by Alan Baxter
Silhouette looked from the bodice to Alex and back again. ‘You’re right. I would look freaking hot in that. Buy it for me?’
Alex popped one eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Fucking no, you dumbass!’
They had both laughed, though Alex was clearly disappointed. She stared at the bodice again. If she managed to get him out of this, she would come back here and buy that thing, wear it for him.
She pushed the door open and entered the shop. A Fields of the Nephilim track played, from the Dawnrazor album. She had fond memories of the late eighties in London. A very buxom girl in a huge lace and crushed cotton dress, with an ivory whalebone corset pulled tight, nodded a greeting from behind the counter. ‘Help you?’ she asked. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I remember you. Need more stuff already?’
‘Something like that,’ Silhouette said, forcing a friendly smile onto her face. ‘Crabapple here?’
‘Sure.’ The girl pursed her lips. She raised her chin and a burst of magic briefly lit Silhouette’s senses. After a moment an answering pulse came back.
‘He’ll see you,’ the girl said. ‘Remember the rules: no touching, no magic, no haggling.’
‘I remember,’ Silhouette said.
‘You know the way.’ She pointed to a door behind the counter marked Private.
Silhouette gave the girl a tight smile. She pushed open the door and headed into a room beyond. There was a table and a small kitchenette, sink, kettle, microwave, fridge. Another door led from the room. She went through into a dim corridor and a strong, sweet smell like burnt sugar. Her senses roiled, stomach tightening. It was a Fey odour. Were there actually Fey here? Crabapple was Kin, a dealer in Fey goods, so he obviously had contacts, but she had always dealt with dealers because only idiots dealt direct with the Other Folk. Let the dealers take the chances. But her mission was too important. She pushed on.
Along with the odour drifted a sensation of something she had never felt before. Oily and sweet like the smell, overlaid with a creeping malevolence. Like the sensation of someone secretly watching, only amplified a thousandfold. For all her long life as a Kin, Silhouette had never faced a Fey in person. She had hoped she never would and any sane individual would feel the same. Now she was trying to find a way to their realm. The human half of her reeled, desperate to turn on her heel and bolt. The Fey half yearned for something beyond conscious thought that made her very uncomfortable.
She pulled herself up tall. ‘Hell no. I’m not baulking at this.’ Her voice sounded tremulous and she ground her teeth as she continued along the corridor, dimly lit with weak bulbs concealed in the ceiling. After a few metres, three steps led down to another door. Written on it in letters made from twigs twisted together was Crabapple. She knocked.
‘Come in.’
When she opened the door, the greasy sweet smell intensified, washed over her. Crabapple sat behind a huge desk. He was an old man, wrinkled like a walnut, his skin a deep tan. Almond eyes almost lost in folds of skin glistened, dark brown in the low light. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘So lovely to see you back.’ His country Chinese accent was strong, but his English impeccable all the same, almost as if he enhanced the accent deliberately — an affectation Silhouette found strangely irritating.
She stepped into the office and hissed, her form shifting briefly between her human appearance and the wild, panther-like cat she favoured. In the corner, out of sight from the door, sat a creature that turned her stomach to water. Tall and thin, it seemed to be made of night and shadows. Its face was long and angular, its eyes glowed a soft amber like coals burning low in a campfire. Coldness wafted from it, as though it were a fridge door left open.
The creature rocked back, laughed heartily. ‘No need to be rude, dear!’ One long, stick-like arm raised and flapped at her, the movement uncanny, almost flickering, like an over-cranked film or one of those jerky old black and white movies.
Silhouette gathered herself, enforced her human form. On closer inspection, the creature’s skin seemed like thin, leathery bark and, though shadow and cold seemed to manifest around it, the skin was a deep, oily green-black. In such close proximity, the burnt-sugar sweetness was almost enough to make her gag. ‘You’re Fey!’ she growled.
Tension crackled in the air. The creature sat forward and stared hard at her. ‘And you have blood like mine enhancing your human weaknesses, you Kin bitch, so you might want to show some respect.’
Crabapple chuckled, slipped half-moon glasses onto the bridge of his nose. ‘You knew I got my stuff from somewhere. You’re really that surprised?’
