Stranger

by Zoë Archer

  Darkness formed a wall separating the Otherworld forest from the Night Forest. The transition was abrupt—on one side, feeble sunlight shone, and on the other, deepest night cloaked the woods. The faintest traces of moonlight gleamed on barren branches. Shapes of unidentified plants—or creatures—loomed. A low, keening wind rattled boughs and scrub.

  Slowly, they approached the boundary. Catullus peered at it, moving his free hand back and forth between the two forests to watch the shift from light to darkness on his skin. “Extraordinary,” he murmured.

  “Mab’s Cauldron is in there?” Gemma asked Bryn.

  “I have heard that to find it, you must follow the Deathless River to the Lake of Shadows, cross the lake, and on the farthest bank, you will find the cauldron.”

  “Haven’t you been there, yourself?” she asked.

  The pixie’s eyes widened in alarm. “None of my kind ever venture into the Night Forest. It is sure death.”

  Not the most reassuring words Gemma had ever heard.

  “We’re on our own, then,” Catullus said.

  “I will wait for your return.” Bryn did not appear particularly happy with even this prospect, but he settled himself atop a large toadstool.

  Catullus gave the pixie a bow. “Again, you’ve my thanks, and the gratitude of all of the Blades for your assistance. Our debt to you—”

  Bryn waved this away. “What I did was freely given. No obligation or debt exists between us.”

  “Come to headquarters, once this is all over. I think we’ve a surplus of excellent Scotch that needs depleting.”

  The promise of future whiskey brightened Bryn a great deal. He smothered his glee to nod regally. “I shall consider it.”

  Unspoken, but present in everyone’s minds, was the very real possibility that neither Catullus nor Gemma would make it out of the Night Forest alive.

  Bryn stuck out his hand, and Catullus offered him a forefinger to shake. Gemma likewise held out a finger, but instead of shaking the tip, as he’d done with Catullus, Bryn swept off his hat and, with a flourish worthy of an old-fashioned courtier, kissed her finger.

  “I’m immortal, you know,” he piped. “Never grow old, unlike him.”

  “Thanks,” she answered, “but I’ll stay with my aging mortal.”

  Catullus scowled. “I’m not aging.”

  “We’re both getting older,” Gemma said. She cast a glance toward the thick gloom of the Night Forest. “Though I think this next adventure might take a few decades off my life.”

  Catullus brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, his eyes warm. “Together, we’ll face it.”

  Knowing he would be with her every step of the way, she felt her courage return. What was an old dark forest, when the man she loved walked beside her? Yet that small, doubting voice whispered again, try as she did to ignore it. Even love, it murmured, is no guarantee of protection. Astrid Bramfield had loved her first husband, and he’d died in her arms. Would she or Catullus have to face the torment of watching the other die?

  No—she pushed aside doubt and apprehension. They had a duty, and nothing must stop them. Too much lay in the balance. Fear had to be conquered. For herself. For Catullus. And the fate of all nations.

  With a final parting, she and Catullus left Bryn, stepping over the boundary into eternal night.

  Chapter 18

  Perilous Crossings

  Profound cold enveloped her. It was not simply a matter of less light or its absence, but a vacuum, utter and complete. This part of Otherworld had never felt the touch or warmth of the sun. Back in the mortal world, even in the depths of night an echo of heat remained in the ground. No trace of warmth here in the Night Forest. And with its absence came palpable dread.

  It was all Gemma could do to keep from climbing onto Catullus’s back, trying to borrow some of his heat and vitality. Instead, she crept beside him as they slowly delved into the vast, bitter reaches of the Night Forest.

  “Can’t see anything,” she whispered. Something plucked at her skirt, and she whirled with her fists ready, only to discover the offending creature was, in fact, a tree branch.

  “I had a device to see in the darkness.” Catullus moved some undergrowth aside, giving them both room to pass. “Sadly, I had to leave it behind in Canada. And all of my illumination tubes were used up.”

  She didn’t know what an illumination tube was, but she had no doubt it would be useful right now. “Anything else in those numerous pockets of yours? A lantern? Torch?”

