Lady Changeling

by Ken Altabef

  Theodora immediately dropped her glamour of being human. She spun to the side to avoid his slashing attacks. She leapt into the air, spinning into a somersault at the peak of her leap and touching lightly to ground behind him. Amalric whirled around and came at her again.

  Theodora leapt again. Setting her palms on the tops of his shoulders she pushed up and away. She spun in the air, her feet jackknifing above her head. She was practically flying. Her thin, membranous wings had sprouted from the back of her dress. They couldn’t possibly support her weight but she used them to balance while maneuvering through the air.

  Despite the circumstances, the exertion felt good. It had been a long while since she’d moved as a faery should. She’d been too long pretending to be a human being. She was surprised at how easily she had discarded ten years of glamour, and how wonderful it felt. This is what I am, she thought. What a relief to embrace it once more.

  Amalric charged at her again. He was like some vicious animal disguised as a plant pretending to be a man.

  He scratched and tore at her, punching and kicking like a wild thing. Theodora did her best to avoid his flailing claws but one of his kicks connected low in her belly, knocking the wind out of her lungs and sending her sprawling to the ground.

  She used flashes of light to distract him. Little starbursts of blue and yellow and orange popping in front of his face. She hadn’t fought anyone in twenty years but she still remembered how. She hadn’t killed anyone in thirty years, ever since the death of Griffin Grayson had ended the Purge, but she still knew how.

  Amalric was inexperienced at being a faery and still fought mostly as a man. Charging straight at her on plodding legs, swinging his arms like pistons. Using her natural-born agility Theodora avoided his clumsy advances, frustrating his attempt to scratch out her eyes. But she could do little more than that. The fury of his attack left her no room to breathe, let alone mount a counter-attack.

  There was no recourse except for illusion. She had only a moment to gather up whatever glamour she could still command and send it at him. His state of mind was wild and prickly and touching it even lightly stung Theodora wherever their minds met. She pulled back quickly. But of all illusions fire was easy. It was pure chaos. Faeries were particularly good at chaos.

  Theodora created an illusion of burning tongues licking red, raw skin and flung it into Amalric’s consciousness, tricking him into thinking he was set on fire. He stepped back, patting frantically at what he perceived to be his flaming arms and chest. His wooden features contorted into an expression of pure terror.

  Theodora seized the moment. She balled her fists and hit him as hard and as fast as she could. Her knuckles cracked painfully as they struck Amalric’s face over and over. Each blow felt as if she were hitting a tree stump. She wondered if she was doing more damage to her hands than his face, but she wouldn’t let the pain stop her. She redoubled her efforts, hitting him even harder.

  He danced backward, finally realizing that it was only a cold flame of illusion that enveloped him. If his face had been damaged at all by her fists, Theodora saw no evidence of it.

  One of the alchemist’s hands shot out, stretching at the forearm to an inhuman length. His skeletal fingers wrapped themselves around her throat and squeezed tight. Suddenly Theodora felt Amalric’s true power.

  Amalric was a different kind of faery than she had ever encountered before. Given the peculiar origins of his transformation, Theodora might have realized this earlier if she’d had any time to think about the matter at all. Amalric possessed an ability the other faeries didn’t have. His touch had an immediate and intensely damaging effect on her, sapping her strength like water drawn out through a siphon.

  She could no longer breathe. Her legs folded beneath her, leaving her strangling helplessly in Amalric’s grasp. She had no strength left to resist. The night became empty and black, a gaping abyss ready to receive the empty husk of her dead body.

  Amalric could surely kill her now with a single blow but was more than content to finish her off by slowly choking the life out of her. Theodora’s resistance faded away. She didn’t have energy enough left for rage or regret, only hopeless surrender.

  The worst thing was the thought of abandoning her children. Someone must take care of them. Someone. Eric? What about Eric? What final fate had she brought down upon him? She was sorry, so sorry for messing everything up. The abyss continued to sap her will, drawing her down and down. She began to think it might be better if she just stood still and let it happen.

