He stood there, listening to the cicadas chirp along the shore, smelling hints of female flesh swimming out in the lake.
He stripped off his shirt and waited. There came the gentle sound of a BLUMP from the water, like a fish jumping out of it for a fly. Ewan knew it was no fish. Then two more. BLUMP. BLUMP. Few would have noticed the sounds, but in his sanguine state, his senses were extraordinarily oversensitive. He could hear insects mating, smell Korean food cooking at a restaurant five blocks away, knew with absolute certainty that the sounds he was hearing from the lake were those of women rising from its depths.
The first swam sluggishly toward him, lagging so her sisters could catch up. He caught sight of her taut, naked body, dog-paddling silently on the surface, her hair slicked back with lake water, tangled with sea grass, her large eyes batting at him. She was gorgeous, seraphic, looking as if she posed no threat to him at all. It was, of course, a trap, and he knew it.
Never agree to swim with a beautiful woman, that’s what Dithers had always told him. Dithers. That’s where the name came from. He missed him, and for a moment, he almost forgot his purpose. Then the two others approached, their forms hovering in the dancing reflection of a thousand stars.
“Hey, handsome,” one of them called. “You here to get wet?”
“Yes,” Ewan answered. “Yes I am.”
“Would you like some company?” asked another.
Ewan smiled. “I think I would.”
He dropped the blanket, his hand firm around the shaft of the pike. With a speed he had no idea he possessed, he tore forward. The nixies had little time to react, enough only to exchange startled looks. Ewan smiled as he sailed through the air, time standing still, their slowed expressions awash in confusion and horror.
He could taste them already. It wouldn’t be much longer now.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
EXTRAORDINARY RENDITION
Tell us a story, storyteller,” hissed the redcap through gnarly, jagged teeth. His breath smelled like a burning Dumpster, fire and soot passed over swelling rot and rancid produce. Before Yashar could answer, the redcap clenched his fat, clawed fingers into a fist, and splintered his cheekbone with a single blow.
Were he not strapped to a chair held in place by two giddy redcaps, the force of the hit would have toppled him over. Spitting through blood and broken teeth, Yashar looked up, drenched in stoic bravado. “I don’t think I have any stories left worth telling,” he said. He smiled a bit, attempting a laugh, but once more a plump fist connected with his chin, spun him around as far as the straps would allow. Slowly he turned his head back and, in his best Bruce Willis, said, “I can do this all night.”
“We know you can,” said the voice in the corner, “so cut the dimestore crap, Bottle Jockey, and tell us what we want to know.”
“And just what do you want to know?” asked Yashar.
“Everything,” said the voice.
“Everything?”
“Every last little relevant detail. Where they came from, where they might be going, and everyone they might turn to when this gets as bad as it is about to get.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Yashar glimpsed the chalk outline on the floor. It was perfect—a meticulously drawn pentagram sized just right to keep him in, straps or no. They’d even sealed it with matte-finish spray so they wouldn’t accidentally scuff it with a misplaced boot. He wasn’t going anywhere; he’d have to continue taking hits until the redcaps had each bruised their knuckles to the point of crippling fatigue. That was how he would best them—he had to wait them out. There wasn’t a person on this earth who could kill him—at least not one who would—and he couldn’t think of a single thing that these cretinous little goblins could do to him to deliver anything beyond the passing shadow of pain.
“Dietrich, get the salt,” said the voice.
Except that.
The redcap smiled, his malformed jaw dancing sickly in the breeze of his own breath. Redcaps were loathsome creatures, this one particularly hideous, his large eyes not quite set properly, casting an eerie, lazy-eyed leer over a thrice-broken-and-reset nose. He reached down to a small wooden table beside him, pulled from it an empty, rusted tin cup. Then, pushing aside an animal-skin tablecloth, he pulled from beneath it a wooden bucket of raw, unrefined sea salt. Dipping the cup into the bucket, Dietrich hesitated, giving Yashar one last chance to respond.
“Hmmm?” The redcap shook his head, already knowing the answer. “No.”
