by A. E. Lowan
The bell rang. “Miss Mulcahy?”
Winter dropped the bag’s strap and finished unbuttoning the coat. “Wait out there a moment. It’s a bit nasty back here.”
After this one, then.
CHAPTER TWO
“I don’t know why I’m doing this.” Etienne swirls the dark beer in his coarse earthen mug, breathing in the yeasty aroma as he takes another deep drink. God, but he loves Bess’s beer. She moves behind him and he feels her warmth against his back, her strong, calloused hands stroking his hair off his face, away from his neck. His hair is so much longer here, as it was then, when they were married.
“Because you love him.” She speaks English, but strange to this modern time, her consonants more guttural, truer to their Germanic roots, each sound tongued in full. He loves the way she speaks. He has not spoken English like this in centuries.
“Love him?” Etienne snorts his denial. “I don’t even know him.”
“Not Senán.”
Etienne falls into silence and lets it draw out. He can never lie to her. He can lie to himself just fine. After over a thousand years, he has gotten very good at lying to himself. But never to her. Not even when she had asked him if she was dying.
Bess’s wonderful brown hands move from his hair to his neck, kneading his muscles until she draws a throaty groan of pleasure from him. “Because he needs to find his friend.”
He remains silent under her hands.
“He can’t do it alone.”
He reaches back, slips his hands over hers. “Bess...”
Etienne awoke with her name still sounding in the thinning darkness and quickly closed his eyes again, struggling to hold on to that last wisp of dream. It slipped away like smoke through his fingers.
It had been a good one. He could feel her warm hands – she always had such warm hands – tucked away like little brown birds in his own. He could still smell her, the way she always smelled of smoke and babies and sweat and sunshine, of fresh tilled earth and baking bread. Pain, sharp enough to steal breath, pierced his chest.
He could almost remember her face.
Etienne sat up, drew up his legs, and pressed his face against his knees, fighting down the burning in his throat. He missed her so much. It had been so long... so long, and he had been so young. He just wished... He drew a deep breath, and gently, but firmly, pushed it all aside. He could wish all he wanted. She was gone. Had been for six long, lonely mortal centuries.
He stood up, ignoring the old aches and pains brought on from sleeping on the ground with the patience of long practice. He picked up his clothes stooped over in the dark of the tent and the young man sleeping beside him sighed and snuffled for a moment before dropping deeper into his own dreams. Etienne listened to him sleep a moment, waiting for any telltale whimpers from the boy. Cian had more than enough reason for nightmares. Finally, content that his companion rested peacefully for once, he slipped outside leaving the boy to rest a little longer.
This close to Allhallows the small campground was deserted and Etienne had the quiet of the morning all to himself. He stretched his arms high above his head, body bare to the cold morning air, wincing slightly at the chorus of popping joints and complaining scars, and roughed his fingers through his dark auburn hair. It was getting too long again, hanging in his face and curling against his shoulders. Not as long as in his dream, but maybe he should cut it short. On the farm in Kentucky, the home where they had been settled until a few days ago, they had been able to afford the luxury of letting their hair grow out. Cian’s was even longer still, straight as falling water to just below his shoulder blades. Etienne hated to cut it, but he would.
Lacking entirely in human modesty – no one was nearby to shock, anyway – he dropped his pants and shirts on a log and braced himself for the freezing scrub down at the camp site’s rusty spigot, trying desperately to pretend the October campsite water was a hot shower and failing miserably. He wished for perhaps the millionth time that his mixed heritage had gifted him with the resistance to cold so common among his mother’s people. He could abide it, but that was really more due to centuries of practice than innate immunity.
Etienne scrubbed his face and body red with the cold water and a bar of soap in a burlap pouch, dragging the abrasive fabric over the traceries of scars that covered his body. They were lividly pale against his work-tanned skin. He never had them in his dreams. Bess had never known them. His arms, his chest, his face… all covered with scrolling arcane glyphs, carved into his flesh as he lay at the mercy of his enemies. What they were for he would hopefully never know for certain. He was no magician and the markings held no more meaning for him than as a memory of agony and humiliation. As painful as the carving had been, the remedy had been worse. Dwarven runes, branded brown into his flesh, covered and negated the magic inherent in the glyph scars. Those he has endured willingly, silently, and paid a dear price for the bargain. He rinsed the soap from his marked skin and pulled his hair up into a ponytail, then quickly pulled on his jeans.
