by Ron C. Nieto
“Yes,” he said simply. At her inquisitive look, he gave her a small, tight smile. “Would you know what to look for?”
“I… suppose not.” Again, that feeling of being chastised. “Thanks.”
Troy shook his head. “As I said, I have an interest in the truth as well.”
“Okay, then let’s…” Lily gestured vaguely toward the house. “Investigate.”
“When I came into the doctor’s home, the front door was locked.” He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Why?”
“I came in through the kitchen. I thought I saw something in the backyard and went to look. Then, it just made more sense to use the closest door. Is it important?”
“Could be.” He started to circle the house, retracing with eerie accuracy the steps she had taken before. “Did it escape?”
“What?” Lily frowned and he halted again, one hand on the kitchen door’s latch.
“Whatever creature you saw. Did it escape, or could you glimpse it?”
“Oh. It didn’t escape. It was the laundry, actually.”
Troy didn’t move and his fingers drummed the door frame. “Why would your laundry line draw your attention I wonder?” he mused, barely above a whisper. “Unless it was not yours.”
“It was ours. Grandma put out her favorite shirt. I guess she found it while I was fetching food.”
He turned, looking at her from profile, and the visible corner of his mouth turned up in a mirthless grimace. “Shall I guess? When you told the doctor you had seen her outside the house and recalled a conversation she had not been part of, she gave you the necklace. Then, after but a little time, she decided it was imperative to wear this shirt of hers, but it could not be found. Then she realized there was some vital need to acquire something from the village, and so out you went. When you returned, the shirt was out, dry and clean. No doctor.”
Lily hugged herself. Her blood had become icicles in her veins, colder with each spoken word. How can he possibly know? That’s a recounting, nearly hour by hour. He’s only missed the woman I saw… or I thought I saw.
“Were you looking?” she asked, her throat dry.
“No.” He breathed out a laugh. “However, I do recognize what happened.”
“Am I missing something important?”
“Is there something important you ever see?” He shook his head and entered the kitchen. Before Lily could answer, he went on, “That question should not be answered. I used pure rhetoric, since you seem to be so fond of it. However, if you must know, you saw a bean-nighe, a faerie who launders the clothing of the soon to be deceased. Yet another ill omen you failed to recognize.”
“You’re capable of sarcasm,” Lily said with a dry voice. The poor banter attempt helped her to avoid making the emotional connection to the events.
“Of course I am, though the fact is hardly pertinent to this… investigation.” The way he hesitated before the word “investigation” made Lily uncomfortable. It was as if he didn’t believe in what they were trying to accomplish.
“Ill omens, then. Do they stack? Like, if you get two, it’s worse than getting one?”
“If two different people indicate they saw a flying monkey, the likelihood of a monkey who has learned to fly does not increase. It does augment the possibilities of the impossible having happened, though.”
“I think I get your meaning,” Lily said. The chances of her grandmother being alive and well got dimmer and dimmer… but she still had no proof of her murder, so she clutched hope to her chest and tried to focus. “Do you think we’ll find something?”
“I am certain we will.”
Lily paused in the door to the corridor while he gave a cursory look to the bedrooms. She didn’t want to look at their rooms, so she zeroed in on the hint of amusement she caught in his tone—just like when they’d been playing twenty questions back in his refuge.
“And will this something be useful?” she asked, realizing her blunder.
He turned to her from the living room door and offered a bow along with a wicked grin. It wasn’t praise, but it was one of the closest things to recognition he had offered her so far and Lily felt giddy in spite of the situation.
“Part of the missing tale is here, yes,” he replied at length. “Either we are capable of reading it correctly or not.”
“Either, or.” She rolled her eyes and gathered enough courage to follow him into the living room.
It still resembled a battle zone, but there was no hint of the dark creatures that attacked her.
“Where are they?” The skin on the nape of her neck prickled with anticipation.
“I trust their comrades took them back,” said Troy absently, perusing the various knick-knacks Mackenna had kept as souvenirs.
“It’s like I dreamed it. Gone without a trace.” She began to wonder if, indeed, she hadn’t dreamed it. Troy didn’t answer, but he picked up the discarded poker and offered it to her. It was bent out of shape, as if after delivering a blow, and its tip was covered in a fine dark dust. “That is…?”
“Blood remnants, yes.”
“Why’d it turn to dust?”
“The reason is complex and not relevant.” He dropped the poker again. Now, Lily saw other smudges of that same dirt on the floor and clinging to the overturned couch. “What hides there?” Troy asked, cutting through her thoughts with a precision that made her think he was more trying to keep her grounded than interested in the answer.
“Oh, the attic.” Lily approached him. He stood right under the trapdoor in the spot where she had been overwhelmed by the bogeys. Small splashes of rusty red covered the wooden planks around his feet and she felt sick. That’s real blood. Mine. There’s quite a bit.
A cool touch to her elbow helped her snap out of it. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “This is affecting me worse than I thought.” Troy nodded but had the decency not to say anything along the lines of “I told you so” and she pressed on. “What did you say?”
