The Turn: The Hollows Begins With Death

by Kim Harrison

  “It’s okay,” Trisk said, wondering if the woman thought she was going to steal her final moments with her daughter away. “Come sit with me for the story, but you have to promise you’ll go right to sleep afterward.”

  “I will,” the little girl said, clearly used to bargaining for “just one more.”

  Trisk smiled, then blinked when April plopped down not beside her, but in her lap. Startled, Trisk snuggled her in, wrapping them both in the worn blanket. “This is a story about a young girl,” Trisk said, smiling when she noticed even the two boys were listening. “A princess. Just about your age.”

  “Can she have a magical horse?” April asked, her attention on the fire, and Trisk nodded.

  “It’s a true story, and yes, she did have a magical horse that only she could ride. The little girl’s name was April,” Trisk said, tweaking April’s nose to make her giggle.

  It was as if the happy sound drew Orchid in from the dark, her wings’ clattering lost in the clack of the wheels as the pixy vaulted into the shadowed roof slats, hiding. Kal turned away from the door, his worry gone as he made his steady way back to his corner.

  “Princess April liked to ride her magical horse in the woods,” Trisk said, her arms feeling more natural as they curved around the little girl. “She liked to ride in the spring, when the trees sent their tiny flowers out to test the air before the leaves dared show. She liked to ride in the summer, when the insects sang and the wind whispered secrets to the leaves. And she liked to ride in the winter, when the snow made the world into a pristine black and white and she could go for hours without seeing anyone but a sly white fox and her friend, the otter.”

  Her eyes half-lidded, April sighed, content as she galloped her unicorn down Trisk’s arm.

  “But Princess April’s favorite time to ride was the fall, when the dry leaves coated the ground in a wash of gold to make the world look upside down, and the squirrels hid the falling acorns as if they were the trees’ whispered secrets and hopes made real.”

  Even the boys had quieted, and no one but Trisk and Kal saw the faint slip of silver dust drifting down from the roof.

  “Princess April lived with a nice family who looked nothing like her,” Trisk said, and April twisted in her lap, looking up at her.

  “Why not?”

  “Because her mother and father had found Princess April in that very same woods. And because they loved her more than the child they couldn’t have, they built a little house among the trees and raised her as their own. They even taught her how to use her great and awful gift so it would never hurt anyone, and she was happy, and they loved her.”

  April’s eyes widened at the thought that a girl, a princess even, had a power that no one else did. “What was it?” she whispered, lisping slightly.

  Trisk leaned closer, whispering, “She could start a fire with her hands.”

  From his corner, Kal snickered, guessing correctly that the girl in the story was an elf or witch. “No matches?” April asked, her eyes even wider.

  “No matches,” Trisk echoed. “No lighter, nothing. Just by wishing it. Everything was beautiful in April’s world, and she grew up to be a beautiful woman. Her horse carried her far and wide, and she met other people, far away from the tiny house in the woods, but she always came back to be with her mother and father and her friends.

  “Until,” Trisk said dramatically, “one day, a prince from a far-off city heard of her. He came to see her on a big black horse whose hooves were shod with metal.” April shivered in her arms, imagining it. “His horse’s nostrils flared when he was angry, and his ears? His ears showed his mood, which was mostly bad, so they lay flat against his head.”

  April clutched her glass unicorn to her. “Did he hurt April’s horse?” she asked.

  Trisk shook her head, and even the boys at the fire relaxed. “No. Princess April wouldn’t let him, but the prince wanted her to come with him. He gave her presents, and food, and kittens. And when she still refused to leave her house in the woods, he got angry and cut them down.”

  “No!” April cried, horrified.

  “He did.” Trisk held her closer, her heart breaking at the little girl’s blisters, easy to see now on her neck. “He cut down the woods to the last tree. Right to the ground for miles and miles. Even the two old oaks in her backyard. And then he stole her away while she wept.”

  The two boys had crept closer, even their incessant jostling ceasing. “What did she do?” one asked, and Trisk arched her eyebrows wisely.

  “Princess April waited until the prince took her back to his city, and then she used her great and terrible gift to burn his city to the ground. Prince and all.”

