by Tom Deitz
He found neither.
Only more cold, and a harsh-edged wetness some dim part of him identified as grass.
Grass? When before there had been soft furs and prickly velvets and Aife’s skin.
…Aife’s skin. Over and over, he’d stroked and kissed and caressed Aife’s silky skin.
So where was she now?
And why was he so cold, when Aife’s odd prison land was desert-hot, and her body warm, and the ardor that had suddenly inflamed him hotter than the hottest fire?
Perhaps those things had simply moved.
He uncoiled a fraction, and stretched farther, noting that whatever he lay on was cold and rough.
Like the ground.
An eye popped open.
“Oh, God, no!” he groaned into cool night air, as goose bumps marched across his limbs. His stomach turned giddy cartwheels, but his brain went totally numb.
He was squinting at a date: 1961. That date was carved on a slab of lichened granite as gray as the walls of Aife’s tower.
But not a tower: a tombstone.
Others showed beyond it: arches of gray in a greater darkness that spoke of night.
Night in the Lands of Men.
In a graveyard on a cold hillside.
Alone.
Abruptly, he sat up, hugging himself, rubbing his bare arms and shoulders as he shuddered uncontrollably. He bowed his head, not caring if anyone saw him, naked as he was and somewhere he probably ought not to be after dark. Tears blurred the landscape into an abstract vision of gray and black, with only the dull yellow glow of the starless sky to give color.
—But no hope. He gazed on the color of hopelessness.
It had happened again! He’d given his love to a Faery woman and she’d used him: taken him for all he had, soul and body too, and abandoned him. “God, I must have ‘easy fuck’ written all over me,” he spat. “I must have a screw slot a foot long in my back.”
He pounded the tombstone with a fist. Pounded till it hurt. Blood glazed his knuckles.
“Why?” he screamed at the sky. “What the fuck did I ever do to you? What’s so fucking wrong with wanting somebody to love you?”
His voice died away into sobs, and he curled up again on the ground, arms wrapped around himself as though his own flesh was his only comfort.
“Shit,” he grunted, when tears would no longer flow. And with the sound of his voice came the realization that whatever agony rent his soul, a casual passerby would only see some weirdo doing something kinky on a grave. They wouldn’t know that he felt as dead as one of the local residents—inside.
He sat up again and wiped his eyes, blinking at the landscape, at the sky glow that said he was near a city. “So where am I?” he asked the tombstone, peering shakily around, even as more chills wracked him. Twisting about, he made a slow assessment of the environs. As he did, his gaze brushed something he hadn’t noted before, there in the lee of the tombstone: a pile of fabric, a pair of sturdy boots.
His clothes.
He almost wept, as his life became one small element simpler. Pawing through them, he found underwear and jeans and pulled them on. He felt for his pockets automatically, and located his wallet, his checkbook, his keys. (Why would someone take such things to Faerie he remembered wondering, when he’d put them there. You think they’ve got teller machines in Tir-Nan-Og? Think someone’s gonna ask for your ID?)
And then that coldness that had only barely relaxed its grip on his heart clamped down again with full, vicious force.
Where was the ulunsuti?
He’d fished it out of his pack during a lull in their lovemaking and shown it to her, then placed it atop his clothes beside Aife’s bed (even in the heat of passion, he was neat)…
And here was the sword, and the frigging pack… He emptied the latter—to no effect.
Desperate, then, he sprang to his feet, slapping at his pockets, though sense told him that was stupid. His boots then? He checked them.
Nothing—of course.
Recklessly—panicked—he sorted through the rest of his clothing and found no oracular stone. Somehow he finished dressing, then knelt and patted the earth around where he’d lain, slowly, methodically, lest his writhings had knocked it away.
No luck. He knew in a way he could not explain that the ulunsuti—the jewel from the head of the great uktena, that a shaman in another World had given him in trust—was gone.
Biting back another frustrated shout, he flopped against the tombstone, hands thrust so deeply into his pockets that he half expected to feel startled devils protesting his invading nails.