  “My screwdrivers are handy,” he murmured, “but they won’t allow us to see in the dark. As for making a lantern or torch … a peculiar thing about light in dark places—it acts as a lure.”

  “No torch, then,” she said quickly.

  “We’ll just have to let our eyes grow adjusted.”

  He was right, of course. Gemma hadn’t boasted when she said she had excellent night vision. In minutes, she could see. Not as well as if it were day, but well enough to know that she didn’t like what lay before her.

  From within, the Night Forest was a nightmare landscape. As in the other part of the Otherworld forest, huge trees dominated the surroundings, only here, all life had been stripped from the trees. Their branches stretched toward the inky sky like misshapen limbs, once broken, improperly set. Thickets of thorns covered the ground, scratching at any exposed flesh. Looking up at the boughs overhead, Gemma saw silver-eyed creatures scuttling along, clicking their claws and watching the progression of the two mortals foolish enough to enter their home.

  Gemma started when she realized many of the trees weren’t trees at all, but bark-covered beings, half crone, half tree. Pale, hanging moss served as their hair. Knots in their trunks formed their numerous eyes. They reached out with long, twiggy fingers to pick at Gemma’s hair and Catullus’s coat, and when Gemma slapped their hands away, they cackled, the sound like splintering wood.

  Catullus kept his shotgun ready, and she took some comfort from this and the derringer in her pocket, but she had no idea whether bullets could harm, let alone kill, anything in this forest. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Catullus spoke, his voice a welcome comfort in the darkness. “Bryn said we’re to follow the Deathless River to the Lake of Shadows.” He smiled, wry. “Charming names.”

  “Think of the bragging rights they’ll get you. Sitting by the fire, smoking your pipe, talking about that one time you and the American scribbler—”

  “My American scribbler,” he corrected.

  She liked the sound of that. “The two of you faced some of the worst, most horrible monsters imaginable along the banks of the Deathless River.”

  “Fighting side by side—” He drew closer.

  “Fearlessly defeating whatever foul beast crossed your path—” She, too, stepped nearer.

  “Until you came to Mab’s Cauldron, and there confronted the Witch Queen herself—”

  “Who saw that she was no match for your might and intellect—”

  “And, after vowing her eternal protection—”

  “And generously giving bags full of gold and jewels—”

  “Presented a goblet full of water, which was used to free Merlin—”

  “Stop Arthur, defeat the Heirs—”

  “And save the world—”

  “After which, a huge meal of mutton pie and biscuits was devoured—”

  “Followed by weeks in bed.”

  She slid her hands up his sleek chest. “Kiss me.”

  He did. Awareness of everything fell away. There was only him, his mouth exploring, demanding. She felt it in the communion of their mouths, the difference a few words had, imbuing each stroke of their tongues, each taste with greater depth and meaning. Bound. They had bound themselves to each other, willingly, finding in each other their perfect counterpart.

  A rattle in the nearby bushes broke them reluctantly apart. They both panted with frustrated desire. It did not seem to matter that they were in the middle of a sinist
er, perilous forest. She wanted him. And she knew from the rasp of his breathing that he wanted her. Not here, though, not now.

  “The river,” he grated. “Have to find the river.”

  “Yes. Right.” She stepped back and pressed her palms to her cheeks. He’d dispelled the chill that had settled in her from their first steps into the Night Forest. “We don’t have a guide.”

  “Don’t need one. Most places Blades tread aren’t on the map.”

  “Blades have never been to a parallel world of magic,” she noted.

  “True,” he acknowledged. “Though the setting has changed, being a Blade hasn’t.” “Meaning?”

  “We both have all we need to find our way. Here” —he pointed to his eyes— “and here” —he indicated his ears. “What about taste?”

  “Rather not lick anything—except you, of course—if I can help it.”

  Catullus … licking her. She shook her head to gather her scattered wits. For a few moments, they stood quietly, listening. Then—

  “I hear something,” she said.

  At the same time, Catullus said, “There.”

  Distantly, the sound of rushing water. A river.