  Kal grunted in surprise from his corner, but Daniel was grinning as he unpacked another box for the paper to keep the fire going, throwing the useless glass out the door.

  “What about the people?” April asked, and Trisk rocked her gently.

  “The people ran away. Far, far away and never came back.”

  “Did she go home?” April asked next, her eyes on her unicorn.

  “She did,” Trisk said, and April sighed, happy. “It took a long time because her horse was lame, but yes. April went home to find that her parents were gone along with the trees. There were no leaves whispering secrets, no squirrels hiding acorns, no sly fox to teach her sly wisdom, and even her otter friend was gone.”

  Lips pressed in disapproval, April ran her unicorn a prancing path down Trisk’s arm.

  “That’s a dumb story,” one of the boys said, and Kal grunted his agreement.

  “It’s not over,” Trisk said tartly. “Princess April searched her backyard and found enough acorns to fill a basket. She took those acorns and planted one at the base of every broken stump, hoping that when they were again tall and strong, her parents would return.” Trisk took a slow breath, loath to let April go. “And that is the end.”

  “That’s sad,” April said, her high voice clear with the truth of it.

  “Most fairy tales are.” Bowing her head, she kissed the top of April’s head. “Go back to your mother now. Dream about what you want to be for Halloween, okay?”

  Solemn, April rose, grabbing the shoulder of one of the boys when she wobbled on her way back to the shadows. The soft sounds of their mother-daughter conversation evolving into silence dug at Trisk, and she held herself before the paper fire, wishing things were different.

  His exhalation soft, Daniel sat down beside her. “I don’t know what you’re worried about. You’re going to make a great mom.”

  Trisk blinked fast, refusing to cry. From the far side of the car, Kal turned his back on them, rolling over and pretending to go to sleep. Saying nothing, she wadded up another sheet of paper and tossed it on the flames. “Maybe someday.”

  “That was a true story, wasn’t it?” Daniel said, and she nodded.

  “Except for the princess part,” she admitted. “She was a dark elf raised by dryads sometime in the early part of the twelfth century.” Leaving a dark-haired baby in the woods to die of exposure was not allowed anymore. Even her genetic diversity had value.

  “Tree spirits?” Daniel whispered, leaning close to hide his lips. “They really exist?”

  “They used to. I don’t think there are any alive in the U.S. anymore.” She tossed another wad of paper on the fire, thinking it was ironic. “It’s said that some of England’s old-growth forests might still be alive, but dryads are sensitive to pollution. They’re probably extinct.”

  Daniel silently looked at the quickly burning flames. “Together, you outnumber us. I would’ve thought you could do something about it.”

  A bitter frustration rose from nowhere. “We don’t have a lot of options when it comes to saving at-risk species.”

  Her eyes went to Kal at the faintest clatter of pixy wings as Orchid dropped down to sample the hard candy he’d saved for her. The dryads were probably long gone. Pixies and fairies were next on the list as human and Inderland populations grew
, pushing the softer species into smaller and smaller pockets, and she looked from Kal to the humans dying among their blankets and misery. She couldn’t help but wonder why their human existence was more valuable than the dryads or pixies. Maybe if the weaker Inderland species came out of hiding, humans would modify their behavior to save them.

  But then again, vampires, witches, Weres, and elves were just as bad about creating air pollution and toxic waste dumps.

  Not any closer to finding an answer, Trisk huddled under her blanket, cold and hungry when the last of the paper fire flickered and went out, leaving only the click-click of the wheels and a square of lighter darkness to mark the horizon.

  24

  It was the gradual cessation of the click-click that woke her, more than the gentle bump as the train ceased moving. Cold. It was so cold. Trisk opened her eyes, her focus on the brighter reflected bands of light on the ceiling of the boxcar, now flooded with the frigid glow of dawn. Quen, she thought, hoping he was okay, her heartache colored with a flash of anger that he’d left so she could not see him suffer, not knowing if he was going to live or die.

