by Amy Hoff
“And who made you the judge, jury, and executioner? I’ve a mind to take you in for this myself!” said Ben. “We're monsters, Dorian, all of us. Including you. Magnus is frightened, and he may not be on Earth for much longer. He could use your support.”
“I do not support murderers,” sniffed Dorian.
“You don't have to agree with what he’s done,” said the chief, “but you could be there for him.”
“I would rather be there for my partner,” said Dorian. “But thank you for the advice.”
Dorian turned away.
“There is a ransom,” said the chief. “If we want the cure.”
Dorian stopped.
“What do they want?” he asked.
“The key to Tir Na n-Og,” Ben replied.
Dorian stared at him for a long time.
“And I assume you are telling me this for reasons other than the fact I am a detective?” he asked.
“Everyone knows the selkies guard the key to the Land of the Young,” he said.
“No. Absolutely not,” said Dorian. “There is no way.”
“There's nobody left, Dorian,” said Ben. “Milo can't find a cure. Doctors can't find a cure. We will lose Leah.”
Dorian’s resolve weakened.
“You cannot truly believe that this is a good idea,” he said.
“Of course it’s not a good idea!” said the chief. “But we're running out of time, and it's the only one left. Go back to Faerie and get the key.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CESSNOCK BANKS
The once-clear water of Cessnock ran red with the blood of the Fae. Blood humans couldn’t see, and raining down cannon that humans couldn’t hear, the smoke filling the noses of any faerie-born that happened upon the site of the battle. Most kept well away, these days.
The one human who could see and hear it all was foolish enough to rush headlong into the battle, but then all humans are foolish, especially in love.
Robert sat with Desdemona and the other soldiers in the tent. He now wore the uniform, as he wanted to spend his remaining years fighting for the cause.
The transformation hadn’t worked. Desdemona wasn’t surprised, but Robert was heartbroken. All he wanted was to devote himself to her, under the guise of helping with the war effort, and he felt the opportunity had sifted through his fingers like falling sand.
He looked at her, strong and broad-shouldered with a soldier’s bearing, close-cropped hair and skin filthy with the mud of the fields.
“Why is it that you look the way you do?” he asked her. “I thought baobhan sith were beautiful women with long red hair.”
Desdemona, who had dozed off, cracked open one bright green eye.
“You saying I'm not beautiful, Robert?” she teased.
He blushed, stammering, and she took pity on him as her expression became serious.
“It’s because of the war,” she relented. “I'd be too obvious out there, with red hair and pale skin. This way I blend in, and we can stay out of sight. What are you doing here, anyway?”
Robert opened the flap of the tent, and as the cool, fresh air circulated, he looked up at the stars.
“A faerie war?” he said. “Fighting side by side with a woman of supernatural origin? How could I not?”
“This is war, Robert,” she reprimanded him. “Don't romanticise it.”
He looked down, fiddling with his shirt cuffs. Desdemona gave him a long look.
“Creatures older than dreams are dying here tonight.”
Robert was startled to see two men approaching the tent. He stood aside as they entered. Desdemona, in the midst of packing her pipe with tobacco, looked up and groaned softly under her breath. Robert shot her a quizzical look.
“Seal-men,” she said. “Foppish, useless prettyboys. Mostly we have to save their skins. Both kinds.”
“Magnus Grey,” said the one with the curly hair, by way of introduction. “And my brother Dorian.”
“And what can I do for you, men?” asked Desdemona, half-smiling. “You planning on being camp followers?”
“We would like to join in the fight,” said Dorian.
“And get your hands dirty?” she laughed. “Well, I never thought I'd see the day.”
“Please,” said Magnus. “We are good fighters. Give us a chance.”
“Fencing, maybe,” said Desdemona. “And fencing with rules, at that. There's no fencing here, selkies. This is hard, bloody work, over in an instant. If you value your hides, you’ll get the hell out of here.”
Dorian stepped forward.
“Humans are dying,” he said. “We must do what we can.”
“Well, I won't say no to more cannon fodder,” she said. “It's your funeral. Definitely.”
Robert watched the two men leave the tent, and Desdemona shook her head.
“Selkies. Useless ornaments!” she muttered to herself. “What good can they possibly do? They're about to get themselves killed, or worse.”
Iain, who had been cleaning his gun across from her and pointedly ignoring Robert Burns, finally looked up.
“I'm a selkie,” he reminded her.
“Yes, thank you, Iain,” she said.
She paced back and forth, shaking her head. Eventually, she stuck her knife into the table, walking out of the tent and muttering in disgust.
***
Iain pushed aside the flap of the tent and entered.
Desdemona was smoking, working on a map of the area and planning troop movement.
“Yes, Iain, what is it?” she asked, not looking up.
Iain’s face wore an unfamiliar expression. Desdemona was startled to recognise it as sympathy.
“I'm sorry to report this,” he said. “Robert Burns is dead.”
Desdemona leaned back in her chair. She felt a stirring of emotion she could not categorise. Her green eyes were distant.
