---
The figure stands in front of Tara, one slender foot posed between hers. Gauze brushes her calves, her thighs. Like silver. Like whispers, familiar intimate whispers. They match the voice in her head. And the figure's hand touches her cheek.
Something explodes inside of Tara, fills her with voices, color, light, heat. And she can't stop herself; she moves. Stands, and the figure's thigh nestles between hers.
Dance with me. Aine's voice. Fionn's voice. Oona's voice. Who is she dancing with?
Music and candles flicker. Sometimes there, sometimes not. And those whisper-caresses cover her. A hand closes around her right hand while the creature's other hand rests at her hip, those nails pricking like memory at the curve of her lower back.
Aching with a want she can't name, can't identify, she dances with the thing. Gauze wraps around her, hot, suffocating, sharp, painful, delightful. It winds around her arms, her thighs, swirls, draws wind like breath over her skin and holds it there.
More light. More music. And more intimate, breathy heat.
Stars flicker in the featureless face. Lips. She remembers kissing Aine, wishes for lips and presses her face against the formless thing in front of her. And it opens up to swallow her.
---
"Tell me her name," Fionn snarls, his teeth against Aine's ear.
Aine shakes her head. "Take it from me."
He lets go of her ear, spins her so she faces him. "I will, you know."
"You'll try," Aine whispers, but she's afraid. His teeth are like his stallion's, like the teeth of Morrigan's hounds. He's hungry and she has the key to the thing he hungers for.
---
Tara is pulled, twisted, torn, pushed. Like taffy, caught between who she was and who she might be. Caught between Aine and Fionn. They're there even though she's alone.
Fionn appears in her mind's eye. His voice throbs in her belly. Urges her, teases her, coaxes her like a lover.
But Aine is there, too, soft and liquid, swirling through her body, settling in her chest, between her legs, onto her lips. Like honey, like brandy, like chocolate.
Tara doesn't know who to listen to. Who to trust. because they are both so persuasive, so demanding, so intimate.
The change continues, tears her apart bit by bit, peels away layer after layer of who she was, exposes raw and tender places, the places that will make her who she might be.
Who she wants to be.
No. The throbbing voice in her belly denies her, demands, "Who I want you to be."
---
Aine and Fionn dance love and hatred, pull hair and gouge with dagger nails until they are both bloody and sweating. Darkness cloaks Fionn. The night isn't over and he wants it to be; Aine sees as much in his eyes, hears as much in her heart and her head.
She wants the night over, as well. This should have been a dance, not a battle. Maeve should not see one of them die at her feet: over a mortal, over the throne.
Oona watches them from the cushions where they sat earlier. She smiles. The night isn't over. Even when the dance is done, the night isn't over. Tara, or what is left of her, will come back to the hall.
---
Tara struggles, twists. And the gossamer gauze turns to wire, cuts into the tender places, tries to slice them away.
Please.
She dives into the liquid softness and the tenderness there coats the wires, soothes the ache, turns sharpness back to gauze, hurt back into tenderness. But the sharpness is still there, beneath it all, beneath the softness; beneath the beauty lives that terrible hurting, that horrible hardness, the thing that can destroy.
Then the pain, the liquid, everything floods back into her, swirls in her breast, her belly, between her legs, and she collapses, aware of the leather. So warm. Slick. Beneath her, cradling her.
And what am I now? she wonders.
She reaches up, her hand moving like something she no longer owns, no longer controls. She touches her face, feels high cheekbones: no longer round, sharp instead of soft. Her lips are tight instead of full. Fingers tremble and she opens her eyes. Long, slender fingers, with silver metal nails. So pale. White-pale. Silver-white.
She stands. Dizziness, like liquid through her head, swirling, disorienting. She closes her eyes, waits for the whirling in her brain to steady. Then, eyes open again, she steps slow toward the mirror. Reaches one hand out to touch it. So cold. So hot.
She wears clothes now. Somehow. Gauze. Spiked leather. They mingled, made themselves at home over her chest, her hips, at her waist. She feels her waist. So thin. If she tries, she might circle her waist with her long spidery fingers and long dangerous fingernails.
