Dreams and Shadows

by C. Robert Cargill

  Another knock.

  He rose to his feet. He saw the puddle on the carpet, felt the muck drip off his limbs; he knew this was no dream. It was taking longer to shake off the fuzzy feeling than he imagined. Slowly he wobbled, faltering, toward the door, barely able to grasp a coherent thought.

  KNOCKS STOOD OUTSIDE the door, taking a deep breath. I shouldn’t be doing this. It was just nerves, but something felt very wrong. For as many years as he had dreamt of strangling the very life out of Ewan, he’d never thought it would be in a late-night ambush; yet here he stood, a sharpened piece of iron in his pocket, disguised as Mallaidh’s alter ego, Nora. With the genie in a bottle and Colby distracted by the council, this might be his only opportunity, and any chance to kill Ewan was one worth taking.

  Again, he rapped loudly on the door.

  There came no answer.

  He has to be here, he thought to himself. Unless the genie lied.

  He rapped again.

  Again no answer. Damnit, a few seconds longer, then it was back to the warehouse for another hour of torturing the genie.

  “Who is it?” grumbled a muffled voice from behind the door.

  “It’s me,” said Knocks. The door unlatched, swung open, the dank smell of stagnant water and body odor wafting out, almost bowling Knocks over. There stood Ewan, covered from head to toe in a moist reddish-brown layer of god knows what, naked as the day he was born save for the dripping red cap atop his head. He’d been hunting, and now was only a few nights shy of his transformation.

  The very thought of Ewan becoming a redcap infuriated Knocks. For all the years he’d run with the redcaps, wearing a blood-soaked cap of his own, he would never be one of them; he would always be an outsider. A wannabe. All Ewan had to do was to put the cap on once; he probably didn’t even want to be one. Bullshit, Knocks thought. Fucking bullshit. He wanted to stab him right then and there.

  “What did I tell you?” Ewan asked gruffly. “I don’t want to see her. She doesn’t exist.”

  Knocks snapped back from his wandering thoughts. What was he thinking? Of course Ewan didn’t want to see Nora; he knew she wasn’t real. Hastily he formed an image of Mallaidh in his mind, running over every specific detail, from the curve of her hips to the cut of her chin. “Sorry,” he said, shifting forms in front of him. He crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping that Ewan wouldn’t notice any subtle differences.

  Ewan motioned him in.

  The place was a mess. Knocks wasn’t sure what to expect, but somehow had always imagined him living in a nicely furnished, rock-star-like apartment. It’s not that he thought him rich, but better than this. The carpet, covered in a light coat of scattered cigarette ash, like a fresh dusting of late October snow, stank of whatever it was that dripped off Ewan. This was nothing to envy; it was a tiny little shithole nestled in the armpit of a much larger shithole.

  “What have you been doing?” asked Knocks.

  “Nothing you’d want to know about,” said Ewan, his eyes shifting nervously, as if he had some great secret to hide. He looked sick, like he’d been strung out for days on some illicit back-alley juice cut with cold medicine.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I am now. What did they tell you?”

  Shit. Who? Who was Mallaidh talking to? “They didn’t tell me anything,” he said, trying to buy a little time, fishing for a hint with which to craft a believable story.

  “What do you mean they didn’t tell you anything?” Ewan eyed Knocks up and down.

  Knocks glanced around for clues, spying a massive wooden pike, its blade smeared in fresh blood, running down and pooling in a stained circle on the floor beneath it. He looked up at Ewan, who was now piecing things together.

  Ewan lunged for the pike. Knocks stepped between him and the weapon, pulling a blade from his pocket, sinking it deep into Ewan’s exposed side, slipping the flat of it between two ribs.

  Ewan screamed, the force of it resonating in Knocks’s bones.

  Knocks smiled; finally. “You hesitated,” he gloated.

