by Tom Deitz
And since the tower was a surety, whereas cooperation from the Track was not, he directed his steps to the former.
—And had barely gone five paces when a new realization brought him up short. The tower lay in what he’d assumed was the east, and was mostly visible when cut out against the lightning. Yet so quickly were those dark clouds moving, that the sky there had cleared already and a steadier light shone forth: that of a heavy, yellow moon, newly risen. “Hey, man!” he called to it, for he had been observing good old Luna since he was kid, and knew its movements and phases. Only…this moon was full! No big deal, in the abstract; it happened every twenty-eight days. But the moon was supposed to be full in his World tomorrow night; and his practiced gaze was discerning enough to note even one day’s change, and this was definitely a full moon. Which, if there was any analogy between his World and this (which was a pretty big if, given that the stars were all wrong) meant he had somehow gained over eighteen hours and was out on the moors on Halloween night! And while Halloween was his favorite holiday back in Georgia, he was not at all certain he wanted to confront it here, without the veneer of plastic and neon to enforce disbelief.
Halloween felt real here. This was a place where the dead could rise, where witches could ply the air on broomsticks, where all the dark things of earth could walk the land and have their way. Aikin suddenly wished, very hard, that he was a fundamentalist business major with an IQ of about 5 and the imagination of a turnip.
No, forget turnips: folks had used big ones hollowed out to hold candles back in the old country. They’d been precursors of jack-o’-lanterns.
Which was only making him more wired, and getting him no closer to the ragged black spike of tower.
But he was far less than halfway down the ridge on that side when a gust of wind swept off the heights and caught him, plastering his shirt to his arms and whipping his hat right off. The wind howled ominously, and a glance behind showed the storm moving in that way.
But then the wind dropped abruptly, to reveal other sounds that had hidden in it: the distant, clear shriek of a hunting horn—and, slightly closer, the belling of countless hounds.
Aikin had been hunting all his life and had sampled almost every variation, from rising in the wee hours to stalk the woods alone, through wading through briars listening to dogs cry as they flushed a rabbit, to riding red-clad on horseback as hounds coursed across Virginia meadows. Yet something about this horn chilled him to the very depths of his soul. It had sounded as though whoever winded it was crazed with anger, and the belling of the hounds spoke of both hunger and insanity.
And then he recalled who was most likely to be out hunting on Halloween night, especially in Celtic countries—or their Faery analogues.
Many names they called the leader of that host, familiar from countless novels and gaming manuals: Cernunnos and Herne were but two of the more popular ones. But it could also be The Devil’s Dandy Dogs, or the Gabriel Brachets, or the Slough, or the Cwn Annwyn. And another name there was too, both vaguer and yet more descriptive, and that was simply the Wild Hunt.
Aikin did not want to know what quarry such a…being might be seeking on these soggy, empty moors. But he doubted the Huntsman and his fellows (if any) would be content with voles or mice. All at once he remembered what he’d told David last weekend up on Lookout Rock: that at the end of seven years the queen of the Fairies paid a tithe to hell. That’s what the mortal knight in “Tam Lin” had told his paramour. But now he recalled the rest, how the knight “so fair and full of flesh” feared that tithe would be himself.
And with that in his mind, and the screech of the horn and the belling of hounds far too close behind him, Aikin started running.
Chapter XII: The Woman in the Woods
(Whitehall Forest—Athens, Georgia—Saturday, October 31—noonish)
“Stop that!” David snarled at his stomach, which had not so much growled as caterwauled. He slapped it for emphasis and tried to recall the last solid food he’d eaten. Popcorn at the ’Watt didn’t count, nor did the Hershey bar Liz had given him before that—which left cold pizza at home last night.
Scowling, he checked his watch, then stared at Whitehall Mansion, across the road from which he’d just phoned Liz. God damn it, why couldn’t that girl have given him time to talk her out of coming over? If she was bringing the ulunsuti, that was one thing; he could use the oracular stone—to find two buddies gone AWOL among the Worlds. But if she was simply intending to hang around…well, how much help could she be?
No, that wasn’t fair. Liz was as smart as he was, strong for her size, moderately psychic, able to scry and had her act together common sense-wise far better than Alec, for all that both he and Aikin had larger data bases. The bottom line was that he wanted to protect her.
Except that was a lie too. What he really wanted was to hide from her, because if she found out that whatever visions had motivated two of his buddies to hit the Tracks had originated in the ulunsuti, no way she’d not ask if he’d had one too. And he’d either have to fib—which he didn’t want to do—or tell the truth, which could easily lead him to confess his desire for vengeance against that traitorous bitch of a Daoine Sidhe called the Morrigu. And if he admitted that, he’d never be able to act on it unilaterally, because Liz would behave exactly as he was acting now.
So what was the difference between her fooling with dangerous matters and him doing the same? Alec and Aikin were like cherished brothers, and he loved them dearly and deep; Liz likewise loved him—but her love was something that transcended Worlds and lives. He didn’t deserve it, either, not as big a jerk as he often was. But he’d be a damned fool to reject it.
