“I’m not,” said Colby.
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“I don’t want to kill anyone who doesn’t have it coming.”
“They all have it coming,” said Ewan.
“I don’t think—”
“They took her from me, Colby.” Ewan looked him dead in the eye. “I never got . . . I never got to show her how much I loved her. This is my chance. I’m gonna kill ’em. I’m gonna kill ’em all. And I’m asking you, will you stand beside me when I do?”
Colby nodded. “I did try talking to them.”
“You did,” said Ewan.
“And they did pretty much tell me to go fuck myself.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means we’re probably going to have to kill them.”
Ewan paused for a moment, gazing down at Mallaidh, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “You know what’s happening to me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m becoming one of them, aren’t I?”
“You always were,” said Colby. “We just didn’t know it.”
“But now?”
“You’re becoming a redcap.”
“I can’t . . . I can’t live like one of those things. I can’t keep killing like this.”
“I know,” said Colby.
“You realize that this is probably the last chance we’re going to have to talk like this, before . . .”
Colby nodded. “Yeah.”
Ewan looked up. “If you had it to do over again, I mean, if you could go back, knowing what you know now, would you still do it?”
“Save you? From them?”
“Yeah.”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Even if you knew it would come to all this?”
“Yes,” said Colby. “Even with all this.”
Ewan smiled. “I used to get pretty down about having only one good friend. I always looked around at the popular kids with dozens and thought something was wrong with me. Turns out something was wrong with me, but one friend was all I really needed.” He looked back down at Mallaidh. “What do we do? With her, I mean.”
“We send her back to where she belongs.”
“How do we do that?”
“Like this.” Slowly, Colby knelt beside the two, putting a hand on Mallaidh. He closed his eyes. Mallaidh exploded into a beautiful puff of orchid petals, the sweet smells of summer and a glimmer of sunlight accompanying the off-white remains to the ground.
Ewan’s eyes grew wide. He hadn’t expected her to be gone so soon.
“Gather together the petals and bury them,” said Colby.
“Do you think she would mind if I carried them around with me?” asked Ewan. “Just for tonight?”
“Mind? She spent her whole life looking for you. I think she’ll take all the time with you she can get.”
“So what now?”
“Now,” said Colby, “we go downtown and see what sort of trouble we can get into.”
IT WAS AN hour before dawn when the two swaggered into downtown. All was silent, everything bathed in a soft, orange, halogen lamplight glow, the city long since dormant, its bars locked up hours before. On the horizon, a ridge of clouds obscured the western stars, creeping over the sky toward the center of town. There wasn’t a soul about; even the angels had fled to their own private roosts, trying to hurry forth the dawn with a steady flow of wine. The two were alone, walking fearlessly toward their fate, neither with a word to say to the other.
Turning a corner they found themselves walking into a thick, knee-high fog. It swirled, thinning into a wispy mist, vanishing completely around their shoulders. From within the mist emerged a dark figure, his face obscured by a large-brimmed hat, under which he smoked a thin, hand-rolled cigarette. Bill the Shadow.
Ewan breathed deeply, his eyes wide, childhood memories nearly causing him to wet his pants. For years, Ewan had suffered nightmares about this man. Now that his memories had returned—Swiss-cheesed though they were—he recognized the lingering shadow for what it was. He’d thought the fighting would begin more dramatically than this, but so be it. Cautiously, he lowered his pike, ready to strike.
“Bill,” said Colby.
“Colby,” said Bill.
“Good to see you.”
“You too.”
“Odd night for a walk,” said Colby, looking around.
“Yep, I reckon it is. Heard there might be a ruckus. Haven’t had me one of those in a while. Thought I might stick around and see what yours looked like.”
“You’re more than welcome.” He motioned to Ewan. “You know Ewan.”
“Kid,” said Bill, tipping his hat to him.
“Bill,” said Ewan, nodding back, uncertain what to make of him.
Colby leaned in toward Bill, speaking softly, “Have you seen Yashar?”
