The doc wiggles tight gloves off his fingers, his lips turned down like he finds this whole thing distasteful. “The violin,” he says. And then there’s one in his long, elegant hands.
He holds it to his chin and draws the bow over the strings, coaxing out a note so clear and filled with longing that Nettie has to struggle to keep from falling to her knees in tears. The bow dances, and his fingers fly, and Nettie can’t keep off her knees now, her fingers tearing at the ground like she’s digging up a dead child as the doc sways overhead. The music fills the night, chokes the stars, slips down Nettie’s dust-rimmed ears and into her soul, clutching it with stunning ferocity. He plays forever and a day, and then she blinks up at the full moon and curls her hands out of black earth that should just be sand. She’s pulled white roots from the ground, torn her nails ragged, but she can’t recall what it is that her fingers sought, nor why.
He holds out the violin, one fine eyebrow arched up.
“Your turn.”
Nettie stands, dizzy and shaken. This must be how the Rangers felt that time she killed a siren to stop the song that bewitched everyone but her. Like something special has been given to her, but it’s gone now, gone forever, and something even more special has been taken with it. Her fingers are black and bloody, her knees shaking. She takes the violin in her left hand, the bow in her right. She couldn’t be more goddamn confused if he’d handed her a kitten and an ax. The violin doesn’t quite fit under her chin, the neck impossibly smooth and slender in her rough hands. Carefully, so carefully, she draws the bow across the strings, and the resulting sound could break glass. The four men grimace. Doc’s mouth twitches.
Her hands drop, violin neck in one, bow in the other. She tosses the violin onto the black furrows she dug in the ground, stomps on it, and throws it in the fire. Then she snaps the bow over a knee and tosses it in, too.
“That’s what I think of your fine music,” she hisses.
“One to one,” the doc says.
When she looks in the fire, the violin is gone.
“Now you, Dirty Dave,” Billy says with a grin, nodding at the trapper.
The rough man heaves himself out of his throne like a horse getting up from a good roll in the dirt. He cracks his knuckles and neck. “Fighting,” he says. “Hand to hand. First man knocked out or pinned for ten seconds wins.”
Nettie shrugs like she has a choice. “Wrassling it is.”
Before he can outline any more rules or start counting down, she launches herself into his gut. They tumble into his chair, and the antlers shatter apart like falling matches. He’s twisting and grabbing, trying to get her into a certain position, but Nettie has always depended on fighting dirty. She snatches up a fallen antler and rams a tine into his crotch. He roars like a bear and takes a moment to cup his vittles, and Nettie looks around for something else to use against him while he’s tender. The first thing that comes to mind is the coffeepot in the fire. She picks it up, ignoring the burn on her palm, and dumps the boiling coffee over his head.
Much to her surprise, he screams and flails onto his back, crab-crawling away and lying there gasping like a fish on land. Without a second’s consideration, she throws herself on top of him, pinning him to the ground. He roars and grows and grows until he becomes a bear, a giant, shaggy grizzly, and then Nettie’s on her back in the dirt, pinned and crushed and staring at a mouth full of teeth. As the Doc counts to ten, she struggles in every which way she can, but the bear doesn’t budge from atop her.
And then he’s just a man again.
“That’s ten, darlin’,” he murmurs before hopping off with a grin and a lusty wink.
When she turns to look back at the rest of his posse, they’re leaning out of their chairs, mesmerized. The breeze she feels brings her back to the present, in which she’s revealed a woman’s parts hiding under the stolen cloak that shifted aside during the scuffle. Hot red shame creeps up her cheeks as she struggles to cover herself.
Billy licks his lips. “Tell me your name, girl.”
She doesn’t want to answer, but she can’t shut her mouth. “Nettie Lonesome.”
“What kind of witch are you?” Billy asks, half-amazed and half-enraged at being fooled.
She straightens the robe and reties it. “The kind that ain’t a witch. Why’d he cheat?”
The trapper is back in his unbroken antler chair as if none of it ever happened. No burns, no coffee stains. No sign of getting stabbed in the balls. No sign of recently being a bear.
“The point’s mine unless you can prove I cheated. But you’ve got secrets yourself, huh?”