  With careful, deliberate steps, they followed the sound. Boggy ground made the going even slower, not to mention a nest of hissing, luminescent snakes in their path. Gemma and Catullus cautiously made their way, the noise of running water growing louder and closer. Until, finally, they found themselves standing on the bank of a river.

  It wasn’t a wide river, but Gemma had no desire to get close to it. The water gave off an evil, sulfurous stench. Ordinarily, rivers flowed fresh and clear, but the Deathless River ran a sludgy, murky course. Sharp-tipped reeds scraped like rusty knives along the banks, and jagged rocks slick with moss and fungus rose up from the riverbed. Gemma thought she saw some yellow-eyed creature slither into the water.

  “Our senses proved themselves,” Catullus said, surveying the river. “Here’s our path.”

  “I’m not swimming in that.” There was brave, and then there was brainless.

  He looked appalled by the very idea. “Good God, no. We’ll just follow it until we come to the Lake of Shadows.”

  He made it sound so easy. But if Gemma had learned, almost nothing came easily. If it did, it wasn’t worth having.

  The Deathless River held nothing but death, a constantly shifting course of water that reeked of decay and served as home for dozens of repulsive, disturbing creatures. Even the Thames in the summer couldn’t compete for sheer noxiousness.

  Catullus did not mind. He was almost content to follow the river’s path—though the fumes around it did make his eyes burn—holding close to his heart the knowledge that Gemma loved him

  She loves me.

  He’d known he was lonely, and envious of his friends for finding their own companions, but it wasn’t until he’d gained Gemma’s love that he realized how much he needed it, needed her.

  All the more reason for him to stay sharply alert as they trekked beside the Deathless River. He never regarded himself as extraordinarily protective. He trusted the Blades, male and female, to look out for themselves, just as they trusted him to do the same. They watched each others’ backs. And while he did have faith in Gemma’s spirit and intelligence, the fierce, irrational need to shelter and protect her overrode all other instincts. It burned, this need, like a fire that consumed him from the inside out.

  They carefully picked their way beside the river. Catullus positioned himself so that he stood between Gemma and the water. Whatever threatened her would have to go through him.

  And creatures were certainly trying.

  “Buggering bastard!” Catullus kicked at a tentacle that slithered up the riverbank, toward him and Gemma. The tentacle recoiled, but didn’t retreat. He swung his shotgun overhead and slammed the butt down. The end of the tentacle broke off with a wet squish. Dark, sticky blood squirted out, spattering on Catullus’s boots.

  Sullen, the tentacle slunk back into the river.

  “I’d suggest we walk through the woods and not on the bank,” Gemma said, “but that looks even worse.”

  Catullus glanced over toward the forest, though he knew what he would see. Darting from tree to tree, gape-mouthed trolls followed the mortals’ progress. The trolls panted and drooled.

  “I think we’re supposed to be breakfast,” she added.

  “Just keep moving.” Catullus growled at the trolls, and was rewarded with the beasts scuffling away, gibbering to one another.

  The past hour had held more of the same—an unending barrage of Otherworld’s most nasty, malicious beings. Between Gemma and Catullus, they had fended off carnivorous will-o’-the-wisps, goblins with poisoned teeth and an appetite for human flesh, and a pack of the same huge, lantern-eyed black dogs they’d had the misfortune of meeting in the mortal world.

  “Our mortal energy seems to be an attractant,” Catullus mused. He eyed a twisted hobgoblin-like creature crouched on the opposite bank. The creature watched them pass, clutching a sharp pike that looked well used. On its head it wore a bright red cap, and Catullus had a very good idea what served as the cap’s dye. He increased the length of his strides, careful to ensure Gemma kept up.

  She said, “There’s got to be some way to conceal or cover our energy.”

  “Short of using magic ourselves, I cannot fathom how. Perhaps there’s some way to use your own magic.”

  She stopped and closed her eyes. As she concentrated, Catullus kept watch for anything that might try to attack. After some time, she opened her eyes and growled in frustration. “I can open doors, mental and physical, but hiding our mortal energy isn’t part of the package.”