  “It won’t happen again,” Ewan spat out. He swung, landing a blow that picked Knocks off his feet, throwing him across the room. He was as strong as a redcap now, perhaps stronger. Still rattled by Ewan’s blow, Knocks slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the room.

  Ewan plucked the dagger from his side, tossing it away, a spray of blood following. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he picked up the pike and charged Knocks, screaming.

  Knocks shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from it, darting away before he was finished, the pike swinging just inches from his neck. Caught without his knife, without the element of surprise, he had no cards left to play.

  I have to get out of here.

  He made a break for the door, but Ewan put a stiff leg between his running feet, sending him sprawling, shattering his cheek, putting a solid knot on his forehead.

  Ewan was ready to charge again.

  Knocks grabbed the doorknob and turned it, flinging the door open.

  Ewan brought the pike to bear once more.

  Knocks dove out the door, dragging his left arm behind for balance. The blade of the pike whistled through the air, catching Knocks’s exposed palm, cutting a gash across it from one side to the other. He winced in pain, losing his footing, crashing headfirst into the rickety railing overlooking the fetid pool.

  Like a shot, Knocks jumped to his feet, springing toward the stairs. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, down the industrial cement walkway, silently cursing himself for blowing this so badly, praying for the miracle that would buy him time to get away. This was all wrong, he chastised himself; he’d gotten cocky. I never should have tried this alone.

  His hand burned as if he’d stuck it in fire, the wound stinging like it was full of broken glass; he clenched it into a painful fist, only making it worse. Fingers throbbed, bones ached. The pain spread, setting fire to his arm all the way up to his elbow.

  He reached the stairs, racing down them, desperate to reach the bottom.

  MALLAIDH RAN ACROSS the parking lot, outrunning phantoms. She wasn’t sure how long she had run or how fast; all she knew was that she was finally here. There were less than a hundred steps between her and Ewan; nothing was going to stop her now.

  She rounded a corner, bolting up the stairs, first up one flight, then up a second. One floor left, she thought to herself. Space and time. Once again she had crossed space and time. And then she found herself beside herself, literally, running past a doppelganger bearing her own image.

  They both stopped, staring, mouths agape, eyes wide in surprise. Her first instinct was to lay into the duplicate, attacking whoever it was that had stolen her face, but as her muscles tightened to throw a punch, one thought overwhelmed her. Ewan. She took off again, this time somehow running faster than before, scrambling up the stairs, down the derelict walkway.

  Ewan stepped out from the apartment, bloody and naked, pike at the ready. Mallaidh—the sight of him still standing fluttering her heart with joy—threw her arms open wide. His eyes narrowed, his muscles clenched all at once. She smiled.

  Ewan drove the pike straight through her gut.

  Her eyes went cold with shock.

  “Space . . . and time . . . ,” she said softly, struggling for breath.

  “What?” asked Ewan, confused.

  He looked down at the wound. Mallaidh cupped it with her hands, desperately holding her innards in, blood pouring into them; neither of them gashed.

  He looked up at the staircase, saw Knocks, still disguised as Mallaidh, standing in the shadows. Slowly, Knocks stepped smiling out into the light, raising his left hand to show his bloody palm. Ewan gasped.

  “No!” he screamed.

  Mallaidh toppled into his arms, the two falling slowly together to the ground. Ewan cradled her, his
arm around her back, her head in the palm of his hand.

  “No, no. No, no, no.”

  She looked up at him with a weak smile and sad eyes. “I did everything right,” she said. “I did it right.”

  Ewan shook his head. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I crossed space and time for you,” she continued. “I waited and I found you.”

  “Yes, you did,” he said. Tears formed in his eyes, a slow pattern of quiet sobs overtaking him.

  Mallaidh looked down at the pike, still standing upright out of her stomach. A small tear trickled down from the corner of her eye. “It was worth it,” she said. “It was all worth it.” The light began to fade from her eyes.

  “No. You can’t leave me. I won’t let you,” said Ewan.

