by Karen Chance
Okay, it had definitely won, I thought, noticing a discreet pile of apple logs stacked by the stove. That was a little disturbing, but not surprising. This house had had issues long before the fey showed up.
The big old Victorian had been built a century ago, right smack on top of a vortex. Yes, one of those vortexes, the wells of power created when two or more ley lines cross. And, yes, those ley lines, the rivers of magical energy that flow across our world and then beyond, serving some purpose in the grand scheme of things that nobody has quite figured out yet.
Some people think that they’re the result of two universes rubbing together, ours and the one Faerie resides in, like great tectonic plates, with energy bubbling up like lava along the fault lines. Others believe that the planets act as giant talismans, collecting the magical energy of creation and distilling it into rivers of current, which they then send rocketing across metaphysical space. Still others believe that the earth itself generates them as a kind of by-product, like gravity or lightning, just one that’s not detectable to nonmagical humans.
There were a thousand theories, and no one knew which, if any, were right. But that didn’t stop people from sussing out vortexes, and building structures on top of them to benefit from all that free energy. Of course, the main whirlpools of power, those that weren’t too strong to use, had been claimed centuries ago, but not all were so obvious.
Some vortexes had formed on cadet branches of the lines, little ones that didn’t go anywhere interesting, and thus didn’t get much traffic. Or that weren’t well explored, because the ley line system hadn’t been known about for all that long, magically speaking. And then there were those that formed in a field of vortexes, such as the one that lay all over New York City, allowing them to hide in the glow and remain undetected.
At least, long enough for someone to plop a house down on one.
That someone, a retired ship’s captain, hadn’t known what he’d had, but Claire’s uncle Pip did, and snapped it up as soon as the old boy died. And started layering his treasure with protection spells, which in themselves hadn’t been a problem. The trouble came when he decided to link said spells, not to his own power or to a talisman, the magical equivalent of a battery, but directly into the vortex itself.
And then to just leave them there, to do their own thing, for decades.
That had caused some problems, because spells aren’t meant to last forever. They peter out if not renewed, or expire with the death of the caster—which is actually a good thing. Because it prevents them from becoming weird.
Unattended magic can become problematic over time, as the rules of the original spell become confused, or get overwritten by pieces they borrow from other spells around them, or link up with the wild magic of the earth. The upshot was that the house had become a little . . . eccentric . . . over the years, almost like it had a mind of its own. Or a personality, anyway.
Specifically, that of a crotchety old woman who didn’t like people messing with her stuff.
Really didn’t, I thought, glancing at the hall. Where a bunch of small things were writhing helplessly under sheets of faded floral wallpaper, which had previously been shredded by burgeoning pecan pods. And which were now whole again and set on revenge.
Watching them caused the same kind of creeping horror as watching a sweet old lady in a lilac-covered housecoat slowly strangling a small animal to death. Until I quickly looked away, and continued to rummage. Hey, I had to sleep upstairs, okay? If the house wanted to murder some pecans, that was its business.
A moment later, I’d gathered everything up and set a line of creamers in front of the fey. There was everything from peppermint mocha to caramel macchiato, because Claire is a flavored-coffee nut. He just stared at them, apparently overwhelmed by the choice.
I pointed at the coconut crème. “That one’s good, and the amaretto. I’d stay away from the butter pecan.” I glanced at the hall. “At least right now.”
The fey eyed the little bottle warily, as if I’d told him it was poisoned. And opted for the coconut. “That’s nice,” he said, looking up at me in surprise.
I nodded. “Claire really likes that one. I use her for my barometer on all things fey.”
“Your . . .”
“Gauge? Measure? Test?” I guess they didn’t have barometers in Faerie.
He nodded. “Thank you. I’m supposed to be improving my English, but there are many words I don’t know.”
“That’s why you’re here? Other than to guard her, I mean.”
“I don’t think she needs much guarding!” he blurted out, and then looked mortified when he realized what he’d said. “I—I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
“No! No, you—” He stopped, realizing that he was halfway off his stool. And with a hand reached out as if to touch me reassuringly, which he quickly drew back. Because the fey are famously lacking in the whole touchy-feely department.
Well, except for Caedmon.
But he was a rule unto himself on a lot of things.
“I’m sorry.” The young fey sat back down. “I’m also supposed to be working on my . . . my ability to speak as though I had thought about it beforehand.”
He sounded like he was quoting. “Caedmon told you that?”
He shook his head. “My father. He is one of the king’s chief counselors, but I . . . just say things. I don’t mean offense, but—”
“But people take it that way.”
A miserable nod. He had a longer-than-usual neck, even for a fey, and was drinking coffee while we spoke. He was starting to remind me of those mechanical drinking birds. Nod . . . sip . . . nod . . . sip. It was kind of hypnotizing.
“Don’t worry. I do the same thing,” I said. “Only I usually intend to piss people off.”
