Brendan let out a sigh of relief, but then shuddered as he felt the magic build and build around him. It drew in, circling around Wraith like a slowly building twister.
“I’m sorry,” she said, backing away. “I wish I could help—”
And before the words had even finished leaving her lips, Brendan felt a rush of that wild magic pour into him. It coursed through his body, and as it did, it began to heal him. It was a new pain. Bones came back together, mending straight, as if they’d never broken; his leg, arm, and ribs. The cuts all over his body drew closed and left not a single mark on him.
Then Wraith vanished in a whirling torrent of magic.
When the wind died, everything was silent and still again, and every single one of Brendan’s wounds were healed. Even the line of runes Dante had tattooed onto his sternum to bind the demon had been restored. They’d vanished after Brendan had surrendered to the monster.
What? No!
It was chained again, but like Brendan, its strength had returned and it tore at its bonds. In fact, it felt stronger. He considered his options. Getting free now was at least possible. If he let the demon loose, it was a certainty. He could go back to the mortal world, but was there anything for him there? Dante perhaps? But Brendan knew he’d be doing the elf a favor by keeping out of his life.
No, that world wasn’t his world, not anymore. He’d lived the long years after Áine’s death only for vengeance. He’d done that, but now there was no escaping his true nature. Chained up or not, the demon was a part of him, of who he was. He was a monster, and a killer. He’d managed to do something good, helping Caitlin save Fiona. Better to be remembered for that.
The demon inside him howled in fury, tearing at its bonds and screaming at Brendan to let it loose.
“Easy, lad,” Brendan said in whisper, standing fully on his legs for the first time in a long while. He thought of Vincent and the other oíche. “I have another bargain for you. We’ll finish what we started.”
Brendan made his offer and, reluctantly, the demon accepted.
It wasn’t long before Brendan heard the oíche come running. He slumped down again, and bowed his head. Six oíche, Vincent in the lead, came to the site of Wraith’s departure. They all stared at the huge circle of swirled dirt left behind.
“What the hell did that?” Vincent demanded.
No one answered.
“You, Fian!” he said and stepped to Brendan. “What happened?”
Brendan didn’t answer. He knew his wounds were healed, but he was still covered in blood and maybe that was enough to keep the oíche from noticing.
“Let me,” said another oíche.
Brendan heard him draw a knife and step closer. When the faerie was just a few feet away, Brendan raised his head and smiled. The demon surged up, filling Brendan with strength and power.
“What are you—?”
“Díoltas!”
The knife leapt from the oíche’s hand into Brendan’s. The second knife, flew from a sheath on Vincent’s hip and into Brendan’s other hand.
“Tar amach, a Bháis!”
Then there was a loud crack as the silver cords snapped and vanished from around him.
Brendan crouched on the tree branch, not moving or making a sound. He watched and listened, patiently waiting. Even the demon was still and quiet, savoring every moment of the hunt. Oíche were headed this way, four of them. Their hearts were pounding, and Brendan could smell the fear on them.
“We have to get out of here,” one of them said.
“Really?” answered another. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Shut up, both of you!” said a third in a hush whisper.
The fourth didn’t speak, he just led the way to the structure of white marble, which looked like nothing less than a slightly smaller version of the Parthenon. Brendan hadn’t realized before, but it made sense that the hall of doors could be used to leave the Dusk Lands and even the Tír. They were usually for tormenting mortals with their greatest desires, twisting them and making them nightmares. He thought of when Caitlin had stepped through those doors. And though he never knew what she saw, it had been terrible. The second door had been so awful that she’d been forced to kill an illusion of her own daughter. How Fergus must’ve taken special delight in that.
Brendan leaned forward and dropped face-first from the branch. In the air he turned, bringing his feet under him and landed in the center of the oíche. Before they could react, he lashed out with his blades. There were shorts gasps, more of surprise than anything else. Then there was nothing but four clouds of darkness filled with motes of purple light.
Well done.
Ignoring the demon’s praise, Brendan sheathed his knives and walked to a large oak tree. For almost two months, near as he could tell anyway, he’d hunted. Two-hundred-fifty-three Dusk Court fae had died at his hands; oíche mostly, but there were also pùcas, dusk elves, night pixies, banshees, and others. He killed them all, and he wouldn’t stop until there were no more to kill. They’re an evil that needed to be wiped out. There are no innocents in the Dusk Court. All of them had done terrible things to mortals through the centuries; tortured those foolish or desperate enough to bargain with them, stolen children, slaughtered lost travelers. He was bringing justice for all the mortals who’d suffered at the hands of the Dusk Court. Unfortunately, some of his prey had fled, escaped from the Tír, he knew. That was how he’d learned the hall of doors could be an exit.
And when these lands have no more prey, we will find them as well.
Again Brendan didn’t answer. He just stepped to a large knot in the tree and gently traced his finger around its edge.
“Beatha?”
