By the Light of the Moon

by Blake, Laila

  “It didn’t feel like a good thing,” she said hollowly. Blood. All this blood.

  “That is not for you to decide, crossling. Someone like you could never understand our ways. Pain has its rewards for those strong enough to take them. You were not. You were all too human. Pity.” There was absolutely no sympathy in his voice and finally, he shrugged and pulled a tiny vial out of one of the folds of his robe. Almost tenderly, he spit onto the knife and used his finger to mix blood and saliva until it was liquid enough to drop into the vial when he coaxed it in. He didn’t spill a single drop.

  “I have your blood now, crossling. I hope you know what that means.”

  Iris nodded again, her fingers pressed against the fine cuts on her neck. She looked a mess to Brock, so human, so over-ripe in the late autumn of her tiny life. Half-life really, the version humans called life as though they had any idea what life was, or where its power came from and what fuelled it inside.

  “Try your hardest not to be a nuisance to me anymore, will you? I would hate to kill a pitiful little creature like you.” Staring at her out of cold eyes, he turned abruptly and left her room.

  Iris got out of bed. With a shaking hand, she went through her storage of herbs and plants and finally found the broadleaf she was looking for. Almost fresh. She quickly stuck it into her mouth. It was harder to chew into a mash when it was half-dried and when her throat seemed parched and scorched. Finally, though, the fibrous matter coalesced with her saliva enough to form a thick paste that she spread over her cuts. Only then did she allow herself to cry again.

  She had ruined any chance of success. She had finished them, finished Maeve and all for nothing. Her mother’s sacrifice would be meaningless and Moira was right there in his clutches. She couldn’t even warn either of them.

  After a long time, she crawled back into bed, leaned her head against the wall and sat there, waiting for the morning, for a scream, for the feeling of death or fear. But nothing came. Morning dawned hours later and Iris felt as though she had aged ten years in a single night.

  • • •

  The morning dawned behind the eastwards window of Moira’s room. It was harsh almost, glaring and strange to her still red and puffy eyes. Her skin had stopped behaving so strangely hours earlier but she didn’t fall asleep again. Not that night and it didn’t feel like she would be able to in any of the nights to come.

  She could still feel him. His warmth and heaviness on top of her, his fingers between her legs, the fullness of his manhood inside of her. It had felt so different and so new, almost painful but in that space on the edge that balanced just the side of incredible. And then he had spilled his seed on her stomach, and she hadn’t washed it away. It was still there, dry now and cracking when she moved or breathed.

  There was a sense to her where she was still aware of him, not too far away now. It was new, but she was quite sure that he was also awake, and unhappy. The wolf was the stronger impression somewhere at the edge of her consciousness just like the fleeting images of a dream trying to escape into the abyss past memory. But the wolf stuck there, sad and whining for a scratch or a cuddle.

  She had stopped crying hours ago. Every once in a while when she recalled his words, it happened again but mostly, she just stared ahead unseeing. She wanted to climb onto the window ledge and throw herself onto the rock-side. She wanted to cut off all her hair and dress in boy’s clothes and run away — run away and never see this place again, never see this bed again or the orchard or the garden. She wanted to rewind time and never, ever meet him. No … even in impossible fantasies, she could never maintain this. She wanted to rewind time and not be a freak, to not begin glowing like an oil lamp after they made love. After she became his and he spit her back out.

  Of course, that bordered onto the bigger issue; even she, in her agony knew that. She wasn’t Fae. How could she be? She had a human father. And therein lay the utter possibility if she managed to believe that Fae were real. She had always known that Lady Cecile was not her true mother. Her true mother had been some girl her father had bedded before his marriage. Was it possible? Could he have been with a Fae woman?

  It wasn’t the kind of question she could ask her father, but it made simply denying it almost impossible. She couldn’t deny what she didn’t know for sure. And hadn’t she seen it with her own eyes? There were stories of Fae, many of them. And in some of them, the legend did have it that the light of the moon made their skin luminescent. But those were legends, metaphors. Except here she was, with the clear memory of her glowing arms and legs burned into her mind.