The kid just sat there, clutching the coffee cup in his hands, and looking unsure of himself. As if he was trying to parse both the language and the humor, and was having a problem with it. He didn’t seem to multitask well.
Or maybe it’s your “humor,” Dory, I thought wryly. Stop teasing the infant.
But he recovered pretty fast. “I . . . just meant that she’s so powerful. And she has you. And the jötnar. She is well guarded.”
“Then why are you here?”
Again a pause. “Me or . . . everyone?”
“Both. Either.” I didn’t really care that much, but I was enjoying the cookies.
“Well, we’re here—the group of us, I mean—as . . . I suppose you would call it . . . an honor guard?”
I nodded, since he seemed to like that gesture.
“And because, well, you’re not powerful just by having power; you must know how to wield it. And the king says—”
“Claire doesn’t know how yet.” He nodded, looking relieved. Maybe because I’d said it, so he didn’t have to. “And you?”
The fey didn’t answer. His eyes were on Gessa, who had just come in, her curly brown hair even messier than usual, a yawn threatening to split her face. She dragged a stool over to the counter, climbed up on top to pour herself some coffee, then plopped her butt down on the all-purpose piece of furniture to drink it.
“Gessa, do you know—” I looked at the fey.
Who was looking at the little nursemaid with an expression somewhere between curious and concerned. Like a sleepy, three-foot-tall au pair was a potential threat. Gessa yawned again.
“You have a name?” I asked the fey, more pointedly.
“What?” He blinked at me. And then blushed when he realized he’d been staring, not that Gessa seemed to care. She was staring now, too.
At his cookies.
“I . . . yes. Hemming,” he said, watching her scoot her stool over the floor and brazenly take half his stash. “But, uh, they don’t call me that.”
“What do they call you?” I was famili
ar by now with the fact that the fey had about fifty names each. But for some reason, this request only made him blush harder.
“Soini,” he finally said, like he was admitting something.
Gessa snorted into her coffee.
“What’s funny?” I asked her, but she just shook her head.
“It means ‘boy,’” the fey blurted out. “I’m . . . not as old as the others.”
No shit, I didn’t say. Because, despite what certain people believe, I do have manners. Sometimes.
“So, what are you doing here?” I asked instead. “Or do they regularly take boys on trips like this?”
“I’m not actually a boy,” the boy hastened to assure me. “I just haven’t really gone anywhere before, and my father thought—”
“Earth would be a good starter trip?”
He nodded some more, but this time, he was more animated. “I’m glad he did. It’s so interesting here. Home is beautiful, but nothing ever happens. I’ve only been here a short time, yet there’s been so much, well, happening.”
“We like to stay busy.”
Gessa rolled her eyes. I kicked her under the table. She stole my last cookie in retaliation, and I still had coffee left. I sipped it resentfully, and Soini looked back and forth between the two of us, apparently confused.
“So, you’re doing the tourist thing?” I asked. And got more confusion in return. “You’re here to explore, maybe take some pictures,” I rephrased.
“I—well, my father does want me to get more experience, but so far, the others haven’t let me out of the yard—”
Gessa opened her mouth. I kicked her again. She grinned unrepentantly and chewed at me.
“—but it’s mostly that I have a . . . sort of talent.”
“A talent?”
“Yes, a rare gift among my people,” he said, looking confident for the first time. “At least, it is these days. They say there used to be more of us, but some skills have diminished. But it’s thought to be really useful—”
“Useful how? What do you do?”
“It’s difficult to explain. It’s usually described as a kind of far-seeing, but that’s not really very accurate. I mean, we do see far, but—”
“So you’re a clairvoyant?”
“What? Oh, no, no—”
“Because Gessa here reads runes. Don’t you, Gessa?”
She shook her head at me, her mouth full of stolen cookie.
“What do you mean, no? You read mine a week ago—”
She swallowed. “Stinky take.”
“Take what? The stones?”
She nodded.
“He didn’t eat them, did he?”
“No, not eat.” She thought about it for a moment. “Probably.”
I sighed. With Stinky, that was the best assurance anyone could give. “Then what did he do with them?”
Gessa ate the last bite and hopped off her stool. “Come.”
I’d finished my coffee, and all the cookies were gone, so I followed her out of the kitchen. And across the hall, into the living room we rarely used, because the garden was roomier. And less full of dusty old furniture that never got any less dusty, because of one of those spells Claire’s uncle had put in place.
It was supposed to be a housekeeping spell, which would have been great, except that it didn’t exactly clean things. It just kept them the way they’d been when it was first laid, and Claire’s uncle had apparently had an inability to see dirt—or dust, at least. So the spell would clean up a dropped soda, for instance, if you left it there long enough, but afterward, the old boards would still have as much dust on them as before.
It infuriated Claire, who was a bit of a neatnik, but the house didn’t care. The spell had taught it to see the vaguely tidy but sort of old and dusty interior as the perfect version of the world, and by God, it was going to stay that way. Forever.