There was a groan and the knot opened like a cupboard. Inside was a pile of various berries and fruits and a large wood cup filled with water. Brendan took an apple and bit into it. He wasn’t terribly hungry. In the Tír there was little need for food, or sleep for that matter. Unless of course the fae wanted a mortal to suffer, then they’d make the poor soul crave the food and sleep that would never come. But Brendan ate anyway. His body might not need food like it would in the mortal world, but he did need some. Of course this was all faerie food, which meant he was trapped in the Tír. The oíche had already done this of course, when they’d given him water and presumably fed him—though he didn’t remember eating anything. Sure, there were ways to escape the binding. One of the fae monarchs could free him. Or he could find a powerful potion to purge the magic from him. He wasn’t likely to get either, which was fine. He had no intention of ever leaving anyway.
You say that now, but the time will come.
As for sleep, he was torn. He longed to see Áine again, but not like this, not as a monster. He finished the apple in a few more bites and carried the core over to a bare piece of ground. Using his knife he dug the dry earth up, making a hole perhaps six inches deep. He dropped the core inside, covered it up, and then poured some water from the cup over it. In moments a green shoot emerged from the dirt. He stepped back as the tiny plant grew into a full-sized apple tree, complete with large apples, ready for picking.
The faeries had food stashes all over the Tír, hidden in trees and under rocks. But they weren’t always easy to find, so it was good to have these fruit trees spread around. He just wished there was a way to get his hands on some meat, and then to a make a tree. His mouth watered at the thought of a steak tree.
More prey is coming.
Brendan froze and listened. He’d always had senses well beyond a normal mortal, but thanks to the demon being free, they were heightened beyond even that of a fae. Not that it mattered. Even a mortal would’ve been able to hear the gentle clinking of fae armor. Brendan smiled and stepped into the path, drawing his knives.
Three dusk elves, all clad in suits of scale armor with a faint purple hue to it, stepped int
o view. Two wore half helms, allowing Brendan to see the empty sockets where their eyes should’ve been. The third, clearly their captain, wore a full helm, the front etched with whirls and knots. The two each held a thin-bladed sword, unsheathed and ready. But the captain wore an ornate, curved scabbard at his hip.
“A katana?” Brendan asked.
The captain nodded once.
Brendan nodded his approval. It was true that iron, even the iron in steel, was an anathema to the fae. Just the touch of it to their skin was poisonous. But with a long and laborious process, they could enchant mortal steel, turning it to fae steel. Because it took weeks, it was reserved for only the most precious and special items.
“Go, my lord,” one of the two said. “We’ll hold the fian while you make your escape.”
“No,” Brendan said and smiled. “You won’t.”
The captain drew his sword and brought it up in a salute.
Brendan was taken aback, but only for a moment. He returned the gesture with his knife, offering a slight bow.
Then the fae moved as one, surging toward Brendan in a rush scarcely more than a blur. Just before their blades met, the captain leapt high while each of his guards swung.
Brendan leaned back and slid between the two, their blades passing a hairsbreadth from his face. As he went past them, he slashed out, hamstringing them both.
The two fell, crying out in pain. But to their credit, they rolled and still tried to come at Brendan, but he’d moved out of range.
He twisted, first one way then the other, and hurled his blades at the fleeing captain who had nearly reached the steps of the hall. The fae knocked one blade aside with his katana and ducked the other, which went sailing past him and into the hall.
“Díoltas!” Brendan shouted.
The knife the captain had knocked aside leapt into the air and back to Brendan’s hand. There was a moment where the fae knight just stared, then he realized the trap he’d stepped into. He turned, but too late. The other knife hit him in the chest, knocking him to the ground. His armor collapsed amid a cloud of darkness and twinkling dark blue lights. The knife drew itself from the armor and sped through the air to join its twin in Brendan’s hand.
Brendan saluted again. “Two-hundred-fifty-four.”
The two remaining dusk elves managed to get to their feet, unsteadily since they each had a leg that was useless. The wounds leaked darkness and pale grayish white motes of light.
One of the two spit at the ground. “Díbeartach—!”
Brendan roared in rage then flung his knives into the ground at his feet. Claws emerged from his fingertips and he was on the two remaining fae.
Two-hundred-fifty-five. Two-hundred-fifty-six.
PART 3
Wraith lay on the couch in her safe house, in almost the same spot she’d been for the last week. She hadn’t slept much in that time, her dreams filled with dark memories. Even now her heart started to pound and her hands shook as she thought about how easily the room had been entered and her friends taken. Sure, she’d managed to get Geek back from the Order safely, and Con and Sprout were on the mend, but whenever she closed her eyes, she saw Ovation’s lifeless body falling to the floor.
She took a deep breath, then another, and another, until her heart rate slowed and the images slipped back into the obscure corners of her mind.
