gained a firm hold.

It took Arcana several hours to banish the demon magic, and when she pried away the last wisp of it she stretched out on the narrow bed and drew a shuddering breath. The flowering vines outside her window waved in the wind, casting fluttering shadows across her face. She watched the distant gulls wheel across the cloudy sky and slipped into that calm place within her mind. The scent of the sea mingled with that of the city and of the flowering vines. Arcana took a luxurious breath, and her eyes drifted shut.

She woke with a start from her unintentional nap, feeling considerably better. If she hurried, there would be time for a bit of personal research before she was due in the courtyards. She halted midway in lacing up her boots, suddenly realizing her good fortune, and she laughed. It began quietly, but soon came out with unrestrained glee, like a madly cackling Wild faerie when the hunt was joined. She had three whole days, plus the remainder of this one, free of the Dark Lord and nearly free of demons. The Great Library, the city, the sea, and the lakes and desert beyond seemed to open their arms to Arcana. The weight of Darkness lifted from her shoulders and she laughed merrily again.

Arcana made her way to the enormous collection of Potions books, humming a jaunty tune. This collection was housed in a series of great rooms with tiled ceilings depicting various elements of the potions and alchemical branches of magic, and it was altogether much more pleasant than the Demon Archives. The Potions Collection Curator, a rather young and extremely academic looking Egyptian wizard with reading glasses perched on his nose, gave Arcana a nasty glare when she entered. She stopped humming, but instead grinned back madly. He gaped at her, speechless, and Arcana took full advantage of his silence by beginning her barrage of questions.

Satisfied with the day's work, Arcana left the Potions Collection with a bounce in her step, a triumphant smile on her face, and one less thing to worry about. The sun had nearly set and a breeze was coming off the sea. It would be a pleasant night, both warmer and drier than recent ones in Britain. A few clothing Transfigurations later Arcana nodded in the mirror, satisfied with the minstrel staring back at her, and stuffed the impossible glamoured hair behind her ears again. If bathing while glamoured was annoying, washing her hair was a nightmare. She was almost dreading removing the glamour, knowing she was not going to be a pretty sight. Vanity, she chuckled wickedly as she adjusted her floppy hat, was the curse of the fae.

Husaline's private courtyard was rowdy again when Arcana arrived. A Spanish witch and an Arab wizard were both gesturing wildly and yelling at the same time about the moral implications of groundwater redirecting spells. Arcana slipped in between a werewolf and a vampire to get to the table laden with her dinner. The werewolf, a graying wizard, muttered apologetically and stepped back to give Arcana room, seeming happy to have an excuse to get away from the vampire. She chanced a glance up at the tall vampire and nearly dropped the pastry in her hand. He was scowling down at her, a look of contempt etched on his tanned, ageless face.

The vampire plucked the pastry from Arcana's hand and put it on her plate. "Not up to your usual standards tonight, are you, old friend?"

"I uh . . ."

"Muirgheal, my friend. Come and join me," Husaline called to Arcana. She fled from the vampire without a backwards glance, worried that the heat she felt in her face was showing. It just had to be him that she ran into. And the day had been going so well, at least after she had left the Archives.

"Good evening, Husaline," Arcana said, glad he had saved a cushion for her again. "I trust the day has gone well?"

Husaline chuckled and poured Arcana a cup of mint tea. "As well as can be expected," he said with good humor. "I was down in the Demon Archives this afternoon. Isabella was burning so much incense that I could smell it several floors up! I had to enhance some of the air filtering charms before the Curators of other deep collections started banging on my door." He smiled, and Arcana studied her teacup with great interest, troubled about how much fuss her morning in the Archives had caused. She was trying to keep a low profile. Her life was messy enough without people getting the wrong ideas - or rather, far-too-correct ideas - about Muirgheal.

"And Isabella was stomping around, muttering to herself. Didn't notice me until she nearly ran into me. Though with all that smoke, you couldn't see more than five feet in front of you." Arcana chuckled nervously, hoping that Isabella would still tell her what she needed to know.

The conversations soon turned to the mess in Great Britain, and Arcana once again had to dodge bothersome questions, insisting that she was remaining neutral in the war and was simply trying to avoid both factions. Arcana was saved from the brunt of the questioning by the werewolf Remus Lupin, who was apparently working actively against the Dark Lord and was all too eager to tell what he knew. He kept trying to catch her eye, clearly wanting to talk to her in private, but Arcana ignored his attempts. The old vampire was watching her too; standing somewhere behind her, making Arcana's neck tingle faintly under his gaze. She resisted the urge to finger the spot where he had bitten her before. The arrogant bastard had apparently not forgiven her for vanishing on him the last time.

