A Court For Fairies (Dark Heralds Book 1)

by Lynn S.

  Nathan said goodbye to his father with a couple of quick pats on the back. He had a busy day ahead. Necessity was rampant in the city and the economy had turned toward a policy of exchange rather than investment. Property was measured by capacity of immediate use rather than future dividends. A well-tailored suit was not as valuable as jeans, and a couple of cuff links were less interesting than shovels and spades. Whatever they had left was meant to be placed for sale in hopes to get passage to the Great Plains.

  There were few trustworthy pawnshops standing, and even those that might have been fair were paying a pittance. Nathan had his mother’s silver brooch, one that had survived the needs and troubles of Ireland. It was a piece of jewelry that though simple, the son had designated a memento, something to look back to once they reached the so-called American Dream. The man looked at the piece with longing and a bit of sorrow. Material things came and went in time of need, but there was a real feeling of helplessness once someone decided to sell their history.

  “That is an uncommonly attractive piece.” The man standing behind him in line smiled while pointing at the filigree design. Nathan was a bit taken aback—seconds before there was no one behind him. However, being close to the corner of the street, every other turn there was someone crawling out of a hole like a rat in search of gum. This rat, however, was exquisitely dressed. So fine were his clothes, they seemed an insult.

  “Oh, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Francis Alexander and I am a friend of your father’s.” The man was sporting a three-piece suit, the threaded handkerchief in his breast pocket only making it more valuable. Abundant dark hair and a carefully trimmed beard, the evident product of warm barbershop shaves, Mr. Alexander set himself apart from those who needed to sweat in order to bring bread to the table.

  Nathan was sure of one thing at that moment. The man lied. Since Daniel O’Reilly stepped foot in New York City, the man had abandoned Hell’s Kitchen only to go to war. The Irish neighborhood between 34th and 59th was inhabited by mostly blue collar workers. This man with his expensive taste and particular demeanor seemed to be as far from his father’s world as one could be. And yet, he couldn’t find the strength to tell him to bugger off. There was something familiar about him, something close to home.

  “Excuse me?” Nathan managed to place all his objections in a simple question.

  “I’m a friend of a friend, so to say.” Though the man spoke softly and with a serious tone, eyes as dark as the hair on his head seemed to smile. “I have taken it upon myself to see to the needs of your family. And yes, I cannot lie. I do not know your father personally; let’s say I am a businessman who has taken a loan request on his behalf. It has been granted after careful consideration.”

  “My father asked your people for a loan?” Nathan snorted. “As of this moment, all he has to pay you with is fairy dust and stories.”

  The well-dressed man stood silent. Whatever terms were agreed upon, he seemed to be more than satisfied with his profits in return. He shook the unemployed accountant’s hand before giving him what seemed to be nothing more than a velvet pouch. As he did so, Nathan noticed that underneath his perfectly pressed white sleeve, there were black tracings, a tattoo perhaps, that struck him as the representation of wings in flight. The pouch felt heavy in his hand and the younger O’Reilly was careful not to open it right there, as its contents might attract unwanted attention.

  “Go home now,” said the man who called himself Francis Alexander. “This transaction is ongoing. In time, I’ll come back for my investment. When you are ready to give me the first of the fruits of your labor.”

  If he had only vanished through thin air before his eyes, but the man simply touched the brim of his hat and went on his way, turning at the corner of 6th Avenue.

  After making it back to the apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, Nathan opened the bag to find an assorted number of gold pieces, the smallest one the size of the tip of his pinkie. The weight on his palm bought safe passage anywhere, a new life, and countless possibilities.

  “Da! Daaaaaa!” He found himself infected with an almost childish joy. As he opened the door to the room, he was forced to share with his father, the elation of the moment disappeared. Daniel O’Reilly, a year shy of seventy, had succumbed to the weight of health complications brought about by constant misery. The arm that hung off the side of the bed had made the blood rush toward his hand. Purple fingers were outstretched, and it was clear his very last effort was to reach the quartz stones he held on to so dearly.