Bill shook his head. “No. No one has.”
There came a stiff bark from the fog, accompanied by the dull clicking of claws on concrete. A golden retriever, his fur matted and ruffled, a small, snarling cluricaun straddling its back, appeared. It was Old Scraps. The wily cluricaun smiled, a small, homemade pike—nothing more than a long cast-iron piece of pipe with a butcher knife wedged into it—in his hand. He nodded politely, pledging his support.
“Thought I’d bring a friend,” said Bill.
“We could use friends,” said Ewan.
“That’s the rumor. Way I hear it, Ruadhri’s bringing every Sidhe on the plateau, and most of the unseelie court.”
“That’s a lot, isn’t it?” asked Ewan.
“Oh yeah,” said Colby, “that’s a lot. Especially for the four of us.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Bill. “It depends on how bad things are about to get.”
That phrase sounded familiar. Bertrand. Colby smiled wryly. “Am I on the right side of this?”
“If you weren’t,” said Bill, “we wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, then,” said Colby with a wry smile, “let’s go get some pissed-off angels.”
Fat Charlie’s Archangel Lounge was only a few blocks away and extraordinarily packed for this time of night. The four stood outside—none of them welcome within—staring into the windows, waiting. After a few moments, Bertrand leaned his head out, and saw them standing there. He nodded to them, then turned around, holding the door open. With a firm whistle, he twirled his fingers in the air, rousing his fellow angels from their stupors.
Out poured eleven drunken fallen angels, each dressed in battered white armor—soiled with age and dinged from a hundred different battles—every one of them carrying a brutal claymore in one hand and a bottle of stiff liquor in the other. Bertrand was the last out the door, a nearly drained bottle of fine Irish whiskey in his hand. “My friends and I heard you might be having something of a rough morning.”
Colby nodded. “It sure looks that way. You boys looking for a fight?”
“Shit,” said Bertrand, “we’re always looking for a fight. Especially against anything that pays the Devil’s bill with innocent blood.” He turned to his flock. “Boys, drink up. We’re gonna kill some fairies.” The angels leaned their heads back, raising bottles to their lips, drinking sloppily. Then, in unison, they pulled away their bottles, raising them into the air, sounding a boisterous yawp before smashing them on the pavement with a resounding shatter. Each angel flapped his wings, taking to the sky. Glass ricocheted off the sidewalk, whiskey splashing Rorschach patterns, feathers gently floating to the ground around them.
The night grew suddenly quiet.
Bill cocked his head, listening to the wind. “They’re here.”
Angels lined the buildings along both sides of the street, perching upon the ledges, swords in hand. Bill took a deep breath before exhaling a thick, st
icky fog that swept briskly over the streets, snaking its way into alleys, roiling like a sea just before the storm. He breathed and he breathed until he could breathe no more, coughing out enough dewy murk to obscure several city blocks.
Old Scraps trotted his pup next to Colby and stopped, looking up at him. Colby returned the look in kind. “I like you, kid,” said Scraps. “You’ve got bigger balls than anyone else in this town, that’s for sure. I’m proud to have been your bartender.”
Colby laughed. “And I, your patron. You need something to drink before we do this?”
Old Scraps grinned. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “I’ve been drunk for hours. HIYAH!” He spurred his dog off, disappearing into the mist.
KNOCKS MINDLESSLY FIDDLED with the blood-soaked rag tied tightly around his stump, his mind ten minutes ahead of him, in the thick of battle. They had chosen to come up from the lake, traveling alongside the river, outrunning the storm at their heels by mere minutes. Two dozen Sidhe, a handful of redcaps, and a smattering of other creatures slid quietly through the early-morning darkness. Several minutes behind them, a second contingent—nearly twice as large—made their way around the city to outflank anyone who stood with Colby and Ewan.
Knocks hoped the second wave wouldn’t need to fight.