  One of the boys was crying, his sobs bracketed by the low voice of his uncle consoling him. Rolling toward the open door, she saw Daniel sitting on the floor of the car as he put his shoes on. His exhaled breath was gold in the sun, and she tugged her blanket tighter about herself.

  “The boys lost their parents last night,” Daniel said softly as their eyes met.

  Trisk’s brow furrowed in sorrow. “Oh no.” She sat up, her attention going to the corner where April had fallen asleep with her mom and dad. There was nothing to see but heaped blankets. Behind Daniel, the boys’ uncle had lurched out of the boxcar, his shoes grinding on loose rock as he helped the boys down one at a time.

  “They don’t show any signs of illness,” Daniel said as the man exchanged a word with Kal standing beside the tracks before turning to give them a wave good-bye and silently herding his new charges toward the nearby buildings, bright with new sun in the chilled air. “I told them to stay away from tomatoes. They should be okay.”

  But Trisk didn’t think anything would ever be okay again. Knees hurting, she got up to check on April and her family. She was slow and stiff from the hard floor, and grimy from too long without a shower, and cold from exposure. But everything paled when she realized there was no sound coming from the blankets, no coughing, no soft movements. “April?” she called, and Daniel’s hand landed on her shoulder, stopping her.

  “Don’t.”

  Trisk shrank from his gentle touch, her flash of panic evolving into a frantic need to do something. It couldn’t be too late. It had only been a few hours. But then a small noise struck through her. April was still alive.

  “Trisk, please,” Daniel said again as she lurched to go to her, pulled back once more.

  His eyes were dark with sorrow as they met hers, and anger flickered. “I’m not leaving her like this,” Trisk said in affront.

  Daniel’s hand fell, his expression terrible in his grief. “You can’t help her,” he said, voice low, and her breath quickened. “You heard what they’re doing in Reno. What they’re doing everywhere. Leave her here with her parents. Don’t take her from them, even in death.”

  “I’m not leaving her here to die alone,” she whispered harshly, angry with him—angry at the world—and with a final sniff, she pushed past him.

  But her hope twisted into heartache when she saw April’s flushed face, her breath fitful as she slept between her dead parents, her mother’s bloodless white hand still protectively covering her.

  “Oh, sweet pea,” Trisk whispered, falling to a kneel to gather the little girl up in her blankets. “We’re here now. We can get you some help. Make you better.” But even as she said it, she knew it was too late. It had been too late the moment the virus had been released.

  April’s eyes opened at the clatter of pixy wings, and her expression lit up in wonder when Orchid hovered at Trisk’s shoulder. A glittering blue dust sifted down, flashing silver where it touched April’s face. She smiled, her innocence and wonder heartbreaking.

  “Are you an angel?” April asked, her cheeks flushed to make her eyes look eerily bright. “Are you going to take me and Mommy to heaven?”

  Trisk’s throat closed. “She sure is, sweet pea. Go to sleep. Dream of angels.”

  April’s smile lingered as she blinked fast and closed her eyes. Daniel eased up beside them, silent as together the three of them watched April’s breaths go shallow and finally stop.

  “She had such a pale green aura,” Orchid said, wings slowing as she landed atop Trisk’s arm to peer at the child. “Pretty. I thought I’d like it better if there were less humans, but I don’t know anymore. She called me an angel.”

  “I’ll take her,” Daniel said, and Trisk’s grip on April tightened. But she knew he was right, and while the helpless tears slipped down, she felt April’s weight leave her as he took the bundled girl into his own arms.

  Empty and cold, Trisk stood in the middle of the boxcar as Orchid and Daniel gently nestled April back between her parents. They lingered over them, one in curiosity, the other in what looked like a prayer. Trisk didn’t know if it was for the family or for himself.

  “Wait outside,” Daniel said, head bowed and voice rough. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Arms wrapped around herself from grief, Trisk scuffed to the open door, sitting down to slide out. The jar of meeting solid ground echoed through her and up into her spine, and she paused to unhook her long, open sweater coat when it caught. The air was chill, and she sucked in huge lungfuls of it, trying to find her composure. Orchid had let April see her, and April hadn’t been scared. She had been charmed—for what little time she still breathed. Maybe it had been a mistake to keep their existence from humanity. No one could be afraid of pixies or fairies, but it had been thought if people knew of the smaller Inderlanders, they would recognize the darker, larger, and more dangerous ones in the shadows.

