by Rene Sears
"Run," I told the girls. They sprinted toward the oak, leaping over fallen branches and dodging around small trees.
The hound opened its maw wider than I had thought possible, and then bit through the last of my chain shield. I doubled over as the torn remnants of the spell flooded back into me. My right arm burned along the lines of my tattoo. I blinked watering eyes, and straightened to see the yath hound looming right in front of me.
"I mark you, human child." Its nostrils flared. "I have the scent of you now. My queen will know you, and when she is done, there is nowhere you can go that I will not find you."
Sometimes, there's nothing you can say. I lifted my middle finger instead.
The yath hound roared. If it was about to eat me, or take me to the queen, there wasn't much I could do about it, but I wouldn't go easily. The sidheblade pulsed against my wrist, and I envisioned a spear. Anything else would be too small against this monstrosity, and even the spear might not do much more than slow it down. But slowing it might just be enough—enough for Rowan and the girls to get away for sure, and maybe for me to go with them. I flexed my wrist and prepared to give our location away to all of Faerie.
"Kneel, child of Anand," Rowan yelled before I could call the blade into existence. "It is Danu's son who commands you."
The hound sat back in the bloody river and howled. Then it bent forward in a horrible parody of a dog who wanted to play.
Rowan grabbed my hand and yanked me to my feet. "Run," he suggested. We sprinted toward the oak. Little branches whipped at my face, and the roots which had been a helpful ladder moments before now only wanted to trip me and pitch me onto my face. We reached the oak—the girls had already gone through—and I stumbled to a stop. Silver lines pulsed and twitched around the door. Rowan drew even, took my hand, and we jumped through together. Behind us, the yath hound yowled in frustration.
We tumbled to the stone floor, and behind us the door snapped shut. The howling abruptly cut off; the silence was like a slap. I sat for a moment, bruised and scratched, my boots and jeans flaking dried blood, Rowan's fingers still clasped in my sweaty hand, my breathing very loud in the quiet room. I looked around until I saw the twins, and Hawthorn behind them, cool and elegant as always.
"My word," Hawthorn said, taking in the four of us. We were disheveled, covered in blood and mud, but she smiled at us anyway. She leaned down to talk to the girls. "You must be Morgan's nieces. Welcome to Strangehold."
*
"You didn't tell me you were the queen's son," I said.
Rowan let his hands fall open and became very involved at looking at the scars along his knuckles and wrists—reminders, I was sure, of hundreds of fights on her behalf. "I was hoping—No. I wanted it to be unimportant," he said after a long pause. He had bathed; his hair was still damp and fell unbraided around his shoulders to dry, and he wore a loose shirt and trousers, and no shoes.
I stood and stretched, spine popping. I too had had a shower, and the wonderful luxury of clean, unbloodied clothes, but my body was still shedding the last effects of adrenaline. "It's all right. I mean, I don't care. Ah, damn it, that's not what I mean. I'm glad you want to help me—I want to help you, too. Let me know if I can."
He nodded solemnly, as if it were a sacred vow. Maybe it was. That was all right; I meant it. "The girls will be safe here," he said. Igraine and Iliesa were in a room together, at their request. Hawthorn would have given them each their own room if they wanted it. They didn't. They were sleeping, last I'd looked in on them, after showers of their own. Luckily Strangehold seemed to have a good supply of hot water.
"Yes." I sucked on a split in my lip. I hadn't noticed when it had happened. "They can't stay here forever, though."
"Why not? It's safer than Faerie or earth, and neither plague nor the wrath of queens can find them here."
"True, but they deserve a childhood. Friends their own age. An education." I frowned. "Surely they had friends underhill, in addition to tutors."
"Maybe. I'm sure at least they had companions their own age." He looked off into the distance, moss-green eyes pensive. "But I can tell you from my own experience, nobles' children are loath to call a changeling friend, even the queen's own get."
"All the more reason to get them overhill," I said firmly, though how I was to do that with the Savannah flu still going, I didn’t know. I needed to call Eliza—no. I needed to call Jake. The shock of her death hit me again like a belly blow. I rubbed my eyes, and my right bicep burned. "I'm going to go to the workroom. I need to replenish my tattoos."