Silhouette breathed deeply, determined to control herself. She didn’t take her eyes from the Fey. ‘I’m first generation Kin. One of you fuckers raped my mother. Don’t expect any respect from me.’
The creature’s face split in a grin, revealing a double row of sharp, black teeth. ‘Ah! Your father was pure! No wonder your essence is strong.’
‘My father,’ Silhouette sneered, emphasising her disdain with the word, ‘is nothing to me.’
‘You may like to think so, but he’s everything that you are.’
Silhouette shook her head. ‘My mother, my human mother, was the only parent I ever knew and her influence was strong. Since her, only Kin.’
The creature chuckled. ‘Deny it all you like. You’re first generation, there’s not many like you.’
Silhouette reminded herself that outside thin days, Fey were weak in the mortal realm. How weak, she had no idea, but chose to concentrate simply on the fact they were reduced. She would not be intimidated by this bastard. ‘You live here?’ she asked.
‘I made a powerful enemy in Faerie and was cast out, imprisoned in this realm and stripped of my power. If I ever return, I’ll die. Supposedly. So I’ve carved out a bit of a business here. I’m very good at sneaking back and forth.’
‘How do you bear it? Don’t Fey hate the mortal realm? Isn’t that why you fuck with it so much?’
The creature hissed laughter. ‘Don’t presume you know anything about us, whelp. But I’m different to most. I like the order here. It’s partly how I became an exile. But I don’t owe you a life story. Get on with your business and be gone.’ It flicked one long-fingered hand jerkily towards Crabapple and sat back in its chair.
Silhouette’s mind raced. This was a potentially useful development. Presumably this creature had just returned on the thin day, bringing its illicit merchandise with it, and was busily transacting its business. She had hoped Crabapple might be able to point her in the direction of someone, or something, that could help her get to Faerie. Well, terrifying though it may be, sitting right before her was exactly what she needed. ‘I’ve actually got something in mind that you might be able to help me with more than him.’
Surprise registered on the Fey’s long, sharp face and Crabapple spluttered. ‘Excuse me, young lady. You don’t come in to my office and start making deals without me!’
Silhouette turned to the old Kin. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean any disrespect. How about I pay you a finder’s fee?’ She did nothing to hide the sarcasm in her tone.
The Fey spoke, its voice deep. ‘What do you need, Kin?’
Crabapple jumped up, came around to stand between them. ‘Kreek, do you mind! What’s happening here?’
The Fey, Kreek, stood swiftly, rising to over seven feet tall. Silhouette couldn’t help noticing his large, branch-like penis swing free. He stuck one long arm out and pointed a sharp finger at Crabapple. ‘Silence! You and I do business and you do very well. This, I think, is … something else. She has bought from you before and no doubt will again. Be content with that.’
Crabapple sighed and slunk back to his chair. Kreek folded himself back into his own seat, rested pointed elbows on knees like gnarled tree limbs. He tilted his head like an inquisitive dog, regarding Silhouette with curiosity.
Silhouette endured the scrutiny. She would need to tread carefully, maybe show this thing some respect after all, whether she felt it
or not. She needed his help.
‘What do you need of me?’ Kreek asked. ‘If it was simple Other Land ingredients, you would trade with him.’
Silhouette nodded. ‘I need something he can’t give me.’
‘Which is?’
‘Access to Faerie.’
Kreek’s eyes widened, his knife-scar of a mouth curving into a smile. He began to laugh, a low rumble in his narrow chest that bubbled out into a raucous hoot. ‘You want to go to Faerie?’
Silhouette considered all she had heard so far, took a gamble. ‘You’ve been cast out, right? I’m guessing you have little love left for your kind.’
Kreek’s laughter faded. ‘Perhaps.’
‘What if I told you I have a plan to really piss off some of your Folk? If I can get there, that is.’
‘I’d say you were one deluded Kin bitch and you would be dead in minutes.’ He held up a stick-like finger. ‘No, correct that. You would be enslaved in minutes and spend a long, miserable life suffering in service to whoever over there was lucky enough to catch you first. You’d be quite a prize.’