He needn’t empty the entire cup at once, but the little bastard did it anyway. Dietrich didn’t just carry a grudge, he bore it on his back with pride and schlepped it like a trophy. Now, at long last, was his chance to unburden himself.
The sea salt sizzled, popping against Yashar’s skin, his exposed chest bubbling like smoky bacon. Blisters swelled, erupting, raining fatty pus down into his lap. Yashar let out a cry so loud that it shook the walls, its bass deep enough to rumble a mile away, its treble shrill enough to pierce eardrums.
Knocks sat in the corner, smiling, drinking deep the agony of the man howling desperately before him. He rose from the shadows, delighted in the work of his minion.
“Wait, wait,” Yashar begged, but Knocks was already buzzing off the anguish, soaking in the heroin bliss of a junkie high, shouting over the pleas.
“Hit him again!” he cried out in ecstasy. “Hit him again!”
Dietrich plunged the cup back into the bucket. The salt sailed through Yashar, carrying chunks of him with it. The floor was a thick morass of salt and sticky gobs of flesh. Yashar’s screams were unbearable now to all but Knocks, redcaps recoiling from the raw power of Yashar’s agony. When he howled, he howled an outrage that could level a field of trees, shaking rocks from their moorings—that the walls of the dilapidated warehouse still held at all was a miracle to the redcaps who glanced around to ensure their integrity.
Yashar writhed. He’d never felt such excruciating pain; never seen fluids leak so readily from his chest; never seen meat cleaned off the bones of his own rib cage—but there it was as his own soft tissue melted before him, down onto his stomach, off the side of his leg, onto the floor. This wouldn’t kill him; he knew that. But for the first time in his long life he began to think that maybe, just maybe, there were actually things worse than death. Clenching his teeth he looked up, one eye squinting shut, his face boiling off. A gooey drip of his forehead streamed down over his brow. He looked Dietrich dead in the eye. “When I get out of this,” he promised, “and I will get out of this, I will tear your arms off and feed them to you one at a time.”
Dietrich glanced back at Knocks. Knocks nodded, and Dietrich smiled so wide he revealed hidden teeth even he never knew he had. “Hit him again,” crowed Knocks. The cup plunged into the bucket once more. “Then put him back in his bottle and bury him at the bottom of a salt mine. I don’t want any of his friends getting any bright ideas.”
“Wait!” shouted Yashar. Exhausted, burnt beyond recognition, he shook his head. “I give.”
“That’s all you got?” Dietrich spat out.
Panting, Yashar nodded, his head wobbling at the end of his neck. “That’s all. That’s all I got.”
Knocks smiled contently. “So you’ll tell us a story?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you a fucking story.” Yashar once again spat on the floor, losing two teeth with it. “It’s not like I was ever going to be remembered as one of the good guys anyway. What do you want to hear?”
“Why don’t you begin by telling us where we can find Ewan?”
Yashar sighed deeply.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
COLBY AND THE FIVE STONE COUNCIL
Most noble council,” began Colby, his tone humble, his heart heavy, his head bowed, his hands folded in front of him. “I come to you on behalf of my dearest friend.”
Before him stood the Five Stone Council, the night air cool and crisp, the forest humming with crickets. Meinrad loomed large and foreboding next to his stone,
his cold expression offering no comfort. Coyote leaned lazily against his—one foot propped up against it—grinning proudly, wholly aware that this mess was his doing. King Ruadhri stood rigid and stiff before his stone, glowering at Colby, disgusted. Rhiamon the Gwyllion, however, smiled wryly, tickled by the knowledge of the havoc playing out at the hands of her redcap thralls.