  Crack!

  The sudden sound jarred Theodora halfway back to her senses. The pressure on her neck released. She opened her eyes.

  Amalric had stepped back two paces, his legs quivering beneath him. His fluffy white wig had flown from the top of his head. Theodora was surprised to see he had a full head of dark brown hair beneath, foppishly oiled and waved and drawn comically askew by the cast-off wig. Somehow she had always presumed him to be balding and gray

  He clutched at his chest. Blood oozed between his fingers, staining his parchment coat dark purple. She realized he’d been shot. She smelled the sickly-sweet sap.

  A man stood to her left, his arm still outstretched and holding the smoking pistol. Theodora recognized him as the alchemist’s assistant.

  Amalric stumbled to one side and then the other, but he did not fall. “I’m hurt. Mother! Mother!”

  Theodora turned to the assistant. “Reload that thing for another shot! Hurry!”

  The man fumbled with his powder bottle, spilling half its contents as he filled the cap measure and poured it into the muzzle.

  Theodora seized the opportunity. She kicked at the picket fence by the side of the garden path, loosening a post of sturdy ash. She came at the alchemist swinging.

  Her first blow hit Amalric across the back of his neck. A solid blow that should have brought a normal man to his knees but Theodora felt as if she had only struck another wooden post with the post. Amalric stood tall. He seemed to be shaking off the effects of the pistol shot as well. He took his hand away from the wound in his chest. Blood had stopped flowing.

  “Hurry!” she screamed at the assistant.

  After struggling with his shot pouch and loading the pellets into the breech he suddenly noticed his mistake.

  “I’ve knocked the flint loose,” he said with rising panic. He began searching along the ground in the darkness. “I’m not even sure how to fit it back in.”

  Amalric had gotten his second wind. One arm stretched even further than before, rippling with shoots and tendrils as he smacked the gun away, then grabbed his assistant by the neck.

  Amalric hissed at him, “Judas! Wife-stealer! Troglodyte!”

  Theodora had no idea what he might be talking about but seized the moment to smack him again with the post. The alchemist deflected the blow with his free arm and soon had Theodora by the neck as well. All was lost. He was choking her again, sapping her strength again.

  In one last desperate attempt Theodora put on another glamour. She made herself appear as Black Annis.

  Amalric gasped at sight of the hideous, blue-faced hag, relaxing his hold for just a second. It was a face straight out of his nightmares. Just as I thought, Theodora mused, he’s really just a frightened child at heart.

  Theodora pulled his arm toward her, using the leverage to leap again into the air. This time she took a great big handful of the alchemist’s hair in each hand. Swinging her legs straight up and over she came down behind the alchemist, jerking his head backward with all her weight. His wooden neck broke with a hideous snap.

  Theodora hit the ground hard.

  She lay stunned for a moment, aching all over. She forced her eyes open; she forced herself to sit up.

  Amalric’s dead body lay beneath her. His head was turned her way, his neck splintered where it had been nearly ripped from the shoulders. His dead eyes gaped reproachfully at her.

  She didn’t feel badly about killing him considering he
’d been trying to suck the life out of her at the time, but she’d been robbed of a valuable ally. What chance did she have now?

  She stood up. The illusion of Black Annis had been knocked out of her with the jarring fall. She was now Lady Changeling, a young faery woman in a pretty dress, green skin, pointed ears and all.

  She turned toward the alchemist’s assistant. He was still sputtering and choking but thankfully still alive.

  “Who are you? Really?”

  “My name is… Trask.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “Quite a lot actually. I hear things. I pay attention. I’ve known you were a faery for some time now. And I’ve been watching the skies too. It’d be hard to miss the lightshow that’s been going on these past few days.”

  Theodora realized that all was not yet lost. There was still a chance to save the plan, to save Eric and the children.

  “I think,” Trask continued, “I think something’s coming.”