Gessa, however, didn’t seem to mind the dust, or the ugly furniture, or the fussy drapes, and of course the boys only cared that the TV worked. As a result, the living room had become a playroom that was more toy strewn by the day, including the large cardboard box in the corner that Gessa was now peering inside of. And swearing loudly.
“What is it?” I asked, hurrying over.
The sides of the box had been decorated with taped-on pieces of paper with bright blue skies, fluffy white clouds, and rich green hills scribbled on them. And at the bottom was a chessboard that had been a gift from Olga, and had become the boys’ favorite toy, although not because either of them was interested in strategy. They just liked to watch the fights.
And, since this was a troll board, that’s exactly what they got. One side was made up of angry little ogres and the other of tiny pissed-off trolls, which had been enchanted to be pretty darn lifelike. The board was enchanted, too, to ensure that the two groups didn’t see a cardboard cell, but rather a large, rolling world in miniature, full of open fields, shaded grottos, and velvety forests. A world they would battle to the death to defend.
Or, at least, to the end of the game.
Only, lately, that time never came, because the boys never put their toys away. So instead of chess we’d ended up with a social experiment, in which both sides spent less time battling and more time building villages, hunting for food in the tall grass, and fishing in the little streams. The last time I’d looked in, they’d managed to construct some rudimentary huts out of the grass, only I guess that hadn’t been good enough for Stinky, who had donated Gessa’s runes for building materials.
The trolls had piled them up into what looked like a cave formation, while the ogres were constructing actual tiny houses. Or they had been. But I didn’t see anybody moving around right now.
That was strange; there was usually somebody carrying in game, punching up one of the tiny fires, or scratching his miniature ass.
And then, belatedly, I saw what Gessa had, which probably explained why she was crawling around on the floor, still cussing. A bunch of fern on a table above the box had all but exploded out of its pot, thanks to Caedmon’s overflowing magic. Which would have been fine, except that a single frond had dipped into the box, like a piece of Yggdrasil, the mythological world tree, fallen to Earth. And had changed everything.
Because while we’d been dealing with the drama of our day, the little chess pieces had been having some of their own. To us it was just a piece of fern, but to them . . . it was a ladder. A stairway to heaven, because it gave them a way out of the game.
And into a house that didn’t like competing magic and already had a serious snit on.
“Is something wrong?” Soini asked, looking from me to Gessa.
“Uh, probably not,” I said, trying not to think about the two cats lounging on the sofa, watching us uninterestedly, which weren’t really cats. They were yet more wards, created by Claire’s uncle because he’d been running an illegal still in the basement that he hadn’t wanted anybody to find. And nobody had, partially because the cats could suddenly expand to the size of prehistoric saber-toothed fluffiness and freaking end you.
“Shit,” I told Gessa, who nodded.
“Must find.”
Yeah, before the house enacted who knew what kind of revenge.
“Spread out,” I told the troops. They quickly did so, Gessa taking one side of the room and throwing pillows off couches, and Soini lighting up the other, and gingerly swishing aside drapes. I took the hall with the murderous wallpaper, in case any of the little pieces had made it this far.
And, sure enough, I spied a tiny guy all the way at the end of the hall, near the front door.
Making a run for it.
Only, weirdly enough, he appeared to be running this way. “Gessa, do we have a box or something?” I asked, wondering if the little thing had gotten into some paint somewhere, because he looked kind of red.
&n
bsp; And then the whole room did, when a giant fist came out of nowhere and sent me flying.
Chapter Sixteen
The blow felt like a sledgehammer backed by a semi. I hit the stairs hard enough to stun me; hard enough that my nerves started blaring all kinds of warnings from virtually everywhere; hard enough that I looked up and found myself already in ultra slo-mo, the way movies are filmed when the shit has most definitely hit the fan.
It works the same way for vampires, when their brains realize they’re in over their heads. Time, of course, doesn’t actually slow down, but their perception of it does, giving them what feels like a few added seconds to evaluate a situation. It’s one reason they’re so deadly, and why they move like quicksilver in battle, their every move looking precise, calculated, and well thought out—because it usually is.
That state had always been a rarity for me, and only in extremis. Probably wasn’t a good thing that my brain already thought I needed it, huh? Or the fact that it didn’t seem to be working right.
The hallway was fine, having taken on the familiar underwater feel of slo-mo: I saw Gessa through the door to the living room, looking up in concern, her brown curls bouncing slowly around her head; I saw a piece of the railing I’d hit on my way to destroy my rib cage flipping leisurely through the air; I saw little siftings of dust raining gently down from where the force of my impact had shaken them loose from the ceiling. Everything was exactly as I’d have expected.
Except for the fist slamming into the stairs, right by my head, still fast, still deadly, and still looking like it was in real time, to the point that I barely managed to dodge it.
Which meant that whatever was assaulting me was fast—very fast. Faster than me, I thought dizzily, trying to assess the situation while scrambling backward up the stairs. And attempting to avoid a second blow while still reeling from the first.