  “We’ll stay on guard. And not slow down.”

  Pushing onward, they continued to follow the river. Heavy, oppressive darkness pressed down on them—it was nigh impossible to keep one’s spirits up amidst such gloom. Gemma’s footsteps began to slow, her head drooping lower and lower, until she seemed to drag herself along the riverbank.

  “Keep going,” he said, when she suddenly halted.

  She heaved a deep sigh. “I don’t know why we’re bothering. Even if we somehow survive this slog, Mab’s Cauldron might not even be where Bryn said it was. He’s never seen it. The whole thing could be a complete waste of time.” Her eyes dulled with hopelessness as she sat down heavily. “And if it does exist, we have to bring water all the way back to free Merlin. The return journey could be fatal. Plus, the Heirs are still out there. If the Night Forest doesn’t kill us, the Heirs certainly will. Merlin’s out of his mind, so we don’t know if we can rely on him. Then there’s Arthur—”

  Catullus strode to Gemma and crouched in front of her. “Stop it. This isn’t you.”

  “But—”

  “No, Gemma. It’s this place.” He gripped Gemma’s shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “It sucks out the life and spirit, makes one want to give up. We can’t. We won’t.” Seeing that she was about to object, he pressed on. “Yes, the odds are great, but that’s what makes the adventure worth having. We have to fight, and keep on fighting. Use my strength if you have to, but you’ve enough of your own to make it through, to triumph.”

  “You really think so?” Finally, hope began to shine in her gaze.

  “I know it to be true.” He spoke with firm conviction. “You and I, we’re the strangers, the outsiders, which means we’re the best people for this quest. In all the fairy tales, it’s the misfit who saves the day. Just as you and I will prevail.”

  Her shoulders straightened, and she lifted her chin. The Gemma that he knew, and loved, emerged, burning brightly with her vivacity and determination. “We’ll take no prisoners.”

  “And have the Heirs weeping for mercy.”

  She smiled. He allowed himself relief to see her nihilism cast aside. “Thank you,” she whispered, leaning close to press her mouth to his. “Don’t know what came over me.”

  “In this place, anyone would be h
ard-pressed not to curl into a ball and weep.”

  “Not you,” she noted.

  “I have you to lift my spirits up.” He nuzzled the juncture of her jaw and neck. “And lift up other things, as well.” She chuckled in appreciation.

  A sound caught his attention. He lifted his head to hear it better. It was soft, almost too soft to hear, tantalizing with its very faintness. He strained to listen. A woman’s voice? Or music? Or both?

  “Catullus?”

  He rose, barely hearing Gemma. Instead, he felt powerfully drawn to discover the source of the sound. Hardly aware of himself, he drifted away from Gemma, toward those faint, but fascinating, notes. He felt dazed, removed. The part of his brain that thought and analyzed—the majority of his thoughts—simply went dark, like a deserted building.

  He shouldered into the forest, away from the river. Dimly, he heard Gemma calling his name, but he paid no attention, just as he disregarded the thorns that cut his face and hands as he delved into the woods. The music enthralled him as he went farther into the woods. It held a plaintive tone, sweetly persuasive, unlike any music he’d ever heard. All he knew was that he had to reach its origin.

  In a clearing, he stopped. And stared. A woman stood there, beautiful and young. She smiled at him as she sang. She wore a long green gown, her golden hair loose about her shoulders. He did not know the language of her song, but, as she opened her arms to him, he was compelled to go to her.

  As he drew nearer, he could not look away from her face. It shone like polished ivory, without a line, utterly smooth. Her lips were deeply red, as if flushed from wine, and her eyes were solid black.

  “Dance with me,” she sang, or, at least, he thought that is what she said. He couldn’t be sure. She beckoned with slim hands topped by long fingernails.

  Something, some buried voice told him this wasn’t right. He wanted no woman but Gemma. Yet he could not stop himself, could not break away from this unknown siren.

  Wordlessly, he stepped into her arms. She stopped singing, yet the music continued, weaving down from the surrounding trees and further muddling his brain.