  “Something more evil and more dangerous than anyone can know. I have a weapon that can drive it away.”

  “I gathered as much from your conversation. This lens?”

  “I need a man to operate it. Someone who isn’t afraid to face the unknown, someone that might be able to stare down a monster that would drive an ordinary man insane.”

  Trask smiled. “Then, I guess I’m your man.”

  Chapter 44

  Eric awoke to a painful ringing in his ears.

  What the hell had happened?

  He was once again tied to a chair, his hands bound behind his back. Again he found himself confined in one of the holding cells in the basement of his own mansion. This was the second time this had happened, and that made two times too many. Although, at least this time he still had his shirt and boots on.

  He recognized the chair, a simple wooden seat with a straight back taken from the cellar hallway. Like all the furniture at Grayson Hall it was professionally crafted and quite sturdy. He strained against his bonds, twisting slowly from side to side. One of the chair joints issued a little crack. The slack increased slightly. But not enough. The ropes were still holding.

  His humiliation went far beyond just the physical discomfort. Once again he’d been played for a fool. His last conversation with Theodora still rang in his ears. He’d offered her forgiveness, complete absolution for her lies and treachery, and what had he received in return? More treachery. This time he couldn’t blame anyone except himself.

  Just when he’d had the power—the lens—right in his hands! He’d hesitated to use it. Damn, he should have burned them all down when he’d had the chance. If he had it all to do over again…

  He struggled against the rope and the sturdy chair, but it was no use.

  “I always knew you’d come to a bad end,” said a mocking voice. Finnegan Stump stood in the open doorway. “But now you’ve really disgraced the family.”

  “What do you want now? Go away!”

  Stump feigned hurt feelings. “Seeing how you’ve gotten yourself into such a tight spot, your lordship, I thought you might appreciate to see a friendly face.”

  “A misshapen wretch, you mean.”

  “Now come, come boy. No way to talk to your father.”

  Stump raised a crooked finger to silence Eric’s objections. “Now, now,” he added. “Father-by-marriage but still the only father you’ve got left. The other one didn’t turn out so well, did he? I remember hearing him screaming gibberish in the night, all the way from the Barrow Downes. Sound carries very well underground you know.”

  Stump barked forth an annoying guffaw.

  “Don’t you dare laugh at him,” growled Eric. “I’ll kill you.”

  “Your grandfather said the same. Now the grandfather, he was a piece of work. Always so serious. No laughing there. No, no, no, no. And I couldn’t laugh. Not with my teeth chomping at the meat of his thigh, worrying the flesh back and forth. It’s not easy to laugh with a dog’s mouth anyway, you know. It’s not built for it.”

  Eric had several more threats at hand but held them all back. To protest any further more would serve no purpose except to fuel his adversary’s glee at his own expense. “I know you’re not really Stump. You might as well give up that masquerade.”

  “Oh, but I do so love masquerades.”

  “You’ve got what you want. You have the lens. Why don’t you just leave?”

  “What I want? No, I hardly think so. But I’ll have it soon.”

  “What do you mean? What is it you’re after? Go ahead. Tell me.”

  Stump laughed again. “Why, the complete destruction of the Grayson family of course.”

  A shiver ran down Eric’s spine. Not Nora and James. Not the children. “Theodora is a Grayson too.”

  “Who? Who?” Stump looked all round the cell, as if suddenly surprised. “Excuse me, did someone let an owl in here?”

  Eric dare not let the point go. He had to find out this fiend’s intentions toward James and Nora. “The children are Graysons. Theodora wouldn’t hurt them.”

  “No. Of course not. But they are faery folk too. And we wouldn’t want them living underground, scrabbling in the dirt like the rest of us, would we? Not the Grayson children.”

  Eric’s stomach turned inside out.

  “Ah now you get the idea,” said Stump. “We’ll all be one happy family living here at the big old mansion. Teddy and the kids. And maybe I’ll be you.”