“I asked for a means to reach this attic. I believe the brownies nested there.”
“There’s only a lot of boxes and shelves.” She frowned. “But I’ll get you the ladder.”
Troy went up first and Lily followed after a moment’s hesitation. She walked around him to flick on the lights, revealing the attic as pristine as ever.
“The nest, indeed,” he said. “Even after turning, they kept it clean and ordered.”
“I always thought it was Grandma being obsessive about her faerie trinkets.” Lily’s fingers skimmed along one shelf. There was not a speck of dirt.
“No. I doubt the doctor ever had need to clean or organize anything in her home.”
“Troy,” called Lily. “I just remembered. When I first arrived, Grandma asked me to bring down some stuff. I… I’m sure I put something in a box to get it down to her, but it was not there a second later when we looked. Grandma sent me back up to check and it was just lying on the floor. It weirded me out, but she said it was normal.” She looked at Troy, who listened with a pensive look. “Does it mean something?”
“The doctor did not want you to come live with her, did she?”
“She never admits it when she needs help. That’s all.” Right?
“I believed it to be an isolated instance, but…” He shook his head. “The brownies changed well before your arrival. She was aware of it.”
“I don’t think so. She would’ve gotten rid of them.”
“Bogeys are a surprisingly persistent kind of fay. Not even moving out of a home convinces them to abandon their prey.”
“Why aren’t there more reports about eaten people if it’s so hard to get rid of them?”
“You would call them evil creatures, but their intent is not always murderous.”
“This attack was a fluke, then?”
“A fluke.” Troy thought about it for a minute. “No. It was planned. You could say such fact in itself is abnormal, though.”
“You said they’re meticulous,”
Lily commented. “It would be normal for them to plan, right?”
“Meticulous because everything has its proper place and each place must contain nothing but what it is meant to hold. Planning is related to forethought, an unrelated aspect,” he explained, his voice strained. It probably cost him to be clear and patient, and Lily tried to absorb the news. She was sure he wouldn’t repeat himself.
"What could’ve gotten them to plan a murder, then?”
“The correct question might be ‘who.’ And I rather believe it was a murder spree.”
“Grandma and me both.” Lily nodded, but Troy found a small nook against the wall, cozied up by two slim pillows, and sat with a frown.
“The doctor, yes. Then, you… Or whoever had come into the house.” He thought about it and nodded to himself. “You did not live here until very recently, but the bogeys were prepared and took great pains to ensure nothing seemed amiss from the outside. They expected someone to enter the house and planned accordingly.”
“The outside still hasn’t changed,” Lily pointed out. “The door you broke down to rescue me was even propped in place.”
“I do not recall stopping to fix it on the way out,” he said, standing up without warning, “so whoever they were waiting for must not have arrived yet.”
“And they’re still waiting?” she croaked.
“Come,” he replied, not trying to deny it and calm her. “In silence.”
They went down the ladder and Troy hurried to check the rest of the rooms, this time more thoroughly. Lily did her best to stay glued to his back as they peeked into Mackenna’s bedroom, her own, the little study down the hall, and even the pantry. Nothing ominous greeted them, no creatures, and no blood from previous struggles. When they finished, Lily breathed out in relief.
“We’re alone,” she said. Relaxing, she noticed the tension still held Troy’s shoulders tight. His whole body was taut, ready to spring into action, and his eyes stared fixedly ahead, at some point beyond the walls. “Aren’t we?” she asked, her voice trembling a little.
“They await outside,” he said in a low voice.
C H A P T E R XII
Lily swallowed. “Can you see them?”
Troy nodded and motioned for her to come closer. “They no longer hide.” He lowered his head, bringing his gaze level with hers, and then pointed out a crack between the blinds. “There,” he said. “Do you see?”
Lily followed the line of his finger and squinted. There, between the leaves dappled in shadows, stood a dash of color. “Is that—?” She tilted her head. The angle was very poor and she tried to take a step closer to the window to better see. Troy’s arm locked around her waist like an iron band, keeping her back. “It can’t possibly be David the gnome, right?”
“Who?” For an instant, puzzlement overrode Troy’s tight tone.
She felt foolish as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Of course he wouldn’t know silly children’s cartoons. “A gnome who lives on a tree trunk and acts as a doctor, helping out people.”
“It is not David the gnome.”
“What is it, then?”
“A gnome who lives wherever pain and sorrow have left an imprint, and he torments people, dying his cap with the lifeblood of his victims.”
“I liked mine better.”
“Indeed.”
“Okay, so what do we do? I’ll follow your orders, just tell me.”
“Now you choose to listen to me,” he said wryly.
“You’re the one who knows what we’re up against,” she admitted.
“Is there any weapon you can wield?”
“The poker?”
She felt him shake his head and his grip on her midsection relaxed. “Listen to me, Lily. This is no longer a matter of house fay going rogue, and the foe standing before us is among the cruelest you could face.”
“Worse than the bogeys?”
“Much, much worse. I want you to think very carefully now. Is there any iron in the house?”
