“You want me to, what, hang out in North York Moors? For like six months?” It had taken some effort, but Thomas’ voice was even again.
“Not hang out. And not right away. Marisol said she had to go back in a few weeks. I was thinking maybe you’d offer to go with her — you know, learn from her vast experience or something. Then she’d come back here, and you’d stay to practice your skills or I don’t know, maybe you develop a crush on one of the sirens stationed there. I just need someone I can trust to let me know what’s really going on. Maybe talk to Titania if you can. Just to let me know what you think of the whole situation.”
“I don’t think you need me for that. The whole situation is a disaster. We all know it. I don’t need six months for that.”
“It’s more about getting a sense of how …” Cordelia paused, searching for the right word. “… how angry the fae seem.”
“They’re beyond pissed,” Thomas said.
“And how would you know? You haven’t been there since your junior trip.”
“It’s how any rational person would feel.”
“What I mean is, do you think they’re still sane? You know, after being practically immersed in iron for so long? If you interact with them regularly, over a few months, maybe you’ll get a better sense of whether their need for us is tinged with resentment or hate or something like that.”
“You know the fae are way too skilled at hiding their true feelings for me to really know anything,” Thomas said.
“It’s a long shot, I know. But isn’t it better that we try?”
“You’re crazy, you know that? This is crazy.”
“I can’t just do nothing,” Cordelia insisted.
“You could. But you won’t.”
“I won’t,” Cordelia agreed.
“All right.”
“Just like that?” Cordelia asked.
Thomas reached his arm over and ruffled her hair like he used to when they were children. “Just like that. Now be quiet and let me watch this famous light show.”
Sirens were created to preserve the fae. While this does not mean you need to spend every waking moment harvesting fertility and bestowing it on the fae, you should expect to devote significant time with them. Consider this a form of community or military service. The fae are very different culturally, as well as biologically from us, and numerous books have been written by and for humans regarding their cultural norms and conventions. You will find recommendations for further reading in Appendix B. Before venturing onto a fae preserve, you are strongly encouraged to review these resources. The main thing to remember is that the fae need sirens. Outside of the mage wars, no fae is known to have murdered a siren.
– Sirens: An Overview for the Newly-Transitioned, 3rd ed. (2015), by Mira Bant de Atlantic, p. 103.
Chapter 14
The old abbess watched Thomas walk out to the surf, and he gave her a brief wave before allowing the Atlantic to pull him out to sea. Hers had been a small order of Carmelites in Le Havre. A small order, but with a substantially younger population than he had expected. Since coming to England, Thomas had been all up and down the coast of France. From Valognes to Morlaix to Bayeux, Vannes, Valmont, and Plouharnel. He had lost track of how many small towns he had visited to harvest enough power to keep the fae from fading.
This trip had reminded him of his life before Dad died. Being surrounded by women in penguin garb had brought him back forty years, to when he’d attended St. Peter School in Point Pleasant. He still remembered the sound of Sister Mary Joseph’s habit brushing against the desks as she sought the perpetrator of whatever nonsense they had orchestrated. And of course, it had been him; and of course, she’d found him out.
Traveling through the ocean like this, Thomas couldn’t regret his transformation. The exhilaration and simultaneous peace of being at one with the water momentarily erased his feeling of dread at the thought of returning to the Aos Sí preserve. It was only the pleasure of traveling beneath the sea that could get him to even attempt to go back. The Atlantic must have known he needed more support than usual, because Thomas was swept down deeper than necessary to avoid the shipping lanes and ocean trawlers. The ocean shared her treasures with him: glowing fish, a fissure in the ocean floor where giant purple lobsters crawled, and best of all, a half-broken World War II vintage submarine.
