by Leah Cutter
But her mom wouldn’t go. Neither would Dale. He seemed to feel as though he was now responsible for the fairy kingdom there, though they’d kidnapped him and tried to use his skills to destroy humanity.
Or at least that was what he said. Nora suspected there was something else. Someone else, but her stupid brother wouldn’t even admit to having a girlfriend.
Nora returned her attention to her knotted bracelet. She could see how the knots were supposed to go, in and out, left and right.
Her fingers refused to cooperate, however. The strings tangled. Nora miscounted, and put the next knot in the wrong place, tying the second and third strings together, instead of the first and third.
“Damn it!” she said, throwing the bracelet across the room. It bounced off the paper-covered desk shoved under the window, then skidded off, falling behind it.
Nora sighed. She was going to have to dig the bracelet up later. She couldn’t leave magical artifacts just lying everywhere, even if they were only half finished. That invited trouble, either from the local brownies or from her teachers.
She sighed again and looked around. Her dorm room held a comforting level of mess, though her brother always teased her about it being a sty and had made snorting pig-noises when he’d come to visit. Four different craft projects in various stages of completion competed for space on the floor. Papers, folders, and books were stacked high on the desk. The top of the tiny refrigerator held a messy collection of plates, cups, and silverware, as well as a cutting board, bowl, knife, and two small pans. Her clothes were (mostly) hanging up—only two piles sat on the floor of the closet.
Mobiles made out of tiny knotted balls and shiny, bright-red ribbon hung from two of the corners: to Nora, they glowed with strong magical protection. A macramé rose pinned to the wall above her pillow protected her bed. On the door, Nora had pasted a collection of diamond-shaped mirrors, each about the size of her thumbnail. Then she’d run string between them, forming a net that would catch any bad magic trying to make its way into the room.
She felt safe here. Well, safe enough. Nora was still working on feeling comfortable in her skin.
At least she didn’t have to share a room with anyone. In part, that was because she had twice as much schoolwork as the other students. In addition to her mundane classes (like English and History), she was also learning magic and Making.
Homework called. It felt to her like a buzzing fly that constantly disturbed her, but that she could never hunt down and kill.
She’d been a straight-A student in high school. She’d always gotten her papers turned in on time. Had always finished her reading early so she could devote more time to her knotwork and her magic.
However, for the first time, Nora wasn’t enjoying school. Though she was only a couple of months into the quarter, she felt like she was drowning.
Normally, she loved learning. The more she knew about things, no matter how esoteric, the better.
It wasn’t as though her classes were that difficult.
The problem, which she didn’t want to admit to anyone, was that she didn’t see the point of college, or even getting a degree. She would make her living from her magic, from crafting and Making. Business classes would be more useful, things like accounting and marketing, rather than the lineup of liberal arts she’d signed up for.
She wouldn’t flunk out. But she wasn’t going to get A’s in anything, either. Not unless she got her act together. Soon.
She was going to have to talk to her advisors, both the mundane and the magical, and see what they thought. Conversations she dreaded.
Nora leaned her head back against the cold wall. She could do this. Her mom and her brother were counting on her. She would make them proud.
The wall behind her seemed to tremble.
Goddamn it!
Nora didn’t have to send her consciousness to the nether plane to see what was happening. She knew from almost constant experience.
That stupid Brett was trying to break through all her defenses and protections to come and see her again.
How could she possibly concentrate on her future when her past kept trying to drag her back? Why didn’t he realize that every time he tried to visit her, he just made her angrier? More determined to find a way to destroy him?
He was never going to touch her again. Ever.
Nora’s magic came through Making: from braiding, knotting, knitting, folding, sewing, crafting. She generally transformed things, like a braided string into a rope, a drop of water into a bucketful, and so on.
Her rage against Brett fueled her and made her reach new heights.
She held up her hands in front of her, slightly curved and facing each other as if she held a large ball between them. She could see the ball of energy she created, formed out of streaks of lightning and black swirls, the power cackling madly.
Nora didn’t toss the ball into the air, however. Instead, she pushed her palms together, forcing the magic out.
Making it go splat.
The explosion blew all the loose papers off her desk, knocked what clothes that were hung up off their hangers, and shorted out half the building.
Possibly all of it.
The smell of ozone lingered in the air.
Nora sighed. Her magical teachers were going to be pissed at her. Again.
But the awful presence of Brett was gone.
Though she hoped she’d hurt him in the explosion, she knew she hadn’t. He was too old to be affected by her puny magic.
Someday, though, she would have her revenge.
And he’d never see it coming.
Dale trudged through the tall, knee-high grass, walking from the road to the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. At least the day was sunny, though the constant wind blowing from the water made him shiver. He only wore jeans and a T-shirt with a rival high-school marching-band logo emblazoned on the front—a gift from his girlfriend, Leslie, who’d played the saxophone there.
Gulls floated high in the air, hovering on the wind. Their loud squawks made the area seem even more desolate. The only house Dale could see was an old stone tower to the north, supposedly built by a rich writer no one had ever heard about.