“Like that she fights dirty,” the youngest one mutters.
“That’s right, tenderfoot,” Billy growls. “She does fight dirty. And it’s your turn, so you’d best remember it and perform adroitly.”
Without getting off his chair, the young one says, “Names, then.”
“What?” Nettie asks.
“Names. If you can guess all our true names correctly. They’re not the ones you’ve heard us say, obviously.”
Somewhere in Nettie’s addlepated brain, this rings a bell. Didn’t the Captain say the fae guarded their true names from mortals and monsters? But these fools didn’t know she’d watched them earlier, when they used different names in easy conversation. Shadow magic is as good as fae magic, she figures, no matter how many goddamn violins you can play.
Pointing at each one, Nettie barks their names. “Bonney. Scurlock. Rudebaugh. Tom.” They’re incredulous. “That’s right, ain’t it? And for my own challenge, why don’t you fellers guess my true name?”
The silence that follows is deep and dark and furious, a bull’s breath before charging. The four men surge to their feet, and they can’t hide what they truly are now. Their coats and hair whoosh back on a breeze that isn’t there, their pointed ears twitching and alert. They’re so handsome her heart wrenches, each of them bestial but beautiful, too, like the prettiest parts of men and women all mixed up, which happens to be Nettie’s particular brand of temptation. Humanity falls off them like the flash of a peacock’s tail opening to reveal what’s been there, all along. The air smells like fire and lightning and crushed pine needles and danger, so much danger. And power. And a whiff of cruelty, dark as pitch. Nettie loves them and longs for them, but the Shadow sees them and hates them.
“You already told us your name,” Bonney says, his ice-blue eyes glittering under a crown of ivory antlers that drip with rubies and emeralds. He steps forward, tall and elegant, trailing a cape made of moss and starlight and pointing one clawed finger at Nettie’s chest. “Nettie Lonesome,” he says, a cruel but sweet smile curving his flawless lips.
Nettie shakes her head. “Nope. Sorry.”
His cloak expands wide enough to blot out the stars, and he’s a startlingly beautiful god-giant made of a million points of light, his hands big enough to crush Nettie and everything she’s ever loved in a tornado of lightning and flowers.
“What do you mean, ‘nope’?” he shrieks.
Nettie closes her eyes so they won’t explode and rocks back on her heels. “Sorry, but Nettie’s not my true name, my real name. I don’t know what my real name is. I was orphaned, and the folks who took me in, they just called me Nettie. I guess Nettie’s my girl name, but I don’t think of myself like that.”
Doc glides over and leans down to inspect her. He’s dropped his human face, too, and the creature before her is so full of sunshine and gilt that he makes Nettie’s best friend, Sam Hennessy, seem like a haystack. His crown is woven of slender finger bones and chunks of amber strung on catgut, and his cloak is the soft brown of baby bunnies fresh born.
“She’s not lying,” he says quietly, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Oh, hells,” Tom mutters, turning away with the rustle of leaves. His crown is a circlet of vines daubed with poison-tipped thorns and tiny rosebuds, and his jacket is spring green, plush as the new grass by a riverbank and dappled with tiny white flowers.
All the magic in the world can’t hide his embarrassment. Black curls of smoke encircle the boy as Bonney’s glittering fingers squeeze their censure with the power of an earthquake.
“Clever girl.” Rudebaugh sidles up and slides a finger under her chin, looking closely at her face. She’s frozen, unable to turn away. “You’d make a suitable bride. Return to Fairy with me, and I’ll gift you an eye that sees the future. You’ll dwell seven years in perfect happiness, dancing and doted on and gifted with every jewel you desire. Your child will be fine and fortunate beyond all men, and when you return, your luck will forever be sevenfold.” He’s the most beautiful of them, to Nettie, with his crown of braided leather and thick, bear-pelt beard and cloak of spotted fawn skin. There’s an animal roughness about him that appeals to her, a glint in his sharp teeth that says he understands her on a bone-deep level, her need to coax and kill and mete out justice in equal measure.