So flat. Her fingers splay, up her stomach, over her chest. So very flat. She shivers, closes her fingers at her throat.
---
The dance pauses. The battle lulls. The queen stirs on her throne, draws a slow breath that sounds of storms. Aine watches Fionn pause and she realizes that she is still as well.
Something has happened in that room on the far end of their shadow palace. Something has changed. The Dannan is let loose. The air is alive with it, prickling and tickling like feathers.
"Aine." Fionn whispers her name, a plea, his voice that of the boy he was so many hundreds of years ago. He reaches out to her, his fingers and palm covered with blood: hers, his, it was all the same.
Aine shakes her head. The night isn't over. Not yet.
---
Everything I might be?
She shakes her head, feels that taffy-pulling inside of her, everything stretching, settling. She will not be torn apart, will not be pulled in all directions. Silver light sparks at the tips of her nails.
Determined, she pushes past the lordlings and walks down the hallway, more certain in her steps than she has ever been.
Aine and Fionn stare at Tara when she pushes through silk and silver curtains and walks into the hall. They're children, now, so secure and so uncertain at the same time. She wants to laugh--at them, at her earlier fear--but now is not the time for laughter; the queen is nearly dead.
She walks to the center of the great hall and curtsies to the queen. Home. Her home. The Dannan in her blood sings at being returned to this place and this time. Maeve inclines her head, a gesture that takes more than a regal amount of time, and then Tara turns to the lover twins.
"Neither of you can be whole without the other." Tara holds her hand out to Aine. Cool fingers close around Tara's and she draws Aine close, kisses her, steals back her name. "That's mine," she murmurs against Aine's lips. "And there is no reason to hide it anymore." Then she holds out her other hand to Fionn.
He looks at his sister, looks defeated, but the night is not over and he takes Tara's hand. She draws him to her the way she brought his sister close. She kisses him, as well, tastes twilight and the hunter's moon, darkness and mist. She gives him the taste of her name as they kiss so he has it as well. "Don't forget it," she whispers.
"I cannot be whole without both of you. And neither of you can be whole without me." Tara draws the two of them together.
"The rock of kings has spoken." Maeve whispers the words, her starlight faded to midnight, her eyes nearly closed. Like ash clinging to bone, clinging to life to see this moment so she can bless it and then whisper of it to her beloved, already a thousand years gone.
There will be three crowns, and the other Dannan in the hall sigh relief like a storm. Gauze and silk drapes flutter with the greatness of it.
The old queen passes into a new queenship in a realm that the sidhe can't even guess at while Aine and Fionn and Tara hold hands and the lords and ladies sing remembrance and dawn.
Aynjel Kaye began life firmly rooted in Normal and has escaped. She is an angst-queen in exile holding court in Seattle, WA where she is plotting to retake her throne. She may or may not be a chocolate lover, a goth, a punk, and less harmless than she was before.
The Price of Glamour
Steve Berman
[T]hese w
onders have been lying by your door & mine for ever since we had a door of our own. We had to go a hundred yards off and see for ourselves, but we never did.
--Thackeray
London, 1844
Tupp Smatterpit sat on the back of a chestnut-seller's cart, his back warm from resting against the stove. Tupp had sprinkled a pinch of powdered glamour over himself and the old coster driving the wagon believed him to be one of the countless children that roamed Covent Garden's marketplace rather than one of the Folk. As the donkey slowly pulled the cart through the crowd, the gentle sway and the constant tick-tocking of his waistcoat was lulling Tupp to sleep.
He ignored the sounds of vendors calling out their goods and decided to nap a little while. Tupp nudged the back of his bent top hat, once a shiny pearl gray and now dingy as ash, so that it covered not only the tight curls of red hair but also his eyes. A chiming sound came from one of the many pockets of his vest. He groaned at being disturbed and pulled out the right watch for the crime.
The sweeping hands on the enchanted dial not only showed him he had ten minutes to traverse the West End of London but also that the Dowagers, a pair of crones, were nearly through with a robbery.