"Enough gloomy talk for one night," Husaline announced, interrupting Arcana's staring contest with a potted plant. Once Lupin had started talking, the group had ceased paying attention to her, which made her tingling neck all the more noticeable. "We only have our folklorist," he said, gesturing to Arcana, "for a few more days and I know some of you already have requests."

Arcana clenched her jaw shut to prevent it from falling open and letting a groan escape. This was not what Husaline had hinted at when she first arrived at the Library. It had sounded like he wanted a song-story or two with some historical discussion, not a bloody concert. Husaline Enlarged a guitar he had hidden in a pocket and handed it to Arcana with a knowing gleam in his dark eyes. It not her instrument of choice, but she supposed she would make do. She had not carried her own for decades. He knew that Muirgheal could never refuse an audience, a character trait Arcana was regretting including in the act, so she was left with little choice but to play.

The motley group of magicals watched her tune the guitar with varying degrees of interest, though the number of happy faces outnumbered the indifferent ones. She could not help but wonder how the expressions on her audience's faces would change if the fae Arcana was sitting before them instead of the eccentric scholar-witch whose appearance she currently wore. When she looked up again, Arcana half-expected to see the familiar mix of hatred, disgust, and fear upon the faces in front of her, followed by a barrage of curses and a dagger through the heart, but instead she saw the same expressions as she had a moment before.

Arcana wrapped herself tightly in the mantle of Muirgheal and pushed down her age and bitterness, locking them away so they would not shine in her eyes if the passion of song took her. It would not do to make her fear of discovery a reality. She shrugged her cloak off, settled the guitar's strap over her shoulder, and cleared her throat.

"I will apologize first for the dark tone of this first piece as I'm sure you're all looking for a respite from such things, but I need to get it out before I can lighten the gloom. Secondly, living several days with the Library's atmospheric charms does wonders, the ugly kind mind you, for one's singing voice, so we'll just have to play this by ear, so to speak." There was a smattering of laughter and Arcana offered her audience a wry smile of the sort the Dark Lord had never seen on her face. She could act when necessary.

"Yew wands, as many of you know, have a certain reputation," Arcana said, idly plucking a few strings. "Not all of it is baseless, but I believe this not-quite-myth began with an all too true and all too tragic tale. Long ago, a century or so before the founding of Hogwarts, there was a wizard. This man was not evil, nor was he good, but like most of us he was lost somewhere in the middle, in the grey. He wanted to protect his family, which he did, and he wanted to live well, which he did, but it was never enough. He always wanted more. Being a strong wizard, this desire, this need for power led him down a Dark path and into madness. He became the danger from which he once protected his family, but he was loved and no one could bear the burden of his murder. So instead they turned to the arcane and to the elves, not house-elves, mind you, that dwelt nearby - for elves could still be found about Britain in those days.

"When his family confronted him, the mad wizard drew his wand, but upon trying to cast a spell, his feet grew into roots and his fingers into branches. His essence joined that of his wand and together they grew into the greatest yew tree ever seen.

"The yew lives a very long time and is often found near graves. It makes you wonder if this old wizard and his decedents are watching over your dead."

Arcana's audience became very quiet and she could feel their unease. She sang the ballad, only stopping once when her voice cracked badly. Muirgheal's voice required much more care than her own. Enthusiastic applause at the end of the ballad startled Arcana, and Husaline laughed.

"You really do forget how much you're missed, Rowan," Husaline said, leaning close so that only Arcana could hear. "You must visit more often." Arcana smiled back, chagrinned. A ripple of irritation flared in the back of her mind, but she stamped out the black cloud with the help of the excitement flowing off the closely packed group.

"Perhaps you are right." Arcana let the emotions of those around her lift her up until her smile was no longer an act. It couldn't hurt to have a bit of fun.

Many cups of mint tea later, Arcana handed the guitar back to Husaline and rubbed her sore fingers that were no longer used to playing for hours at a time. It was late, and the remaining crowd was pleasantly tired. Arcana was still caught up in the high of performing and sleep was the last thing on her mind. The old vampire finally approached, an inscrutable expression on his dark and confident face. Though he had not seen the sun for longer than Arcana had known of the mortal world, he still retained the coloring of his human heritage.

The vampire nodded to Arcana and offered some bland compliment, but all she heard was the overlaying whisper echo through her mind. "Midnight tomorrow. You remember where."

Suddenly jarred halfway out of character, Arcana stiffened and a muscle in her cheek twitched. She gritted her teeth and pushed Muirgheal to the fore again. The vampire grinned down at her darkly, letting his fangs show suggestively, and then left without another word.