His words, on the other hand, show the truth of him: he belongs to another world, and Nettie Lonesome doesn’t give a shit about magic eyes or jewels or dancing or pretty fairy babies or unearned luck. She’s got to kill what needs to die, and she can’t do that where they come from because nothing dies in Fairy. Ever.
Nettie snaps her chin out of his reach, closing her eyes to the silly but cloying dreams he showed her. “No thanks. I got to get back to rangering. I’ll just take your man, and return him to . . .”
They all look over to find a pair of golden manacles on the ground.
“That son of a bitching possum!” Rudebaugh shouts, but he’s just a man again, a trapper in skins drawing his bowie knife, all raiment of glamour faded.
Bonney claps his hands together, and it’s like lightning striking the glade in a blinding flash of light.
The trees are dead again. The chairs are gone. The fire is gone. The dented coffeepot is gone. The cloaks and crowns and otherworldly beauty are definitely gone. There’s nothing but the full moon, Billy the Kid, his posse, and the chains their quarry slipped while they were showing off their skills. While Nettie watches, the manacles’ metal fades from solid gold to rusted iron. She doesn’t mind a bit that the fairies are wearing their masks again. She prefers them this way, not showing off. Magic’s one hell of a distraction.
“If you’ll excuse me, fellers, I’m free to go, ain’t I?” she asks.
“Without your man,” Billy says with a grin. “The contest was three to two, but I guess I’ll consider it a tie now.” He passes an open hand before her face and murmurs, “Forget us and go.”
Nettie tips her invisible hat. “Nice gambling with you boys,” she says.
As she walks into the woods, she unties the gold sash. Safely in the shadows, she lets the cloak drop, then her humanity. The great bird shakes itself, sick to death of magic. It launches into the air and surveys the moonlit desert below.
All it sees are four road-worn cowpokes arguing as they tighten the saddles of their horses. The leader smacks the youngest one, knocking his hat to the dust. The bird doesn’t know why, but it turns and flaps in the other direction. Farther on, it catches sight of movement and swoops down to snatch up a quickly waddling possum, which it immediately drops. Possums, the bird seems to recall, are not worth the trouble.
TEAM FAIRY
* * *
BY DELILAH S. DAWSON WRITING AS LILA BOWEN
One of the most formative moments of my young life was watching Labyrinth for the first time and deciding I would’ve just forgotten the whiny baby and stayed with the Goblin King forever. I was drawn to the strange beauty, power, and darkness of that world, where maps and clocks didn’t quite make sense and the air always seemed to glitter. I’ve never written a fairy story before, but I knew they’d be a great fit for the world of the Shadow, where Nettie Lonesome is tasked with hunting dangerous monsters and bringing them to justice. The fae are a great foil to no-nonsense Nettie, who sees through glamour and flat-out doesn’t have time for such frivolity. And when it came to deciding how the fae would appear in an alternate 1800s Texas, I thought about the biggest peacock of the West, Billy the Kid—or, to be more accurate, my love of Young Guns II. You know, the movie with Bon Jovi’s “Blaze of Glory” following Billy and his posse around the desert on a killing spree? After all, they’ve never found Billy the Kid’s body. He could totally be a badass fairy.
There weren’t any robots in Labyrinth or Young Guns II. Just sayin’.
ALL THE TIME WE’VE LEFT TO SPEND
by Alyssa Wong
When she got to Yume’s room, the first thing Ruriko did was slip off her mask and remove her prosthetic jaw. There was an ache in her fake bottom teeth. It was going to rain, although one look at the sky could have told her that.
Across the room, Yume dimmed the lights and sat on the edge of the coverlet. The bed was obscenely red, round and mounted on a rotatable platform, as one could expect from a pay-by-the-hour love hotel. Yume’s pale, gauzy skirt rode up her thighs as she shifted positions, and Ruriko wished she would tug it back over her knees. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
Ruriko checked each of her false teeth, pressing a thumb over them to see if any had come loose—it was time for a hardware checkup soon—before clicking the prosthesis back into place. None of the actual teeth, or even the joints, were acting up. Some kind of phantom pain, then, from the flesh-and-bone jaw she’d lost ten years ago. “No, I’m okay.”