Next came his thread-bare t-shirt and the gun rig that he never went without. Embroidered leather nestled well-worn against his chest, covered in runes that gave him a sidhe’s speed and strength. Some might call it cheating – Etienne called it making up for his mixed heritage. And in its underarm holster rested the venerable six-shooter, Agmundr. The Gift of Terror. Etienne had served a century among the dwarves in exchange for the rig and the named weapon that it carried. Agmundr and the enchanted bullets it used could bring true death to any sidhe dealt a mortal blow. Etienne had originally bargained for twelve bullets – he had seven remaining. Most sidhe now gave him a wide berth, just as he wanted.
A few minutes of quality time with the old sooty hearth and he had resurrected last night’s fire, carefully tucking in just enough wood to see them through coffee and breakfast. It was quiet, here under the trees. As much as he would like to just spend a few days resting, they were getting very close to their destination and the urge to hit the road was stronger than the urge to linger.
Whimpers carried to Etienne’s sensitive ears and he quickly ducked back into the low-ceilinged tent to check on his charge. Cian lay curled tight on his side, bedroll blankets shoved away, one long, slender arm thrown over his face as if to ward off a blow. His fingers clenched into a fist as a low moan of pain and fear trickled from between his lips, and his breathing became more ragged.
Etienne knelt down beside the boy, and he firmly, but gently, pulled Cian’s arm away from his face. “Cian,” he called softly. “Cian, wake up.”
Cian whimpered once more.
Etienne shook him. “Cian,” he said more firmly.
Cian’s eyes snapped open, terror showing white all around the brilliant green. “Please don’t hurt me,” he slurred, still seeing his nightmare.
Etienne caught the boy’s face and turned his gaze towards him. “Look at me. Look at me, Cian.”
Cian finally focused on Etienne’s eyes, and confusion danced there for a moment, until, “Etienne?”
Etienne gave the boy a small smile. “Good boy. You’re having a nightmare.”
Cian rolled onto his back and rubbed at his face. A shudder racked his slender body and then he relaxed. “I just can’t stop seeing him,” he murmured from behind his hands.
Etienne pulled the boy’s hands from his face and made him look up at him. “Then look at me, instead. You know I’d never hurt you, and I look nothing like him.”
Cian looked a little confused. “But, you do…”
Etienne looked away, frowning, and then back at his young charge. “Not Senán.” He did not like discussing his resemblance to Cian’s friend. “Is that who you were dreaming about?”
Cian nodded, understanding dawning on his pretty face. He pushed himself into a sitting position. “I was dreaming that he was dead. That we found him, but… Midir…” his voice trembled as he hesitated over that feared name. “He’d seen us coming, and he killed him. And then he caught me ag
ain…”
Etienne tucked his hand around the back of the boy’s neck, and pulled him into a rough hug. “Shh,” he murmured against the top of his head, trying to stop the tears before they started. It was a common nightmare for the boy in the days since starting this journey. “Put it behind you. It was just a dream.” He was one to talk, of course, as tightly as he held his own dreams – but then, his nightmares did not feature the face of a murderous rapist. He rubbed Cian’s back with one hand and then pulled away. Cian brushed moisture away from one eye and steadied his features until Etienne was satisfied that he had calmed. “I need to go make breakfast,” he said before giving the boy’s shoulder one last squeeze. “Take your time.”
Cian nodded and gave the older man a small smile. It did not quite reach his eyes, but then Etienne did not expect it to so close to the nightmare. It was good enough. Etienne had learned from a lifetime of pain that good enough was usually as close to fine as could be hoped for.
Etienne emerged from the tent, opened his old rucksack, and started pulling out what he needed – aluminum frying pan, for Cian could not tolerate food cooked on Cold Iron, a couple of neatly wrapped little packets of food, and the last of his precious coffee. He pressed the soft leather pouch against his nose, taking a moment to breath in the rich aroma.
