Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  The idea was an excellent one. I will always wholeheartedly approve of removing children from wartime danger zones. The major flaw in the plan, I felt, was the reliance on the milk of human kindness—the decent nature of people. Admittedly, the majority of people are kind, decent, upstanding sorts, willing to Do Their Part. There are always those annoying few who view anyone else’s misfortune or disadvantage as an opportunity for themselves.

  Sometimes, I think we need these sorts of people as contrast. Everyone says we need people who can be good examples. Noble, upright, honest, wise, all that stuff. After all, if everyone is a good example, how do we know what a bad example looks like? Maybe the great virtues are only great because we have all the vices to compare them to.

  Other times, I go to a major city and walk down alleyways at night to remove some of those people from the world. Granted, we need them for the contrast, but do we need so many?

  As for James, his problem wasn’t one of disorganization. No one misplaced his brother and sisters. He was forcibly separated from them and put to work in someone’s home like a bargain slave on cleaning day.

  I’m well aware of my personal hot buttons. I’ve spent a good portion of my life learning to be a more cool-headed, calmer person. I like to think I’ve accomplished a lot of personal growth. For example, upon hearing James’ story, I did not go charging off to kill anyone, even though it was an option I considered. Judging by James’ lack of terrified screaming, I concealed my feelings rather well.

  “I take it, then, you’ve run away from whoever it was that claimed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got a brave and independent streak. I like that. And you’re here because…?”

  “If there’s a lord around, he can order things to be different.”

  “I treasure your viewpoint, but I’m not sure it works quite that way. I think you want the town council or mayor or magistrate or something. I’m not sure the local nobility, if any, still has any real power.”

  “I don’t understand how you’re not a lord. You own the manor, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but buying a building doesn’t also get you a coat of arms,” I informed him, and chose not to mention my actual coat of arms. It’s from a foreign country, for one thing. “I’m just rich, not a nobleman.” I leaned back in the chair and thought. “I do wonder why I didn’t get an invitation to the auction block. Probably because I’m not a British citizen. Still, I have room here… James, would it suit you to stay with me for a while? I’m not usually too available—I’m either working and don’t want to be interrupted, or away on business—but the Gillespies are a very nice couple. They take care of the place so I don’t have to. I’d be happy to have you as my guest and make arrangements to reunite you with your siblings.”

  “You want to look for my family?” he asked, face alight with hope.

  “Indeed I do. I just have some things to take care of before I can focus on it. Do you mind if I help?”

  “Not at all!”

  “Good. You eat what you can. I have to make a phone call.”

  “You have a telephone? Out here?” he asked, amazed.

  “It’s not as primitive as you might think. But where was this place where you and your siblings were selected?”

  “It was a school.”

  “Do you know what city?”

  “The train station had a sign for Keswick.”

  “Keswick. Of course. All right. I’m pretty sure the local council hall has a phone. I’ll start with that. You eat while I find out what I can.”

  James did so while I got the operator and the council hall. There was some delay while I argued with the lady in charge of the records. I did get names and addresses, but only because I was more stubbornly insistent than she was stubbornly obstinate. It helped that she was too polite to simply hang up on me.

  Afterward, I made a call on the interuniversal-roaming Diogephone. Diogenes gave me a brief history of Operation Pied Piper and brought me up to speed on the timeline of World War Two.

  I’m stupid. I’m an American. And I’m not as much a historian as I could be.

  The big kickoff date for World War Two wasn’t the Pearl Harbor attack on December 7th, 1941. The war was already in full swing long before the United States started shooting. I had this notion it started sometime earlier in 1941! The war started on or about September 1st, 1939, when Germany invaded Poland…

  …earlier this month. Dammit!

  I hate being in wars. I’ve seen enough of them in my wanderings between various alternate worlds. I certainly didn’t want to be in this one if the Nazi regime tossed nuclear weapons across the Channel on V-2 rockets. I didn’t think it likely, but I’m even worse as an oracle than I am as a necromancer, and I have less talent for it. Besides, Diogenes found a couple of worlds where something like it happened. I don’t favor them, but I also don’t interfere with them. I’ve sworn off politics.

  Closer to home, so to speak, and according to history, Operation Pied Piper shipped children off in anticipation of German bombing pretty much the day the war started. All this went off on schedule here, even if I, as a dumb foreigner hermit, hadn’t heard about it. I applauded their foresight and their intentions, even as I loathed their execution of the plan. But what else could the do?

  I restricted my language, keenly aware most children can hear a new swear word through a concrete wall.

  I thanked Diogenes and hung up, closing the “cigarette case” and returning it to my inside pocket. The house telephone connected me to the operator again and I discussed with her about where to route my call. Eventually, we located a car manufacturer and I ordered one, offering extra for immediate delivery. While the Gillespies were out with the carriage, I was limited to walking.