So in the meantime, what did he do? Well, his protesting tummy suggested that a run to the nearest fast-food place wouldn’t be out of line. If he hurried, he could make it to the McDonald’s out on Gaines School Road before Liz arrived.
On the other hand, Aikin would be better served if he searched for clues back at the cabin. There were the tapes, for one thing, that contained notes for his journal. He was bound to find something there. That was the right thing to do, too; his stomach would, therefore, have to wait.
It was with that decision in place (but still under appeal from his gut) that he abandoned the pay phone by the gate and returned to the Mustang. He had just thumped down inside, when he caught movement in the rearview mirror.
And since Whitehall was a place where folks tended to ask hangers-around their business, he was instantly wary—especially when the vehicle proved to be white with red-and-black markings: the University of Georgia Motor Pool’s corporate livery. He resisted an urge to slump down and pretend to be invisible in favor of at least looking like he knew what he was doing. Besides, he knew some folks at Whitehall, and most of them knew Aikin, so he only had to do a bit of name-dropping and he’d be in the clear.
At least that was his line of reasoning, until the car—a late-model Taurus—passed from his mirror and into his actual line of sight.
“Christ!” he gasped—and immediately sat bolt upright. His eyes were burning like fire—as they did in the presence of Faery magic!
At which point he noted two things. First, when viewed directly, with his own natural eyes, both car and driver seemed to shift and waver, as though they were not quite substantial. Second, by squinting a bit, and sort of looking at the road sideways, he discovered that what appeared to be an automobile with driver was in fact a horse and rider. Specifically, a white horse astride which sat a slender, dark-haired woman in flowing robes of gray, green, and black.
And as best he could tell from her clothing—and her profile when he briefly glimpsed it—it was the same woman he had seen at the 40 Watt last night: the exotic-looking lady whose presence had prompted her late-arriving countrywoman to leave.
He wondered if she was also wearing the substance of the Lands of Men, so as to accommodate cold iron, with which Man’s World abounded. Probably so: that was one reason the Sidhe—in
which company this woman clearly was numbered—put on mortal form. The other was more complex, but boiled down to the fact that it decreased the pull of one’s home World. You wore the stuff of the Lands of Men if you were planning to hang around there awhile—and didn’t expect to do much magic.
And since the horse/car job was evidently a simple glamour, and casting a glamour was certainly easier than co-opting genuine wheels… Well, it made sense to him, anyway. As for the car being UGA Motor Pool, why, that was simplicity itself: driving one of their vehicles meant you were on official business; therefore, no one noticed you; therefore, no one gave you grief—especially if that business took you to restricted-access Whitehall Forest.
But what would a Faery woman want in Whitehall Forest?
A Straight Track, for one thing! One that had already claimed his buddy Aikin.
All of this reasoning had patterned itself in David’s mind more or less instantly, thus the woman had barely had time to urge her insubstantial steed past the gate (iron gate, of which the creature seemed wary, hinting that it had been called there from Faerie) before David had hatched a plan to follow.
The Mustang was too conspicuous, of course, and it would take some real doing to shadow the Faery and not appear to, given the leisurely pace she was affecting. However…
David rifled through the clutter in his backseat, eventually unearthed his gym bag, sorted hastily through it until he located some shorts that were only slightly ripe, swapped them for his jeans in the car, transferred certain essentials to a red nylon fanny pack, skinned off his T-shirt and tucked it into his waistband—and started jogging. If he timed it right, he could just keep up with the horse (which mostly looked like a horse now, perhaps because that was what he expected to see). And if he showed signs of catching up, he could always walk a spell and pretend to wheeze; and if the quarry pulled ahead—well, he was still a damned fine runner. And if Liz caught up with him while they were in transit, it wouldn’t hurt her to jog a little too.
Fortunately, no black Ford Ranger idled up behind him during the whole two-mile trek. Equally fortunate, he jogged a lot, and had excellent wind and good stamina, so was not even breathing hard when the woman urged the horse down a dirt road that split off an eighth of a mile shy of Aikin’s cabin. He promptly lost sight of her and nearly panicked, until he recalled where the Straight Track lay.
The rest was both simple and hard. Simple, because he now knew beyond reasonable doubt where the Faery was heading—and hard, because he had to keep up with her without attracting notice.
The worst part was the dam, because it was a fairly long dam, and it wasn’t far from its southern terminus to where the Track hid in the woods; yet he had to wait for his quarry to cross completely before venturing upon it himself. He could already hear the horse’s hooves on the concrete, and knew, had he had any doubt before, that no mortal equine passed there. No way a regular old dobbin would walk across a yard-wide wall bracketed by running water.
If he could have swum the river quickly, he would have, but as it was, he had no choice but to simply brazen it out and trot across the dam as though he knew what he was doing. He was an art major out looking for autumn leaves for a project, if she confronted him.
Yeah, sure! If he could see through Faery glamour, no way she’d not be able to see through human lies. He timed it exactly right.
And thanks to years of Aikin’s bitching about noise in the woods, his quarry still hadn’t noticed him as she reined the horse to a halt beside the Track and dismounted. Scarcely daring to breathe, he eased up behind the blasted oak he’d noted earlier and peered around it.
