Roadside Magic

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Her throat worked in long swallows, her weed-whacker-cut coppery hair glowing under the fluorescents, and she was a stone fox even if she was drinking straight out of the carton. Skinny in all the right ways, and wearing a pair of black heels, too.

  The only problem was, she was drinking without paying, and right next to her was a huge reddish hound who stared at Matt with husky-blue, intelligent eyes. A dog shouldn’t look that damn thoughtful, as if it was sizing you up.

  “Hey!” Matt’s voice broke, too. Cracked right in the middle. Bobby Grogan, the football savior of Barton High and Matt’s older brother, had a nice low voice, but Matt’s had just fractured its way all through school, even though he would have given anything to sound tough just once.

  Instead it was crybaby Matt, and the only thing worse was the pity on Bobby’s face in the parking lot. Lay off him, he’s my brother.

  She didn’t stop drinking, her eyes closed and her slim throat moving just like an actress’s. She finished off the whole damn quart, dropped it and gasped, then reached for another.

  “Hey!” Matt repeated. “You gonna pay for that?”

  Her eyes opened just a little. Dark blue, and she gave him a single dismissive glance, tearing the top off the carton in one movement. Milk splashed, and she bent like a ballerina to put it on the piss-yellow linoleum with little orange sparkles. The dog dipped his long snout in and began to drink as well.

  Oh, man. “You can’t just do that, man! You gotta pay for it!”

  She reached into the case again, little curls of steam rising off her bare skin as the cooler wheezed. Those two quarts were all the whole milk they had, so she grabbed the lone container of half-n-half—ordered weekly because the bossman said offering free coffee would make someone buy it—and bent back the cardboard wings to open it. The spout was formed with a neat little twist of her wrist, and she lifted it to her lips, all while the dog made a wet bubbling noise that was probably enjoyment.

  Oh, hell no. “You can’t do that!” he outright yelled. “Imma call the cops, lady! You’re gonna get arrested!”

  The instant he said it, he felt ridiculous.

  She drank all the half-n-half and dropped the carton, wiping at her mouth with the back of her left hand. Then she stared at Matt, as if he was some sort of bug crawling around in her Cheerios.

  Just like Cindy Parmentier, as a matter of fact, who let Matt feel her up behind the bleachers once but kept asking him to introduce her to Bobby. Then she spread that goddamn rumor about him being a fag, and even Bobby looked at him like he suspected it was true.

  The woman’s mouth opened slightly. She still said nothing. The dog kept sucking at the opened quart on the floor, but one wary eye was half-open now.

  “And you can’t have dogs in here! Service animals only!”

  She tipped her head back, and for a moment Matt thought she was going to scream. Instead, she laughed, deep rich chuckles spilling out and away bright as gold while he stared at her, spellbound.

  When she finished laughing, the dog was licking the floor clean. She wiped away crystal teardrops on her beautiful cheeks and walked right past Matt Grogan. She smelled like spice and fruit, something exotic, a warm draft that made him think of that day behind the bleachers, soft sloping breasts under his fumbling fingers and Cindy Parmentier’s quick light breathing.

  The dog passed, its tail whacking him a good one across the shins, way harder and bonier than a dog’s tail had any right to be. Matt staggered. The door opened, the early-summer heat breathing into the store’s cave, and Matt ran after her. “You didn’t pay!” he yelled, but he slipped on something—it gave a little weird underfoot, like the floor itself was flexing to throw him off.

  He went down hard, almost cracking his skull on the racks of nudie mags they couldn’t sell inside the Barton city limits. That was the real reason this place held on, and once he started working here they started laughing even more.

  “Ow!” Matt rolled, thrashing to get back up. Something jabbed at his cheek, and something else at his finger. Tiny, vicious little stings all over him.

  The bell over the door tinkled again. “Stop that,” the voice said, low and sweet as warm caramel, with a hidden fierceness. It made the sweat spring out all over him.

  It was a good thing his eyes were closed, or he would have seen the tiny flying things, their faces set in scowling mutiny, their wings fluttering and a deep throbbing blue spreading through the glow surrounding each one, spheres of brilliance bleached by daylight and fluorescent but still bolder, richer than the colors of the tired mortal world.