Why had Brett insisted on meeting Dale here? He wasn’t going to kill Dale, was he? Injure him? He’d promised that he just wanted to talk. Dale had believed him. Brett seemed…desperate, somehow. And so very alone.
Dale was already kicking himself for not insisting that he meet with the old monster someplace public, where there were lots of people around.
God, Nora was going to kill him when she found out. Whether he survived or not. He was certain she’d find a way to resurrect him just so she could kill him again.
The crashing noise of the waves below the cliff rose as Dale drew closer. He could smell the ocean now, too: the dank scent of seaweed and rotting crabs washed over him.
Where was Brett? Dale checked his watch. Quarter to three. He was on time.
He paused, running a finger across the fine face of his watch. Betty, his boss and the owner of the junk store where he worked, had found the watch in one of her “surprise” boxes from eBay. “One person’s junk is another person’s treasure,” she’d told him repeatedly. “And how are you to judge which is which?”
That box had contained a genuine Rolex Oyster, from the 1920s. He’d only had to replace a couple of bearings and clean the watch before it had started working beautifully.
Dale knew that he shouldn’t keep the watch. He should sell it and put the money into his college fund. Or maybe into the “social” fund, so he could take Leslie out to a really nice dinner.
He still kept it. He’d sell it later if he found himself desperately needing the money.
Since he’d stayed in Oregon, and was living at home while attending the local technical college instead of an expensive, out-of-state school, his college fund was pretty healthy.
Maybe he could afford to take Leslie out for a good dinner anyway…
>
“Nice watch.”
Dale jumped, startled.
Brett stood beside him. Too close for comfort. And without his human illusion.
Brett—the Old One—had blackened skin that looked like burnt leather. His silver-gray hair grew thick and straight, falling to his waist. Golden hawk-eyes stared at Dale, sizing him up as though he were prey.
Dale took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He regretted it immediately. The smell of death flowed from the Old One, of gory battlefields and freely running blood.
“Damn,” Dale said softly. He coughed, then spat, trying to get the scent out of his nose and mouth.
Brett chuckled. “Glad to know I still have an effect on some humans.”
Dale nearly rolled his eyes. Why in hell would Brett doubt that?
Unless…
“Nora still refuses to see you,” Dale said smugly. “And you called me here to see if I would talk some sense into her.”
Dale nearly took a step back at the glare Brett threw at him. Death personified. But Dale stubbornly held his ground.
Brett—this Old One, this ancient magical creature—didn’t intimidate him.
Much.
Brett’s glare softened. “No, I know you won’t be able to talk her into anything that she doesn’t want to do.”
“True enough. You did kidnap her and hold her against her will,” Dale pointed out.
Brett shrugged and didn’t look the least bit remorseful. “Mistakes were made,” he replied. Then he turned. “Come. Sit.” Brett walked all the way to the edge of the cliff and sat cross-legged. He stilled, as if he’d become a rock himself.
Dale didn’t want to get any closer to the ledge. Then again, if Brett was going to kill him, wouldn’t he have done so already?
Besides, Dale couldn’t help but be curious why Brett had called him here in the first place. What on earth did Brett want to talk about with him? Dale was pretty sure Brett hated him, but now, he wasn’t sure.
Dale walked across the hard ground and sat next to the ancient creature. Interesting. Now that he was sitting next to Brett, Dale suddenly sensed the great age of the Old One, as if Brett was as old as—maybe even older than—the cliff they sat on.
“I’m dying,” Brett finally said, his words spoken so quietly Dale barely heard them over the wind and the crash of the waves beneath them.
Dale blinked, surprised. Why would Brett tell him this? Weren’t they kind of sworn enemies or something? “Okay,” he said. He glanced at the creature behind him, then back out over the gray-green water. Tide was coming in. White foam crested on the waves.
“I want you to have the garage,” Brett said.
“Oh,” Dale said. “Really?” Brett’s “family” owned one of the garages in Port City. Old Eli, the human Brett had pretended to be before the old man had “died,” had owned the garage. As far as Dale knew, the garage had always been owned by the humans that the Old One had pretended to be.
“Why would you want to give the garage to me? What’s the catch?” Dale said. He knew it wasn’t out of the goodness of Brett’s heart. Did the monster even have a heart?
Brett laughed, harsh and bitter. “I’ve owned that place since the 1920s,” he said. “I’m not a Tinker, like you. But I’m good with my hands. Even with human mechanical things. I’d like the garage to be owned by someone who would, well, continue that tradition. Tinker and work.”
“I see,” Dale said, though he didn’t. Not really. “What do you want in return?” Dale asked. There had to be something else.
Brett flashed him a quick smile.
Dale contained his shudder. Those were some sharp pointed teeth Brett had.
“I could request that you stop helping the fairies, but I know that’s too much to ask,” Brett said.
“Why do you hunt them?” Dale said. Then he pressed his lips together. Damn it! He knew better than to ask about something like that.
“Because they offend me,” Brett said, his words taking on an odd ringing tone. Like he was making some sort of formal proclamation or something.
“They’ve been here for a really long time too,” Dale said.
Brett nodded. “True,” he said. He stared hard into the distance. “But they never approached me or tried to sign a treaty with me in all that time.”