  On the other hand…

  I called Diogenes back and asked about bicycles, with special attention to one appearing appropriate to the period and capable of handling my weight. He pointed out that while a bicycle has a tire footprint too narrow to be practical, a motorcycle could be managed. He started work on one indistinguishable from a Brough Superior Super Sports, despite being built with high-tech materials and other subtle enhancements. He spends considerable effort concealing the fact inside this thin and wiry exterior there is a very fat man.

  While the motorcycle would solve my personal mobility problems, I decided not to cancel the order for the car. There might be passengers. Even with the sidecar, it would be awkward to transport more than two, and the car might even arrive before Diogenes finished fabricating a motorcycle.

  With all this in progress, I returned to the dining room in time to show James to one of the water closets.

  We spent the rest of the day opening windows and airing out some bedrooms. The mattresses were musty, but I assured him a little fresh air would fix everything. Fresh air and a few minor cleaning spells, but I didn’t tell him about the spells. It’s humiliating for a vampire to be burned as a witch, or at least I assume so. Humiliation is one of the things I’d feel.

  After the carriage returned, I introduced James to Mrs. Gillespie. She was delighted to have a guest and fussed over him in grandmotherly fashion. He helped her bring in groceries before he helped Mr. Gillespie with Lazy and Loafer. Judging from James’ irrepressible grin, he felt his circumstances were much improved.

  After the sun went down and James went to bed, I went into my laboratory and flicked my largest mirror with a talon. It rang in its frame like an enchanted silver gong, which it was, albeit a highly polished one.

  It took me most of the night to find the addresses on my list. Of all the things I love about England, the postal code system in the early twentieth century is not one of them. I have no doubt it improves vastly in the coming decades, but it would almost have to. And yet, letters and parcels still made it to people. It’s hard to imagine. Maybe I’m amazed.

  While I was growling at my mirror and sending the viewpoint down various streets, I heard Trixie flutter up to the
window. She slipped through her faerie door—it’s only a cat flap in place of a windowpane, not a magical portal—and peeked between the drapes. She flitted to my shoulder, stood there and held on to my ear for balance. She’s a little less than four inches high and looks mostly like a green, not-glowing Tinkerbell. Her eyes are silver and somewhat larger than is proportional, her hair is buttercup-yellow, and she doesn’t wear anything. Her skin, however, could be leaves overlapping like scales. This gives the impression of her wearing a body-stocking of sorts. Her wings are large membranes, translucent, and have a span about as wide as my hand is long. They ripple constantly when she isn’t flying.

  “What are you doing?” she chirped.

  “Looking for missing children.”

  “Wasn’t us. The rest of us are still sleeping or beyond the veil.”

  “I didn’t say it was. This was human work.”

  “They’re stealing each other’s children?” she asked, puzzled.

  “More like giving them away.”

  “Ooo!” she squeaked, possibly above the range of human hearing. The ear she squeaked into did not appreciate it. She clapped her hands and sprang with a flutter to sit atop my mirror frame. She drummed her heels eagerly and asked, “Can I have one? Can I? They believe better than adults.”

  “Only while they’re inside the house,” I agreed, “but I’m still looking. Could you please stop kicking the mirror?”

  “Sorry.” She fluttered to my shoulder again. “Why are you looking for them?”

  “Their brother is downstairs and misses them.”

  “You know, you’re awfully nice.”

  I ignored the non sequitur. The smaller fairy-kin I’ve met tend to be a bit scatterbrained and sometimes forgetful. Trixie bounced to the top of my head and laid down on her stomach, watching the mirror.

  “Are those his sisters?”

  “I see a resemblance and the address matches. They’re also crammed into a small bed together. Both of them match descriptions James gave me. Hold on.” I zoomed in, examining them both with some care, as well as giving the other residents a brief once-over.

  “Why are you looking at their hands and knees?”

  “Unhappy knees and hands imply scrubbing. Various other signs indicate hard labor. Note the ashes under fingernails and wounds from splinters. Low vitality implies exhaustion. Added to the tiny bed in a room the size of a closet, I think they’re being worked like servants, not cared for like children. Moreover, the other two kids in the house have individual beds and a much larger room. There are dozens of little clues which lead me to believe these two would rather live with their brother, here, than continue as drudges for their current master and mistress.”

  “Okay. What are you talking about?”

  “The two kids.”

  “Oh. Are they coming to live here?”

  “Probably,” I sighed.

  “Huz-zay!” she cheered.

  I found James’ older brother, as well. He seemed in good shape. I didn’t see any signs he was being overworked, underfed, or otherwise mistreated. He might be perfectly happy where he was. Well, happy enough, considering the circumstances. I doubted he was thrilled to be packed off to rely on the kindness of strangers out in the country even if the strangers were extremely kind.

  “He’s cute.”

  “He can’t be over twelve or thirteen.”

  “That’s not too old,” Trixie insisted.

  “Not for you, I suppose.”

  Trixie hopped down to the table and stretched, rippling her wings. They remind me of butterfly wings, but they aren’t rigid; they can go slack like empty sails. They’re also not mounted on her back, but attach all along her sides in one long line from ankles to shoulders, behind her arms. I’ve seen her wrap herself up in her wings and darn near turn into a flower. Why a pixie needs protective camouflage—why a pixie would develop it at all—is an evolutionary mystery I’m not equipped to solve.