"I shall accompany you." He rose to his feet with fluid grace.
"I'd appreciate that."
Everything was still set up as Marcus had left it. I bowed my head and let myself savor the lingering feel of his magic, sharp angles and graceful arches. It might be as close as I would come to talking to him again. He was in an unbreakable trance—the polite magical way to say coma—and Hawthorn didn't think he'd come out of it. I needed to go see him, to say goodbye, but I hadn’t been able to make myself do it just yet. The last image I had of him was of him blazing with magic to let us cross underhill. What I saw next would be the image that supplanted it, and I was selfish enough to want to let the other linger a little longer.
I sat cross-legged in the middle of the circle and opened myself up to the magic in the room, letting it wash over me. Silver light bathed everything in the room with a cool glow. It was more diffuse than the magic in a leyline, but it was everywhere, filtered to keep the strength of the source from ripping the caster apart. This felt the same as magic at home, and I opened myself up to it.
The stinging around my right bicep eased as magic flowed in, replacing that which I'd spent in driving back the yath hound. Though I probably ought not use it again until I repaired it. I'd need to visit the tattoo shop when I got home; the ink was faded and missing in some places where the hound had eaten it. That had never happened to me before. Rowan lent his power to mine and that indescribable thrill rippled down my spine at the feel of our combined power. I couldn't stop myself from smiling at him.
A small discordant note entered the web of my magic. I frowned and looked around, trying to spot it. Metal glinted by the fountain. Of course—Helen's bracelet. I'd forgotten all about it. I was getting better at shoving aside the sadness that came with thoughts of the dead; not a skill I'd ever wanted to cultivate. I stood and walked to the bracelet, hooking it with a finger. Some of the wards were broken past fixing, but some of them weren't; regardless, her daughter might like it as a keepsake. The wards that still functioned buzzed faintly against my skin. A silver asclepian, a rod with a snake twisted around it, caught on my sidheblade bracelet, and I pulled them apart, ignoring the tingle of the charm.
Wait. That couldn’t be right. "Rowan. Look at this."
He bent to look at the bracelet. His hair fell forward; this close he smelled of rosemary. "Your friend's bangle, isn't it?"
I touched the charm with my fingertip. "This is a ward against sickness. Probably not really very helpful; there's only so much magic can do against disease." I touched the shattered quartzes. "Can you tell what these were?" He shrugged. I drew a breath. "These were wards against inimical spells."
He looked up, eyes widening. "So what killed Helen—"
"—isn't a disease at all," I finished. "It's a spell." I clenched my fist around the bracelet until the stones bit into my palm, trying to grasp the enormity of such a casting—and how anyone could actually do it.
"But it's a spell that acts like a disease," he said. "It spreads like a disease."
"Yes, or at least it seems to. Someone is a fiendish bastard. A disease might not have a cure, but most spells can be broken. Nobody else has to die." I knew that it wouldn't be that easy, but for a second I let myself believe that it might be. Relief bubbled up in me, and I grabbed his hands and spun in a circle. "I have to go back. The Association needs to know. My friend Saranya—" If she was still alive. I made myself calm dow
n. "Let me talk to Hawthorn. If the girls can stay here while I see to this—"
"I'll come with you," he said. "Our combined knowledge might be better than yours alone." Our combined magic was stronger too, if he was willing.
*
Hawthorn was happy to let Igraine and Iliesa stay at Strangehold. The hard part was explaining to my nieces that I was leaving them again, even if I meant to come back almost before they could miss me. I came into it feeling that I was failing them already. They were all too ready to agree.
"You can't leave us here," Igraine said. Her nostrils flared as she looked around the sitting room. "We just got here."
"My dear," Hawthorn began.
"We don’t mean to be rude," Iliesa cut in quickly. Igraine's chin tucked down and she glared at me through narrowed eyes.
"I don’t want to go," I said. "But people are dying. If I can help them, I have to."
"You could bring us with you." Igraine's eyes darted to me.