“I could put on some music.” Ten years ago, Yume Ito had been one of the four founding members of IRIS, one of the country’s top teen idol groups. Her face, along with Miyu Nakamura’s, Kaori Aoki’s, and Rina Tanaka’s, had graced advertisements all over Tokyo, from fragrance ads to television commercials to printed limited-edition posters. But then the real Yume Ito had died, along with the real Miyo Nakamura, Kaori Aoki, and Rina Tanaka, and now all that was left was an algorithm of her mannerisms and vocal patterns, downloaded into an artificial skin and frame.
“No music, please,” said Ruriko. Her voice sounded strange and small, but too loud at the same time. “Just talking.”
Yume, dead ten years, rested her hands on Ruriko’s shoulders. Her fingers traced the cloth mask that hung from one ear like a wilted flag. She tucked it back over Ruriko’s reassembled mouth. “Whatever you want us to do.”
Taking her hands, Ruriko steered her back toward the bed. She sat, and Yume followed.
The soft green pulse of Yume’s power source reflected off her black hair, tinting her skin with strange light. One of the room’s walls was an extended panel of slightly angled mirrors, and that green glow flashed back in every one of them. Muffled pop music thumped at the walls, but the soundproofing in the room was good. No one could hear the sounds anyone made inside here. And Ruriko had paid for two full, uninterrupted hours.
“Are you comfortable now?” said Yume. There was nothing shy about her. She wore the same kind, gentle patience that had made her face so arresting to watch on film, all those years ago.
They were alone now, one mostly flesh girl and one dead one immortalized in silicone and aluminum. But Yume’s hand felt warm, soft, alive. It was familiar down to the thumbprint-shaped birthmark on her inner wrist and the fine, thin scar across her palm from the time she’d sliced herself while cooking dinner for the younger members of IRIS. For Ruriko.
Ruriko rested her head on Yume’s shoulder and laced fingers with her former girlfriend. “Yume, what do you remember about our last concert?”
* * *
No one in their right mind came to the Aidoru Hotel. But those who did always came for a very specific reason. Mostly, in Ruriko’s opinion, that meant a horde of superfans, otakus, and would-be stalkers who wanted a night to do whatever they pleased with the celebrity of their choice. The disreputable folks from Kabukicho who ran the Aidoru Hotel didn’t care, as long as their clients paid handsomely for the privilege. And Ruriko was paying, even with the family discount.
“I’m surprised you don’t come here more than on
ce a month,” said Shunsuke. He waited for her by the lobby’s front counter, tall and handsome in his suit, briefcase in hand. He must have commuted straight from work. Their other friends had headed up to their rooms already to get hot and heavy. “I would, if I had connections.”
“Very brief, distant connections,” said Ruriko, shaking the rain from her jacket. Her hair was damp, despite her hood and ponytail. Water splattered the clear acrylic floor, and beneath it, the giant projected videos of pop idols’ top hits played in violent, frenetic colors.
Shunsuke slid his wallet back into his pocket. “They’re close where it counts.”
Ruriko joined him in the elevator, and together they ascended. She and Shunsuke had very different tastes and desires, but they both got what they wanted out of their visits to the Aidoru.
“You booked two hours as usual, right?” she said.
“Two and a half. It’s been a stressful month at work.” Shunsuke stretched. His empty left sleeve fluttered, pinned close to his chest in the absence of an arm. “Want to meet up later for ramen?”
“Sure. I don’t know how you’re hungry afterward, but why not.”
They’d made it something of a tradition over the past several months. As the elevator climbed, Ruriko thought of fresh tonkotsu ramen, the crush of bodies, and the warm reassurance of anonymity. She chose not to think about where Shunsuke was headed, or the contents of his briefcase, or any of his numerous distasteful habits.
The elevator halted, and Shunsuke got out. He cut a sharp silhouette against the neon colors vying for dominance on the hallway’s digitally projected wallpaper. “See you at ten,” he said, and the doors slid shut behind him.
* * *
Miyu Nakamura tilted her head. Her hair fell across her shoulders in long, dyed brown curls, and she wore a pink pleated dress with a fluffy white petticoat. A different room, a different night, a different member of IRIS. “My last concert. The one in Shibuya?”
Robots vs. Fairies Page 26