They made their way up from the banks, fleetly shuffling from building to building, the air thick and hazy, growing thicker the farther into town they pressed. Something wasn’t right. Ruadhri sniffed deeply, wetting a finger on his tongue, raising it above his head.
He looked at Knocks, shaking his head slowly. “There shouldn’t be fog in this weather,” he whispered, “not before the storm.”
“Sorcery?” asked Knocks.
Ruadhri nodded. “An ambush.” He motioned to his Sidhe, each dressed in dark, loose-fitting clothing, bearing bows and quivers full of cursed arrows. “Fan out,” he ordered quietly, “and keep your eyes sharp.”
The Sidhe split up, several moving to the opposite side of the street. Two Sidhe moved to take point at the front of the group, walking slowly, soundlessly, straight up the middle along the dotted yellow median line. The fog had grown so thick that the air now buzzed with the humming of power lines overhead. There was no other sound.
There came a light whistling—like air passing through something at high speed—then a heavy thump. A shadow descended through the fog, slamming into one of the front-most Sidhe, picking him up, carrying him away into the mist.
The Sidhe let loose a volley of arrows into the sky.
Quietly they waited, listening as their arrows skittered off buildings or clacked against concrete.
Whistle; thump. The second of the front-most Sidhe vanished.
“Volley and fall back!” ordered Ruadhri. The Sidhe let loose their bowstrings again, this time retreating back toward the lake under the cover of fire.
Angels swooped in from behind, slamming into the Sidhe. Several Sidhe bounced off angelic shields, some knocked to the ground, others carried off, battered against buildings or dropped back onto the street from great heights.
Knocks and Ruadhri exchanged troubled looks. Angels.
Ruadhri swung his arm forward, pointing deeper into the city. “Draw your swords,” he ordered, “and press on. Charge!”
The Sidhe surged forward, slinging bows over their shoulders, drawing longswords. The redcaps charged after them, vanishing into the morning.
Thunder rumbled overhead, the subtle hiss of rain a few hundred yards off. The storm was almost here; they were losing whatever advantage they had. It was time to abandon the plan and simply go all-out. Knocks reached into his pocket, pulled out his stained, dried cap. It offered him no strength, but it made a point he wanted very much to make. Knocks belonged, and if he died this morning, he died a part of something.
Knocks gritted his teeth—the pain in his stump far worse than he’d imagined it would be—letting his rage overtake him. He charged headlong into the city, screaming at the top of his lungs.
COLBY LISTENED INTENTLY, scattered skirmishes erupting less than a block away. The fog was so thick, he couldn’t single them out, but he could hear swords unsheathed from their scabbards, the clanking of armor landing, the battle moving from the skies to the streets. He and Ewan held the line, waiting for any fairies who broke through.
“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHH!” screamed a familiar voice, its sound growing ever closer by the second.
Colby and Ewan both steadied themselves.
Shapes swelled in the fog before Ewan, but the sound grew loudest near Colby. The two traded one last glance.
Two redcaps emerged from the fog, swinging pikes at Ewan.
Ewan raised his own pike, deflecting both blows, the sudden nature of the blitz forcing him to give ground, retreating back toward an alley, bracing himself for another charge.
Colby raised an arm to react, but the screaming reached its apex. He turned in time to see Knocks tackle him, lunging headfirst out of the fog and into his chest.
Colby fell to the ground, the strength of the charge sliding them both ten feet across the pavement, tearing his shirt, scraping several layers of skin off his back. He tried to cry out, but the blow had knocked the wind clean out of him. Knocks wasted no time, pounding Colby’s face with his one good fist. The blows felt like a hammer against his cheekbone, each hit simultaneously cracking the back of his skull against the ground.
Colby rolled over, kicking Knocks off, throwing a punch of his own that glanced weakly off Knocks’s chin. Knocks swiftly rose to his feet, while Colby struggled to one knee, trying to regain both his footing and senses. He was stunned, wobbling on uneasy legs, unsure of what was going on. Once more, Knocks dove at him, swinging a haymaker across his jaw.
