Wondrous Strange by Lesley Livingston Page B

seen.
    “There.”
    “Maddox, if you’re pointing at something, I can’t see it. We’re invisible,” Sonny hissed. They had secreted themselves in a dim alcove backstage and had called up strong veils just for good measure.
    “That one way over there—in the green tunic. The one playing Puck.”
    “What about him?”
    “Let’s just say he’s not exactly ‘acting’ the part.”
    “He’s a boucca ?” Sonny’s eyes went wide.
    “Sh!” The veils might have hidden them from the sight of humans—even other Janus—and all but the most powerful Faerie, but they didn’t mask the sounds of their voices, and the acoustics in the old building were surprisingly good.
    “Sorry.” Sonny stared at the actor in green cartwheeling around on the stage. “Are you serious, Madd?”
    “The real deal.” Maddox’s tone was tinged with wariness. Boucca were a rare breed of Fae that were almost as powerful as High Fae royalty. Characteristically mysterious and notoriously changeable in their moods and allegiances, they had been known to serve the various Faerie courts, but mostly preferred to serve themselves. Wherever they went, stories of mischief and mayhem abounded. They were a colorful lot, flamboyant, but they also had a reputation for being dangerous if provoked.
    Sonny was dubious. The figure cavorting clownishly around the stage, hanging upside down by his knees from the set scaffolding as he said his lines, didn’t seem so very threatening. “Gods. No wonder he’s slumming at a theater. Pooks and their bloody theatrics.”
    “Yeah, see… I wouldn’t call him a ‘pook’ to his face if I were you.”
    “Ooh, I’m scared.” Sonny snorted, but he cast his Janus awareness in that direction, to get a sense of whatever it was about the boucca that had managed to impress Maddox so very much. After a moment he frowned. “I’m not reading him.”
    “No—and you won’t.” There was a great deal of respect in Maddox’s voice. “That there isn’t just any garden-variety boucca. He’s old magic. Powerful. A boucca like that can fly under your Janus radar without so much as breaking a sweat.”
    “How can you know for sure?”
    “I recognize him. I used to see him coming and going from the Unseelie Court in the days before Auberon shut the Gates. Before your time, Sonn.”
    Sonny blinked. “You don’t mean to tell me he’s the original Puck?”
    “Dunno,” Maddox mused. “I heard a rumor that the actual Puck has been stuck in the mortal realm for the last hundred years or so—trapped in a jar of honey buried under a rock somewhere in Ireland. Ever since he did something thatroyally pissed off a leprechaun.”
    “Wow.” Sonny whistled low. “I wonder what he did to deserve that.”
    “Who knows? Consider it a cautionary tale.” Maddox chuckled. “Leprechauns have their own fair share of ancient power and no discernible sense of humor.”
    From a seat in the audience, one of the mortals—the director, it seemed—had called a stop to the boucca’s scene, apparently satisfied with the work done on it (or perhaps just tired of telling Puck to “quit bouncing around the bloody set”). At any rate, they moved on to a scene with Sonny’s girl from the park.
    “C’mon, let’s get closer,” Sonny whispered to Maddox as he stepped farther into the wings, nearer to the stage proper.
    “Why?”
    “We might be able to find out something about her. You know—get a clue.”
    “You suit yourself. I’m not getting any closer to that boucca than I have to.”
    “Fine. Go have a look around outside then. See if you can find a kelpie tied up anywhere.”
    “I don’t even see why you think there’s any connection. That girl could have dropped her script anytime,” Maddox muttered as he turned to leave. “It could have been sitting there for days. Weeks.”
    Sonny had considered that, but he had also seen the girl—Kelley—with the very same script only an hour or two beforehe’d found it