  A low, thunderous growl. It was the dog, and Matt rolled around some more, suddenly terrified. His bladder let go in a warm gush, and the stinging continued.

  “I said stop it.” Everything inside the store rattled. The floor heaved a little again, and that was when he opened his eyes and saw . . . them. The little naked people, their delicate insect-veined wings, their sharp noses and the wicked merriment of their sweet chiming pinprick voices.

  They darted at him, but the woman said “No,” again, firmly, even as they piped indignantly at her. “Leave him alone. He’s just a kid.”

  They winked out. The door closed with a whoosh, and he lay there in his own urine, quivering. Her footsteps were light tiptaps on the tarmac outside, before they were swallowed up by the hum of air-conditioning.

  And a faint, low, deadly chiming. Little pinpricks of light bloomed around him again, and he began to scream.

  Not long afterward Matt Grogan got up, tiny teethmarks pressed into his flesh on his face and hands, and bolted through the door without waiting for it to open, shattering glass into the parking lot. He ran into the sagebrush wilderness, and nobody in Barton ever saw him again.

  Mislaid

  3

  Summerhome rose upon its green hill, its fair flowing pennants in wind-driven tatters. The walls should have been white and green, the towers strong and fair like the slim necks of ghilliedhu girls, and around its pearly swordshapes the green hills and shaded dells should have rippled rich and verdant. The Road should have dipped and swayed easily, describing crest and hollow with a lover’s caress; there were many paths, but they all led Home.

  The hills and valleys were green and fragrant, copse and meadow drowsing under a golden sun. They were not as rich and fair as they had been before, nor did they recline under their own vivid dreams as in Unwinter’s half of the year. The ghilliedhu girls did not dance as they were wont to do from morning to dusk in their damp dells; the pixies did not flit from flower to flower gathering crystal dewdrops. The air shimmered, but not with enticement or promise. Strange patches spread over the landscape of the more-than-real, oddly bleached, as if fraying.

  The trees themselves drew back into the hollows, the shade under their branches full of strange whispers, passing rumor from bole to branch.

  Rumor—and something else.

  Occasionally, a tree would begin to shake. Its spirit, a dryad slim or stocky, hair tangling and fingers knotting, would go into convulsions, black boils bursting from almost-ageless flesh. First there were the spots and streaks of leprous green, then the blackboil, then the convulsions.

  And then, a sidhe died.

  Dwarven doors were shut tight, admitting neither friend nor foe, and the free sidhe hid elsewhere, perhaps hoping the cold iron of the mortal world would provide an inoculation just as mortal blood did. Some whispered the plague was an invention of the mortals, jealous of the sidhe’s frolicsome immortality, but it was always answered with the lament that no mortal believed in the Good Folk anymore, so that was impossible.

  Summerhome’s towers were bleached bone, and the greenstone upon them had paled significantly. A pall hung over the heart of Summer, the fount the Folk issued from. The vapor carried an unfamiliar reek of burning, perhaps left over from the disposal of quick-rotting bodies, both from the battle with Unwinter and from the plague itself. Sparse though the latter were, there was no real hope of the
m abating.

  From the sugarwhite shores of the Dreaming Sea to the green stillness of Marrowdowne, from the high moors where the giants strode and those of the trollfolk allied to Summer crouched and ruminated in their slow bass grumbles to the grottos where naiads peered anxiously into still water to reassure themselves that their skin was unmarked, Summer shuddered feverishly.

  Inside the Home’s high-vaulted halls, brughnies scurried back and forth, but no dryads flocked to carry hair ribbons and little chantment spangles for their betters. The highborn fullbloods, most vulnerable to the plague, kept an unwonted distance from one another, and some had slipped away to other estates and winter homes, no doubt on urgent business.

