Witch-Blood

by Ash Fitzsimmons

  “Say no more. Still sheathed, or do I need to dig through your stuff?”

  “I can handle them. And, uh…thank you,” I mumbled, making the most of my hard plastic knife and spork. A few futile seconds later, I looked up from the overdone lamb when Joey gripped my shoulder.

  “Forget the Arcanum,” he said with a firm squeeze. “With all due respect to Helen, they’re a bunch of inbred freaks in a missile silo. You know who else meets that description? Doomsday cults.” I grinned, and Joey shook his head. “You expect me to base my self-worth on what a doomsday cult thinks of me? Hell, no. Same goes for you,” he continued, locking his tired eyes on mine. “The last time I checked, you were a high lord. So why do you care if some wizards aren’t happy about that? They can rot in their bunker.”

  I shrugged. “Family?”

  “Family’s the people who love you, not just the people related to you,” he replied, settling back on his bag. “You know what your problem is, Aiden?”

  “Which one?” I muttered, giving up on my utensils. The meat had cooled enough that I didn’t burn my fingers when I went at it caveman-style.

  “Exactly. You think there’s something wrong with you.”

  I looked up from the chop in my hands and frowned. “Would you like a few examples?”

  “No. I want you to do me a favor,” said Joey, and put his plate aside. “I want you to stop thinking that you owe the universe an apology for existing. You don’t. I firmly believe that on this count, there are no mistakes. So can you do that for me? Stop apologizing?”

  As I stared back at Joey, a dozen voices echoed the familiar litany in my head: Dud. Mongrel. Loser. Dog. Reject. Worthless. Failure. But as they rose to howling shouts, another voice cut through the cacophony: He’s right, you know. Listen to him.

  And just like that, the others were silenced.

  “Yeah,” I said, biting into my breakfast, “I think I can try.”

  Weeks on the run had put Joey in touch with his own limits, and his prediction about our next rest point couldn’t have been far off. We made good time over the hills, but by midday, he was flagging, and we called a halt to let him catch up on the sleep he’d forfeited the night before. “Just an hour or two,” he assured me, flashing the iPhone clone Rufus had given him. “I’ll set the alarm.”

  The beauty of faerie-made electronics was that they never seemed to need charging. The phone was useless for communication—there was no signal to be found, and I had no idea how Coileán had made his usable between realms, even if I trusted myself to experiment on Joey’s—but at least we had a sense of the world on the other side of the gate. Still set on Eastern Time, the phone no longer synched up with our days thanks to Faerie’s inherent weirdness, but it gave us some idea of how long we’d been away.

  Its calendar had insisted it was November 21—maybe a week to Thanksgiving, I mused as Joey slept. A month before, we’d been hiding out in the Keys with Georgie and Rufus, hoping for word from the merrow. A month before that, Coileán had taken me out for an afternoon at the British Museum, insisting that my buggy code would be waiting for me and that I needed a dose of sunlight. I’d protested that London was the last place I’d look for sun, but the weather had been glorious, cool with patchy clouds, and Coileán had stood behind me and quietly read aloud the Greek on the Rosetta Stone while I soaked it all in. It hadn’t surprised me that my brother could translate from ancient Greek—heck, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he could read hieroglyphics—but I realized he wasn’t doing it to impress me. He wanted me to understand. We’d moved on to the Elgin Marbles, and he took a spot beside me and folded his arms while I studied the line of sculptures. After a time, when the crowd around us thinned, he’d murmured, “This realm has its drawbacks, but there’s so much here that’s worth protecting.”

  “They’re pretty neat,” I said, nodding at the sculptures around us.

  “Beyond those. People, I mean.” We moved down the room, and he said, “I’ve found that no matter how trying things seem to become, there’s always one or two good people around if you know where to look. Also,” he added, pointing to the sculpture, “we’ve got a couple of those in the library. Seems like Elgin’s people had some issues with accounting. Take your time, enjoy,” he said, and stepped out of the room while I gawked at him.

  But that was two months ago, another time and another place.

  Two days ago, I’d found Coileán, only to leave him behind, helpless and trapped.