Colby spun around, punch-drunk from the hit, collapsing.
Knocks stood over Colby, fist clenched, ready to hit him again.
From the fog came the sound of scurrying. Old Scraps emerged astride his galloping golden retriever, swinging his makeshift pike, hollering an unintelligible battle cry. The blade slashed Knocks along the backside of his legs, dropping the changeling face-first to the ground. Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, Scraps disappeared, up the block.
Colby pushed himself to his feet, reaching with an outstretched hand toward Knocks. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the dreamstuff swirling within the changeling—hoping to evaporate it—but there was none. Try though he might, he could feel nothing there.
Knocks pushed himself up, rising to his feet, mindful not to exacerbate his new wounds. He smiled, proud of himself. “You can’t disbelieve me,” he said. “I am not held together by the stuff of dreams or the will of men. I am glued with their hate, conjured from their loss, fueled by their pain. And those are all things I know for a fact that you believe in.”
The staticky hiss of rain rolled over the buildings, onto the street. Fat drops slapped the earth, the hiss becoming a roar, drowning out the distant sounds of fighting, scattering the fog, tearing it apart drop by drop. At once everyone was soaked, the streets slick. While the fog was all but chased away, the air was now bleary with rain.
Two Sidhe pushed through the last shreds of fog, emerging on either side of Knocks.
Each raised their bows, leveling their lethal arrows at Colby.
Knocks smiled. “Kill him.”
Both exploded into a shower of petals—the heavy POP of air rushing into the vacuum left behind, taking the place of any final scream they might have had. Colby pulsed with the dreamstuff he had pulled in.
“You might be nothing but hatred, Knocks,” said Colby, “but they aren’t.” He swung both arms out to his sides, letting loose a barrage of eldritch shards—pink glowing dreamstuff hardened into serrated pieces of glass—arcing across the street, homing in on Knocks.
Knocks leapt out of the way, two shards tearing through the flesh of his stomach, anoth
er half dozen grazing layers of skin off his arms and legs.
Colby unleashed a bolt of pure kinetic force, striking Knocks square in the chest, blasting him back a full city block.
DIETRICH AND AXEL circled Ewan in opposite directions, their pikes leveled at his heart, both intending to be the first to spear him. Ewan spun about, keeping each redcap in his line of sight.
“Be mindful of his pike,” said Dietrich. “Its cut cannot be healed.”
“Aye,” said Axel.
Ewan swung his pike at each, keeping them at bay, but they circled still. He eyed the two up and down, searching for a weak spot. Both were dressed from head to toe in greasy rags, their stance leaving their squat torsos relatively unexposed. Only Dietrich had anything different about him—an ornate, carved bottle of ancient glass dangling from a leather strap attached to his belt.
Ewan had a pretty good idea what it was.
Ewan swung his pike wildly, giving himself a wide berth. The redcaps stepped back cautiously, keeping pace with Ewan, refusing to give him any ground. Then Ewan dropped low, swinging at Dietrich’s midsection. Dietrich arched his back, dodging the blow—missing entirely that the blade wasn’t aimed at his flesh, but rather his belt. The pike sliced off the leather strap.
The bottle clinked to the ground, bouncing off the pavement, rolling noisily down the street.
For a moment they gaped wide eyed up the street—each comically looking back and forth at the other like players in a Three Stooges sketch, waiting for the others to react.
Ewan raced after the bottle.
Dietrich lunged for it.
The bottle stopped with a clang against the curb.
The redcap reached for it. Ewan’s pike swung down. Dietrich flinched, the blade passing inches from his fingers. The pike connected with the neck of the bottle, shattering it.
Dietrich and Axel stared in stunned silence.
Ewan stepped forward toward the redcaps, his pike at the ready. Behind him, Yashar smoked up from the broken bottleneck, taking form from the head down. He grew eight feet tall, with golden, hairless skin and muscles that looked as if they could bench-press small cars. His arms were folded, his brow furrowed.
Dreams and Shadows Page 35