  There was nobody she could have asked. Not a single person to even go to for help; and without that, she didn’t know what else to do than sit in her room and stare ahead. Her father would think her even more insane than he did already, Owain hated her, Bess would be scared, and she didn’t know anybody else she trusted.

  Except Brock. Her teacher had been with her for so many years. All she knew of Fae — and not all of it was terrible — she knew from him. He would know. At least, if there was anyone alive in the castle who could help her now, it was her tutor. But wouldn’t he think her crazy too? Wouldn’t he go to her father and talk to him about his scared girl’s insanity? Was she insane? An affliction of the mind would explain so many things; except the one; Owain’s expression when he’d looked upon her skin. He had seen the same thing. There was no doubt in her.

  And he would be the best person to ask; but then she would have to speak to him again. She would have to be in his presence and ask for a favor after he had scorned her so horribly. The very idea made tears of anger and hurt pride and fear and heartache glimmer in her swollen eyes. She couldn’t go to Owain. Not about this, not about anything. Judging by his expression, he would ask to be let go and leave the Keep and that was the best thing he could do. Except that thought made the tears roll down her cheeks again, where she dabbed at them angrily. They hurt, raw and aching skin.

  With nowhere to go, Moira didn’t open when Bess knocked at sunrise to help her wash and dress. When Bess called, she didn’t answer for a long time. Finally, when Bess was ready to fetch her father to check if she had gotten out again, Moira answered.

  “I’m not feeling very well, Bess.” It wasn’t much, but her maid knew her well.

  “Very well, milady. Feel better soon … I will come back in a few hours.” This was their usual arrangement. When Moira felt too bad to be amongst people, Bess gave her time to get there. And if she never did, Bess would come back all day in regular intervals offering food and drink and baths, sometimes leaving snacks in front of the door that Moira could fetch when nobody was around. She always made it treats, too, sweet things that might make her lady feel better.

  • • •

  Left alone again, Moira pulled her knees up to her chest. Maybe it was possible to just not leave her room ever again. Maybe she could stay and die right there in that bed. Maybe it was all a crazy, horrible dream and she would see that there was nothing wrong with her skin at all the following night.

  But until she knew what she was dealing with, who — or what — she was, and that Owain had left the Keep, she didn’t think she could open the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Devali was pressing her back against the wood wall on one side of a narrow street. It smelled like fish and lake; more pleasant than the harbor district by the coast, but not by much. Fish everywhere, fish stew, fish bones, rotting fish. She looked around again, trying to breathe through her mouth as quietly as she could. Somebody was following her. She didn’t have Fae senses, nothing like them, really. But she wasn’t stupid — and there was something in the air like a sense of brewing storm. Fae was in the air but it felt different here Lakeside than it did Across.

  Again, she took an almost silent breath to steady herself, listened hard and then hurried on. She was wearing a skirt short enough not
to trail in the mud. It showed off her legs in a way that was appreciated in Lauryl but which old fishwives had given her nasty looks for here in the village. Oh country folk, and oh, how she missed the life Across.

  She found the next narrow lane and then doubled around toward the harbor, out of the city. If she had any chance at catching the bastard, it was in more open terrain, not in the labyrinth of fisher huts in the poorest quarter of Rochmond.

  It started to smell better as she made it onto the marina, and the wooden planks creaked a little under her lithe feet as she hurried along and out onto Lake Coru past all the smaller and larger fishing boats. Gulls called their cries above her and mist was rising over the water, preventing her to look far and upon the southern arm of the lake, the mysterious path Across.

  When she finally reached the last boat, she breathed hard and looked back. She couldn’t see a thing, nothing at all; just a long, long strip of wood-paneled walkway onto the water. Allowing herself to breathe a sigh of relief, she closed her eyes and brushed her hair back over her head where some strands had freed themselves from the demure braid she had put them in.