  On a low bench on a high dais, among the repaired columns of Summer’s throneroom, she sat, slim and straight and lovely still, her hands clasped tight in her lap. Her mantle was deep green, her shoulders peeking through artful rends in the fabric and glowing nacreous. The Jewel on Summer’s forehead glowed, a low dull emerald glare. It was not the hurtful radiance of her former glory, but her golden hair was still long and lustrous, and her smile was still soft and wicked as she viewed the knights arrayed among the forest of fluted columns.

  Broghan the Black, the glass badge of Armormaster upon his chest, stood on the third step of the dais. He did not glance at the knight who knelt on the second, a dark-haired lord in full armor chased with glowing sungold. Dwarven work, and very fine; Broghan’s own unrelieved black was all the more restrained in comparison.

  Or so he wished to think.

  The brun knight, Summer’s current favorite, stared at her slippered feet, waiting for a word.

  She did not let him wait long. “Braghn Moran.” Soft, so dulcet-sweet, the loveliest of her voices. The air filled with appleblossom-scent, petals showering from above as layers of chantment, applied at festival after festival, woke in response. “A fair lord, and a fell one.”

  “Your Majesty does me much honor,” he murmured in reply. No ripple stirred among the serried ranks, though no doubt a few of them grudged him said honor.

  The wiser knew it was only a matter of time. Fickle as Summer, some said—though never very loudly. Braghn Moran’s lady-love had left Court not long ago, when Summer’s gaze had turned upon him.

  “Something troubles me, Braghn.”

  The knight could have observed that there were many troublesome things afoot among the sidhe lately, but he did not—perhaps a mark of wisdom itself. He kept examining the toe of Summer’s green velvet slipper, peeking out from under the heavy folds of her mantle. If he compared it with another lady’s, none could tell.

  “I seek a certain troublesome sprite, and I would have you find him for me.”

  “Who could not come, when you call?” Broghan the Black commented.

  Summer did not spare him so much as a glance. “I believe Puck Goodfellow is leading a certain former Armormaster down many a path.”

  A rustle now did pass through the ranks of Seelie knights.

  Gallow. The Half who had committed the unforgivable, who had insulted Summer and all of Seelie to boot.

  “You wish me to kill Gallow?” Braghn Moran did not sound as if he considered it much of a challenge.

  “No, my dear Braghn. Puck Goodfellow has mislaid his head; it belongs on my mantelpiece where I may gaze upon it. I have had enough of his play at neutrality. If the free sidhe are not with us, they are with Unwinter.” Cruel and cold, her beauty, not the visage of the simple maiden she often wore. This was a different face, one haughty and motionless as marble. “And I will not tolerate Unwinter’s insolence further.”

  Braghn Moran rose. He glittered as he stood before Summer, stray gleams of sunshine striking from dwarven-carved lines on breastplate, greaves, armplates. “Yes, my queen.”

  “Do this, and you shall be my lord.” She smiled, softening, a kittenish moue of her glossy carmine lips. Petals showered through the air.

  He made no reply, merely turned on his heel. The ranks parted for him, and some may have noticed he did not swear to her before he left, nor did he glance back. His face was set and pale, and when the doors closed behind him Summer’s softening smile fled.

  “The rest of you,” she continued, “are required for other work.”

  Tension crackled between the floating rosepetals. For Summer to expend her strength on this glamouring, for her to appear thus, was unheard of.

  “Jeremiah Gallow, once Armormaster, offends the Summer Queen.” Her hands tightened against each other in her lap, each finger tipped with a wicked-sharp crimson nail. “Kill him, and bring Unwinter’s Horn to me.”

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  ROADSIDE MAGIC

  look out for

  BLOOD CALL

  by Lilith Saintcrow

  Anna Caldwell has spent the last few days in a blur. She’s seen her brother’s dead body, witnessed the shooting of innocent civilians, and been shot at herself. Now she has nowhere to turn—and only one person she can possibly call.

  Since Anna dumped him, it seems waiting is all Josiah Wolfe has done. Now, she’s calling, and she needs his help—or rather, the “talents” she once ran away from. As a liquidation agent, Josiah knows everything about getting out of tough situations. He’ll get whatever she’s carrying to the proper authorities, then settle down to making sure she doesn’t leave him again.