And almost cried out, as his eyes caught fire.
He shut them instantly, and tried not to claw at them; aware on some level that they were only reacting to the use of magic—Power, the Sidhe called it—but concerned all the same. God knew he’d heard plenty of tales of folks who spied on Faeries being struck blind—and just because the woman hadn’t noted his pursuit didn’t mean she was unaware of it.
But already the pain had faded a tad, and he was unable to resist a second peek.
At least the Faery wasn’t facing his way—but something was definitely happening to her, something difficult to describe or understand. Clearly, she was…changing—yet that wasn’t quite the right word, because her form itself did not alter. More, it was as if she’d caught fire from the ground and invisible flames were working their way upward through her flesh, every cell in turn flaring to brilliance, then subsiding into something…different. Refined rather. And then he knew. The woman was replacing the coarse clay of the Lands of Men with the more rarefied stuff of Faerie.
And any second she’d climb back on that horse and set its hooves upon the still-quiescent Track—and he’d lose her.
Taking a deep breath, he unfolded a certain something he’d withdrawn from his fanny pouch when he’d hopped off the end of the dam, gripped it firmly in his right hand—and leapt toward her.
Two steps it took in spite of that, and the Faery spun around on the second, but by then he had piled into her, knocked her to the ground, and laid hold of her in such a way she could not free herself without damage, while holding his Gerber knife perilously near her throat.
“You’re too pretty for a rapist,” she said calmly. But her eyes were wild and furious.
David started and nearly lost his grip. “I’m not,” he blurted out, before he could stop himself.
“So what are you—besides a fool?”
“I think you know!”
“I think you should tell me. Actually, I think you should get off me, then tell me, and then—perhaps—I will not seek justice.”
David’s eyes narrowed, but he did not move the knife, though he felt the woman tense, as though she was preparing to fling him away. Or turn him into a toad, though he wasn’t sure the Sidhe could do that to mortals. “In whose court?” he gasped at last. “The one in Athens…or the one in Tir-Nan-Og?”
The Faery blinked blankly. “Tir-what?”
“Look,” David growled, feeling at once very silly and perilously close to panic, “what’re you doin’ here?”
“I was riding my horse. I thought I might collect some wildflowers.”
“It’s illegal to pick flowers out here,” David countered sweetly. “Five minutes ago that horse looked a whole lot like a Ford Taurus; and most horses I know would die before they’d amble casually across a dam like that one back there!”
The woman smiled cryptically. “You have very good eyes then…and you seem to attract a certain sort of trouble.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Remove that…object from my throat and I might tell you.”
“The knife? Or the iron?”
“The…iron!”
David eased the blade away a fraction. “Don’t try to escape,” he hissed. “I absolutely don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve gotta have some answers.”
“Three’s the usual number,” the Faery chuckled grimly. “Or would you rather have three wishes?”
“I know what two of ’em would be right off,” David replied. “I’d have to think about the other.”
“And what might these boons be?”
“You gonna grant ’em?”
“Do you really think I can?”
“I think I’m tired of playin’ games! Now what the hell’s goin’ on? Since we’ve effectively established what you are, who are you, and what’re you doin’ here?”
“I told you! Everything I said is the literal truth.”
“Well then,” David gritted, “since you’re so fond of the truth, maybe you could explain what you were doin’ in the 40 Watt last night.”
“Dancing.”
“What about that other woman?”
“Which other woman? There were very many.”
“You know which other woman!”
“I know I’m running out of patience!”
David swallowed hard. “Aikin Daniels,” he snap
ped. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
“I have heard it in…certain quarters.”
“Have you seen him in the last, say, thirteen hours—human time?”
“No.”
The knife moved closer—to no obvious effect.
“Would you get off me now?”
David didn’t move. “What about Alec McLean?”
“What about him?”
“You seen him in…the last day?”
“At the club last night, for an instant. He did not look happy.”
David exhaled wearily and rolled off the woman. She did not move, but sat up in place and brushed at her sleeves, where leaves had stuck to them.
“So are you from Faerie?” David asked.
“It would seem that you think so.”
“Goddamn it!” David spat, jumping to his feet. “God-dammit! I don’t need this, lady! I’ve got a problem that involves that piece of Track there; you know how to work ’em; and I’d appreciate it if you’d just…cooperate!”
“So you assume that if you bully me, I will be delighted to do your bidding? Well, think again—David Sullivan!”
“I’m…sorry,” David mumbled softly, not meeting her eyes. “Sometimes you don’t have much choice—or don’t think you do. Sometimes you gotta take a wrong action over none.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“You can start by tellin’ me what’s goin’ on in Faerie. Why’re so many of you guys suddenly turnin’ up here?”
“The Borders are closed,” the woman replied. “One would be a fool to defy he who ordered traffic between the two suspended. No one from there dares venture here, and no one from here who finds his way there will be allowed to return. Which you should think on long and hard.” And which, David noted, was not an answer.
“You’re here.”
“Perhaps I am a fool.”