  “Can I swim, please?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She squealed in glee and streaked like a comet into my reading room. There was a splash.

  The earlier experiment—the one that blew a wave of magic over the countryside—woke up a number of the local fairies, but Trixie was the only one who took a shine to me. Trixie says she would go back to sleep if “the light of the other realm didn’t shine through,”—meaning I needed to provide enough magic for her. So I made arrangements.

  My reading room has bench seats built into the windows. I sometimes use one, but I rearranged the other for Trixie. After closing up the window and light-proofing it, I built a little diorama of rocks and water on the window seat. A small transformer magically energizes water. This flows over some flat stones into a stone pool like a birdbath. A pump recirculates the water and a couple of spells keep the water level constant and the water itself clean. There’s even a little cave-like area formed by some of the larger, flat stones, behind the waterfall of my little diorama.

  When Mrs. Gillespie commented about missing socks and handkerchiefs, I recovered them from Trixie’s little house. Thereafter, I supplied a fancy, four-poster dollhouse bed and a miniature vanity table, complete in every detail, even to the little hairbrush and tiny ribbons. Nothing has gone missing since. She does tend to pile flower petals on the bed, though. She told me the blankets were itchy, but she fixed it.

  Getting along with a fairy doesn’t seem too hard.

  Shortly after Trixie decided to stay, I had a word with Mr. Gillespie. He gave me a pleased look when I asked him—in writing—to start replacing iron fixtures with bronze or brass. He did a peculiar nod-and-bow thing and told me he would get right on it, or so I inferred. His accent still gives me trouble.

  Trixie tells me one or the other of them always leaves a small bowl of milk out in the mornings. I don’t know if she drinks the milk, but I’m not sure how a pixie metabolism works. I’ve regarded her at night and her body is a physical object with various organs and subsystems, but she’s also a glowing creature of light, undifferentiated by the complicated patterns of a human spirit.

  Maybe Barrie was right. Being so small, maybe they only have room for one feeling at a time.

  Despite her size, she’s not a pet. She’s a very nice—if somewhat alien—person who doesn’t want to collapse into a coma from magical exhaustion. I often find her perspective on things to be quite different from mine and often quite interesting. She’s been a fountain of knowledge about the local faerie population, too. She’s also friendly, pretty, permanently cheerful, and almost completely undemanding.

  I shut down the mirror and followed her into the reading room. While she danced on the water—rather like an ice-skater, except on top of the liquid, leaving trails of delicate ripples behind her—I pulled a heavy chair close by and sat down.

  “Trixie?”

  “Yes, Dark One?”

  “I’ve asked you not to call me that.”

  “But you are a dark one. You’re a terribly nice one, but you’re still black as the heart of Leannán, which you resemble.” She leaped like a parachuting ballerina and landed sur les pointes on the water’s surface, causing a circular ripple. “Most confusing!”

  “I have a question.”

  “Is it for me? Can I have it?” she asked, pirouetting and creating a tiny whirlpool.

  “Yes, you may. I plan to have some children in the house. Will you be as nice to them as you are to the Gillespies?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I like children. I’ll be nicer to them. The old people don’t believe as hard.”

  “Ah. Well, I can live with that.”

  “Not at night.”

  “Literally correct,” I agreed. “I am pleased by your assurance you will be nice to the children.”

  “Always. Can I play with them?”

  “As partners in play rather than toys? Yes. And as long as they remain in the house and uninjured.”

  “I like the h
ouse.”

  “I’m glad. Is there anything you want?”

  “Gilly-flowers. Purple ones.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Trixie continued her water-dance. I put my feet up and watched, resolving to get a phonograph and some records for her. Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, perhaps.

  The Manor, Thursday, September 28th, 1939

  Mr. Gillespie wasn’t keen on adding flowerbeds full of purple gillyflowers, but I promised him help. He has his own ideas of what to grow in a flower and herb garden, and gillyflowers aren’t on his list. Nevertheless, I insisted—again, in writing—and requested he use tools made of something other than iron. His resistance to the idea collapsed instantly. I’m pretty sure he promised he would take care of it, but I base my assumption on his change in attitude, not on whatever it was he said.

  Mrs. Gillespie is working at a frantic pace, cleaning and dusting and being busy. I’d worry about her overdoing it, but I saved up a large charge of magical energy and hit her with a long-duration healing spell. It won’t visibly fix anything, but she should handily survive the exertion. It’s useless to tell her to take it easy, so the least I can do is mitigate the consequences.

  The car I ordered—a Vauxhall Ten, four-door “saloon” model—pulled up in the drive and honked shortly before lunch. I was impressed. The delivery driver apparently started last night; there’s a war on, so people buying cars are scarce. I invited him to lunch with us, then ran him and his payment down to Keswick to catch the afternoon train.

  I made sure to bring James along. After we dropped the delivery driver off at the station, we went for a drive to find James’ sisters.