It had taken her the better part of a day to clean out the furniture damaged beyond hope, and repair both the furniture that wasn’t and the room itself. After fixing the holes Geek had put in the walls during the fight, she’d sealed off the literal doorway with brick and mortar. It was sloppy, but some entanglement magic had made up for her lack of bricklaying skills. The door itself now leaned against the wall; taken off its hinges, it was useless as a door-door. No one would be coming in that way again. That helped, but only a little. The room still smelled of smoke, and she could almost feel the lingering fear and pain left from the invasion. Brigid—the fae magister of the Midwestern United States—had offered to let her stay at her house. Wraith had given it a few days in the palatial one-time convent, filled with shifting hallways, soft beds, and clean clothes. But in the end, she couldn’t stay. It wasn’t her home. This was, or as close to one as she was going to get. So she’d worked to make it a home, trying to scrub clean the past. The last thing she’d done was to remove the extra mattresses, the ones her friends Shadow, SK, and Fritz had used. Well, she wasn’t sure they’d ever really used them. It was complicated, them being dead and all, only existing because Wraith had formed bodies for them out of the quantum ether of reality. But now they were truly gone, their souls released from the binding the Order had worked. It wasn’t easy, removing the last traces of her friends’ existence. The mattresses didn’t weigh a lot physically, but they were heavy with memories and regret. In fact, the room was still filled with both, and they soaked into her soul, leaving her grieving, depressed, and alone. She knew her friends were in a better place, but they were still gone, and she still felt their absence to her core.
Lifting her eyes from her mother’s spellbook, she glanced at the shelf she’d put up—really just a board secured to the brick wall. On it sat an eagle feather, a multitool, and a pewter talisman on a black cord—the most prized possessions of Shadow, Fritz, and SK respectively. They were all she had of her friends, the only tangible things anyway. They might even be the only real evidence they’d existed at all. They were all street kids, easily overlooked and just as easily forgotten. That thought also fed the dark feelings, which wrapped her in hopelessness and sadness.
She lit a cigarette and blew out smoke.
“I really need to quit,” she said to no one. “It won’t be long before this whole place stinks. It probably already does.”
She took another drag and let the sense of isolation wrap tighter around her. She felt more alone than she ever had before. She wasn’t just missing her friends; it was also the lack of voices in her head—the countless souls the Order had bound to hers. For so long they’d been a constant torment, now she actually missed them. She even missed Nightstick. Which itself was odd. How do you miss a sentient hallucination? No, he’d been so much more than that. Then of course there was Toto, Shadow’s big coy-dog, and her parents. She could still remember the accident where they’d died in the front seat of the car while she watched from the backseat, unable to do anything about it. Then she’d learned it hadn’t been an accident at all. Somehow the Order had set it up to trigger Wraith’s magical abilities and make her into a vessel for destructive power. But she’d brought that power back to them and wiped them out for it, freeing all—well, most—of the trapped souls at the same time. Okay, so she didn’t wipe out the entire Order, but she knew she’d dealt them a blow they wouldn’t quickly recover from.
On top of all that was the dream she’d been having lately (when not haunted by visions of Ovation’s murder), one she was increasingly sure was a memory. Who was the guy tied to the tree? What had he done? There was something in his eyes that was clearly dangerous, but she could also see something more there, something almost familiar.
She turned her attention back to the spellbook. She found her mother’s elegant script a strange sort of comfort. The formulas, or spells, or whatever they should be called, were as refined and beautiful as the lettering. As she read through each, for the hundredth time, they unfolded in her mind. She’d already read both her parents’ spellbooks cover to cover a dozen times each over the past week. There wasn’t even any point in reading them now, she had them both memorized. But she kept rereading them, only breaking to sleep, and that reluctantly.
And why not? Studying them was a perfect excuse to hide. Yes, she’d had plans, grand plans. She was going to start by paying the wizard the song she owed him for his help in learning the truth about what had happened to her. Then of course was her plan to reach out to the supernatural
street kid community: slingers (wizards) and fifties (changelings). She was going teach them how to protect themselves, and some might even join her and help. She even had a name for the group, the Forgotten Circle.
But she never left this room. At first she told herself she just needed to clear the place out, make it her own. But the enormity of her plans kept eating at her. How could she, all by herself, do any good at all? There were so many kids out there. What difference could she make?
“If I just get better, learn better magic,” she said to herself, for the umpteenth time, and went back to reading the book, analyzing every piece of every equation and how they all tied together.
Her food had run out a couple of days ago, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop studying. It had become obvious very quickly that while she had power to spare, her parents were artisans, their spells clean and efficient. Wraith needed to use multiple formulas stringed together to get to a final result, but her parents had been able to distill it down to a simple, beautiful equation. They said in a few words what it took her a dozen pages to say.
That was only a small part of it though. The books were also a comfort. Seeing her parents’ handwriting, reading their words, it was almost like they were still here. The first few times through the books, she’d remembered more and more, but then the memories had stopped coming. She kept trying though. It was more than a little odd how she could be consumed by a sense of hopelessness and cling to an almost obsessively desperate hope at the same time.
Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. Hunger was something she was long used to by now. Instead, she closed the book, set it on the floor, and stared up at the ceiling.
“What are you doing?” she asked herself. It didn’t bother her that she talked and even had arguments with herself. She’d been crazy once—and probably still was, she wasn’t sure—and so she’d gotten used to it. Maybe it was more accurate to say she’d gotten used to talking to a hallucination, which was basically the same as talking to herself.
Three Promises Page 7