  The undertaker came in and promised to have the body ready within a couple of hours. It was the best he could do, and Nathan paid him dollar upon dollar without question. The son requested to be there as the people from the funeral home took care of his father. They said yes, as far as the dignity of their job allowed. So it was granted that he’d stay with his father as they carefully undressed and cleansed him. As the undertaker removed Daniel’s shirt, Nathan could see a tattoo, recently applied, black ink setting against quickly fading red, now a trace on bloated, and graying skin. It was a black hummingbird, dark wings forever in motion against a circular pattern and dots marking north, south, east, and west.

  The welfare of a generation had been bought with tired blood, marked by the decay of old age, but the Dark Heralds of Fae were not content to trade in fading life. Unknowingly, Daniel O’Reilly set an immediate blessing meant to become a long lasting curse. The eyes that turned to his misery, the ears that heard his prayers, sprouted out of the dark side of his beloved legends. A man in his desperation missed out on the elegant irony that traveled with tales of the “good peoples”…that they were hardly ever so.

  Though his father’s death was a terrible blow, after Daniel’s passing, Nathan lived through a series of fortunate events. One after another, the turns of his life found a true north and it all worked for the better. He had a golden touch, and surviving the depression, his once sad intent of an accountant firm quickly became a solid investment business. By the time he started thinking about youth escaping his grasp, his amassed fortune started to haunt him. More and more, he kept thinking about the man who never showed up to collect on his interest, and it was then he really started trying to make sense of what Alexander meant with the “first fruit of his labor.”

  Eventually, he’d come to curse a thousand times over the day he took that man’s hand in his and the moment in which, in an hour of need, he made use of that gold and sealed a deal. But those realizations were barely scratching the surface.

  Life followed its course and in time, he married a woman he loved dearly, keeping her in the dark about all his little secrets. By then, Nathan had started dreaming of delicate wings, building a dark tapestry of black, gold, and crimson, suffocating, drowning his senses with their humming sound.

  Marriage did him good, because he soon found himself focused on wife and children. These were new tasks to keep his mind busy and superstition free. He was a good father, an excellent husband. Having worked what was needed, with a strong foothold in America, Nathan eventually returned to Ireland. He had done his job and now home waited for him, to grant him peace.

  Some forty-five years after he crossed paths with a stranger in Manhattan, his time for reckoning came in the most unexpected fashion.

  ***

  It was the summer of 1977, and the O’Reillys traveled to Oxford to see their son graduate from the prestigious university. Where Nathan had built riches upon instinct, his progeny opted for acquiring higher education in an effort to sustain the family’s income and stable future. Tricia, their younger daughter, was a junior in college and had recently shown interest in an up-and-coming businessman from Dublin who made her father really happy.

  But it was Neil who was his pride and joy. His elder son had decided to study international banking law and had a promising future looking after the investments of the Royal Bank of Scotland. Since he was barely a boy, Neil O’Reilly had traced the path of his life in bullet points. That was w
hy his parents were beyond surprised when the young man approached them alongside a young lady they had never set eyes upon before. The woman traveled in her mother’s company and at first sight they looked like sisters, coinciding even in their fashion and style.

  “Mother, Father,” Neil’s smile beamed, “this is Carla and Isabel Alejandro. Isabel is attending Girton, studying literature. We met during an exchange four months ago.”

  It took Mrs. O’Reilly less than thirty seconds to understand what his son meant: she is the one. And so, she did what was expected of any mother. Greeting them both, she was more than eager to start a conversation with Carla, to see what young Isabel was made of.

  For Nathan it was a tad more difficult. As his son kept talking wonders of his girlfriend, Nathan was lost in thought. He heard something about the Alejandros being third generation Spaniards adopted by English soil…but it was her face more than the story that kept him enthralled. Ivory skin, rosy and generous lips, an oval face framed by raven hair, and eyes as dark. The sight of her brought about deep buried memories.