  Quen, please be all right.

  Wiping any hint of tears away, she turned to Kal. He was doing calisthenics in the sun, his limbs toned and his motions deliberate against the backdrop of the city. The boys and their uncle were gone, swallowed up by the shocking silence. There was no roar of traffic and nothing in the sky. Trisk’s eyes narrowed as she saw the skyline. “That’s not Detroit.”

  Kal came up from a stretch, a hint of annoyance furrowing his brow. “It’s Chicago.”

  Lips parting, she faced him squarely, the boxcar holding a guilty silence behind her. How could she have ever slept with him? The man was a toad. “We have to get to Detroit. That’s where Sa’han Ulbrine is.” It was obvious that the train wasn’t going to move again. Either it hadn’t been going where they thought it was or the rails had been shut down.

  Kal glanced at her and then away, focused on his stretch. “I know that.”

  “You said you knew the schedules,” she insisted, though to be honest, they would have gotten on any train at that point.

  “What I said was the schedules are simple.” Kal’s motions became sharp.

  Arms still over her middle, she cocked her hip. “You can’t say it, can you.”

  He came out of his stretch, shaking himself to resettle his clothes. “That I’m sorry?” he said, his flush making his baby-fine white hair stand out. “Sure I can. I’m sorry. I thought the train was going to Detroit. Clearly they stopped all traffic. You’re going to blame me for that?”

  “You are such an ass.”

  Daniel carefully lowered himself to sit in the open door. His blond hair, catching the light, was mussed, and his sweater-vest was filthy. His jaw was set, though, and his eyes were determined as he slid out and down, his dress shoes scraping on the scree. His broken humanity made him somehow more attractive than Kal. “That’s not Detroit,” he said.

  “It’s Chicago.” Trisk shot an ugly look at Kal.

  The train yard was quiet and empty. The only moti
on came from the sparrows hopping among the cars looking for grain. Daniel ran a hand over his thickly stubbled cheeks and stared blankly at Chicago’s buildings. “Do your people have a lab in Chicago, maybe?”

  “No,” Kal said, his gaze following Daniel’s, the barest hint of worry on his face.

  “Someone will have a working phone,” Trisk said as she put the toe of her shoe up on a wheel to retie it. “The police, maybe. We can call Sa’han Ulbrine. Tell him where we are. Get a government transport to Detroit.” She dropped her foot, shoe scuffing on the loose rock. Her eyes went to the absolutely empty skies. Not a plane anywhere. God, it’s quiet. “At the very least, we can get the word out that infection is caused by eating tomatoes.”

  “We need to find a phone,” Daniel said, arms clasped around himself. “And maybe a coat. Wow, is it cold out here.”

  Kal’s expression darkened as he pushed ahead to take the lead. “We agreed we couldn’t tell people the plague is spreading by way of the tomatoes until we know for sure. I’m not starting a panic over a tomato engineered by an elf.”

  Trisk jerked to a stop. “Excuse me?” she said, hands on her hips.

  Kal turned. “We don’t know it’s the T4 Angel,” he said with an exaggerated patience that said he thought she was being a child about this.

  “Bullshit.” Daniel’s face reddened at the foul word even as his expression hardened.

  “And even if it is,” Kal said, “the vampires caused the plague, not your tomato. The virus was their weapon, the tomato their delivery system. You really want to be on their hit list?”

  Daniel’s jaw was clenched, and Trisk looked between them as the tension rose. “It wasn’t vampires. It was you,” he said softly, and Trisk put a warning hand on his shoulder. “You had access, the knowledge, and the motive.”

  “So did Rick.” Kal turned. “Let’s go. We have to contact Sa’han Ulbrine.”

  You are a cold, callous fish of a man, Trisk thought as he walked away. The years since graduation hadn’t changed him. And he was lying. She could tell now. It was in his eyes.