“I still hate him.”
“You have to control that, Knocks. We don’t survive by letting our instincts take over. We only survive by being smart. He’s not smart like you. He has his own cross to bear. You remember that. One day you’ll look back and be thankful that you’re not him.”
“Okay, Mama.”
“Don’t okay, Mama me. You say yes, ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s better. We should be heading in. The sun’s coming up.”
The two swam to the edge of the lake, making their way to shore. In the breaking rays of the morning light he looked down, glimpsing his own reflection. Though it was clearly him, all he saw was a bent, broken picture of Ewan. His eyes were mismatched, one clearly larger than the other; one of them tilted forty-five degrees to the side. His hair grew out in patches, the same brown color as Ewan’s, but shaggy and worn, split ends fraying over spots of scabby, balding skin. The front of his skull was larger, with a bulbous, elliptical tumor of flesh growing out of the side. Both ears were ragged and tattered, chewed up, gnawed down like a cat that had been in too many fights. Worst of all were his teeth—crooked, rotten, and worn—the incisors tilted at a forty-five-degree angle opposite his eyes, creating a discordant symmetry.
Perfect, special little Ewan. With his perfect tangle of brown hair and his perfectly aligned eyes and his perfect, perfect, perfect smile. Knocks simmered quietly, but Laila glowed, putting a loving hand on his shoulder.
“See what I mean? You’re so handsome. You don’t look anything like him.”
AT FIRST HE thought little about his appearance; after all, his mothers had always held him close, stroking his hair, telling him how beautiful he was. But the fairies of the court of the Limestone Kingdom were very different creatures. From far off, they offered a wave or a smile, shouting a stout, “Ho, Ewan,” before getting close enough to realize their mistake. For a moment Knocks would drink in their heady confusion, the stomach-turning angst generated by the changeling’s visage. But as revulsion gave way to pity, his hatred for these creatures only grew.
He was nothing to pity; he was not a monster. And if only he had been born to Laila rather than the hollow, loveless womb of that stuck-up Sidhe, he would never know what any of this was like. Instead, he lived near a walking reflection of what his life could have, should have, been. Any other court in the world, and his life would have been different. But Laila wanted to be close to her sisters. And for that he almost detested her too.
THE SUN WAS already high in the sky. It was perfect out, and no matter how many times his mother told him, he couldn’t stay away. Knocks couldn’t help himself. He skulked near the pair as they hunted rabbits out on the outer fringes of the kingdom. And when he heard them talk of the night’s plans, he giggled silently, giddy at the prospect. Ewan would be given the chance to prove himself in front of a pack of watching adults. Knocks could not let an opening like that pass without incident.
It would be glorious. He would humiliate him, lay in wait for just the right moment to spring a trap that would prove once and for all that while Ewan was the prettier, Knocks was by far the craftier, the more dedicated, the most worthy of celebration. Ewan might be the shining star of the day, but the night belonged to Knocks. And as he thought about his chance, a familiar fire sparked, smoldered, and finally blazed within his belly. Tonight he would satisfy that blaze; tonight Knocks would feel the last of the lingering pity that belittled him in front of the others. Tonight.
There was only one way it could be any better.
Mallaidh.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
COURTING YOUNG MALLAIDH
At eight years of age, Mallaidh (pronounced Molly), had endeared herself to the whole of the fairy court through her hoydenish charm and unearthly grace. Her eyes were pools of childhood; the golden wisps of her hair were ever in motion, always caught in some light breeze, even when there was no wind, glinting, even when there was no sun; and she had a way of wrinkling her nose just so as to make the freckles across the bridge of it dance. She was delightful. Were she not preceded by her own mother, the title of “fairest of them all” would have been hers.
Not that she cared; had she concerned herself with such things, she would not have been half as captivating. Instead she had this way about her that never included attending to her own looks or fashion; rather, she appeared desperately in love with whomever and whatever she was with at the time. Her moods were infectious. Blithe and untamed, she was a free spirit, untethered from routine or convention. Hers was an essence that pined for adventure and longed for a life sprinkled with magic.