“Did they even know who you were?” Dale said. That was what Cornelius had said—that though the fairies had been aware of the Old One, they hadn’t been certain who he was, if he was playing the part of a human or had just remained hidden.
“They didn’t try to find me, either,” Brett said. His attention never wavered from the far horizon.
What was he looking at? Dale squinted his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything.
“So now you’ll just kill them all?” Dale asked. He tried not to sound upset about it. He’d been wanting the fairies gone for the last five years or so.
It still bothered him that they were being killed.
Brett gave a surprisingly cheerful laugh. “Youngster, I could have killed every single one of them by now if I’d really worked at it.” He shook his head, but still didn’t look away from the ocean. “I’ve only killed a few at this point so they’ll take the hint and move. Before they force me to destroy them all.”
“Oh,” was all that Dale could say.
Brett had been holding back? The cold winds from the ocean suddenly seemed even colder. Fairies were tough to kill. Dale had seen warriors with missing wings, arms or legs torn from them, and still acting as though nothing was wrong. Seemed the only way to kill a fairy was to completely destroy the body or to cut off the head.
“The fairies are going to have a lot more than me to worry about. Soon,” Brett said. He pointed.
Dale looked out over the water. What was Brett seeing? All Dale saw was ocean, and more ocean, out to the dark line of the horizon.
“Here,” Brett said with a sigh. He reached out a hand, then hesitated before he touched Dale’s knee. “May I?” he asked.
Dale knew what Brett was asking: by touching Dale, he’d show him the world through his eyes. Dale shivered, considering. He really didn’t want this creature to touch him. Dale had touched magic a couple of times—mainly his sister’s magic. He’d never forget the ball of fiery power she’d given him as she’d lain dying. He could never take her magic, just as she could never absorb his technical skill: both abilities were special, unique, and awesome. Combined, they were even more so.
But Dale was aware that he was being granted a unique gift, to be able to see through the eyes of the Old One. No matter how disturbing that view might be.
Besides, whatever was coming across the water might not affect just the fairies. It was better to know the troubles heading their way.
Dale gulped, then nodded. “Yes, you can touch me. Show me what’s out there.”
The hard hand landed solidly on his knee.
And Dale saw.
Ivan steeled himself. He was not going to get sick. Again. He took large gulps of cold air and steadied himself, widening his stance. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the side of the wooden boat. Freezing water splashed against his fingers, making him shiver. The sun barely peered through the haze, making the day seem even colder. He shrugged his shoulders under his great long cloak, made out of bear hide. Normally between it, his good wool shirt, trousers, and heavy boots he was more than warm enough.
Not today.
He shivered again, looking out over the endless ocean.
The dwarven people were good on the water. Good swimmers. Good sailors.
They did not get seasick. Repeatedly.
Ivan’s stomach rolled as the boat took another hard wave. Goddamn it! This was not how the Great Crossing was supposed to go.
At least Mitya, the head of the warriors, had taken it upon himself to stand guard and keep everyone away from Ivan when he stood next to the ship’s gunwale, losing the contents of his stomach.
There were always dwar
ves up and about on the ship. Ivan had brought double the amount of men that the ship could hold—over three hundred, total. They took turns sleeping in the hammocks strung from one end of the lower decks to the other.
Just thinking about that dark space, those swinging beds, made Ivan’s stomach roll again.
Ivan had already heard one foolhardy bard’s attempt at turning their grand deeds into song. Though Ivan hadn’t been mentioned by name, his inability to hold the contents of his stomach had made it into the first verse.
As well as the chorus.
But there was nothing Ivan could do about it. He couldn’t have the bard killed, though he’d thought about it. Maybe he could place the bard in the most dangerous part of the upcoming battles, however…
Another wave rocked the boat. Ivan clenched his teeth. He swallowed down the bile in his throat. Mitya stood stoically behind him, arms crossed over his broad chest, face expressionless.
How could such a deep ocean have such huge waves? Ivan had assumed that he’d be fine once they left shore, that the waters would smooth out.
How wrong he’d been.
At least his brother, King Varlaam, wasn’t there to see his struggles. It had taken all of Ivan’s cunning, as well as all of his wife’s, to convince the king that it was better for him to come in the second wave of homesteaders.
Ivan had even had to delicately hint about Varlaam’s war wound, how his leg might not hold him once he’d left the Homeland.
Ivan was one of the few who knew that Varlaam pulled power from beneath the earth. Most dwarves now thought such an ability was reserved for those heroes of yesteryear. That no one in the present day had that strength.
They were in awe of Varlaam’s magical staff, how it glowed and shot fire.
Party tricks.
Ivan’s palms itched to hold Varlaam’s staff. Ivan had done it more than once, though Varlaam could never know. Could never suspect that Ivan had greater magical ability than his brother’s.
Varlaam couldn’t throw bolts of lightning with the staff, not like Ivan could. The king had no clue how far the staff could cast illusions, either.
If Ivan had any regrets about coming to the New World, it wasn’t that his stomach couldn’t take the crossing. Rather, he wished he had Varlaam’s staff with him.
