The Lost Boy
(A Story of Ironbridge)
© 2012 Karen Mahoney
Bedlam wasn’t so much a club as it was a dark carnival. On its best nights it was truly a spectacle to behold; a glittering Gothic parade, almost as though the Wild Hunt itself had come down to party within its purple-sprayed walls.
I watched the crowd as it heaved with undulating bodies, the crimson lighting giving the impression of molten heat winding among the dancers. Music pounded from hidden speakers, the bass throbbing in my limbs and making my sinuses hurt. My head felt increasingly light, as though there was something more than music engulfing my senses. Which there probably was. In a club like this one, there’s always more than just music in the air.
I could almost taste the magic as it lay hot and heavy on my tongue.
I am flying.
The thought burned in my brain, hot and feverish. At least, that’s what it felt like as I spread my arms and spun in a fast circle, surrounded by the myriad beautiful strangers.
Music beat through the soles of my favorite boots, and my hair, well overdue for a cut, whipped around my sweat-soaked face.
In that moment, all I cared about was the blood pumping through my body; the white-noise in my head and the blissful sensation of oblivion.
The last thing I wanted to do was to think about Ivy.
And yet, despite the noise and the dreamy high I was trying to ride, I couldn’t seem to help it.
Where the hell was she?
That’s when I caught sight of a petite figure slipping between shadows and whirling dancers with easy grace. The changeling girl was headed in my direction and I felt the last drops of tension roll from my shoulders. The blade strapped to my torso burned cold.
Finally. Now we could get this show on the road.
*
Wait, this isn’t the way it really begins. I need to back up a bit, tell it right if I’m going to tell it at all.
Maybe if I write things down this will all start to make more sense—I don’t know how else to understand. Just when I thought I’d finally begun to find answers and make sort-of-a-life for myself, Ivy found him and blew the lid off everything.
She found the boy who was supposed to be me.
My name is Alexander Grayson—Xan, to most people who know me—but that wasn’t the name I was born with nineteen years ago.
My true name was as good as stolen from me by the same creatures who gave me the wicked scars on my back. That’s where my wings should have been—fledgling wings that never had a chance to grow and develop the way they were meant to, because the wood elves ripped them out when I was just a child. I was born mostly human, with evidence of my faery blood hidden until I was able to walk. Of course, by then I’d been stolen away to live in the emerald darkness of the Elflands. Stolen from my human life; my human name given to a changeling left in my place.
I first met Ivy last year when I reluctantly began my freshman studies in Boston. I didn’t want to be there. Not even slightly. But I was tired of life in Ironbridge; exhausted by the constant lurking presence of the Ironwood on the edge of town, a cruel reminder of the life I’d lived for those first years when I was just another victim taken by the fey from my hospital crib.
Ivy told me the truth about all of it, one night over a bottle of jewel-bright wine in my dorm room. I didn’t think it strange that she’d managed to track me down—that’s her job, after all. She worked for an underground collective of solitary fey; only I suppose they weren’t quite so solitary, having formed a group which found other kids with Faerie ancestry who needed help. She was known as a Seeker, and she was damn good at it.
So there we were, Ivy and I—a changeling girl and a half-fey boy—sitting in a tiny dorm room with sickly yellow lights that made her green-tinted skin look even more freaky, and the sound of my neighbor’s dire soft rock drifting in through the window.
I remember spending most of that night glaring at her, angry that I was being forced to talk about the unexplained things I could do—abilities I’d had to keep secret from my adoptive parents.
“Now that you’ve found me,” I said, almost accusing her, “what are you going to do? I suppose you’re going to take me to your leader, or something stupid like that.”
“Alexander,” Ivy replied in her strange, rustling voice. “Why are you attacking me, when all I want to do is help you?”
I felt guilty, but only for a moment. She was a reminder of everything I’d tried to escape. I had just started to get my life back together—getting out of Ironbridge and away from my well-meaning but mostly absent parents. They’d adopted me as a physically scarred and emotionally screwed up kid; money had changed hands (a lot of money), and no questions asked. I was a mystery: the boy who walked out of the Ironwood with no memory of who he really was or where he’d been.
I guess I should be grateful to them—my adoptive parents, I mean. They saved me from getting lost in the system and gave me a pretty good home. But they hadn’t figured I’d come with as much baggage as I did. The scars on my back weren’t the only wounds I had to show for the early years of my life in the dark and twisted hands of the wood elves. No, those psychological wounds ran far deeper than the scar tissue on my shoulder blades.
Anyway, that was then. Now we were back in Ironbridge, taking an unscheduled break from school; I was already failing most of my classes and finding it increasingly hard to care.
But thinking of the life I could have lived—had the elves not snatched me away from the hospital after my birth mother died—was becoming an obsession. I’d always assumed that the changeling boy left in my place would have sickened and died as the lore describes, but perhaps I should have known better.
After all, if Ivy could live and grow in the Iron World, that must mean there were others like her.
I needed to find out. I needed to find him—my replacement.
And if I did… what then? Would I take back my life? Make him pay?