  “A…Alejandro? That is your surname? Do you happen to have family in New York? See, once I met this dark-haired Irishman, a banker of sorts, whose name was Francis Alexander. He had very particular features and I can’t help seeing his face in both you and your mother. It is uncanny.”

  “Sweet Lord, Dad! Isn’t it good enough that they are Catholic?” Neil interrupted in good humor while Isabel let go of his arm to approach Nathan.

  “Surely, Mr. O’Reilly, we might as well be. My family is vast and we have branches all over the place.” She smiled innocently, making sure her words, though cryptic, carried a hint of truth.

  ***

  “I can’t believe this, Nathan O’Reilly. You will be the death of me! How could you oppose this marriage? We have seen it coming since the first time we laid eyes on that girl!”

  His wife was genuinely irritated. Not only was Nathan opposed to Isabel and Neil’s union, he had it in his mind to possibly disinherit his son. In an intimate conversation with his son, he tried to drive some sense into the young man’s intentions. He got nothing out of it. Neil had means of his own and quickly decided to put an ocean between them, moving back to America. After two years of silence, and for the sake of his mother, son reconciled with father in time for a wedding invitation to be sent forth. Mrs. O’Reilly wanted to see this through and forced her husband not only to accept, but comply, and soon enough they were back in New York to see a wedding take place on the first of May. She was not about to pass on her firstborn’s wedding. They were all there to see Neil and Isabel say their vows in St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

  During the reception, while bride and groom spoke to friends and family and Mrs. O’Reilly saw to the right kind of music for the upcoming toast, Carla Alejandro found a moment alone with Nathan.

  “We are quite grateful for your presence, Mr. O’Reilly. I understand my daughter’s relationship with your son has been a bitter pill to swallow.” The woman held a beautifully crafted champagne flute in her hand; serving after serving, she had nursed the golden liquid in the crystal without touching her lips to it. She made a point not to eat at all that night. When her smile opened up, showing teeth just enough to gleam like the edge of a knife, Nathan O’Reilly felt he was being compelled to tell a truth.

  It was madness to expose himself like that, opening his mouth and pronouncing things that would make him the ridicule of New York’s finest, right in the midst of a reception in the Plaza Hotel, but he had to say the words, those which he never dared tell his wife or son for fear of being deemed crazy.

  “You are bold indeed, and I wonder how strong was the bond of the words between my father and yours, but you went ahead and chose this date. And now you stand in front of me, dangling that untouched champagne as if to mock me. It is known that your clan fasts on Beltaine.”

  During those first years, Nathan crossed out his father’s beliefs as ignorance and superstition. In time, he was convinced his fortune was a product of hard work and chances taken. But ever since he met the Alejandro women, the idea of debts unpaid became more plausible, and he found himself reciting ridiculous stories from childhood about certain folk who were just happy to look like people and live among humans. Always trading, always thriving in the dark.

  His words didn’t surprise Carla at all. For the last two years she had played out every scene, from an intimate reveal to the threat of exposition, and in each scenario she saw herself winning.

  “Clan is such a highland word, a word meant for islands trapped between the Northern Sea and the Atlantic. It limits us all. We’d rather use the term family. Family is such an open idea. It implies change, adaptability, a hundred places all over the world where one such as ourselves might rest for years pretending to be just flesh and bone. You can only imagine how much fun we had watching you try to steer your boy away from dark-haired Irish girls. Did you really think us so…simple? Darling, we just don’t belong to an island, we have reach everywhere. Beltaine, you say? On a night like this, people all over the world start dreaming of summer. They dance around maypoles and burn fires to dissolve a lingering fear of winter into ashes. Ashes that once were sacred. Ash on the doorway and the skin to keep the Fae at bay. And yes, today, the fair folk care not to eat, but tomorrow, ravenous, we will come back, looking for a way to fill our bellies with the first fruit of your labor.”