  The whole venture suddenly struck her as a little ridiculous. Had she been wrong? It wouldn’t honestly surprise her, given the stress and the worry she’d been under. Most likely, there had been a stray dog or something and she was simply homesick and tense. For a moment, she considered simply taking that boat next to her, hoisting the small white sails and sailing it right into that southern arm and going back.

  How long had it been since she’d left it, hiding the small Fae boat and rudders in a patch of shrubbery in the forest before taking her things and heading out toward Rochmond where she’d found a ship to take her to the capital — Iris’s last known location. It felt like years, but she knew that all the seasons hadn’t yet passed once.

  In the end, she knew she had to go back to her little room and finally get about gathering some truly valid information. That was her ticket home.

  After a few steps back down the pier, she noticed that something was trailing on the wood. Her shoe was open and frowning, she squatted down to retie the leather strip around it. She curled it around two fingers and was just beginning to intertwine them into a knot, when she felt a knife at her throat.

  “Devali … am I right?” a smooth, soft voice almost purred in her ear. Rather than making her feel better, it almost doubled her fear. The voice was so familiar; it was Fae without a doubt, but there was a deeper familiarity to it. Had Niamh come to punish her because she hadn’t found out anything valuable yet? It made no sense and yet she couldn’t breathe.

  “Devali the Halla … yes, I can tell.” It couldn’t be Niamh, she told herself over and over again but in a way that made it scarier. She was supposed to stay away from Lakeside Fae; the inner Across politics had always eluded her but she knew that in principle, the Fae were divided between those happy to stay hidden and leave humans in general alone and those who would start the war over again tomorrow if they could. Those Fae would not look friendly upon a Halla, nor upon her mission.

  “Who are you?” Devali asked, swallowing hard. The Fae energy was growing stronger now as though someone had managed to all but cover it up in the human world. She had to be well trained.

  “I would hazard a guess and say I’m the one you are looking for, Devali,” the voice answered again with that cool smoothness that could hide so much cruelty in her adoptive race.

  “M … Maeve,” Devali whispered and closed her eyes. It would be poetic in a way if she had traveled almost the entire country of Lynne, only to die a mere arrow throw from the path across where she had arrived all those months ago. Her nostrils flared but she tried to gather her faculties and learn what she had been taught.

  “I was hoping to meet you, it’s true,” she added quietly, but this time there was a softness in her voice, a gentle attempt at seduction. It made Maeve snicker.

  “My mother likes her pretty girls … ” she commented running her free hand down Devali’s side, fingers encircling the squishy soft curve of her hip. Devali pushed her rear back and smiled a little.

  “I’m not here to hurt you … ” she purred, making no attempt to get out of the hold. If Maeve was persuadable, the situation was almost interesting and tingly. But instead, Maeve chuckled coldly.

  “As if you could, little one.”

  She brought her hand up along the Halla’s stomach and to her breasts, bountiful and pretty. Maeve only needed one hand to push aside her shirt and untie the string of her corset to free the twin pillows. Devali started to breathe a little faster, swallowing hard. All she could see was the lake ahead. With the knife at her throat she hardly even dared to look down at what the Fae was doing to her clothes. The warm hand caressed her breast for a long moment, but then took hold of a nipple between her thumb and forefinger and twisted it viciously. Devali moaned in pain and wriggled to get out of the grasp before she remembered the knife.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Maeve taunted, shaking her head. “Not a good idea, lovely little Devali, emissary of my mother’s, who hasn’t come to hurt me.” The girl was a Halla, no doubt about that. She even had that specific feeling to her echo of magic that reeked of Niamh.

  Maeve hadn’t seen her mother for almost twenty years. It wasn’t such a long time Across — not for most Fae. For a mother with a wanted daughter however, Maeve could imagine it would add up.

  “Why did my mother send you then? And remember; my mother may be scary. But she wouldn’t kill you. I would.” Devali swallowed, feeling her throat expand and contract a little against the blade and then nodded.