A life like her mother’s.
Cassidy Crane (a surname she’d picked up in the hole-in-the-wall bars of the Austin club scene) was something of a legend. A slender, raven-haired punk-rock goddess, she was a demure boot-wearing, butt-kicking beauty with specially inked tattoos that, if you looked closely enough, you could watch move and change color with her mood. She didn’t tolerate lovesick fools and was always at the hip of the brightest and the best up-and-coming talent. Artists, musicians, and writers all found time with Cassidy—if they had the gift. But it wasn’t until her steadiest beau—an incredibly talented actor—overdosed and died in her arms that she secured her immortality: Mallaidh. That name was the last thing Cassidy left her daughter before vanishing back into the ether of the rock scene.
When Cassidy walked the foothills and trails of the Limestone Kingdom, she ruled the roost—so when she left the swaddling-wrapped Mallaidh at the foot of Meinrad’s cave, it was thought by all that her daughter would follow in her footsteps. Thus far, she had. Mallaidh was the highlight of the hills, the glowing talk of whomever she graced with her time.
And to Nixie Knocks the Changeling, she was the center of the very universe.
Mallaidh was neither unusually cruel nor given to any sort of boorishness, so whenever Knocks came around to call there was no reason to be unduly rude. She flirted; it was in her nature. Her eyes grew big and brown and she smiled in a way that dislodged his stomach from its moorings, sinking it a solid foot. He had no choice but to fall madly, deeply in love with her. Though she did not return his affection, she did enjoy the attention, and she devoured it when—time and again—he would pay her a visit in the vain hope that she might see him differently once and for all. Times like today.
“Hello, Mallaidh,” he said, his eyes making indirect contact while his foot nervously drew semicircles in the dirt. His arm was concealed poorly behind him, fresh-picked, dying wildflowers clutched hopefully in his grimy little fingers. He was eager, nervous, unsure of himself. As far as Mallaidh knew, this was his natural state. His upturned cockeye blinked, entirely independent of the other, and Mallaidh tried to pretend that seeing that didn’t bother her so much.
“Hello, Knocks,” she said sweetly, her voice almost cooing. Her mood was particularly bright today, mirroring the radiant skies and the soft, billowing clouds that drifted dreamily in the distance. “What’s the haps?”
“The . . . haps?” he asked, confused.
“Oh, did I say that wrong?” She leaned in flirtatiously, trying coyly to play it off. “You used to live in Austin. That’s what they say there, right? What’s the haps?”
“I don’t know. I . . . I’ve never heard that before.”
“Oh, how silly of me,” she said, recovering for both of them. “I must have gotten it wrong. You know people better than I do.”
“No, I . . . I . . . ,” he stammered.
“Don’t be modest. You’re smart. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
He scuffed the ground harder, not yet consciously realizing that he’d drawn a heart in the dirt. “So, Mallaidh.”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said, curiously. “Why?”
Knocks
leaned in close, almost uncomfortably close. The next part he whispered. “I have a secret.”
“Ooooh.” She loved secrets. “What is it?” she whispered in the covert tenor of a secret agent.
Knocks smiled and looked both ways. “There’s a hunt tonight.”
“There is?” she asked excitedly. “Why haven’t I heard about it?”
“Because it’s a secret. Only a few of the forest bogeys know.”
Mallaidh grimaced playfully, watching the young boy trying to present himself as a man. “Since when are you a forest bogey?” she asked.
“W . . . we . . . w . . . well . . . ,” he stuttered “I’m not. But I heard them. And I’m gonna go take part.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed—a young belle offered a chance to a dance to which she was clearly not really invited. “Well, I’m too young for a hunt. And I’m afraid there’s nothing for me to do.” She was clearly losing interest in the conversation. “Look, I—”
“Oh, well, Ewan and I are—”
“Ewan’s going to be there?” she interrupted. Her eyes lit up as if someone had set off fireworks behind him.
Knocks’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. He strained for normalcy, his eyelids fighting to stay open against the weight of his jealousy. Through gritted teeth he spoke, very slowly. “Yes. Ewan will be there.”