"Only if I could swear to your parents that I could keep you safe. I'm not sure you would be." I leaned forward, willing them to be convinced. "There's a disease killing casters, and I think I can stop it. But both of you are casters too, and I haven’t had a chance to put wards on you, even if I was certain this was something you could ward against. I want to teach you how to protect yourselves but right now we don’t have time."
Iliesa glanced at Igraine, and Igraine slouched forward over crossed arms. "We understand," Iliesa said.
"I'll come back, and we'll have time to talk to each other." I hoped I wasn't lying to them. "I'll come back," I said again.
Iliesa nodded and held her hand out, palm up so that I could see the acorn-freckle at the center of it. "It's all right, Aunt Morgan. We trust you."
I bit my lip and hoped I'd live up to their trust.
Rowan went to gather supplies for our trip back overhill while I got the things I thought I'd need. I was almost packed when Hawthorn burst through the door of my room, her skirts held high, in the closest thing to disarray I'd seen her yet.
"Morgan! Come quickly."
I dropped my backpack on the bed and jumped up. "Is it the girls?"
"What? No, they're fine. It's Marcus. He's awake. He—he doesn't have long." She swallowed hard. "You will know when you see him."
I followed her down the corridor at a dead run, and slid through the door to his sickroom. Hawthorn hadn't lied—he looked awful. His time in the trance had left him gaunt and sallow. His breath was coming in slow, wheezing gasps, and the shadows under his eyes were bruise black. I swallowed sorrow and came to his side.
His eyes cracked open, the whites bloodshot and the eyelids rimmed with crusted black blood. The lines around them deepened in an attempt at a smile that looked more like a grimace. "You came back," he said. "Did you find them?"
"We found them. They're here. They're safe." I sat down at his bedside. "Thank you. I'd never have gotten underhill without what you did."
Marcus's gaze found mine. "Good. I'm glad. They couldn't have a better guardian than you."
"I'll do my best." I hadn't been the most promising or quickest of his pupils, but I was what the girls had.
"Your best will keep them safe." He drew in another long breath, quavering and fraught with pain.
"Can I get you anything?" I scanned the table next to his bed. There were a plethora of bottles and vials there, some the familiar orange plastic of an overhill pharmacy, some faceted crystal twined with silver vines—Hawthorn's work, or gotten from Faerie somehow.
"Hawthorn has me stuffed full of pills and potions, and Rose is blocking as much of the pain as she can. That I can feel it..." Another gasping breath. He knew as well as I that the end couldn’t be far. Tears pricked my eyelids, hot and unwelcome, and I smoothed his sheet unnecessarily. "Never mind all that. I failed you."
"What? No. You were as fine a teacher as I could have wished—as anyone could have wished."
"I tried. I did try...but as your friend, I let you down."
"You helped me save my nieces. You didn't let me down, you got me to Faerie when I thought it was impossible."
"I mean twenty years ago." His eyes closed for a second, and he swallowed. "I'm sorry, Morgan. I should have stayed for you and Eliza. I shouldn't have—"
"No, Marcus. Stop. It's all right. Done is done. Eliza and I haven't done so badly for ourselves." I stilled my hand on the sheet. "You were hurting. He was your prize student." I laid my hand against his where he could grip it or not as he chose. After a long moment, he wrapped his fingers around mine. I gave him the gentlest of squeezes, letting my skin say I'm here. If I said it out loud, resentment might come out along with love—and I'd have been here sooner if you'd have let me—and I was too grateful for all he had done and too afraid this would be my last goodbye to want anything so sharp to stain it.
His eyes opened again, shining and wet with regret. "I wanted—It was so long ago when David and I—we never had children. I saw all of you as my children, I did, but Matthew—"
"—he was like your son."
"His own parents didn't know him like I did—like I thought I did. I was wrong." He turned his head to the side, a shudder wracking him. I waited, aching for him, until he turned back and dragged a faint smile up from somewhere. "Dying is terrible. Try not to do it if you can at all avoid it."
"I'll do my best." Resentment crumbled away like ash. We had both done the best we could, and both made mistakes. I leaned down and laid my lips against his forehead. "You did everything you could for us. I've always been grateful to you for it."