  “It isn’t a secret, not really. She just … wants to know you’re safe. That, well, she wanted me to tell you that she misses you and wishes to speak with you about the matters over which you fell out.” Shivering a little, Devali dared a glance at her nipple, stretched taut between the Fae’s fingers.

  “Hm. But you are sneaky.” Maeve accused her almost gently, almost like a compliment. “Why Fairester?”

  “Well, I didn’t … I didn’t know where you were. I was just following Iris.” Devali tried to explain. She could sense Fae but not with great accuracy and she had to be so close that a Fae in turn could guess what she was — which didn’t generally help in staying unnoticed. “I was trying to find you without … without word getting back to you and you running away or, well, killing me.”

  Maeve sighed. Finally, she let go of Devali’s nipple, and allowed the knife to sink from her throat. She shoved it back into a small leather sheath at her belt.

  “Turn around,” she ordered gently and when Devali did so, she eyed her head to foot with a suspicious air. “Why did she send you?”

  “I’m … inconspicuous. I know the human world a little um, and … well, I’m not … threatening. To you.” She blushed and her eyes went back to the sheathed knife. “Also, well, you’re … wanted. So, she didn’t want to trust anybody else.” Devali was proud to have been chosen, however much she missed her mistress, however much she wanted to return. Being able to serve her in something as important as this was an honor few could call their own, especially among the non-Fae in her mistress’s heart.

  Maeve, though, was stepping back as though to look at the Halla from a slightly greater distance, her eyes narrowed to slits.

  “I’m not lying,” Devali got out, somewhat aware that her mind was softly being probed.

  “Just hold still, little darling, it’ll be over before you know it.”

  Few Fae possessed any such ability, even fewer at great knowledge. It was a secret of Niamh’s line and where Niamh was a master, Maeve was not. She had never been able to completely ascertain the truthfulness of a person. That didn’t stop her from trying, however.

  The Halla was complicated and squishy and sneaky. So sweet and pretty, just what her mother would choose as her pet. When the
girl moaned a little, she stopped and just continued to watch her. The process was painful and Maeve had never developed quite such a fondness for such games as her mother had always had.

  “She loves you, doesn’t she?” she finally asked, her voice low and dangerous. “Do you know what she did to the people I loved?”

  Devali tilted her head. She could hear the deadened quality in the other Fae’s voice for the first time. Fae were so changeable. One moment they could smile and flirt and seem hopelessly silly and teasing. The next, they were ancient and sad, or cruel. Devali herself had started to be more like that, but she wasn’t quite capable of imitating the same emotional leaps and bounds.

  “I … I do not,” she answered truthfully. Maeve chuckled, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in the sound.

  “You don’t want to know, little Halla. But you should be aware that I am this close to answering her message by repaying her actions in kind.”

  Devali took a step back; it was pure gut instinct and the natural drive to survive. She sucked a deep breath into her lungs and blinked.

  “Carefully, you wouldn’t want to drown … ” Maeve continued, almost pleased with the pale, greenish color of the girl’s face. She seemed so young to her, maybe as old as her daughter? A few years older? She couldn’t have been a Halla that long.

  When Devali took another instinctive step back, her foot suddenly didn’t find any space to land. She faltered, flailed but a second before she could fall backward into the lake, Maeve grabbed her hand and steadied her.

  “You should listen better,” she told her gently and then raised a brow. “I will give you a message for my mother.” The venom with which she spit out the last two words was palpable and made Devali shrink back a little, despite her precarious position.

  “You will tell my mother that I have no interest in her in my life.” Maeve helped Devali back into the middle of the pier, the girl’s legs were shaking terribly and she looked up at the Fae with wide, quavering eyes. “And you will tell her that I can take care of myself, that her helping has caused my daughters enough pain. I won’t play by her rules.” The Fae’s nostrils flared as she shook her head again. “I know she is disappointed in me. But you can tell her she better try her hardest to have another daughter; that’s more likely than me becoming the one she wants to have.”