  It was all up to me now. If I was going to get him back…

  I held out my hand, and with a deep breath, I cleared my thoughts and stared at the hollow of my palm. “Come on,” I whispered to the ether, “don’t let me set the tent on fire.”

  There was nothing—and then, without warning, there was a ball of bright green flame burning in my hand.

  Fighting my first urge to shake it off—or, that failing, to stop, drop, and roll—I studied it as it twisted and flickered. It had no fuel source, nothing to contain it, but it remained where it had appeared, bound by the enchantment governing it. I flexed my palm, and the fire moved with it, never burning my skin. If I looked away from the fire and focused on the magic around it, I could pick out the currents feeding the flame, dull patches of ambient magic that blazed as they moved into invisible channels around my hand, like a diverted river picking up speed as it’s funneled through narrowing canals.

  I breathed slowly and cradled the flame like a baby bird, scared to spook it. As I passed my empty hand over it, the fire compressed into a green sphere the size of a softball, but it showed no sign of going out. On impulse, I tossed the fireball into the air and caught it, marveling at its existence.

  I made this. I did this.

  I felt the power coursing around me, through me, in me, and as I cupped the tiny inferno in my hands, a sudden realization came to mind: Hel couldn’t do this. Sure, she could do wonders with or without a wand, but I’d never seen a wizard conjure a fireball like the one I was holding. It was, Toula had explained, a faerie thing.

  And it was easy.

  The fire pulsed like a living creature, flickering and flush with magic.

  Something inside of me insisted that I put it out, tell no one, pretend it had never happened. It was bad, it was wrong, it was dangerous—and who was I to ask questions? What business did a dud have with magic? Magic was beyond me—it would always be beyond me—and my job was to listen to my betters and stay out of the way.

  But my betters couldn’t make a little fire like this, a flame that glowed the neon green of the aurora. It was a beautiful thing, that fire. I couldn’t see the evil in it—the magic, yes, but not the evil—and as I looked into its depths, another voice within me started to speak up. Not the realm’s voice, not my father’s, but a voice that I, with some surprise, recognized as my own.

  You are not evil. You are not a monster. You are.

  Slowly, I closed my hand into a fist, and the flame died away without so much as a puff of smoke. My palm tingled but wasn’t singed, and I knew—I knew—that the fire would return at my call.

  This…was me.

  And if the Arcanum hated me—if they feared me—then I could live with that. After all, they’d never liked me to begin with.

  True to his word, Joey dragged himself out on schedule and forced us onward. The pickings were slim that night—we found berries on the way, and Joey managed to shoot a few squirrels with his nail gun—but we were both tired enough to sleep with half-empty stomachs. He gave me the second watch, and by the time he woke, I’d mashed up some of the tart berries and heated them for a change of pace. We ate quickly—then again, there wasn’t much food to make us linger around the fire—and set off, looking for landmarks as we crossed the endless woods.

  After a few missteps, an hour of backtracking, and, oddly enough, two very startled peacocks, we paused outside a familiar clearing as twilight descended on the forest. “Yeah?” Joey whispered.

  I saw his eyes dart arou
nd and assumed that he, like I, was looking for evidence of lurking spiders. “Yeah,” I replied, and pointed to a nearby bush. The yellow light flashed for only a few seconds, but it was enough to give away the piq’s hiding place. “Let’s hope she’s feeling friendly, eh?”

  With that, I adjusted my bag, took hold of the straps to keep my hands away from my sword, and marched into the clearing. In an instant, a swarm of lights surrounded me—a strand of Christmas lights come to life, albeit a prickly, well-armed strand—and I stopped but stood my ground. “I would speak with Lailu,” I said slowly, hoping that at least some of the guards knew a word or two of Fae. “Tell her the daigul have returned.”