It was the Americans who had introduced it to him, sitting around a fire in a bombed out French farm house, listening to the German bombardment pounding away less than a kilometer from their hiding place. He had been hungry and exhausted and the battered tin cup they handed to him had been hot and welcome. Coffee always reminded him pleasantly of the friendship he had forged over those long days, waiting for the chance to cross the German line and find his contact with the French Resistance. His American friend, a wizard, had been from Seahaven, Washington, USA, maybe still lived there, and Etienne had thought often of looking him up since they had first arrived on this continent. Maybe, when all this was over, he would take the opportunity. They would arrive in the city tomorrow.
The smell of coffee and sausages finally drew out Cian, who came shuffling out of the tent on bare feet, still scrubbing the sleep from his face. He’d pulled on his jeans and Etienne’s old brown leather jacket, which hung short and loose on his shoulders. Even sleep tousled and sloppy, he was exquisitely beautiful, but then his mother had been the most beautiful of their people and Cian took after her. He sat down on the split log bench beside Etienne and laid his cheek against the older man’s shoulder, displaying the casual physical affection of their kind. A full head taller than Etienne, but not nearly as broad, the boy had to bend to reach down that far. “That smells good,” he murmured into the rumpled fabric of Etienne’s sleeve.
Etienne mumbled acknowledgment and continued to prod the sausages into submission with his newish camp fork.
Cian rubbed his sleepy face into Etienne’s shoulder. “Are we going to have tomatoes?” he asked, hopeful. He loved fried tomatoes. He loved everything that had anything to do with tomatoes.
“No, we ran out yesterday. We’ll need to trade for some more.”
“Oh.” He was quiet for a moment and then he peered up at Etienne. “Is this the last of the sausages, too?”
Etienne nodded. They were running low on everything – food, gas, barter goods, money. But Cian did not need to worry about that. It was Etienne’s responsibility, as it was his responsibility to care for the boy. “We’re ok. There will be plenty of places to make money once we get to Seahaven. There always are in large cities. We’ll get more tomatoes when we get there.”
“And then we can have them for breakfast?” Those long-lashed eyes rolled up to gaze in plaintive anticipation.
Etienne smiled then. He couldn’t help it. “Yes, then you can have as many tomatoes as you want.”
He felt Cian grin against his shoulder, felt his complete trust and faith warm against his skin. Of course, Etienne said everything would be fine, so it would be. Etienne just wished he had the same amount of faith. They had been traveling together for somewhere near seven years. Etienne really did not know exactly how long. Seasons... time... ran differently from realm to realm and they had primarily wandered the borders of Faerie where all things were fluid. He looked down at the red-gold head pressed trustingly against his shoulder. Seven years with Cian, watching him grow from boy to young man. He had never failed to take care of him. He wasn’t going to start failing now. Cian could play his guitar on a corner somewhere, which always brought in a little bit of cash, or maybe they could find a small casino with old-fashioned slot machines Etienne could use what little magic he had to trick into paying out. It didn’t work as well in the larger casinos, anymore – with the passing years, newer machines had become what they called “digital” and lacked the mechanical parts Etienne could manipulate.
Cian had no idea he was cheating. The boy honestly thought Etienne was just that lucky.
Without being asked, Cian got up and fished two tin plates out of Etienne’s pack. While Etienne distributed sausages, Cian filled a chipped pottery mug with fresh coffee from the incongruously bright and shiny coffee press. Cian had bought it with the first money he had made on his own. It was glass and chrome and he had gotten it for Etienne. The shop girl had called it a French press and said that it was what the French used to make coffee, and since Etienne’s father had been French... Etienne would never have bought the trinket for himself, but the boy was very proud of it, so Etienne used the silly thing. Besides, it really did make good coffee.
They sat in companionable silence, eating the last of the hot sausages with their fingers, Etienne sipping his black coffee, and watched the sun rise higher behind the trees. Birds chattered ceaselessly over their heads, and somewhere not too far in the distance their sharp hearing caught the rising murmur of early morning highway traffic.