‘I’m prepared to take that chance.’ Silhouette’s chest fluttered with nerves as she realised the truth of her words. She had always been a pariah, always a loner. In Alex, she had finally found someone she could love, someone to commit to. He wasn’t Kin, and she was done with her own kind, but he was strong enough, with magic enough, to live a long lifetime like she would. She wanted them to live that life together, and she would be happy to die or become enslaved in an effort to rescue it. Of course, she would much rather survive the attempt and get Alex back. ‘Get me to Faerie. Give me some tips on how to survive there. Please.’
Kreek tilted his head again. ‘You mean it, don’t you? What a strange one you are.’ He sat back in his chair, chin resting on the backs of his hands, and stared at her. The perusal dragged on, became uncomfortable. Silhouette refused to budge, refused to show anything but a steel resolve, though she had trouble looking at the dark creature. Her eyes kept trying to slip aside. ‘What’s in it for me?’ Kreek asked eventually.
Silhouette shrugged. ‘What do you want? What would I have to give you? I promise to strike a blow against the Fey if I can. Is that not good enough? To know you helped get me there, to fuck with the Folk who exiled you?’
Kreek chuckled, shook his head gently. ‘Possibly. You fascinate me. I’m certain I’ll only be sending you to a terrible fate, but perhaps I can help you. Just for the fun of it, eh? I’m sure I’ll think of something you can do for me, some time.’
Silhouette nodded, knowing she had made a deal with evil. Like taking a favour from the Mob, one day she would have to pay for this and it would not be pretty. But she had little choice and opportunities like this would not be easy to find elsewhere. ‘So you’ll help?’
‘Let me finish my business here and make some arrangements. Do you know an oceanside place to the east of here, called Gordon’s Bay?’
‘No, this isn’t my town. But I’ll find it.’ Not wanting to spend another moment in the cloying confines of the small office, she turned and left.
The polluted noise and bustle of King Street was a blessing after the sickly closeness of Crabapple’s. The Fey were evil, simple as that, and Silhouette didn’t trust for a minute that Kreek was completely exiled or completely powerless. They never told the truth. Never! But she needed his help and would have to hope he kept his end of the bargain. She had a few hours to wait before meeting him at Gordon’s Bay. She had no idea why there, but would have to play along. If the fucker was simply setting her up to kill her or worse, she would deal with it. Somehow. Or die trying.
An old pub stood imposing on the corner a block down the road, its brick and tile frontage inviting. She decided to have a steadying drink or two before finding a bus to the eastern suburbs.
Claude Darvill strode angrily through the worksite, shouting orders. People reluctantly nodded, grudgingly agreed. If it wasn’t for the seemingly bottomless coffers of Black Diamond Incorporated, Jean Chang wondered if these workers would be putting up with a fraction of Darvill’s abuse. But he was throwing money at them almost with abandon and they grit their teeth, took his cash and did as he asked. As ever, currency greased the most recalcitrant wheels and silenced moral misgivings.
The enormous saw whined a deafening scream as it sliced into solid rock. Water sprayed in a thick jet over the work, cooling and suppressing dust, steaming up into the cold air. The topsoil and shale sat in a huge mound off to one side which Darvill had taken to standing atop to better see the progress of the excavation.
A front-end loader moved into position, lifted out chunks of carved rock and moved them beside the mound. They cracked as they were dumped, the sound echoing across the desolate land. Darvill nodded, his face stark in the paling glow of an overcast sky as twilight began to wreath the land around them.
Chang still harboured doubts, reservations about not only the process itself and what exactly had happened to Hood, but about Claude too. His zealotry increased by the hour, his need to finish this job. She was concerned for his sanity and, by extension, her safety.
An enormous hissing and searing jets of steam drew her attention. A yell went up from the workers and the giant saw truck backed up. The hose was directed down into the slowly deepening hole and more steam clouded out, billowed angrily up towards the darkening sky.
Chang hurried up the mound to stand beside Darvill, her feet slipping and sliding in the loose material. ‘What’s happened?’
Claude stared at the hole with a disconcerting intensity. ‘They’ve struck a pocket of something.’