"I'm proud of you," he said. His eyes went distant. He fumbled for the ring at his throat, and I helped him draw it out. He closed his eyes and pain flitted like clouds across his face.
"Marcus?" I said softly. He didn't answer.
Soft footsteps brushed against the stone behind me: Hawthorn. She sat next to me for a time, and we listened to the increasingly ragged tempo of his breath. After a handful of minutes—short, objectively, but a subjective eternity—his gasps turned to a rattle, and then stopped.
The tears I'd tried not to shed in front of him fell, and Hawthorn pulled me to her side in a brief fierce embrace, a solid, comforting presence. All the deaths of the past few days and now this one—She let me weep for only a second and then pulled me up.
"You must go," she said. "I'm sorry. Leave him with us—we'll take care of him. You have to find this spell and stop it."
I wiped my eyes—not dry, because I couldn't stop crying, but drier—and nodded. I wanted to thank her, but instead I said, "Please look after him."
"Go," she said, "and come back to us."
*
There was only one door from Strangehold into Faerie, but there were dozens to Earth; the one we'd come in through, in Atlanta, ones in London, Tokyo, Sydney, Johannesburg—all over the world. The one we were taking was to New York; that was where Jake and the Association were. I didn't know if the Savannah flu had spread anywhere outside of the states yet. New York City had the highest concentration of casters on the east coast, so that's where we were headed.
Rowan and I crossed the thin vine bridge. This time I tried to look up instead of down, at the innumerable branches of the great tree that held Strangehold. It seemed lighter above us than the twilight expanse of the void below, a gentle light filtered green by all the leaves. How far did it go up? I'd have to ask Hawthorn if she'd ever walked up it. Something seemed to move in the branches, a shifting of the shadows. I stopped, hands tightening on the leafy rails. I squinted, trying to pierce the vast distance, but I couldn't see anything.
"Morgan?" Rowan had stopped too, a few feet ahead of me.
"I thought I saw something."
He looked up at the branches, brows furrowed. "I don't see anything."
"It must have been a trick of the light. Come on." I started walking again, narrowing the distance between us. He nodded, and turned back to the platform and the gate to overhill.
I had buffed both of us with all the wards of protection I knew, and Rowan had backed my wards with his power. Now that we knew it was a spell rather than a sickness, we could at least try to guard against it. If we failed—well, between Hawthorn and Rowan, I trusted the girls would be looked after. Rowan had laid a glamour over his fae features to make them look more human, and every time I looked at him, it creeped me out a little, how close to and yet not him his face looked.
We stepped out of Strangehold under a bridge in Central Park. The air was cold and bright, and my eyes still stung from weeping. It was late afternoon and it took me a few moments to get my bearings, but soon I had us walking to the building that housed the Association. There weren't nearly the number of people about that I'd expected to see on the streets, but considering the sickness had been on the news, probably no one was out who didn't have to be.
The Association was headquartered in an old brownstone that had been made over for commercial use. The bottom floor held a used bookstore that was almost never open. Upstairs was another matter.
The gate that guarded the stairs to the second floor was locked and warded. I sent a tendril of magic into the iron knot in the center of the window grille and waited. No one answered. I glanced at Rowan, who frowned. I sent another, stronger tendril into the knot and held it, the magical equivalent of leaning on the bell. After nearly a minute, a speaker clicked on and a brusque female voice said, "What?"
"It's Morgan Tenpenny. I'm here to see Jake Kaminski—or—or whoever's around, really." I didn't tell her that we had an idea. That's all it was—an idea. We needed to test it. It seemed all too likely we'd have more than enough test subjects.
The wards dropped, the door buzzed, and we pushed our way in.
The hallway was quiet. We walked up two flights of stairs and went through a glass door that read Allman Reed, Inc. in faded art-nouveau style letters. Shelby Allman and Philomena Reed had been the two mages who transformed the loose council of sorcerers into the organization of casters that it was today. In the lobby, a woman with a messy, bleached-blond pixie cut frowned at us from behind a desk. Bruise-purple bags shadowed her eyes. "Stop right there," she said, and I recognized her voice as the person who'd buzzed us in.