Maybe it was just an illusion, but he felt like the ocean slowed him even more as he passed, just to enable him to have a full view. The ocean loved him. This certainty was only possible for Thomas when he traveled like this. It was like the Atlantic knew Thomas was coming to play, and made an extra effort just for him. Despite knowing that when he emerged from the water, his certainty would drain from him almost as quickly as the water dried on his skin, Thomas nevertheless relished this moment. Thomas willed the Atlantic to slow his pace; he was not eager to return. It had been almost five weeks since he’d arrived with Marisol, and each trip back across the channel was harder to endure. The day of the party, he’d thought visiting the Aos Sí would be the lesser of two evils. Now, he knew he’d made a huge mistake.
At the time, he had been struggling to act the playboy, a role he felt ill-suited for now. It was like he’d burned that part of himself out when he left Jarl Georg’s court. Now, fitting himself back into that mold for the Mediterraneans was like putting on pants two sizes too small. But the minor discomfort of playing the careless partier with Cordy paled beneath his helpless agony of bearing witness to the fae’s suffering.
The ocean slowed his pace to a crawl, and he was grateful for the respite. It took all his will, and all the treasures of the sea, to keep him moving towards northern England, as opposed to back to Brazil. While France was just a brief trip south across the channel, his decision to harvest here had been driven less by his need for the ocean to wash away the hideousness of the moors, as by the excuse it gave him to use his French. Kyoko had taught him French in a magical instant, and speaking it made him feel closer to her. Before arriving in Yorkshire, he had dreamed of her, but now his dreams of their brief meeting were so vivid, she was always on his mind. In the Moors, it seemed like his memories of Kyoko were the only beautiful truth left.
He couldn’t wait to go to bed now, because sleep was such an exquisite escape from the fading fae with their failing glamours. Cordelia couldn’t have known what a horror the Aos Sí preserve was. He was sure she never would have asked him to come to this Godforsaken place had she actually known.
An image of Kyoko, the small indentured mage from Rio, flashed through Thomas’ mind. He had never had a good memory for faces, but hers was practically engraved on his brain. She must be a via-enchanter of sorts, given her ability to take and give knowledge of languages. Her skin had been a translucent white, and the contrast between the pallor of her skin and her black hair and eyes had been jarring. She looked more like a vampire than her master, Gerel, whose skin had glowed like the fae when she had let go of his hand.
No one had actually introduced them, but as Kyoko had held his head, he felt a whispering like the wind bending trees, My name is Kyoko. He heard her in Japanese, where she gave him an honorific he had certainly not earned, as if he were her lord. Her hands were soft and cool. Thomas’ pulse quickened. In that moment, he felt, he knew her more intimately than was possible. “Kyoko-sama,” Thomas had breathed, worshiping her. The hair on the back of his neck raised, and he sensed the vampire who pulled Kyoko’s leash. Kyoko let go: “Eu terminei. Está feito,” she had said. But Thomas knew for certain that she wasn’t finished, and it wasn’t done. They had yet to begin.
Angus mac Og was waiting for Thomas near the edge of the moors. It was a cold spring, and the damp chill permeated the air and seemed to settle in Thomas’ bones. The sand of the North Atlantic shores always seemed to be a dirty color. While the Bahian beaches weren’t the pristine Caribbean white, they were nonetheless of a finer texture than the coarse silica endemic to this area. Thomas waded to the shore, the ocean convenient
ly taking back the droplets that clung to him, till even his clothes were fully dry. Angus held out his hand in greeting, that perpetual smile on his face.
“Well met, siren!” Angus clasped his forearm and pumped it, Thomas reciprocating, charmed once again by the fae’s seeming delight to see him. Angus’ visage flickered a bit between glamours, his eyes changing from green to gray and back again. But his tousled wheat-colored hair and sharp cheekbones remained the same. Angus was about Thomas’ height, but his hands seemed almost too big for his frame. Fae proportions were just different from humans’.
“How did you know I’d be here now?” Thomas asked.
“Ah, that’s a mystery to be sure.” Thomas just looked at him, and Angus sighed. “Ah, well, if you’re going to be like that. I asked a favor of the selkies, of course. They always watch for siren comings and goings.” The selkies were a race of fae who had given up their ability to transform from seal to human millennia ago in order to escape the worst effects of iron proliferation.