"Ah, I see Xerusk is trying to work his wiles on you." Husaline caught up with Arcana. "We keep a close enough watch on him, Rowan, and he'll soon get hungry enough to look for an easier meal. Some nights they line up for him." He shook his head, disgusted. "A real celebrity these days."

"Well I suppose being bitten by the center of vampiric popular culture is quite the mark of distinction in certain crowds." Arcana raised her hand to rub her neck, but realized what she was doing and instead adjusted her collar. Xerusk's watchful gaze was still on her back. He was acting just as badly as the bloody Dark Lord.

"Still, if Xerusk is bothering you . . . he does cover up his murders well."

"Let's just say he's not used to being denied. Starts prattling on about the ten virgins a night story if you don't walk away." Husaline gave her a questioning look and Arcana explained, "We've met before."

"Ah . . ."

"And no, there was no bloodletting, however much he wanted it. I'm not too concerned. Too many people would notice my absence if he took me."

Husaline shook his head. "Sometimes I worry about you, Rowan."

Arcana sighed, seeing that she was not being led back to her room. The adrenaline from the concert was ebbing and all she could think of was her bed, however uncomfortable it was. "Husaline, I am tired . . ."

"Wait a moment," he whispered and Arcana's nerves prickled. He opened his office door and waved Arcana inside. If he had set up a meeting with the werewolf she was just going to walk out, but when she entered, she saw no one waiting in the office.

Husaline offered Arcana a seat with the grimmest expression she had ever seen on his face. She sat down and watched him cautiously, looking for any sign that she had been betrayed, but his magic was calm and he made no move to draw his wand.

"Now just hear me out before you start. I am offering you sanctuary in the Library, Rowan." Arcana opened her mouth, but Husaline's raised hand and tired look bought her silence. "Your allegiance has been questioned. That's why Remus Lupin was here tonight, to watch you. The British Ministry of Magic wants to detain you, and Dumbledore wants your loyalty proven. And I must say with your current research, I am wondering as well."

Arcana's heart pounded in her chest. "How dare-"

"Please, Rowan. Let me finish." Arcana glared back and felt Muirgheal's persona crumble at the edges, though the glamour was still firmly in place.

"Whatever your reasons for studying the Iddimu, those aren't my concern as the Library is neutral in all such matters." Husaline paused a moment for added gravity. "Voldemort," he said the name in a strangled way, "is hunting you, Rowan. His spies have been seen in Alexandria on more than one occasion, looking for you. If you leave the Library, you will be in danger."

A searing combination of fear and hatred pulsed through Arcana's veins. She stood and stalked over to the window. Her fingers twitched when she recalled what the Dark Lord would have done if she had turned her back on him in the middle of a conversation. She rested her hands on the cool windowsill and stared up at the stars.

"I didn't know. I knew I was watched, but . . ." Arcana left the rest unsaid, suddenly feeling old and wanting nothing more than to disappear for a century and wait to be forgotten by all living wizards. "I just want to be let bloody well alone," she said, no longer sure if she was speaking for Muirgheal or herself.

"We've seen more of his spies lately. He's growing impatient," Husaline said. Arcana shuddered and gripped the windowsill with her clawless fingers. "The Death Eaters will not be far behind. People are disappearing, Rowan. They are dying slowly and painfully after he is done with them."

Arcana knew all too well how true that was. She had seen. She had watched. She had killed.

"Bodies are rarely found," he said softly. They were thrown to the edge of the forest by the Dark Lord's fortress as fodder for the creatures that dwelt there.

"I don't want you to be next. We have never been close, but I will not sit by and watch you die when I can do something. You would be safe here, Rowan."

The Dark Mark on Arcana's arm warmed under her skin and she resisted the temptation to cover it with her hand. It was well hidden under her fae glamour and sleeve, but she felt the ugly stain through it all.

"But then he would know where I was," Arcana said softly, fighting to hold onto Muirgheal. She felt split, like she was speaking for two people. "If he knew that, he would find a way to take me, or kill me. Not even Dumbledore can keep him out of Hogwarts. There is always a way."

"The Library is much older than Hogwarts, Rowan." Arcana stiffened when she heard Husaline rise and walk behind her. She did not turn around, afraid that he would see the fae in the human eyes of Muirgheal. "During the last war I refused to grant sanctuary, and a wizard paid with his life and the lives of his family. I vowed not to make the same mistake again."

"I can't accept, Husaline. I can't. I will hide." Arcana took a calming breath, turned around and resolutely looked into Husaline's troubled eyes. "No one can find me if I don't want to be found, not even the Bloody-Dark-Lord-Who-Refused-to-Die-When-He-Should-Have."

Husaline sighed tiredly. "I hope you are right, Rowan, for your sake."