“And I can go with you?” she asked, clapping excitedly, bouncing.
Knocks paused for a second. “Yes. Of course you can come with me,” he said, smiling broadly. His plaque-encrusted, yellow teeth sprouted as randomly from his gray gums as trees did from the ground, his sickening grin turning Mallaidh’s stomach. She muscled through it, betraying nary a second of her discomfort.
“Where should I meet you?” she asked.
Knocks answered in a sour staccato he tried disguising as mere theater. “The Great Stage. Sunset. Come alone.”
Mallaidh smiled, touching Knocks lightly on the arm, above his elbow. “Oh, I’m so excited,” she said. “I can’t wait! See you tonight.” She winked before slipping immediately back into the forest.
Little did he know it wasn’t his demeanor or appearance that so spoiled his chances. To Mallaidh, a changeling was just another fairy—a revolting and misanthropic fairy to be sure, but a fairy nonetheless. And that simply wouldn’t do. Not for a Leanan Sidhe. Fairies were prone to long, meandering lives, their life force like an artisan’s candle, meant to burn long and slow. But mortals, they burned out quick and flashy, like puddles of gasoline. They were exciting, fresh, always on the precipice of death. And for a Leanan Sidhe, only the company of a mortal would truly do.
It was the life her mother had led, which meant that it was good enough for Mallaidh as well. But try telling that to a changeling.
KNOCKS INHALED DEEPLY, the air still perfumed with her breath, notes of lilacs mixed with peaches in sweet cream. He looked on, smiling, dumbstruck at the touch, for a moment forgetting the rotting flowers wilting behind him in his grasp.
He stared agape into the woods behind her, the lingering smile slowly sinking as reality once again set in. The flowers burned in his grasp, a stinging reminder of his humiliation. Reaching back with his other hand, he grabbed hold, mindlessly twisting until the heads of the flowers popped off and the stems were a green, ragged tangle of carnage staining his hands a mossy olive. There was much work to do.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE SAD AND RATHER LONELY END OF ABRAHAM COLLINS
Abraham Collins was not cool, and he knew it, and no measure of tattoos, concert tickets, or hipster duds could change that fact. He’d tried. Instead, he came across as a dried-up imposter, one pocket protector and a scientific calculator away from cliché. To make matters worse, he wasn’t sharp enough to be accepted amongst the intellectual elite of the company nerds either. He was the sort of fellow you would expect to find at home on any given night of the week, surrounded by costly looking, designer-at-a-discount furnishings, slumped on the couch watching television, wondering why he couldn’t find himself a girl. Any girl.
So when his coworker and only close friend, Dallas Wise, invited him to fly wingman on a weekend camping trip with two secretly tattooed twenty-somethings from the secretarial pool, he jumped at the chance. It wasn’t until they rolled up in their beat-up, ugly-as-sin military green Volkswagen Thing that Abraham realized what this really meant.
Dallas had laid claim to Stacy in advance, leaving Abraham with Carly, a slender, lithe vixen, all tan and teeth in a bikini top and jeans skirt. Way out of his league. He knew it, and when she looked up from her purse and they made eye contact for the first time, she knew it as well.
By the time they were settled by the campfire, everyone had a good, clean buzz going and the air hummed, backlit by the pinks and purples of the setting Texas sun. Dallas and Stacy cuddled by the fire’s edge, each with a beer in hand and a comfortable smile dangling on the tips of their numb expressions. Abe nervously shifted atop a chalky rock, trying to think of some clever way to get close to Carly as she grew ever more oblivious.
Dallas reached into his pocket, pulling from it a small, loose Baggie filled with dried mushrooms. Each had a long stalk with an oblong cap, speckled brown and white at one end with a deep blue bruising at the base, fading as it trailed up the shaft. They evoked thoughts of Lewis Carroll caterpillars and smoldering hookahs, and the excited eyes of everyone around the fire glistening with anticipation. The girls eyed each other—Stacy proud of her date, Carly impressed that he had actually come through.