He touched paper. Fresh, crisp paper, that his fingers knew without knowing was not that of the Lands of Men.
Holding his breath, he withdrew his hand.
The paper was folded twice, sealed with wax, and utterly wrinkle-free. The seal smelled like Aife’s skin. Still barely breathing, he fumbled it open.
The whorling alphabet was none he knew, and the language could not possibly have been English—the balance of long words to short was wrong, and there were too many diacritical marks. Yet he could read it:
It is only fitting that one who has caused so much grief should give pleasure in return.
I begin to see what Aife saw in you.
*
And that was all. No name. No thank you. No apology.
And no Aife!
Somehow that got through to him: Aife in the third person.
That had not been her!
Then who had it been, that had lured him to a pocket universe, lied to him, seduced him, stolen—apparently—the ulunsuti, and sent him here in one final bitter flourish: a naked wannabe-knight on a cold hillside?
Not Aife!
Which both gave him hope and filled him with new despair, for now it was all to do over. All that dreaming and dreading and anticipation and hope and fear, all that psyching had been in vain.
Not Aife.
“Fucking shit!” Alec growled at the night—and rose from the tombstone.
And as he did, the wind shifted and brought with it the sound of music.
Loud music.
Rock and roll played with conviction outdoors.
It came from beyond the curve in the road at the bottom of the hill. Squaring his shoulders, he started that way, and had not gone far at all before he beheld a familiar landmark.
A pyramid it was, made of marble or granite, and roughly a yard on a side. Trinkets lay about it: gauds and baubles, feathers, bright stones, and the paraphernalia of kitsch.
He recognized it, though, had made pilgrimage to it like countless other freshmen seeking the graves of dead rock heroes.
He didn’t need to see the name graven there. No other tombstone was like that one, nor situated so. It was the grave of Ricky Wilson, once of the B-52’s.
He was in Oconee Hills Cemetery.
In Athens.
And by the full moon glimmering dimly in the gray-gold sky, and the music that sounded louder even as he made his slow grim way along, it was likely Halloween night.
True Halloween.
When the dead were said to rise.
Alec hoped they did. Maybe they could give him some pointers on how it felt to be alive.
Chapter XX: True Hallows
(Athens, Georgia—Saturday, October 31—night)
It looked like a Dance of Death: one of those medieval woodcuts wrought by guilt-laden Germans, in which a phalanx of skeletal, decaying, and/or demonic creatures perpetrated unspeakable torments on not-always-so-innocent peasants, all illuminated by raging bonfires. Yeah, that’s how the revelry down Clayton Street looked, even if the flaming Dumpster was neither medieval nor city-approved. The rest, however, was spot on: people of all ages, roaming sidewalk and street alike, capering with wild abandon—in cloaks and wigs, spandex, sheets, and towels—and the pillage of a thousand thrift store raids. It was the whole world in microcosm—the whole lunatic fringe, anyway—with traditional ghosts, witches, and vampire
s ranged against their Generation-X analogues: rock stars, movie icons, and cultural celebs, with a healthy dose of off-color libido thrown in. As for cackling demons…well, easily a dozen bands, in clubs and street alike, tortured the very air with electric cacophony.
Trouble was, it could well become the real thing, if the Hunt broke through the World Walls as the Faery woman feared. David found himself straining his hearing in quest of far direr and more ancient sounds than howling guitars and gibbering synthesizers.
Instead, he heard someone yell, “Hey, look at Roy and Dale!”—and found himself blushing furiously, given that he was wearing jogging shorts, sneaks, and a T-shirt, not rawhide, a Stetson, and jeans. Of course, he was astride a handsome jet black mare with a wild-eyed guy in cammos hanging on behind, and a sharp-looking redheaded wench pacing a white stallion alongside—but horses weren’t costumes, quite, even if they did earn more stares as they clop-clopped around the corner toward the heart of the Dance. A city cop stared too, eyes going hard and narrow before he puffed his cheeks and strode toward them, ticket book in hand. Just as he was about to speak, the horsewoman wheeled around and galloped back up Jackson the way they’d come. Not until they’d turned left onto Washington did she slow. Liz’s mount clattered to a halt beside her. Two blocks from ground zero, the street was essentially deserted.