Finally, at the fifth stone stood the newest member of the council, Ilsa the salgfraulein. In the absence of genuine leadership after the death of Schafer, the redcaps had no worthy representative to take their place on the council. Thus a largely ignored block of seelie had put forth Ilsa to take his place. The most charming and delightful of her kind, even outgracing the noble King Ruadhri, Ilsa was a woman of few burdens and fewer enemies. There was something very genuine about her, as if she were incapable of telling a lie; she was, quite literally, enchanting. The eldest of five sisters, she spoke not only for her kin, but for the woodwives and pixies as well. The Limestone Kingdom was not a place particularly crawling with those of the seelie court, so the few there were put their faith and voice behind Ilsa. And her presence alone offered Colby some comfort.
“We know of whom you speak, lad,” said King Ruadhri. “It was not long ago that this council convened and decided upon his fate, a fate you yourself chose to circumvent.”
“Yes, sir,” said Colby. “I speak of Ewan.”
Ruadhri nodded. “And you come to plead for his life once again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Funny,” said Ruadhri, “that it is never the boy who pleads his own case, but his friend who presumes to know his will.”
“I speak for him, sir.”
Meinrad dismissed the statement with a wave. “And yet, this council does not recognize you as possessing such capacity.”
Colby gritted his teeth, trying to hide his frustration. “Sir?” he asked.
“Ewan bears a cap, does he not?” asked Ruadhri.
Colby nodded. “He does.”
“And he’s worn it?”
“He has.”
“And you have seen with your own eyes that the transformation has begun?”
Colby swallowed hard. “I have.”
Ruadhri offered his hands outward, as if to rest his case. “Then what would make you think that, before this of all courts, a man could speak in the stead of a fairy?”
“Because he is not a fairy,” said Colby.
Meinrad shook his head. “You just told us that the transformation has begun, and this is not the first we’ve heard of it.”
“No,” said Rhiamon, “it is not. I’ve heard it myself.”
Coyote agreed. “He is a fairy, Colby. You have no place speaking for him here.”
“He is not of your world,” said Meinrad. “He was never meant for your world. He is of ours, a world of which you are no part, and yet you try to meddle in affairs that are none of your concern.”
“They are entirely my concern,” Colby retorted.
“Only because you make them so,” said Meinrad. “This is neither your council nor your court. You insult us with your presence, and we must ask you to leave.”
Colby clenched his fists, his blood slowly boiling from the insult and dismissal. He could lay waste to several of these fairies, powerful though they were, before a single one of them was able to retaliate. But power was one thing; numbers were another. The last thing he wanted was open war with the Limestone Kingdom.
“It appears the boy grows angry,” said Rhiamon, delighted by his silent seething.
“It would appear so,” said Coyote. “I wouldn’t taunt him, though. There are always fairies who would love your place here on the council.”
Ruadhri grimaced at Coyote. “Let the boy make his own threats so we might respond in kind.”
“Oh, he’s too smart for that, Ruadhri,” said Coyote, winking at Colby. “He knows we need no display to know what he can do.”
“Then perhaps you would like to make his case for him now,” offered Ruadhri, “since he is about to be dismissed.”
Coyote grinned like a satisfied cat, a mouse firmly between its paws. He pointed out to the tree line. “I believe that is what she’s here for.”
Colby turned as the council leveled their gaze at the diminutive spirit making her way across the field. She stepped into the firelight, at once instantly recognizable. Mallaidh.
“I speak for Ewan,” she said.
“And why would you do that?” asked Rhiamon.
“Because I love him.”
“That’s hardly a reason to speak for someone,” retorted Rhiamon. “Why, I offer that your perspective is clouded.”
Mallaidh shook her head, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “I love him.”
Ilsa looked upon Mallaidh with sadness. “Dear girl, I’m afraid you might not be entirely sure what that is.”
“I am,” said Mallaidh. “It’s when your heart hurts so much you’d rather pull it from your chest than lose the one it beats for.”
“What do you ask of us, child?” asked Meinrad, his demeanor more delicate than with Colby.
“Safe passage,” she said. “Out of the Limestone Kingdom.”
“You can leave at any time,” said Ruadhri. “You are not bound here.”
“Safe passage for myself and for Ewan. And you know that.”
“That is much more complicated,” said Rhiamon.