“Just a couple caps for me,” said Carly. “I’m a lightweight.”
“Me too,” nodded Stacy. “Any more than five or six caps and I’ll be over the moon all night.”
Dallas plucked a few mushrooms out of the bag and fed them to Stacy one by one, their eyes locked in a flirty stare as she eagerly gobbled each cap. After the fifth cap, Dallas grabbed a small handful for himself then tossed the Baggie to Carly. He popped the entire handful into his mouth, chewed a little, swallowing hard, hastily trying to muscle past the taste. Carly picked up the bag, plucking a few choice caps for herself, and politely passed the bag to Abe.
Abe stared longingly at Carly, who gave him only a cursory glance as she handed it over. He’d lost her. There wasn’t much time left to grab her attention before they rode the wave and crested into the night. The last thing he wanted was to be humping the leg of a girl more interested in staring at the stars than slipping into a tent with him. He needed her attention. And fast.
“Five caps,” he blurted out without thinking. “That’s it?” Everyone looked up at him. He smiled bravely, leaning his head back, pouring the remainder of the bag’s contents straight down his throat, shaking every last cap, stalk, and broken bit into his waiting maw. He chomped furiously, the dried mushrooms turning into a thick, disgusting wad of paste in his mouth. It was like chewing raw dough. He couldn’t swallow; he tried. His gag reflex fought back, but he forced it down in one painful lump, his stomach shuddering at its arrival.
Dallas snorted out a chuckle. Carly buried her face in her hands. Abraham smiled through the queasiness, trying to disguise his amateur-hour mistake as something more masculine than it was.
Dallas recognized the strained look in Abe’s eyes. “Hey, Abe,” he said.
“Yeah?” Abe mustered, still trying to hold down the mushroom loaf swelling in the pit of his gut.
“Why don’t you go grab some firewood before your dose kicks in? That way we won’t have to go out later.”
Abe smiled. “Yeah. That sounds good. Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.” He stood up, casually disappearing into the brush, eager to put distance between himself and the camp to vomit properly out of earshot. His mouth was already watering, a purge wasn’t far off. Damnit, damnit, damnit. Carly can’t hear this. Churning, his roiling stomach began to bloat; at any moment he would lose it. Farther and farther he sh
uffled into the woods, finally letting loose with a furious heave.
Wiping his mouth clean of slop with his sleeve, he looked around for stray branches for the fire. He didn’t want to spend too much time away. After all, within the hour everyone would be feeling good, and he wanted very much to be sitting next to Carly when they did. So he loaded his arms with as much wood as possible, turned around, and returned to camp.
Only, he couldn’t remember from which direction he had staggered. Oh, damnit. He knew he wasn’t that far, but the trees all looked the same. What the hell am I doing in the woods?
He wandered, night slowly creeping in over the forest. Trees menaced the horizon, shadows crept hungrily behind him. This was a bad idea, a truly, spectacularly bad idea, and as the few minutes’ journey stretched into what seemed like an hour, Abraham Collins was sure this was how he was going to spend his weekend: wandering aimlessly through the woods while his best friend scored. And that’s when he saw the campfire.
Abe staggered back into camp, dropping the armload of wood into a pile, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. His head was pounding, his stomach steadily expanding with gas. While the fire was still roaring in the center of camp, no one was sitting around it. “Guys? Dallas?” he called out. There was a rustling to his left, coming from one of the tents, then a giggle and a SSSHHHH. The tent unzipped and Dallas partially emerged from the small separation it created, giving the weird impression that there was nothing left of him but a disembodied, floating head.
“Hey,” Dallas whispered. “Did you get the wood?”
“Yeah,” said Abe.
“Good. Good.” Dallas fumbled for words, watching them rattle around behind his eyes before realizing he would never catch any of them. Instead, he gave Abe a telling look.
“Where’s Carly?”
“Dude . . . ,” Dallas began.
“Where is she?” Abraham asked once again, this time with a slightly more powerful intonation.
Dreams and Shadows Page 7