If Tupp was late in meeting them, a rival bagman might collect the stolen goods. There were other fences in the city besides Tupp's employer, but none as mean spirited as Bluebottle. He was a spriggan, one of the worst of the fey, all bloated with spite and bile.
Tupp didn't dare waste another moment and leapt down from the cart, nearly knocking over a woman with a basket of fresh flowers.
Slightly out of breath after dashing through side streets and avenues, Tupp arrived near Hyde Park with time to spare. The watch stopped chiming a moment later, one of the slender hands pointing where to go next.
In the shadows of the alley, the Dowagers towered over a child shivering and huddled against the brick wall. They were an ancient pair and no one remembered their names. One's eyes were clear, her sister's blind and covered with a gray film. Otherwise they looked identical, tall and thin, almost brittle looking, with fingers that resembled twigs. Their long hair was touched with silver, and they had never abandoned their sackcloth clothing for anything contemporary like so many of the fey who dwelt in London.
The clear-eyed sister, clutching an armful of pretty new clothes to her chest, snatched the bonnet from the head of the girl. The Dowagers, glamoured to resemble rosy-cheeked maids, lured children from the street with promises of sweets only to strip them of everything of worth.
The blind one leaned down and tapped the girl on the forehead twice. "Leave us, child. Vex us not. We have taken enough."
"Enough," hissed her sister.
As the child ran past him, still crying, Tupp nodded to the Dowagers and tipped his hat. "Ladies." He held up his sack, the mark of a bagman's trade.
"A frock, a bonnet, a petticoat." The first Dowager unceremoniously dropped the clothes into the bag. Her blind sister held up a glowing coin the size of a penny. "Stolen laughter. Bluebottle will pay well for a child's humor, no?"
"Five bags of glamour," hissed her blind sister.
"No doubt, m'lady. No doubt." He watched as she dropped the glittering piece after the fine clothes.
Tupp reached into the bag and pulled out a wine bottle and drew the cork. The smell of the cumin lacing the wine filled the air. The Dowagers drew closer, their hands out, fingers curling and curling. Centuries might have passed since they plagued the children of the Celts, only appeased by such a spiced drink, yet their thirst remained.
"It's been so long, Sister," the blind one whispered, the pale worm of a tongue wriggling over her lips.
"Give us the bottle." The other sister's fingernails swept close to his face.
Tupp smiled kindly. "Oh, I shall, I shall. But I'm of a mind for that bit of laugh you threw in. Bluebottle will give you glamour enough for the finery." He let the bottle come close to their hands. "Agreed?"
As he had guessed, they did not hesitate. "Yes," they groaned and the blind one took the bottle and drank deeply, her lips becoming stained with the wine. Her sister did not wait long before grabbing the bottle.
Humming a merry tune as he left them, Tupp withdrew the laughter from the sack and slipped it into one of the pockets of his waistcoat. That bauble was worth a hundred petticoats.
---
The magic charm Tupp had spoken before heading into the sewers had nearly faded and the mire he stood on was beginning to stick to his shoes. But damn Cagmag would not stop digging through the surrounding filth long enough to say anything more than a few words at once. The slimy troll would tower over most fey if it ever stood upright, but down in the tunnels it could move about only on all fours. Cagmag dipped its hooked hands deep into the muck, and then leaned forward to bring a nose that resembled a notched dagger low to sniff around. Tupp was about to depart when the sewer-hunter pulled out a reeking handful and sighed majestically.
"What is it? A copper pot? A candlestick?"
"Pigsty sweepings." The troll opened his black-lipped maw and took a healthy bite of the muck.
Tupp reached for the robbery watch and checked the crime. Nothing. He tapped the dial lightly. The hands still clearly indicated that something of worth was down there, seized by Cagmag.
"Ahh, here's a right bit." The troll lifted out more from the filth. Its lamp-like yellow eyes narrowed a moment. "Had to hide it, there's thieves about."
Tupp leaned in closer, but the mass Cagmag pulled up looked no better than the sweepings. "Of course there's thieves."
"This one's too bold." The troll's dark tongue licked to reveal a fine riding boot. "Heard a leprechaun complaining some of his goods were stolen from his shop."