Lily bit her lip. She would say yes, of course. What sort of house didn’t have iron somewhere? But Mackenna had been a faerie doctor, used to dealing with creatures who saw the cold metal’s mere possession as a mortal threat. The poker had been made of bronze, the cutlery was sterling silver, the kitchen pots pewter or clay.
“There’s a horseshoe hanging over the door,” she said at last.
“Nailed to it, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“Insufficient. They shall not wait quietly while we secure a means to destroy them, I fear.”
“We could look through the attic. There’s a lot of stuff up there. We might find something.”
“It is a possibility.” He squeezed her hip and gently pushed her aside. “Go and search. Do not take long.”
“What, alone? Aren’t you coming?”
“I must watch. Make sure they do not enter the house and catch us unaware.” He spared her a brief glance before focusing on the creatures outside again. “Go. It is safe.”
Lily touched her fingers to the pendant around her neck, understanding. He would know if she were in danger. The bogeys were gone, the house was secure—the only danger came from the beasts outside and he kept a close eye on those. She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her, and then rushed up the ladder.
Following some silly instinct, she checked the alphabetically-sorted shelves for a box labeled “weapons.” Of course it didn’t pan out, but it offered her a good place to start. Working from the far end toward the beginning, she opened the boxes and glanced at their contents. She wasn’t very thorough, but she hoped an iron object would jump out enough when everything surrounding it gleamed in the warm colors of bronze, copper, and a thousand shades of wood.
Nothing. Box after box was examined, a legion of spoons, pots, cauldrons, scales, candles and even swathes of cloth discarded in her wake.
Then she grabbed a box much smaller than the others. Peering inside, she found another box, tiny and filled with nails as well as a handful of pierced coins and a length of slender chain to make amulets out of them. She let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
Iron. Finally. We might make it out alive, after all.
She made a dash for the ladder and went back down to Troy. “I found it,” she said, thrusting the little box out to him.
Troy jerked out of his stance and recoiled, his pale skin becoming whiter, if it were possible.
“Never come upon me armed with iron, Lily Boyd.” His eyes were hard as a bottle’s glass and just as brittle. Though he kept his voice steady, there was a steely undercurrent behind her name that made Lily shiver with echoes of fear as the command took root in her soul.
She flinched as if physically struck. “You told me to fetch it,” she stammered.
“I know.” He collected himself, but didn’t relax. “To use as last measure against them.”
“So what should I do?”
“Take your pick, hide it, and keep it on hand.”
Lily moved to the table in part to better sort through the box and in part to be less threatening to Troy. There, she grabbed the chain and hooked one of the coins to each end. She wrapped it around her wrist and closed her fist around the coins, creating a very light, very small, and hopefully very deadly version of a flail. Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, she took out two more coins and hid one in each of her pockets. The last one went into her sock, just in case, and she chose to leave the box of nails alone.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Troy gave her a weary glance and motioned for her to stay a little behind him. Without taking his attention from the windows and front door, he moved toward the kitchen’s unlatched door. He stopped a moment.
“There are several of them,” he said. “Our best hope is to exit the house, cross the yard, and gain enough of an advantage to allow me to shift. They should not be able to keep up with us for long if we make it that far.”
“Two questions. W
hy aren’t you shifting straight away to make a great, galloping exit, and why aren’t you sounding more confident in the plan?”
“The good doctor has certain protections in place around her home,” he explained, grudgingly. “They greatly impede our magic, and it affects something as deep as a shifting more acutely than other minor works. As far as confidence goes, I assure you I have every bit that is reasonable, given the circumstances.”
“You did magic when you rescued me before,” Lily noted. “Drowned two bogeys, right? Can’t you do that again?”
Troy gave her an angry look. “Do you not think I would do so if I could? That particular work needs time. If you recall, one bogey was caught by surprise and the other did nothing but cower for the longest moment. Believe me when I say the redcaps will not gift us any instant to spare.”
“Okay. Well, then. You lead the way and I follow?”
He nodded, took a deep breath. Then, he froze.
“What’s wrong?” Lily asked. She didn’t dare get much closer to him while she had iron, but he pointed with this chin at the backyard.
Lily got her first good look at a redcap. It was taller than David the gnome, at least three feet plus the hat. It did look like him, though. Or like a garden figurine. Everything seemed to be there: white hair, white beard, small round eyes, blue shirt and pants, pointy leather boots and a red hat. But then it came closer, away from the tree line and under the moonlight, and it was all wrong. The boots were caked in mud. The clothes were ragged, torn, and covered in darker spots that could as well be blueberry juice as they could be blood. Hair and beard were tangled in gnarls with bits of leaves and small sticks poking out of it, and his visible skin was dirty with dust and soil. The eyes were fully white and reflected little sanity. And the worse thing, by far, was the hat. It looked heavy upon its head, dyed by layer upon layer of dried blood. It was dark brown and rusty garnet and even blackened crimson, depending on how old the blood was, and in some places the coating was flaking off. It looked like it needed a fresh dipping.