I couldn’t say, but the desire to know the truth gave a purpose to my days and nights that relieved the numb boredom of my existence. That sense of purpose was as straight and sure as my blade, and I clutched them both to me with a fierce determination.
*
Ivy stood bright-eyed and alert beside me, scanning the shadowed booths that lined the edges of the dance floor. Tonight she was wearing a shaky glamour that had her disguised as a leather-and-lace clad punk. Iridescent make-up surrounded her eyes and gave the illusion of butterfly wings spreading into her obsidian curls. I let her guide me through the rolling swell of bodies, feeling perspiration flick onto my face as I swayed too close to a lanky blue-haired boy rocking glaze-eyed to the beat.
She nodded at the booth in the far corner. “Him.”
The thin, pale, white-haired guy lounged on a sofa with his feet up on the low table in front of him. He had a young-old face that gave me the creeps. An overweight blond boy slouched next to him, blue eyes glassy as he swayed back and forth. There were no bodyguards in sight, and I wondered about that. If this dude knew as much as Ivy said he did, maybe he could give us information about my origins. Anything was worth a try at this point; life was becoming… difficult.
I almost laughed at the understatement, digging my fingers into my palms as I clenched my hands into fists. Be cool, I told myself.
But if the guy we’d come to see really was the most powerful of the solitary fey still left on the outskirts of Ironbridge, shouldn’t he be better protected than this? I wasn’t sure about the blond kid’s role, but he looked both afraid and enthralled—not a good combination. He probably didn’t have long to live.
“Are you sure you want to do
this, Alexandar?” Ivy’s cool hand rested in mine, and I didn’t remember her slipping it there. She was tiny, but I knew not to underestimate her. Changelings could kick ass when they wanted to.
I shrugged, not taking my eyes off the booth. “It’s not a case of what I want to do; more like what I have to do. He’s the go-to guy for information, right?”
Her breath whispered against my ear as she reached up on tiptoes. “There are always choices.”
“Not today,” I said.
I marched towards the booth, wondering at how oblivious the humans were to the magical reality around them. They were dancing with monsters, but they couldn’t see through faery glamour and were easy pickings. What even drew them here in the first place?
Sure, I could understand why some of the solitary fey would frequent a place like this—the musky scent of human depression and desire, loneliness and ennui, were like a perfume designed to attract the ones who fed on such things. But the humans were looking for something else. I doubt they even knew what.
Tonight was a themed event; an elaborate Steampunk costumed ball. I’d never seen so much Victoriana and leather in one place, and the smell of it, combined with hot, faery-spiced sweat was almost overwhelming. Most of the dancers looked young and human, but I knew from experience how appearances could prove deceptive.
With my eyes fixed on the shadowed booth that Ivy had pointed out, I didn’t notice the newcomer until she was practically in my path.
“Would you like to dance?” asked a husky female voice, from so close beside me that I could feel hot breath caress my cheek.
“We’re fine, thanks.” I kept my voice steady, wanting to grab for the dagger hidden under my jacket but trying to stay calm.
The willowy brunette was wearing a black rubber bikini, lace-up boots and a top hat. Even under the muted crimson lights I could make out the countless cuts and bruises covering every inch of her slender frame. She stroked my chest through the thin material of my white shirt, giving me a good look at her jagged, black-coated nails.
She pouted. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in some games?”
“Get lost, freak,” I said in a conversational tone.
The woman’s beautiful face contorted, her nose spreading into what looked like a pig’s snout and her lips growing rubbery as they widened to reveal a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth.
I shook my head. “Not impressed.”
“You should be. Dance or die, halfbreed,” hissed the woman-thing, her voice still strangely audible above the steady beat of the sound system.
Ivy took a step forward, but I shoved her to one side and drew the blade from its sheath. “You can dance with this.”
Tall, Skinny, and not-so-Beautiful gazed at me with hatred and I grinned. Manic energy was taking hold and I couldn’t help enjoying the sensation of being out of control. I usually tried to avoid situations like this, but tonight I was on edge and I wasn’t going to let anyone—or anything—get in my way.
My blade carved a glorious arc through the dry ice being cranked out of hidden wall ducts, forcing the fey creature to take a step back.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time,” I growled. “We’re busy.”
The faery’s bones began to protrude from its skin, making hideous popping sounds as it grew spines along its arms and shoulders. It stared at me and licked its wide lips with an audible slurping sound. “But you’re so pretty. Let me taste you…”
I took a step back, looking around, but nobody else nearby seemed remotely interested in the altercation just off the dance floor. The creature’s hair began to fall out in brown tufts, leaving its bone-white skull shining under the flashing lights.
Ivy seemed transfixed. I saw her lips move, even though I couldn’t make out what she was muttering.
I thrust my blade at the creature. “Can you do that somewhere else, please? You’re invading my dance space.”
Hissing and snapping her swiftly elongating jaws, the faery—I think she might’ve had troll blood running through her veins, though I was no expert about this crap—didn’t look in the mood to play nice. Her jagged arms began to stretch and narrow at the wrist, fingers fusing together to form twin blades. Deadly teeth clicked as she tried to grin, before launching herself at us in a whirl of vicious activity.