  Stump placed his small, crooked hands over his face. When he drew them away he bore the finely-chiseled features of Eric Grayson. He took a deep breath, and as he did so he rose in stature until he stood two feet taller. His ragged coat and soiled breeches changed into a suit of Eric’s fancy dress clothes.

  “One happy family. Very British, very uptight. I believe we’ll only fuck once a week, just like clockwork.”

  I don’t believe him, Eric thought. She doesn’t want that. She let me go. If nothing else, Theodora’s declarations of love rang true. The faeries were only after the lens and nothing more, no matter what this little demon tried to convince him.

  What if her story was true? What if there was some cosmic danger lurking just on the other side of the sky? He could only blame himself for not considering her pleas for help before. Had he been so blinded by wounded pride, so utterly foolish, as to ignore the danger? There was no way to know. Stump, or whoever he was, didn’t seem too worried about an imminent cosmic threat. He didn’t act like they were all going to die at any moment. But then again he seemed totally insane.

  Stump stood before the chair, his body bent at a curious angle, rubbing the contours of his new face. “I always wondered, what does she see in you?”

  “Nothing I guess. Just trying to get the lens, right?” Eric saw the imposter’s face, his own likeness, twitch in a familiar way. He was jealous. “Or maybe there’s more to it than that. Maybe what my wife and I share is something very special. But why should you care?”

  “I don’t. She does. For the moment. But mayhap that will change. Everything changes and changes as the carousel spins round and round. You’ve a fondness for carousels, eh?”

  The faery gave up his pretense at being Eric Grayson. His hair widened and curled as if sprouting with the season. It went from Eric’s jet black to a dark shade of green and his skin took on a sallow yellow-green cast, his ears growing taller and tipped with sharp points. His mouth widened into a foolish grin displaying a set of overlarge front teeth.

  Eric’s fine coat dissolved into a red velvet hunting jacket with large white frills at the sleeve ends.

  “Change, change. Yes, yes. In time this might do just as well. After all, you’ll soon be nothing more than a shapeless gray lump taking up space on the floor. She won’t want to be reminded of that.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  No sooner had he said the words, Eric felt a familiar maddening itch. He rolled up one shirt sleeve. The gray patches on his forearms had returned but this time they were m
ore grotesque than ever, thick and heavy and enlarging right before his very eyes.

  “Oh yes, the Rot again,” said the faery. “Only one difference. I’m not half so kind as your ex-wife chose to be. It’s real this time, not simply illusion.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and pranced out of the room.

  His mocking voice called back from the hallway, “Relax and enjoy yourself, Lord Grayson. Insanity isn’t so bad. I’m quite fond of it actually…”

  Chapter 45

  Draven Ketch stuffed the last hunk of bread into his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of fresh milk. The sourdough was a little stale for his tastes, but the milk was fine. Add to that a little dry sausage stolen from the dairy farm’s larder with all the rest, and he’d made quite a feast for himself.

  He didn’t want to linger too long here. There was only one way in or out of the tool shed, and not enough room to maneuver if it came to a fight. He swept the filings from the counter and into his pocket. The iron fence post had been sharpened to a rough point but could not be practically used as a weapon against armed men. At least not compared to the basket-hilted Scottish sword he’d taken from the guard at the granary. It balanced well and had grooves on both faces to let the blood flow from the wound so the blade could be removed quickly and easily after a good stabbing. Who could ask for anything more?

  His belly full, his carpentry work done, he slipped out of the shed’s little tin door and into the night. All well and good, he told himself, all well and good.

  Eric had run off in the direction of the big house, but Ketch had seen no glorious fireworks display, no roasting faery fire as promised, so he must presume that something had gone wrong. Truth be told, he was not completely surprised. Eric was tall and well-built and probably as good with a sword as any rich man’s son who’d never actually fought for his life could be, but he didn’t have the look of a killer. Ketch could tell that look at a glance. It was all in the eyes. Eric wouldn’t have lasted five minutes aboard The Black Hand.