“It isn’t, actually,” said Colby, now furious. “It is quite uncomplicated.”
Ruadhri scowled, his temper barely contained behind the strain in his face. “You have no say here; this is not a matter for you.”
“It is, and I will say my piece,” Colby said hotly. “It was your fairies who took him from my world, your fairies who robbed him of his humanity, you yourself who put him on the sacrificial stone, and now it is your fairies again who set out to slaughter him for offenses he has not committed. You came into our world, you stole our child, and now you pretend that it is your place to judge his fate. Frankly, you can kiss my fucking ass and taste my fist as I ram it down your cocksucking throat, you uptight son of a bitch.”
The wind rose up, rustling the trees as the very earth tensed beneath them. Dreamstuff was abundant out here, like water in the ocean, and Colby could feel it pulse about him with the ebb and flow of his emotions. The eyes of the council showed their alarm, even Ilsa beginning to cast an unfavorable and fearful eye upon him. They were scared, and rightly so; Colby was struggling at the very edge of fury, trying to contain himself. Only Coyote seemed relaxed, almost smiling at the outburst. No one could tell if he was enjoying himself, faking it, or merely aloof and entirely unconcerned.
“I think everyone needs to calm down,” said Coyote. “There is no need to tear apart the very fabric of the universe to prove a point. We understand, Colby, you’re upset.”
“Don’t patronize me,” said Colby.
“I won’t. Just promise me you won’t send Schafer some friends.”
Colby nodded.
“Passage for Ewan and yourself?” asked Meinrad of Mallaidh. “That’s all you ask?”
She nodded.
“She doesn’t know what she’s asking,” said Ruadhri. “He’ll be dead in a week.”
“She knows exactly what she’s asking,” said Rhiamon. “She’s just not sure why she’s asking.”
“He killed one of the court,” said Ilsa. “Would you have him go free without punishment?”
“It was self-defense,” said Mallaidh.
“And how can you be so sure?” asked Ruadhri.
“I was there. They used me to lure him out to kill him.”
All eyes fell upon Rhiamon, who shook her head. “I know nothing of this,” said the Gwyllion. “They came to me with their story after his brutal attack upon them. I’m not so sure the girl is even telling the truth.”
“She’s telling the truth,” said Meinrad. “But someone must pay the price.”
Ilsa nodded to Mallaidh. “Would you be willing to su
ffer punishment in his stead?” she asked of Mallaidh.
Mallaidh looked around nervously, fidgeting with her delicate hands. “What kind of punishment?”
Rhiamon smiled. “The only punishment there is for killing another member of the court. Death.”
Mallaidh looked around the council in shock.
“Someone must pay,” said Coyote.
Colby looked on in horror.
“Do you love him enough to die in his place?” continued Coyote.
Eyes swimming in tears, expression teetering on the edge of complete breakdown, she nodded very slowly. She looked at the ground, tears spilling upon the dirt. “Yes,” she said softly. “I do.”
Coyote looked over at Meinrad.
Meinrad nodded. “I vote that we grant passage. For the both of them. What say the rest of the council?”
“Passage,” seconded Ilsa. Mallaidh looked up, her eyes alight.
Rhiamon shook her head. “No, I vote passage only for him. She dies or he does.”
Ruadhri nodded, extending a hand toward Rhiamon. “I agree with the Gwyllion. Passage must be earned with sacrifice.”
Once again, all eyes fell upon Coyote. He nodded, grinning. “Passage. For both.”
Mallaidh hopped up and down in place, clapping excitedly. Tears flowed freely, only now streaming out of joy. “Thank you! Thank you, all of you!”
“I’d leave now,” said Coyote, “before we change our minds.”
There came a sudden rustle from a nearby thicket, and from the darkness stumbled a figure, staggering in the moonlight. With it came panting—pained moans chasing each unsure step. The night shrouded the figure with shadow, only at the last moment revealing her in the torchlight. A nixie, covered in blood, dripping from a gash across her stomach, took her last few steps before them, finally crashing into the dirt, exhausted.
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