  But the story Anna’s stumbled into is far bigger than even Josiah suspects. Anna wants to survive, Josiah wants Anna back, and the powerful people chasing her want the only thing worth killing for—immortality. An ancient evil has been trapped, a woman is in danger, and the world is going to see just how far a liquidation agent will go . . .

  Chapter One

  Thin winter sunlight spilled through a window, a square of anemic gold on blue carpet. He stared, turning the knife over in his hands and watching the bright gleam of the blade.

  Spent a lot of time doing that, these days. Retirement wasn’t boring—once a man got old enough, he learned to like it when bullets weren’t whizzing overhead.

  A faint sound broke thick silence.

  He’d fooled himself into thinking he’d heard it so many times, the actual event was a dreamlike blur. Then the phone buzzed on his desk again, rattling against the leather cup that held two pens and a letter opener.

  It was the phone. He’d had the number transferred to a newer one, just in case, and the bill was paid automatically every month from an account that never went dry.

  Just in case. It was silly, it was stupid, it was probably a wrong number. The ID started with 1-89, and that meant a pay phone.

  Definitely a wrong number. Still . . . Josiah Wolfe dropped the knife and snatched up the slim black plastic case, hit TALK with a sweating finger.

  “Hello.” No betraying surprise in the word. His hands were steady. It’s just a wrong number. Someone hit a nine when they should have hit a six, a two when they wanted to hit five. Don’t give anything away.

  Her voice came through. “Jo? Josiah?” A staggering gasp, as if she’d been punched in the stomach.

  His knees had turned to water. Sweat sprang out on his lower back, under his arms, in the hollows of his palms. Was he dreaming?

  Pinch me. No, don’t. Let me sleep. He managed to speak. “Anna.” I still sound calm. Jesus God, thank you.

  Wait. Is she crying?

  The thought of her crying made his chest feel hollow and liquid.

  “I wasn’t . . .” Another one of those terrible gasps. Was she trying to catch her breath? Drunk? Was that why she was crying? “I wasn’t sure you’d answer. Or if the number was even s-still good.”

  He had to drop down into the chair. His legs wouldn’t hold him up. “I told you it would be.” When you left me. The words burst out, hard little bullets, surprising him. “I keep my promises.”

  He almost winced as soon as it left his mouth. That was like waving a red flag in front of a bull; she might have a sudden a
ttack of good sense and hang up. Keep her talking, idiot. Keep her on the line.

  Finally, after three years, Anna had called him.

  There is a God. Thank you. Thank you so much.

  Another deep ragged inhale, as if bracing herself. She sounded like she’d just paused during a hard workout, sharp low gasps. He heard city noise behind her. Cars, the imperfect roar of traffic, and the sound of cold wind. Where was she?

  “I d-didn’t know.” Her voice broke, and he was now certain she was crying.

  Warning bells were ringing. It wasn’t like Anna Caldwell to cry, especially on the phone with the man she’d sworn at, slapped, and dropped like a bad habit three years ago when she’d found out what he did for a living. It doubly wasn’t like her to be at a pay phone, especially on a winter day that, while sunny, was only in the thirty-degree range. She felt the cold acutely; she slept with a blanket on all but the stickiest of summer nights.

  It especially wasn’t like her to sound so terrified, she was stuttering.

  “I d-d-didn’t th-think this n-number would w-w-work, b-but I h-had to . . .” She broke down again, hitching sobs thin and tinny in his ear.

  This isn’t good. “Anna. Anna.” He used his calm-the-waters voice, nice and low but sharp to grab her attention, cut off the panic. “Where are you, baby? Tell me where you are.”

  It worked. She took a deep breath, and he could almost see her grabbing for brittle calm, the way she’d done right before she’d walked out on him. That little sound, and her green eyes going cool and distant, her shoulders drawing back—he could picture it clear as day, even now. “I’m on the corner of Maple and Twentieth, in an awful ph-phone booth. I’m cold and I think I’m still wet from the p-pond and I’m scared, and I need your help. I need your help.”