Ivy said, “Gross…” and this time I had no trouble hearing her, even though she was ducking at the same time.
Using the dagger with more agility than I had a right to considering how out of practice I was, I swung high while at the same time kicking out with my left leg. A satisfying crunch of bone met the blow.
The creature howled and staggered back, only just avoiding the sharp blade as I reversed my hold on the handle and tried to follow my kick with a knife strike.
Club security suddenly arrived, pushing through the small audience that had finally gathered to see what was happening. The two young men grabbed my would-be assailant and pulled her arms behind her, securing them with what could only be iron cuffs. One of them nodded his dark head at me. “You guys okay?” His voice was smooth, faintly Hispanic; his face wide and open, with brown skin and amber eyes that glowed. He probably wasn’t half as human as he seemed.
I spun the dagger in a flashy display, pleased that I remembered how, and tossed it back into the sheath. “We are now. Thanks for the intervention.”
“Looks like you had things under control.” The dude’s biceps bulged with effort and he glanced at his companion. “Hey Rafa, you think you can hold her steady?”
Rafa glared at him. “Sure, cuz. I’ll just do all the work by myself.”
I nodded at the first guy. “What’s your name?”
He grinned. “Why, you wanna ask me on a date?”
I laughed. “Maybe next time.”
“Maybe you should leave the blade at home next time, eh?” There was no doubt that he meant it, but his tone was still friendly enough. “I’m Nico.”
And then they were off and moving, pulling their subdued prisoner away, taking their time as she limped on the shattered kneecap I’d given her. I felt kind of bad about that—but not too much. She’d tried to kill me, after all.
The crowd that had gathered began to disperse and I looked for signs that the club’s human patrons had noticed anything strange about the attack. It seemed unbelievable that they didn’t see the bones breaking through skin as the faery dropped its glamour. Maybe the humans were just too out of it to care. I immediately figured how stupid I was being: the thick miasma of magic in the air would cloud memories and encourage the crowd to believe they’d just witnessed a regular bar fight.
I looked down at Ivy. “You okay?”
“Of course,” she replied, smiling at me, totally unfazed as usual. Her eyes flashed emerald.
I glanced over at the shadowed corner table, relieved to see its occupant was still there. I couldn’t help wondering if he’d seen me fight, and whether or not I had impressed him. And then I realized that I was being dumb. Again. Clearly the creature who’d attacked us had been some kind of test.
Shaking my head at the convoluted games of the fey I walked over to the booth, wondering if I had passed or failed.
“What do you want?” the white-haired man asked coldly.
He looked almost pureblood, which would be unusual for a solitary fey. Most of the stragglers trying to make their way in the Iron World—those that, for whatever reason, weren’t safely back home behind the locked doors of Faerie—were halflings, like me. Part human, part fey; outcasts and loners living on the edges of human society.
He stroked the rocking blond boy’s head as though he were a pet and watched me, waiting for a response.
I cleared my throat, suddenly nervous despite the comforting weight of the knife hidden once again beneath my jacket. The blade itself was made from charmed iron and even I had to be careful not to touch it.
“My friend tells me that you know things about the changelings in this area.” I nodded at Ivy
and felt her shift from one foot to the other.
“I am Madoc,” the white-haired faery said, as though that was the correct response.
I didn’t know what to say, glancing at Ivy for some kind of clue that we were in the right place, talking to the right person.
She shrugged and I sighed.
Fine. I’d do this myself.
“Will you help me?” I asked the highborn faery, trying for an image of desperate sincerity. It wasn’t a tough act to pull off.
Madoc shook his head. “I do not deal with halfbreeds.” The last word was almost a sneer.
My shoulders tightened and I swallowed a stream of angry words I might later regret. This guy could probably end me with little more than a flick of his bony wrist, blade or no blade.
“You may be a son of Faerie,” he continued, “but your father’s blood is not enough to buy favor with me.”
The blond boy rocked harder and started to giggle; a high-pitched sound that made me feel sick to my stomach. He barely looked sixteen, poor kid.
I wanted to ask what Madoc knew of my true father but he had already turned to Ivy, fixing her with his black eyes. “I will speak with this one.”
The changeling girl clasped her hands in front of her, looking as though she was trying to resist the urge to curtsey. She nodded and flicked a scared look at me. “Wait for me by the doors, Alexander.”
I didn’t want to leave her. “Ivy—”
“Please. I’ll be fine.”
“Do you actually know this guy?”
She didn’t reply, just gave me a little push away from the table. Madoc rested his chin on his cupped hand and waited for me to leave, a bored expression on his bone-white face.
Cursing, I turned and walked away.
*
I didn’t have to wait long.
Ivy’s face shone under the silver strobe-lights, making her look more fey than ever. “Alexander, we’ve found him!”
“What?” I leaned towards her, trying to make out what she was saying over the soaring techno-punk beat. “Who did you find?”
I knew who she was talking about, of course. I just needed to hear her say it.
Karen Mahoney - [Iron Witch 00.5] Page 1