“On the battlefield?” she asked quietly.
Iain shook his head.
“No,” he said. “He died of drink.”
Desdemona sighed and shook her head.
“I knew it wouldn't work,” she muttered to herself, just low enough that Iain wouldn’t hear.
“A pity,” she said out loud. “He was talented.”
Iain, who knew her better than anyone, her best friend and comrade in arms, sat down in front of her. The softening of his usual strange and warlike gaze transformed his features, and it was clear why the seal-people had considered him their most beautiful.
He reached forward, as if to take her hand or to embrace her, but then seemed to reconsider.
“I'm sorry, Desdemona,” he said, hesitant, the form of the words tasting foreign in his mouth.
Desdemona waved him off.
“Humans die, Iain,” she said. “Go. You've got work to attend to.”
Iain nodded, bowed, and left the tent.
Desdemona stared off into space, thinking. She wondered if she’d weep. It was an experience with which she was unfamiliar. She often wondered when it might happen the first time, but after thousands of years of travel, of experience and war, it was something she had yet to understand.
She waited. Nothing happened.
Then she shook herself, picked up her stylus, and went back to planning war.
St. Michael’s Kirkyard
September 1815
Dumfries
The night was colder than expected, but one never knew what to expect in Scotland.
Interest in phrenology had caused a great deal of speculation about the national poet. Many people wished to know if he had anything in common with the greats of other nations and if anything could be learned from the shape of his skull.
The exhumation of Robert Burns was therefore undertaken in secret, so that his body could be moved to the larger, more impressive mausoleum at the other end of the cemetery without any interruption from the general public wanting to view the body.
The men worked silently, shoulder to shoulder. No one spoke
. It didn’t seem right.
“Here,” said one of them, after the shovel hit something solid.
They dug around the coffin until the top was exposed.
Reverently, they went to push the lid off.
“Holy Christ,” one of them swore softly.
Robert Burns looked merely asleep.
His entire body was intact, his features still handsome. It almost seemed as if he were breathing.
The men working on the grave were solid, serious Scottish gentlemen, chosen for their respect for Burns as well as their circumspection. They were not superstitious by any stretch of the imagination.
All of them were shaken. They stared in wonder at something they could not explain, their first experience with the supernatural.
In awe, one of them reached out a trembling hand and touched the poet’s cheek.
Suddenly, Robert Burns’ body fell to ash before their eyes, and only his bones remained.
The man who had touched his cheek cried out in horror. He lurched forward, driven by the automatic, mad desire to reshape the body. Distressed, the men dragged their compatriot away from the coffin. He was mumbling an apology, horrified at what he’d done.
“What are we going tae do now?” asked one of them. “How was it possible? He looked –”
“Alive,” said the man who had touched his cheek, miserable.
“Weel, it’s no’ as if anyone else saw,” whispered another man, “an’ no one will ever know.”
“The important thing is to keep those fools away from his body,” said the first man, reassuringly, “sick bastards just wanting to measure his skull. No’ going to tell them anything except that Burns had a skull.”
“Haven’t they heard of grave robbing?” muttered another in agreement.
They continued to comfort their friend as best they could, giving him some whisky to steady his nerves, and speaking together in quiet voices.
In the coffin, the ashes of the poet moved, and began to dance as if a soft wind were blowing, although it was a still night.
The ashes took form and shape, solidifying, recreating the strong, lithe body, and lastly, the handsome face with a slight blush to the cheeks that was the hallmark of the poet.
And on a cold September night in 1815, 19 years after his death, Robert Burns opened his eyes.
BATTLEFIELD, CESSNOCK BANKS
The lights were burning low, and Desdemona had nodded off, pistol in hand. A glass of whisky sat in front of her. The war seemed to go on forever, without pause or respite; Iain thrived in this environment, but Desdemona was ready for a cease fire. This war had lasted so long, she could no longer remember who she had been before it.
She became vaguely aware that someone had entered the tent. She lifted and pointed her gun without looking, still half asleep.
“Desdemona,” said a voice she still heard in her dreams, sometimes. It was the voice that sparked thoughts of another life, a hope that something else might be in store for her beyond the endless blood and violence. A creature – for, to her, Robert Burns was a creature, just as she was to the rest of the world – who, for whatever his silly sentiments, was the last to see her as something other than a soldier.
She thought she was still dreaming. She did dream of him, at times, of a bright sun she’d never seen, and of a river flowing clean and quiet, because she heard a song of his once.
Not that she’d admit this to anyone.
She opened her eyes.
Standing there, covered in dirt, in a loose white shift with his black hair in his eyes, he somehow looked more handsome and luminous than ever he had as a living man.
“Robert?!” she said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Robert shook his head, quite disoriented.
“They exhumed my body,” he said. “I...someone touched me and that's all I remember.”
Desdemona stood up and walked over to him, still with caution as she had learned from this endless war to trust nothing, not even her own eyes or senses.
“They're not going to like finding an empty coffin,” she said, keeping her distance.