More shouting and men running back and forth. A worker was helped to the tents where the men rested, cradling his arm and moaning in pain.
The foreman jogged up to them, pointed back at the injured man. ‘He’s been seriously burned. Steam.’
‘So replace him.’ Darvill didn’t take his eyes from the hole.
The foreman scowled. ‘We’ve hit a volcanic seam. There’s enormous heat down there, magma probably.’
‘So?’ Darvill tore his eyes from the scene at last to stare daggers at the foreman.
‘So we can’t work in such conditions. It’s too dangerous.’
‘You are just getting to exactly where you need to be. Keep cutting away that rock above.’
The foreman’s eyes widened. ‘What? We could release any amount of contained geothermic energy. Did you see that steam geyser?’
‘Yes, I saw it. Be more careful, but carry on. You want danger money? Am I not paying you e-fucking-nough?’
The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Eventually the foreman lowered his eyes. ‘Our equipment could be destroyed in the process.’
‘Then I will pay to have it replaced. Have someone put in an order now to make sure any equipment needed is ready immediately.’
The foreman shook his head and trudged back down the mound to talk to his workers. There was hand waving and angry looks but they moved away and restarted the machines.
Darvill put an arm across Jean’s shoulders, squeezed her into his chest. ‘We’re nearly there!’
‘Molten rock,’ Chang said quietly. ‘What can survive in molten rock?’
‘I find things, Jean, and I’ve found my father. I know he’s alive down there. I can’t tell you how, I have no explanation for it, but don’t you think it’s amazing? Finding out will be incredible.’
Chang endured the rough hug, thinking that incredible it may be, but it wouldn’t have been her first adjective of choice. Terrifying, maybe. Or unnatural.
The whine started again as the huge circular saw lowered into rock on the opposite side to the area still jetting steam. The water hoses were increased, a second water tanker moved in, and the whole worksite began to feel like a giant outdoor sauna, humid and hot, as steam billowed like winter mist all around, pushing the icy air away. More cuts were made and several times the machinery was hastily retreated as the volati
le geology tried to fight back. The workers slowly sectioned off a larger portion of the rock shelf they were cutting through and a sudden, deafening crack caused cries of alarm.
A chunk of rock the size of a large car split away from the edge and sank into roiling, bright red magma. The saw vehicle tipped at an alarming angle and its engine screamed as the driver over-revved it to drag it backwards. Huge tyres spun, shot gravel and chunks of rock through the air, and the heavy vehicle bounced and skidded in reverse.
Smoke and steam flooded up from the hole in the ground, like the crater of a volcano in miniature. Men staggered back from the sudden and intense heat, other vehicles hastily retreated.
From atop the mound, Darvill and Chang had an excellent view into the hole, glowing bright red like illuminated blood. Jean shook her head, a sense of relief washing through her. Nothing could survive in there, even the rock itself was melted.
And something lapped up at the side.
A moment of surreal calm and silence fell across the site. All eyes turned to the unnaturally shifting lava that crept up over the edge of sheer-cut rock and dragged itself away from the hole. The mass popped and steamed, bright redness rippled black as it cooled rapidly in the night air. It arched upwards, a curve of lava the size of a man standing up against gravity. With a roar of agony, arms emerged, rising from the globular mess. The arms thrashed up and down, chunks of searing hot rock and gobbets of lava flew off in all directions. Workers were hit and fell screaming, or ran for cover holding burnt flesh or scorched clothing.
The lava man staggered forward, shaking off more thick, red heat, howling in torment. It turned and flicked one arm deliberately at a truck driver cowering some few metres away. A huge globule of lava flew from the creature’s arm and slammed into the unfortunate man’s chest. He screamed as the molten rock ate swiftly through clothing and flesh and he fell lifeless to the ground.
The burning man stopped some three or four metres from the hole and stretched its arms skyward, yelling incoherently to the firmament. With slow, deliberate movements it began striking at itself, knocking away chunks of rock and sizzling lava. Its flesh, impossibly, glowed pale and unburnt through the gaps. It dragged hands over its face and roared as it tore away the hell-coating of its prison.