Finally, breakfast was eaten and the last of the coffee was just a quickly drying stain in the bottom of the mug. Reluctant, Etienne sent Cian to the spigot to clean their dishes and he broke down the ancient leather tent. Since the start of his latest sojourn in this realm he was often asked what kind of hide the tent was fashioned from, and he had taken to telling people that it was made from buffalo hide, since “fae leather” only got him strange looks. Of course, apparently having a leather tent at all was strange, anymore, so the looks continued.
While Cian’s dish-washing abilities often left Etienne making another go at it before cooking the next meal, his previous attempts to put the old tent away bordered on tragedy, so Etienne was content to do it himself. By the time it was tucked away, Cian had finished up and returned, only marginally drier than the dishes. At least this time he had taken Etienne’s coat off first. Etienne fished Cian’s clean shirt and socks out of the leather back pack, and, sitting the boy on the bench, he took out an ornate wooden comb and brushed Cian’s hair until it gleamed.
Considering the boy was pure-blooded sidhe, it didn’t take much brushing. Cian had once been called The Glorious Dawn, a name he richly deserved. His hair was more than red-gold; it gleamed with all the colors of the first sunrise. Strands in shades of pale blonde, gold, crimson, rose, bronze and honey spilled over and through Etienne’s callused hands, exquisitely soft and much more evenly trimmed than his own. Etienne could cut hair on a straight line, unlike his young friend, as he had discovered the one, and only, time he had let Cian trim him.
With Cian emitting little sighs of pleasure, Etienne wove Cian’s hair into a tight French braid with the deftness of long practice, smoothing every strand into place, and tucked the end up inside the body of the braid. No human had hair, or eyes, like his, and so no human could be allowed to see them. There were no formal rules forbidding it, of course, no matter what the vampire magicians of the Council of the Eldest might say – they only ruled the Mortal Realm. Humans had interacted with the sidhe off and on for centuries. But, since the fae had withdrawn from the Mortal Realm with the dawn of the Age of Iron, it was simply considered common sense to prac
tice discretion as the better part of valor – plus, he had no intentions of letting his quarry know they were coming. Spies could be anywhere.
“All done?” There was a definite note of disappointment in Cian’s voice.
Etienne patted him on his bare shoulder. “You’re all set.”
Cian’s hands immediately went to his hair.
“No, don’t fiddle with it.”
Cian peered at Etienne through the crook of his own arm. His eyes were all the greens of Faerie in spring. Sidhe eyes. “I like how it feels.” He lightly ran his fingertips over the smooth ridges of the braid.
Etienne shook his head, but he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his mouth. “Go on, get dressed. No sword-work this morning. We need to get going.”
Cian nodded obediently, disappointment showing on his face. Cian really enjoyed their morning sword lessons and after all these years was finally beginning to show promise of true skill.
Etienne filled the old pot from the spigot and made sure their campfire was completely extinguished while Cian finished dressing. The boy pulled on his socks and Etienne realized with a little start that, already much taller than Etienne, he was showing a couple inches of ankle below the jeans cuff, proof that he was still growing. The boots would prove to be a blessing, but he was going to need to find Cian some new jeans, and soon.
Etienne frowned. Their wandering through Faerie had been difficult. Etienne was not a popular man in the courts and was accustomed to scraping by as a day laborer or a sword for hire, or sometimes he could trade labor at a small smithy for forge time to create barter goods whenever he got his hands on any precious metal or sidhe steel. But he was a man full grown and hardened to hardship. Cian’s life before had been soft, and he was growing, and would still be growing for many years, yet. He did not complain, but he had not been raised to scarcity.
And then Etienne had brought Cian to the Mortal Realm. Jumping realms was simply what Etienne did when he felt restless or unsafe, as was the case this time. But it had proven to be more difficult in this era even than during the last war. They had little money in this increasingly currency-centric world, and without it were forced to go without much of the time, to Cian’s increasing detriment. When they had finally found themselves on the farm in Kentucky food had been plentiful, considering the way therian ate, but there had been few opportunities to make enough money to replace their clothing. Etienne pulled on his own thinning socks and sturdy, worn boots. He needed to find stable work somewhere.