“You always seem so happy to see me,” Thomas remarked as they walked up the short beach to the tree-lined path that led to the heart of the North York Moors Preserve.
“I’m happy to see everyone,” Angus replied drily.
“Who would you like me to visit today?” Thomas asked, steeling himself.
Angus’ face fell. “I had wanted you to visit Lachlally … but sadly, she faded away last night.”
Thomas felt a pang of guilt. If he hadn’t been so massively self-indulgent in extending his stay in France, she might still be around. As if knowing his thoughts, Angus gripped Thomas’ shoulders in a quick hug, never breaking stride. “Not your fault, lad! Never your fault. We fail and fade, but that’s as much on us and our failure to keep the hope of joy alive as anything. Even under the best of circumstances, we fae do fade away when our feelings fail. Lachlally gave up on joy years before you arrived, Thomas.”
Angus’ statement only made Thomas feel worse. God, he hated being here. “You must hate us,” he remarked.
“No, no, you hate yourselves. We simply endure. One day things will change. They always do. We can outwait you.” While still sounding blithe and cheery, Angus’ comments seemed to have a layer of steel beneath.
“I’d be angry. We have so much and do so little.”
Angus shrugged. “It is what it is. You are who you are. My hating you or not hating you won’t change that.”
Thomas didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, changed the subject. “Want to race?” he asked. Thomas and Angus had begun playing challenge games since Thomas’ arrival and Angus’ informal adoption of him. Angus served as kind of guide to rest of the Aos Sí, and Thomas enjoyed their races. They’d run through the dormant fields, jumping sudden obstacles as various fae appeared in their path to impede or aid their progress. Thomas suspected that Angus let him win every once in a while, but Angus insisted that would ruin the sport for the other fae who were betting on the outcome.
“Are you sure you’re up for it, lad? Meriweather is betting against you this time, and he’s a sly one for sure.”
Thomas felt the thrill of challenge and nodded. “To the rowan tree in the deep woods?”
“Aye, then. Count it.”
“Three, two, one. Off!” Thomas and Angus said in unison.
A flock of goldeneyes veered overhead, their distinctive white bellies and black feathers blurring. The first of the fae obstacles were probably glamoured into their flight. Thomas noted, then ignored them, utterly focused on the trail ahead. Angus certainly didn’t hold back, and he was fast. Thomas had never been a distance runner, but even before his transition, he’d been an athlete. His record in the 800m butterfly might even still hold at Loyala.
The first half-mile was the tricky part. It always took Thomas at least a mile to find his pace. As Angus sprinted ahead, a gnarled tree stump appeared suddenly in his path, and he had to leap over, barely clearing it. A hand emerged from the middle of the wood, waving encouragingly as Thomas gained a bit of ground to Angus’ early lead.
As if the wood sprite’s intervention called for a counter, a snarling, red-bearded lion leapt out ahead of Thomas. But even as it appeared, the glamoured image flickered and shrunk back down into its true, tiny form. The now-small will o’ the wisp fluttered to one side as Thomas continued running at top speed. Siren resistance to fae magick made it an almost competitive race.
Angus may have been faster at the start, but Thomas always had a reserve of energy to help him with a strong finish. As they came off the coastal forest path and onto the rolling hills of open meadow that marked the midpoint of the course, a trio of reddish-gray roe deer startled at their pace and bounded away. A ring of greenish fire erupted on the path before him: the will o’ the wisp was trying again. But the fields were damp, and a flock of seabirds swiftly descended, spraying water and disrupting the wisp’s concentration. Their honking seemed like laughter to Thomas.
As they came upon the old growth forest that marked the center of the fae domain, Thomas’ heart began beating with more than merely his effort. This was the ultimate test: could he discern fact from fiction, glamour from reality, to find the true path? Which was tree and which was foe? Thomas deftly dodged around one faerie’s leg, which was masquerading as a birch branch, dropping to roll swiftly below another faerie’s disguised arm. Angus was not so lucky, having fumbled into a spider web, and had to pause to cast a counter-spell to negate his opponent’s trap.