“It isn't empty,” he said.
Desdemona stared at him.
“Don't ask,” he said.
“But Robert...it's been years,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “I guess it worked.”
Somewhat blindly, he reached out for her.
“Desdemona?” he said.
She backed away.
“What?”
“I'm hungry.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, PRESENT DAY
The atmosphere in Gregoire’s cave had the feel of a cheery Highland afternoon. The fire crackled merrily and the urisk had just returned, stomping the snow off his boots and offering Leah the ubiquitous tea. He went to put on the kettle and busied himself at the pantry shelf she could just see from her vantage point on his sofa.
Dorian walked into Gregoire’s cave. The kettle was merrily whistling on the stove as Leah turned over in bed and started up when she saw him. She grinned at her partner and sighed with relief.
“Oh, thank God,” she whispered, “I didn't know how much tea I could drink before –
What is it? What's wrong?”
Dorian took a moment to speak. Leah looked much worse for wear and he wasn’t sure how to proceed at first. He sat down on a stool, straight-backed, and was all business, mostly to cover his concern for the state of his partner.
“Whoever is responsible for the resurgence of the plague sent the chief a message at the police station,” said Dorian. “They have the cure, but they want an exchange.”
“What's the ransom?” Leah asked.
Dorian hesitated.
“They asked for the key to Tir Na n-Og.” he finally said.
Leah, Robert, and Gregoire were all taken aback.
“The Land of the Young?” asked Leah. “Do you even have it?”
“Yes,” said Dorian. “It is the responsibility of the selkies.”
“Dorian, there is no way you are giving them the key to, well, Heaven!” said Leah.
“Leah. We cannot help you. I cannot help you,” Dorian said. “Doctors are our only hope – magic can do much, but it cannot bring the dead to life and it cannot kill us either. We watch you age, we watch you get sick, we watch you die – but I have never felt this way about it.”
“If you feel it's necessary, then I understand,” said Leah.
“I think it is,” sighed Dorian, tired to the marrow of his bones. “How are you, anyway?”
“I've been better, but it hasn't been a total loss,” said Leah. “Robert has been visiting, telling me stories about the war.”
Dorian froze.
“Oh dear,” he said.
Leah smiled.
CESSNOCK BANKS
The soldiers were seated in Desdemona’s tent, passing a flask to each other in the darkness. The enemy had moved closer and they could not afford to have any light give away their position.
“So, why'd you do it?” asked Magnus.
The other soldiers looked at him.
“Why'd you join?” he asked.
“For Dahlia,” said Dorian, whose trim Victorian lines and close-cropped hair would become his new identity to the world. Dahlia was the woman who cried seven tears into the sea, and so Dorian was now one of the Taken selk. They would become what their betrothed wanted them to be, and frequently changed quite a bit from their native personality.
As for Aidan, it seemed like the young man was all but forgotten. Once a selkie answered the call, their former attachments faded into a sort of nothingness. Still, his eyes took on a faraway look whenever he heard mention of the ballet, or the dancers.
“I find that I have more of an interest in humankind, now that I am Taken,” he said.
“I wanted to be a part of history,” said Magnus.
“I have always been dedicated to the humans,” said Gregoire.
“I wante
d to prove to the Fae that the selkies aren’t all useless, gentle creatures,” said Iain vehemently, “that we, too, can be savage and merciless.”
Everyone gave him a strange look. Desdemona raised an eyebrow and smiled at him.
They all looked at Desdemona last. She was smoking, and the embers of the pipe lit her features. She smiled and shook her head slowly.
“It was the right thing to do,” she said.
Magnus and Dorian exchanged a glance.
“You're baobhan sith,” said Dorian. “Since when do you have a moral code?”
Desdemona shot him a look.
“It's not exactly what I would call a moral code, selkie,” she said. “Some things are just the right thing to do. Sometimes we choose them, regardless.”
She studied the bowl of her pipe.
“I was addicted to the Smoke,” she said. “Humans died because of me. People die because of me anyway – I'm a vampire. But this was heartless, soulless. This was evil. And evil is not a monster in the night, like us.”
She leaned back and exhaled smoke at the ceiling.
“It's not the same,” she said, indicating the smoke from her pipe, “but it'll do. There is no reason to waste human life on this scale. Eventually there will be no humans left, and then where will we be? We rely on them, for love or blood or both. It’s just sensible.”
Robert looked at her.
“What's it like?” he asked. “The Smoke?”
A lazy grin spread across Desdemona’s face.
“Like nothing I've ever felt,” she said. “Some vampires start human. We – the baobhan sith - never get a chance. The heartbeat, the wash of feeling, the taste of food. There is nothing like it.”
She tapped her pipe.
“But it isn’t real. It doesn't make you human, it’s a faerie’s fever dream. It drives you insane, eventually, because the Fae can’t handle that kind of hallucination for an extended period of time. I dropped it after I saw others go mad with it. Getting off of the Smoke is a pain so excruciating you would prefer death, if death were a release the Fae could hope for.”
