The Deepest Black

by Rainy Kaye

  She shakes her head. “Both sides. They're equal parts.”

  I relent to sitting on my ass, before I develop a Charlie horse beyond repair. “From the start, please.”

  “Of course.” She smiles, picking up a tome from a stack near her and flipping it open to a large colored drawing. She turns the book around so it's upright to me. “Centuries ago, there were two families, neighbors, the Hawkers and the Glenwoods. No one knows who started the feud, but like most of the greatest fights, it was probably a lack of perspective that incited it. Either way, sabotaging crops and souring milk turned to violence and then, murder.

  “It wasn't just their own families, though. If you'd had any interaction with them, even by accident, the other side would find out, and you would be punished. It grew wildly out of control, until one day, the daughter of the town witch was accused of helping one of the families, and she was tortured and killed.”

  I grimace, making out the lively colored drawing: a girl tied to a tree, surrounded by people, some throwing rocks and others I refuse to study too closely to decipher their atrocities.

  “That was the final straw,” the girl continues with story time. “The witch cursed both families, saying if they were to ever harm each other again, so much as a slap on the arm, the world would suffer a darkness like they had caused her for the duration of their violence.

  “The people protested that they had done nothing, and she said, 'That is true. You have done nothing, and for your indifference and cowardice, you will suffer with their fate.'

  “No one dared to test the depth or strength of the curse, and everyone lived in fear of these two families losing their wits. Before long, it was agreed to build a wall, one that would never be trespassed, with an offending family on either side. The wall was built, and the people have lived in peace since.”

  “Until now,” I say, mostly to myself. “The shadows are the curse.” I look up at her. “But who did it? Who harmed the families?”

  “I'm not all-seeing,” she says with a genuine smile. “If I knew who the offending party is, I could stop the curse.”

  “How? Even if you knew, how would you go about fixing this?”

  “I'd make them stop.”

  “That's it?” I ask in surprise. “They just need to. . .stop hurting each other?”

  “It says, for the duration. There's peace at the end, but you have to find it.”

  “You mean me?” I raise my eyebrows. “Why me?”

  The fact I had already come here looking for a way to stop this is beside the point. I don't want to be assigned the role of the heroine. I want to be able to opt out when this gets to be too much.

  “You are able,” she says. “That's enough. That's all that's required.”

  “Well, why—why not you?” I splutter, pushing to my feet, because arguing with the revered Storyteller here is probably a bad idea.

  “I shouldn't cross worlds. It's not as easy for me as for you.”

  I halt, standing halfway. Her knowing I've been on both sides shouldn't come as a surprise, but it does. And as a bit of relief.

  I straighten upright. “Where can I find a portal?”

  “In the backyard,” she says as casually as if I had asked where she keeps the broom.

  I turn to leave, then halt. Looking over my shoulder at her, I ask, “What is that device?”

  “It's older than the wall,” she says, fingering one of her braids. “It is a different kind of curse.”

  I'm not interested in any further cryptic conversations. There's a portal in reach, and I'm ready to go back to my home world and face whatever is waiting for me there.

  * * *

  The portal takes me into a tin shed. I step out, dusting off my pant legs, and survey my surroundings. I'm to the side of the Pink Boutique. It's not the classiest appearance in history, but it does explain why this area of town is a hub for fae activity. It's where their train gets off, so to speak. Not sure why Remy didn't have us use this one before, but he probably knows something about how they operate that I don't.

  I start to head down the parking lot, to the street, so I can go home. I halt, fully aware that what I'm contemplating is stupid, but I've been gone a while. So the Order of Ice meeting should be over. Which means Franjo should be gone.

  And I will be free to snoop upstairs.

  The real trouble is if anyone inside will recognize me or not as the lunatic who imprisoned one of their own in a car doused in sage oil. My gaze settles on the upstairs windows blocked by heavy drapes, a room promising of secrets. The lure of clues is too strong, and I find myself heading toward the front door, taking in the familiar atmosphere that frequently accompanies my near death run-ins with the fae.