The dark canopy of the evergreens almost blotted out the dim March sunlight, but Thomas could just make out the bright red berries of the rowan tree perhaps another three hundred yards ahead. The tree bore fruit year-round, a signifier, he had been told, of Titania’s hold on the land, despite the iron and steel sown throughout. The fae were rightly proud of their rowan’s flourishing.
Just as Thomas was about to reach the tree, his foot plunged deep through a hole in the forest floor. He hit the ground hard, bracing his fall with his left arm. He hadn’t been watching carefully enough where he put his feet, and had stumbled through a tar-circle. The bog faerie, who must be betting on Angus, laughed loudly as Thomas pulled himself up and tried to unstick his foot. At least he hadn’t broken anything, Thomas thought. Angus freed himself from the spell and passed Thomas on their final sprint just as Thomas yanked himself clear.
They ran the final yards of their sprint neck-and-neck. Thomas glanced at Angus. His face was flushed with effort and his eyes glinted with a swirl of sparks. Thomas tried to outpace Angus with a burst of speed at the end, but it wasn’t enough. With only ten feet to go, Angus suddenly jumped with both feet, and was flung ahead, as if he had catapulted off a trampoline — which of course, he had: a trampoline of moss, laid in his path by one of the buschgroßmutters, who were cheering for Angus.
Thomas was only a few seconds behind, and as he cleared the course and slapped his hand on the trunk, he could hear a mixture of cheering, booing and chortling behind them. At least they had provided the assembled Aos Sí an afternoon of entertainment.
Breathing heavily, Angus shook Thomas’ hand.
“Good race! Thomas. You almost had me this time.”
“Close, but no cigar,” Thomas huffed.
“Ah, but you won last week. It was my turn.”
The two of them sat, leaning against the rowan tree. The assembled fae who had emerged at the conclusion of the race seemed to glide off, though Thomas knew some of them were still likely lurking about. Now that the exhilaration of the race was over, Thomas knew there was only unpleasantness left ahead.
“All right,” Thomas said after he recovered, standing and offering Angus his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”
The pixie’s home was near a stand of oak trees, not far from the old growth forest they had just raced through. Pixies were some of the smallest of the fae, standing only three feet tall, with nut-brown complexions and hair the color of the flowers in the gardens they frequented during the summer months. A
ngus and Thomas had to crawl through the door to the cottage, and practically consumed the room with their bulk. The pixie sat motionless in a wooden rocking chair; it seemed like she hadn’t even the energy to set it rocking. The faerie was a faint ghost of her former self, with a blank expression and an absolute stillness that made Thomas worry whether she was even still alive. Her hair had faded to a dull tan, and her face was almost translucent in its pallor.
“Derryth,” Angus called the pixie’s name gently.
Derryth seemed to come into herself. It was frightening, as if a doll suddenly came to life, instantly switching from no expression to one of intent focus. “You’ve come back,” she said in a high-pitched voice that scratched like shells mangled together in a raging tide. The hair on the back of Thomas’ neck stood up.
“I have indeed, just as I said I would. And look you, I have Thomas Bant de Atlantic with me. Come to breathe some life into you.”
Derryth’s focus shifted from Angus to Thomas, but slipped off again quickly. “Ah, Angus. Save your sirens for those who still want to care.”
“Derryth, come now. Things will look better in the morning. A bit of strength and you’ll be able to see things more clearly.”
“Angus, my darling boy. You take the offering for me and let me go. I’ve had enough. Enough pain, enough marking time. My gardens have faded, and I am ready to go too.”
“You can’t mean that,” Angus said, sounding shaken. “You’ve always said that if you will go, you’ll go surrounded by flowers. It’s only just March. Take some strength and wait for full summer.”
Derryth twitched her fingers in a weak scold. “Tut, tut. You’ll try to keep me with the lure of summer gardens. It’s harder to let go in the summer sun. But I’ve had enough, Angus mac Og. My light has gone. I am just ready to let go.”
Thomas looked at Angus, whose face had twisted in pain. Angus shook his head.
Sirens Unbound Page 18