  One of the orange lights detached itself from the swarm and flew off toward the massive tree, and I motioned for Joey to join me. The cloud of guards reconfigured itself to trap him as well, and we waited, neither of us speaking, until the orange light flew back toward us with a larger purple light in its wake. The guards parted, and there she was, hovering in front of my face. Unsure of the protocol, I held out one hand, and she landed in my palm with a curt nod. The little queen’s green toga had been exchanged for a flimsier golden drape, and her long black hair was gathered into a heavy braid, woven through with tiny flowers. “I was warned,” she squeaked. “The Lady told me all. You may stay here, but I cannot offer you more than that.”

  She sounded distressed, and I slowly raised my hand to look her in the eye. “Any help is appreciated, Your Majesty,” I replied, trying not to breathe directly on her as I recalled my uncomfortable day with Astrid. “And if the Lady has spoken to you, then you know—”

  “That you are daig, yes. Untrained, but daig.” She folded her bare arms and frowned in thought. “I know of no one who can assist you with that problem, but I can offer shelter and…”—she cocked her head and pursed her lips—“perhaps an opportunity to practice. Come, both of you,” she said, pointing toward the tree. “You will be safer if hidden.”

  The guards dispersed, and the queen took a seat in my hand and folded her wings. The request was unspoken but clear, and I carried her back toward her hideout, stepping carefully through the grass in case of piq underfoot. But halfway to our destination, Joey slumped to the level of my hand and murmured, “Your Majesty…I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but we can’t fit down that hole, and there’s no way I’m letting Aiden experiment on me.”

  She glanced up at him and grinned. “Which is precisely why we’re going through the opening in the ground behind the tree.”

  “Ah.”

  Pointing to a clump of bushes in the distance, she explained, “There is a large cave beneath this place. Dry, quite pleasant. There is room for you below ground.” She paused and looked back at me over her shoulder. “I only ask that you not attempt anything…untried…where it might injure my people. Agreed?”

  “Of course,” I said. “And, uh…as for hunting—”

  Lailu smiled. “A proposal. My hunters will accompany you and help you find game. In return, you split the spoils. Is this also agreeable?”

  “Ma’am,” said Joey, “for food, a roof, and a solid night’s sleep, your folks can have first pick of the takings.”

  A short walk later, she directed us to part the bushes, revealing the opening to a cavern and a series of natural stone ledges that disappeared into the ground. With Lailu lighting the way, Joey and I climbed down and found ourselves in a deep limestone cave perhaps the size of a small stadium. When my eyes adjusted to the shadows, I found that the natural illumination of the piq was just enough to keep me from walking into the walls, but Joey, ever pragmatic, pulled out a glow stick for backup and followed Lailu to an empty expanse on one side of the cave. Looking up, I saw niches carved into the rock, some holding tiny occupants like jeweled lights, and then I noticed a few thick roots descending through the ceiling.

  Lailu caught the direction of my gaze and landed on my shoulder. “We hollowed much of the tree and cut through the stone to connect it to this cave. This is a safe place,” she assured me, and flitted to a ledge in the wall. “Will this suffice?”

  “Perfectly,” said Joey, and slung his pack to the floor. “Aiden, you set up our gear. I’m going hunting while we’ve got moonlight.”

  I felt him when he walked past me in the dark—well, not Joey so much as his sword—and got to work. The cave was pleasantly cool, and for the first time in weeks, we wouldn’t be sleeping under the sky. There was no place to build a fire and no wood to make one, so I unrolled our sleeping bags, arranged our things against the wall, and stretched out to rest my aching feet. A stream of piq flew back and forth above me on unknown business, a light show in the darkness, and I let the flashing colors lull me to sleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  When I woke to twilight, my first thought was that I was back in my old bed in my parents’ apartment, deep underground and sheltered from such inconveniences as sunlight. But then my eyes adjusted, I saw the flitting colors of passing piq overhead, and I remembered where I was and why.

  Joey had returned and crawled into his bag during the night, and he still lay curled up with his head on his arm, sound asleep. He’d left out his skillet, however, and I found cooked, albeit cold, meat waiting for me, along with a note written on the white side of a piece of bark: Didn’t want to wake you. Don’t wake me.