  The hallway past the front door is empty. When I turn the corner to the main lounge, I hold my breath and wait, tensed for a fight.

  Well, to run, if I'm being honest.

  No one gives me more than a cursory glance and, as soon as I convince myself that this isn't a setup, I let out my breath and try to act casual as I saunter over to the bar.

  I stop dead in my tracks.

  Remy is on a stool, facing away from me. He tips a shot. I lunge at him and grab his shoulder. He throws the shot glass against the bar, jumping up and reeling around with his arm cocked back.

  “Ember!” He drops his fist and stares at me. “That's a good way to need an emergency trip to the dentist.”

  “Why are you here?” I hiss.

  “Probably for the same reason you are,” he says, less discreetly.

  “And you thought getting wasted was a good idea?” I frown, feeling like a disapproving girlfriend more than I care to admit.

  “Who's wasted? I was just waiting for you to show up.” He seems to re-think his choice of words and, patting me on the back, adds, “I knew you'd get away from those guys. You're awesome like that.” The spark on his face dies as he studies me, and his hand rests on my shoulder. “They did mess you up a bit, didn't they?”

  I don't want this to get awkward, so I just fish out the syringe and hold it under the bar. “Brought you something.”

  His eyes widen, then he snatches the syringe and tucks it by his leg, out of sight.

  “You're welcome,” I say, contemplating ordering myself a drink.

  Then I notice his gaze is directed to the back door, to the lot where the trapped fae is waiting. The veil on his fear is being pulled back by his desperation. He's only got one syringe. As much as he wants to try it out on the dark fae, too much longer without the elixir, and he turns into a pumpkin. An evil, blood-thirsty pumpkin.

  “Don't bother,” I say, leaning over the bar and ordering a Kamikaze. The name is appropriate right now. I sit down on a bar stool next to Remy and turn back to him. “I tried it already on one of the mercenaries. It doesn't work.”

  His expression blanks, but his eyes show he's doing the math. I'm not sure what the equation is, exactly, but then he shakes his head.

  “No,” he says flatly, standing and pocketing the syringe. “You did it wrong.”

  “I jabbed it into a dark fae. Nothing productive happened.” I tip back the Kamikaze and gulp it all down. “Was I supposed to turn three times widdershins?”

  He sweeps his arm across the bar, sending glasses—not just ours—to the floor. A guy next to him perks up, but Remy ignores him.

  “No, it had to work,” he says, his face hollowing in a way that makes me think he might actually shift. “It had to fuckin' work!”

  He heaves up his bar stool and swings at the bar. The guy behind him leaps up, out of the way. The bar stool comes down, and the legs shatter. The guy tries to pin Remy. I jump back, my stool falling over. Remy throws off the guy and then reels on him, fist at the ready.

  My gaze darts across the room. The Order is slipping through the back door. I catch a glimpse of a familiar face. I have to look twice, just to be sure. She's not wearing her hat anymore, just the simple cloaks like the others, but I'm certain it's Anneveive.<
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  “Um, Remy,” I say, daring to creep toward him. “Is that. . .her?”

  He and the other guy both look in the direction I point. The way Remy's face lights up with surprise and confusion, I know I'm right. It's the bog witch. And she's with the Order.

  * * *

  Remy and I stand on either side of the secluded stairwell doorway, as far back in the shadows as we can get. I'm to the side with moldy-smelling mops and worn out brooms, bags of what can only be old potatoes, and a hose to something that I keep bumping with my foot and giving myself a minor heart attack. On the other side, Remy is crouched next to a mop bucket on wheels and a pile of empty sacks.

  The idea is that we are going to kidnap Annevieve, and then find out what she knows about the Order of Ice. We can't exactly just flag her over; the rest of the members might want to see what's up. Since I didn't exchange cellphone numbers with her, being creepy-like is all Remy and I have.

  Plus, it gives her less of an option to blow us off.