  “It’s your turn,” she said. “To cross space and time. To find me.”

  “No, don’t leave.”

  “Find me,” she said softly. Then she looked down at her small hand, held softly in his, quietly begging, “Don’t let go. Don’t ever let go.”

  “I won’t,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, smiling one last time. “I know.”

  Her body went limp in his arms.

  KNOCKS LINGERED A moment; he could not have planned it better had he tried. Watching, delighted, as the two collapsed into each other’s arms before his very eyes, her blood pouring out into a wide, dark puddle beneath them. Though they whispered to each other, it didn’t matter what they were saying; their time was short. While this wouldn’t kill Ewan, it would tear his heart clean out of his chest. There was no better way to make him suffer.

  It was the greatest moment of Knocks’s life. At last, he knew what true happiness was.

  But Knocks knew that Ewan wouldn’t hold his girlfriend forever, so he made a hasty exit down the stairs, into the empty, lamp-lit parking lot buzzing with bugs circling halogen lights. There was no need to run; Ewan wouldn’t be after him for a few minutes still.

  Knocks decided to take the long way home, breathing in the night. The taste of the heartbreak was intoxicating, and he relished it, replaying the moment over and over again in his head. The stars were out, the night was dark, a ridge of clouds teetering on the horizon, threatening to sweep in under the sky and soak the city with an angry Texas thunderstorm.

  Two redcaps waited for him as he entered the warehouse, shifting back and forth on nervous feet, fidgeting, their caps in their hands. Each seemed about to speak, neither finding the words. Then they noticed blood like a leaking faucet from Knocks’s hand, the steady drip pooling beneath him.

  “Knocks,” said Axel. “Your hand.” He grabbed Knocks’s arm and examined the wound, peering closely at the symmetrical cut. The redcap turned to his companion. “Get the mistress.”

  “It’s nothing,” said Knocks, pretending his face didn’t betray otherwise.

  “This is no scratch,” said Axel. He dabbed a finger to his tongue, probed the wound, rubbing it along exposed muscle. The spit sizzled unnaturally. Knocks jerked his hand back. Axel shook his head. “This is bad.”

  Rhiamon emerged from the shadows in back. She was middle-aged, but still quite pretty, yet one look at Knocks and she aged ten years. She grabbed his hand, exposing the flat of his palm, spitting in it, mumbling a spell in an ancient dialect far older than recorded history.

  Immediately the wound bubbled up, frothing red blood boiling out of his hand. Knocks cried out, falling, writhing on the floor. “Why the fuck did you do that?” he screamed. He arched his back, pounding his bloody fist on the cement.

  “I had to know,” said Rhiamon. “And now I do.”

  “Know what?” he asked, his voice cracking through the pain.

  “The blade that cut you was cursed, and no magic can close it. You will die a slow and painful death from that wound, but not too slowly as to see morning.” Rhiamon waved her hand, the pain in Knocks’s hand diminished, the bubbles receding, the ache returning to a dull throb.

  Knocks rose to his feet, cradling his hand. “What do I have to do?”

  “That wound will never close,” she said. “You have to replace it with one that will.”

  Knocks knew immediately what she meant. He nodded silently.

  Walking with purpose to a nearby pile of rubble, he pulled from it a single broken shaft of wood. From another pile he drew an oily rag, wrapping it around one end of the splintered shaft. Pulling a beaten, scuffed Zippo from his pocket, he lit the rag, handing the torch to Rhiamon.

  “Hold this,” he said. He knelt down to the ground and picked up a small stick, holding it tightly in his good hand. Then he whistled to the two redcaps. “Dietrich, hold my hand and don’t let go. Axel!” He motioned with his eyes to his wrist. “Do it now. Don’t let me lose my nerve. And for fuck’s sake, don’t hit Dietrich.”

  Dietrich grabbed Knocks’s wounded hand, each gripping the other as if they were about to arm wrestle. The two locked gazes, Knocks speaking without looking away.