  Taking the hint, I slipped my shoes back on and picked up the skillet, planning to take it topside. I glanced around our campsite before I moved to be sure I wasn’t about to trip into Joey’s arsenal, and my eyes landed on his filthy motorcycle boots, now scuffed beyond repair. The left, which had fallen on its side when he shucked them off, had sprung a hole in the sole the size of a half-dollar. My sneakers weren’t faring much better—the tread was getting a little too thin for proper gripping—but I put Joey’s boots on my list of things to do.

  That is, once I figured out how to do more than start fires. He wouldn’t have thanked me if he woke to find his only shoes reduced to ash.

  Climbing back to the surface was a cinch, especially with daylight overhead, and I squinted as I broke through the bushes. The sun was high—not quite noon, but surely close—and but for the birds I’d startled, I was alone in the woods. Realizing after the ascent that I was famished, I sat in the clearing by the giant tree and tore into my unidentified leftovers while a trio of deer grazed nearby. Joey’s campfire cuisine wasn’t going to win any awards, but having skipped at least dinner and breakfast, I was ready to eat almost anything.

  As I wiped my greasy hands clean on the grass, I caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of my eye, creeping through the weeds. On closer inspection, it resolved into Kuni, who hobbled toward me on a pair of forked twigs. His crushed wing was heavily splinted and held straight back on a sort of scaffolding harness, but he still wore his thorn sword—and, as expected, nothing more than a loincloth. When he reached my knee, he shifted his weight and prodded me with the butt of one of his crutches, and I lowered my hand to retrieve him. He stepped aboard, wobbling a little as my flesh moved under his feet, and carefully settled down with a soft sigh. As he put his crutches aside, I lifted him to eye level, irrationally hoping he’d picked up Fae from his aunt overnight. “Kuni?” I asked.

  The piq nodded and tapped his bronzed chest. “Kuni,” he affirmed, then pointed to me and cocked his head.

  “Aiden.”

  “Aiden,” he repeated slowly, as if feeling it out. “T’ak nol.”

  I tried to puzzle this into coherence. “Tock…uh…”

  “T’ak nol,” said a voice above me, and I glanced up as Lailu glided down from the opening in the tree. She came to rest on my shoulder and gestured toward Kuni. “He thanks you. When you were last with us, he was too sedated to see you on your way. You understand, yes?”

  Having her talk in my ear actually made our conversation much easier. “Too well,” I muttered. “And sure, Kuni, any time. How’s it, uh…healing?”

  Lailu translated, and he
grimaced back at me before launching into a long reply. When he came up for air, she said, “It pains him greatly, but the leg will mend. The wing is…less certain.”

  “Delicate?”

  “Exactly.” She hesitated, then quietly said, “He may always be maimed. It’s too soon to be sure, but with the damage…”

  Kuni watched the queen silently, oblivious to her meaning, and I thought of the many times Mom had patched me back together: the strong grip holding my broken bones in place, the light strokes of the wand over the injury, the mumbled spell to focus her mind and intention, the odd expression she often wore, a blend of anger, frustration, and fear. I didn’t suppose that Mom had any experience with piq injuries, but I imagined that she could have done something to help Kuni. But that was idle daydreaming; Mom would barely speak to me, let alone cross the border, and something told me that a piq in the silo would be as unwelcome as I was there.

  “Tell him,” I murmured, cutting my eyes to the woman on my shoulder, “that if I’m ever able to do more than start fires, I’ll do what I can for him.”

  Lailu repeated this for Kuni, who smiled and patted my palm. “He is grateful,” she told me, “and understands your present limitations. You saved his life—you certainly do not owe him a wing. But should you become more confident in your abilities…”

  “If I can’t, I know someone in the other realm who can. If we ever get back across, of course,” I muttered.

  “Daig?”

  “Witch-blood. Half daig, half…other. Mab’s daughter,” I offered. “She’s a friend.”

  The queen considered this as she cautiously sat, clinging to my T-shirt to steady herself. Her bare feet kicked into my collarbone as she made herself comfortable, and she held her wings slightly spread to counterbalance against my muscle twitches. “If you are interested,” she began once situated, “I have a suggestion that might be of interest to you.”