  Over the usual sounds of the club, footsteps and talking approach. A lot of people. I shrink back further, if it's possible, and squint, waiting. The blue cloaked members round the corner. My heart lunges into my throat. They don't seem to notice us as they flow up the stairs.

  I catch glimpses of Annevieve's long dark curls peeking from under the hood. Unfortunately, the members are walking single file, and she's right in their midst. I try to make eye contact with her, shifting about as quietly as possible, staring holes into her head, but she doesn't pay any attention.

  Then Remy barrels after her, a large burlap bag raised high. She reels around to face him, screaming. The line scatters, some up the stairs, others through the club. He dives at her. She jumps back, just inches from me. He brings down the bag. Her hand grabs his face by the chin. He goes stiff—then blue.

  He falls to the floor with a clink.

  I pop up, wrap my arm around her waist and clamp my hand over her mouth, then drop back down. She bucks and flails. I dodge her Arctic-inducing hands.

  “It's me, from the bog,” I whisper in her ear. “We came for the Penumbra beastie.”

  She drops heavily, turning her head to glare at me.

  “Sorry,” I whisper and let her go.

  She leaps up in a crouch, spinning around to face me.

  I put up my hands. “Don't make me an ice cube!”

  “Are you insane?” she hisses. “What are you doing?”

  “Can we get to that after you unfreeze Remy?” I point where he's lying motionless on the floor.

  She glares at me, then turns, leans forward out of the unlit corner just enough to touch him, and then snaps back into the darkness. Remy blinks a few times, sits up, and then coughs up something white like snow. Fluffy like snow. And melts into a puddle like snow.

  I look back at her. “We need your help.”

  Remy scrambles spider-like into the darkness with us, butting up on Annevieve. “What are you doing with the Order?”

  He sounds as accusatory as I feel. It is a bit suspicious that we just saw her and she made no mention of being part of the Order. I didn't think she even left the bog.

  She looks over her shoulder at him, sneering and trying to shift away from him without much success. The best I can do is bring in my legs closer and give her an inch to scoot away.

  “Learning ice magic, what do you think?” She shakes her head. “I'm certain my demonstrations prove that it's working.”

  “What do you know about Franjo?” I ask, keenly aware of something crawling across my neck. I try not to be a spaz as I slowly lift my hand and bat it away.

  “He's an opportunist.” She twists and then lets out a frustrated sigh. “Can we at least get out of this goddamn bug infested cleaning closet before you interrogate me?”

  That's the best idea I've heard in a while, so I shoo Remy back, and we all sort of unfold, standing and slinking back into the lounge area. I glance around, trying to see if anyone had noticed the spat, but everyone is either drinking or stripping. And one chick is doing both.

  I live such a glamorous life.

  Annevieve tries to lead us toward the back door, but I shake my head and point toward the front exit. She shrugs and blows hair out of her face, then storms in front of us.

  As soon as we're outside in the parking lot and the door swings shut, she is up in my face.

  “Don't you ever, ever do that shit again!” Rage widens her features. “People get killed over things like this!”

  “Well, I didn't think you'd hurt us,” I say, pulling back from her.

  “Screw that! You can get me killed!” She lowers her voice. “If Franjo realizes I'm from the bog, he will...I don't even know what he will do, but it wouldn't be good.”

  My shoulders droop. More mysteries. More puzzle pieces all dumped together for me to sort into their individual pictures.

  “Why does it matter?”

  She shoots me a dirty look.

  I roll my eyes. “I mean, why does it matter to Franjo if you're from the bog or not?”

  “Because I already know magic,” she says with a huff, sounding a lot more like a Valley Girl than a bog witch. “My family line didn't dry up like the other faes. Before the shadows.”

  “Then why bother with the Order, at all?” I narrow my eyes. “Unless you're helping him.”

  “Hardly.” She blows hair out of her face again.

  I look at Remy to see if he's got this one, but he shrugs.

  “Look,” she says with a defeated sigh, “after the shadows came, I heard that the fae were convening to relearn their magic. I thought it was supposed to be something to retaliate against the shadows, some idea of how to stop them. I didn't know if I could, or even wanted, to do anything with that, but I did want to learn more about my magic. Not like there's many people left to teach me.”