  Carla’s hand pointed toward the table where bride and groom, now husband and wife, sat after rounding about. One of the waiters took away Isabel’s plate, smiling at the nervousness of a bride who had not even touched her meal. Nathan then realized that it was not his life that had been traded, but his son’s and the promise of his future generations.

  It was then that he saw the stories for what they were, cautionary tales, before they were sanitized and sold to the masses as enchanting stories.

  The sons of Fae, the fairy folk, sometimes grow worn of their weeping. Sometimes they will need to strengthen their numbers and, sending a beautiful maiden, call her fairy or selkie, siren or succubus, they will drag poor souls of lovelorn men into perdition. Carefully, while ministering something close to affection, they will drink their souls away and bear them children—halflings with one foot in the Fae world and presence in the other…

  No one really knew why a father decided to ruin his child’s wedding, but Nathan O’Reilly left the premises without saying goodbye. They looked for him in the dance hall, and even called out his name through the speaker system as the toast neared. People raised their glasses in his absence, wishing joy to the married couple, and the reception went on.

  It was said that Nathan simply decided to take a walk, at least that was how it started. At first it was aimless, just catching on the changes the years brought to the city. He asked himself, had he bet on that New York he had seen drowning in misery, maybe he’d be walking those streets as a completely different man. He made it to Hell’s Kitchen and read a couple of billboards that promised renovations. Nathan smiled, celebrating the tenacity of a city that never gave up, and he walked those streets, reminiscent of bad old days that memory made good somehow.

  He remembered things as one who lived in the city remembered them: instances measured by the up and down of a steel staircase, blotches of oil and inconspicuous stains, telephone booths, graffiti on the walls—all told a story. There were even a couple of ghosts, just on the fringes of the discerning eyes. It was a good walk and yes, he should have bet on the city. He asked for forgiveness and those streets granted it, promising to take his one last secret. No one could explain why, but a little before midnight, while his family celebrated a most joyous occasion, Nathan O’Reilly found his way to the top of his old apartment building and jumped, rushing ten stories down before hitting concrete.

  Chapter V

  Neighbors and Some Other Nuisances

  Marissa woke up after ten o’clock in the morning. The room still looked dark. There was inclement weather adva
ncing. The house on the hill was wrapped in gray, at the mercy of thick, unpredictable raindrops. It was an odd feeling to find herself thinking, Today is not the best day to bury Esteban’s ashes. The voice inside her head spoke in the most casual tone, as if thinking about planting some bulbs in the garden. She thought about it again, until it stung.

  It had been less than a week and somehow she felt that Carla and Isabel dragged her to their own pace, forcing her to visit all stages of grief in a whirlwind. Leading her away from unbelief to acceptance in a hurry. It was not like her at all. She needed to cry a little more, miss him, then wake up completely forgetting that he was gone, call out his name, and…that was her way, at least the way she thought it should be. Waking up from a nightmare laced sleep changed her perspective about what she was meant to do there for the weekend and what the two women who invited her to that house expected of her. She needed space, and so did they.

  Opening her bag, there was this sensation of déjà vu while sorting out the clothes she’d wear that morning. Opting for a blue cardigan, white t-shirt, and stonewashed jeans, she stayed away from whatever she had worn in her mind’s eye the night before.

  Downstairs, Carla and Isabel waited at the breakfast table. The three women had tended to the chapel previously. The roses kept their perfect velvet beauty, looking even more gorgeous as some of them opened. The votive candles were replaced. The urn was to stay in the chapel enclosure for at least one more day.

  Though the morning had been gray, rain was winding down and there was no sign of treacherous floods or thunder. Marissa thought about that need for space and decided the extent of the property felt more and more like a cage. It was a little too much to sit around that house, half empty.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to go out for air.”