Tupp stifled a chuckle. Leprechauns were crooked cobblers and deserved a bit of hardship. More than likely, was a customer they cheated having a bit of satisfaction.
The troll finished cleaning off the boot and held it out to Tupp.
"You stole that?"
"Aye." Cagmag tipped it back. "Oh, sorry, there's still a bit of foot left in it. Anxious, I was."
---
By sunset, Tupp was weary from collecting all over London. He arrived late to his next appointment and looked around the emptying marketplace, trying to spot the cardsharp the 'cheats' watch had led him to. He roamed the area to no avail. Desperate, he ventured into a nearby gin parlor.
Gas lamps that reflected off mirrored panes of glass brightly lit the crowded establishment. Tupp did his best not to be jostled as he took a winding path through the room. Beside a flavored liquor stand, he spotted the shabbily-dressed hobgoblin with his mouse-like whiskers and tufted tail.
The hobgoblin, when he was sober, was skilled at broading, changing the faces of cards with a little bit of magic to cheat unsuspecting men. The faery rapped on the bar to get the server's attention. "Another Celebrated Butter, my good man."
Tupp put a hand over the aromatic dram as the hobgoblin raised it to his wet lips. "Not thinking of drinking away all the pence, are you, Rob--"
"Mr. Hobbes to you, sir." The hobgoblin nervously glanced around at the surrounding humans. His long whiskers had been oiled and curled at the tips to resemble a man's mustache. "At least, amid this company."
"Fine, then. There's the matter of your debt. Or shall I tell Bluebottle there's to be no payment?"
Hobbes blanched at the thought and licked his lips. "Oh no, not that. I nearly earned enough to pay what I owes. You have to put in a good word for me, Tupp. Tell Bluebottle that without more glamour, I'd have to leave London." The hobgoblin moved the glass from underneath Tupp's palm, careful not to spill a drop. "Come now, a dry swallow's a bad thin', we all knows." He rubbed his throat as if parched.
Tupp could see that Hobbes was nearly drunk. Another few shots and his face would turn bluish and he'd pass out. "Where's the day's take?"
"On me person. It's not safe to hide anythin' anymore."
It took Tupp a moment to realize what Hobbes alluded
to. "The mysterious thief? Not you, too."
"It's no tall tale. Quite a few of the Folk been robbed. Happened to that little portune that's been a thievin' carriages. And Jenny Greenteeth had brought in quite a haul from a body she... well, she said she found on the banks of the Thames. Kept it all in a cubbyhole by the docks but when Jenny went for it, was gone. Now who'd be so daft as to upset ol' Jenny?"
Tupp felt bad for any fey foolish enough to steal from Jenny, one of the more mean-spirited of the Folk. The thief must be a shire pixie, new to the city, and ignorant of whom not to cross. It hadn't been so long since Tupp himself had come from Wessex, seeking his fortune in the grand chaos that was London. He hadn't been any wiser and was still paying the price.
The memory bothered him, making him anxious. He was tempted to buy a drink himself. "Enough of such talk." He held up his sack. "The coin."
Hobbes nodded and shook his right arm a moment before leaning in close and letting it drop over the mouth of the sack. Pence and groats and shillings tumbled out of Hobbes' sleeve. The hobgoblin's sharp fingers snatched the last coin, a guinea, before it fell.
"I'll be needin' this to stay warm tonight."
---
Sack heavy with the day's haul, Tupp knew he should be heading to Bluebottle's, but made his way to the Royal Exchange, an immense stone building central to human commerce. The small shops along the front, little more than enclosed stands that offered books or newspapers or stationery, were closing for the night. Only a few people walked the Exchange's halls and if they bothered to notice Tupp, thanks to a pinch of glamour, he'd seem nothing more than a lost youth.
On the upper floor of the northern side of the building was a coffeehouse, nearly deserted at that late hour. He moved to the back and opened the door of a storeroom. Tupp easily climbed over the aromatic sacks of beans to reach a forgotten trap door on the ceiling that led to a small attic and his home.
So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction Page 14