  “So you're just sitting in on it like it's a classroom?” I size her up, looking for signs that she's lying to me, but I don't even know how to tell that with most humans, let alone a bog-witch-fae-thing.

  “Yes. Well, I had been, anyway, but then I realized I couldn't. . .stop going,” she says, slightly hunching and looking around. Her gaze lingers on the window above us. The window to the room where the Order meets.

  “They won't let you out?” I ask. Goosebumps raise on my skin, but more from the chilled air than her story. “That's how cults usually work, I hear.”

  “Not that. . .I'm afraid that he's going to notice me if I stop showing up. That he'll try looking for me, and then find out I'm from the bog.” She chews her lip, wide eyes staring at the ground, before she says, “I'm afraid he'll want to use me for what he plans to do.”

  Remy perks up. “And what, exactly, is he planning to do?”

  “Well. . .” Annevieve looks to the side. “That.”

  My head snaps up as the cold hits me from the front. In the distance, the world becomes white haze. A deeply chilled breeze snakes around the small exposed area of my midsection, sending a shiver through my body, all the way down to my fingernails and toe nails.

  “Sweet baby Jesus. . .”

  “It's the first of many,” Annevieve says. “He's taking advantage of the portal being open.”

  “I have questions about that,” I say, my gaze lingering on the approaching blizzard, “but let's get out of here.”

  “I got the truck while you were. . .away,” Remy says, looking at me like he's expecting praise.

  I grind my teeth and then spit out, “You didn't do bad.”

  His expression falls. I grab Annevieve and hurry across the parking lot, scoping for the vehicle. Remy is right behind us. My soles slip just enough to remind me that hell is, almost literally, about to freeze over.

  The truck is parked nearby. I take the driver side—Remy hands me the keys—and the other two pile in. Before the doors are even closed, I back out the lot and head for the road, away from the approaching bad weather. I want to believe we can outrun it, but it's not just a fluke-i
sh, natural snow storm. This has been sent on purpose. By a fae. With an open portal.

  “What's this about him taking advantage of the open portal?” I ask as I drive, headed nowhere in particular. Going home with my new merry band of fae seems like a bad idea. Not going home also seems like a bad idea.

  Getting up this morning was a bad idea.

  “The shadows opened the portal, and Franjo seems bent on making the most of it,” Annavieve says.

  I glance at her in the back. She alternates between clinging to the door and the seat, like she expects the truck to suddenly flip over and dump us down a canyon. Instead, we're going about 45 mph down a relatively empty, flat street.

  I scrunch my face. “I don't understand why the portals open.”

  “They do so for a few reasons,” Annevieve says. “On the new moon when there's a changeling, when a witch is allowed to sustain it, or, it seems, if it's included in a curse.”

  My brain reels so quickly on this information, I nearly run a red light. I slam on the brakes, jerking us forward, but I'm almost frozen in thought.

  “But. . .But. . .How can that be?” I look at Remy. “You came here before disaster struck. Before the shadows came, and your brother went missing. Did you have a witch. . .sustain it, or whatever?”

  “Eh, sort of.”

  I turn to him. “Sort of? That's it? How does one sort of have a witch open a portal?”

  “I didn't do any of it, actually. My buddy—”

  A blaring horn cuts him off. I glare out the rear view mirror at the SUV behind me, roll down the window, and flip the bird.

  I whip back around at Remy. “Continue.”

  “Um, shouldn't you be driving?” He gestures at the road out the windshield. “Terrible weather coming, I hear.”

  “Now is not the time to be a smart ass,” I practically growl. “How the hell did you get through the portal if it wasn't supposed to be open?”

  His eyes focus on me for a quiet moment. “Are you serious? You think I—” He shakes his head. “Look, if I knew my brother was going to become the world champion at hide-and-seek while I was away, I would have never tagged along. I had nothing—”