Get down, the Faery ordered. I am too conspicuous.
“But…”
Down!
David scowled, but Liz was already climbing off the white with graceful expertise. Aikin slid down with a muffled “oof’ and a scratch of gravel that meant he’d stumbled. David dismounted slowly—and could barely stand when he reached the ground. His thighs and calves were cramping into knots, never mind the raw patches lining them, that made him wish for a barrel-sized ice cube to wrap his legs around. Aikin braced him as he staggered, and then that unheard voice found his mind:
Hurry! In here!
David glanced around and saw the mare duck into the shadowed recess between two buildings across the street from the Georgian Hotel. He followed stiffly, with Aikin’s aid. Liz was still staring at the stallion.
He can care for himself, the horse-woman said. Now hurry!
Liz shrugged and joined them, twining her hand with David’s as they entered that blot of darkness. David didn’t watch the transformation this time—mostly for fear of what he might see, though to give their erstwhile mount credit, she’d provided admirable aid in situations not rightly her concern. As it was, the air pulsed briefly with energy, while the sound of skin and muscle stretching and joints realigning somehow overrode the roar of music. A swishing followed, then a long relieved sigh. “I infinitely prefer this shape,” came a woman’s lilting murmur.
David could resist no longer. A sideways glance showed the same figure he’d seen thrice before, save that the black, gray, and green robe-dress-thing had been exchanged for baggy black pants, a thigh-length khaki tunic, and a silvery vest. Glamour, probably; clothes didn’t change when you shifted shape.
“I can cast a glamour on you, if you like,” the woman offered. “I could give you…costumes.”
“Thanks but no thanks.” Aikin muttered. “I’ve had enough shape-changing lately, even bogus type.”
“Yeah,” Liz echoed, “unless you can make us invisible to the Hunt.”
The woman shook her head. “Nothing can do that. Our only hope is to survive the night. He will not pursue past dawn.”
“Or in a crowd?”
“That might slow him or force him to change his methods; it will not stop him.”
“So what do we do?” Aikin persisted. “We can’t get home without bummin’ rides, and if we do, we’re isolated—but the clubs close at midnight…”
“At which point we crash in my dorm room,” Liz broke in. “Or in Myra’s studio. Whichever.”
“And in the meantime, hang out in the crowd as long as we can: safety in numbers, and all?” Aikin wondered.
“Sounds like a plan,” David acknowledged, then paused and regarded the Faery. “I’m not tryin’ to be rude or anything, but…you don’t have to hang around any longer. You’ve fulfilled as much of the deal as we can reasonably expect. ’Course you’re welcome to stay,” he added.
“I am as safe here as in Faerie, for the nonce,” the woman replied. “And I am curious to see how events…resolve.”
“Well, whatever happens,” Aikin growled, “we’d best not get caught in here.”
“No,” David agreed—and froze. A sound had sliced through the duller rumble of music: a familiar sound, sharp as broken glass, deep as a sword wound in unprotected flesh.
The horn.
—From the darkness behind them!
“Run!” David yelled, tugging Liz along as he sprint-limped toward the sidewalk. Behind them, the baying of hounds and the flapping of cloaks joined that eerie winding—and soon enough, the thudding of hooves on something hard to describe that shifted abruptly to a sharper clatter on pavement. A glance dared over his shoulder showed something he’d as soon not have seen: a slit of gray/gold light where the blank wall at the end of the recess had been, through which a tide of darkness poured, that resolved into black hounds, black horses, and black-armored riders with eyes of fire and gore.