  “Do it now,” he said, before placing the stick between his teeth, biting down firmly.

  Axel picked up his pike, swinging it a full 180 degrees to sever Knocks’s hand at the wrist. Knocks’s scream was muffled slightly by the stick. Dietrich fell backward, the bloody hand refusing to let go. Blood spurted out of the stump.

  Knocks lunged forward, jabbing his arm into the flame atop the torch.

  He let out another anguished scream, the stick muffling it once more. The damp air filled with the stench of freshly broiled meat, redcaps salivating at their first whiff. Tears ran down Knocks’s face, the pain just bearable enough for his anger to keep his stump in the fire. Knocks growled, fighting his better instincts to pull away. It had to cook through to stop the bleeding.

  Rhiamon smiled, admiring the needless bravery. She could have healed the stump with a few words and a gob of spit, but this was far more entertaining. The years she’d gained worrying about the wound faded away, and she became ever younger the longer Knocks stood screaming before her.

  Knocks pulled his arm out from the fire, collapsing on the ground, breathless, his stump steaming, barbecued to a charred, gruesome black. He looked up at Rhiamon.

  “Like that?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Something like that, yes.”

  He laughed—almost maniacally—finding something inexplicably funny about it. “You know what?” he said. “It was worth it. I would go through that a hundred times to see what I just saw.”

  “And what is it that you’ve seen?”

  “The blade that delivered this wound run through the girl he loves.”

  Rhiamon lost ten more years. “He slew the Leanan Sidhe?”

  “He did.”

  “By his own hand?”

  “Both hands.”

  “Oh, then there is no time to lose.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “Are we moving up the plan?”

  “The council has ruled,” Rhiamon said through seventeen-year-old lips. “You’re allowed to kill him. They’re raising a war party now.”

  Knocks surged to his feet, forgetting the pain. “He’s mine!”

  “You can have him,” she said, “if you’re the first to claim his head.”

  “What the hell changed everyone’s mind?”

  The mood of the room dimmed, growing cold, grim. Dietrich rose to his feet, finally freeing the hand’s grip from his own, wiping the blood off on his trousers. He took his cap off, held it respectfully in his hand. Axel joined him, removing his as well. Rhiamon motioned to the redcaps. “Tell him.”

  “What’s got you two so upset?”

  One of them spoke up. “We’re not sure we’re the right ones to tell you.”

  “Spit it out,” said Knocks.

  They shook their heads. “You’re not going to like it,” said the other.

 
“You know what?” said Knocks with a laugh. “After the night I’ve just had and what I’ve just seen, nothing could bring me down. Go ahead; tell me the genie escaped or that the boy wizard is outside looking for a fight. Nothing can kill my mood.”

  The two redcaps looked at each other. Without hesitating they each threw out a match of evens-and-odds. The loser grumbled and scuffed his feet.

  “Just say it already,” said Knocks, losing his patience.

  “It’s about your mothers,” began the redcap.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ALL HELL

  Colby walked solemnly toward Ewan, words failing him. The world was about to come down on their heads—he had to choose between standing beside his murderous friend or throwing him to the fairies to be torn apart before his eyes.

  But seeing him now, all he felt was sadness.

  Ewan hadn’t moved since collapsing with Mallaidh. He held her, lifeless, in his arms, slowly rocking her back and forth, whispering softly as if to try to gently rouse her from a deep sleep. But she would not wake. Finally Ewan looked up at Colby, his eyes red and swollen.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Ewan whimpered. “They made me think . . . they made me . . .”

  “I know,” said Colby.

  “They’re coming for me, aren’t they?” he asked. “For what I’ve done?”

  Colby nodded. “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Is that a lot?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “How many do you suppose we could kill before they get us?”

  Colby’s expression hardened, entertaining the thought. “Between you and me?” he asked. “I reckon we could take out a couple dozen. Maybe more.”

  “I hope you’re not just being optimistic.”