In spite of his raw and cramping legs, David ran. He heard Liz stifle a scream, Aikin not suppress a curse—and words in an unintelligible tongue from the Faery. He wished he had time to puzzle her out: why she’d thrown in with them when she could surely have escaped some other way, why she seemed to have no Power in this place which was neither hers nor the realm of the Hunt…
The clamor diminished as they reached the sidewalk and pounded left up Washington toward civilization. The horn squalled again, but muffled; and the noises of pursuit went muddled and unclear. David sensed that the Hunt was mustering itself in the gloom: regrouping for one final race to the kill.
“Faster,” he panted. “Fast as you can.”
A bank flashed by to the left; City Hall loomed ahead on the right. They turned left down College, toward where the Allhallows madness maelstromed most thickly.
Faster, and the sounds of pursuit diminished—or were drowned by guitars and drums from the street band at College and Clayton. Closer, and David had to slow, though every sense was on red alert. Closer… People began to brush past; he caught snatches of conversation, the scent of beer and whiskey riding the breeze…
Closer—and rounding the corner from Clayton they came: careening full tilt straight toward them, having circled the block to cut them off.
“Shit!” David groaned, as he dashed into the barricaded street. The Hunt was between them and the heart of the crowd.
Somehow they made the other side, angling back uphill past the parking garage where the Palace Theater had been. Not so many people there, but a bunch of clubs farther down. If they could get to one…the Atomic Cafe, say…
As they made one last push before the corner, David glimpsed their reflections in the plate glass windows of the unleased space on the garage’s ground floor. They looked harried if intact, but behind came…not horses and riders and hounds, but a seething clot of night, like black fog or dirty steam. So even the Wild Hunt fears to be seen too clearly in the Lands of Men, David noted.
As if that made any difference.
And by then they’d gained the corner and whipped around it. Half a block now, and they’d make the Atomic, and please God let there not be a cover, and let no one’s ID get questioned.
A quarter block, and the darkness gained the corner behind.
Not much farther—but the gloom was arching around beside them—which meant it could have caught them had it desired.
—Beside them…and past them, in part.
Too late David grasped their plan.
They were being herded.
Herded toward where yet another alley gaped.
And they had no choice: brick walls one way; shadowy darkness the other, through which lights flared, re
velers showed as silhouettes, and music went oddly muffled.
And which they dared not enter.
“Do something!” Liz snapped at the Faery.
“I cannot. He is an older power than I, and greater. And this night is his.”
And then Aikin stumbled on a curb, and the Hunt closed in.
An instant later, so did the walls. And this alley, David knew from his freshman prowling days, had no exit.
Just three walls—three blank walls, save for a door at one side (locked, presumably), dirty pavement, a bad smell, muffled music, a muddy sky…and an end plugged by the Hunt, which, as it passed the throat of the alley, regained more-tangible form. Eyes first: red eyes; then heads of hounds and horses, and more knowing eyes under waving hair and helms…
A black horse paced forward, slowly, deliberately. The black-armored man astride it was antlered and carried a spear, and his cloak billowed, though there was no wind. Another man flanked him to the right but back a way, face blunt and grim, auburn hair wildly limed. Bare-chested he was, his torso showing an intricacy of swirling blue tattoos. He was also barefoot, and his loose trousers were red-and-black checked. He carried a thick-bladed sword.
To the left…
David swallowed hard as he gazed on that figure; for however awful the Huntsman was, with his relentless blackness, there was still some sense of thought behind his eyes.
This woman was madness incarnate—white-skinned, red-haired madness; that hair flying wild around her head in tangled masses that at times seemed to resolve into serpents—or battle flags—or gore-soaked limbs. Her arms were bare, and her night-colored gown was slit to her belly. By her perfect features, by the angle of her jaw, cheekbones, and chin, she was clearly one of the Sidhe.
Gone mad.
For blood patterned her arms and breast, as though she’d smeared it there like a child working designs in fingerpaint. Her hands were ensanguined to the wrists, and her lips leaked gore. When her gaze, which darted everywhere like a fly above a corpse, finally lit on David, she laughed.
