by K. C. Lannon
“The Summer Prince,” Deirdre repeated in a whisper, her brow furrowing. “Where is the land of the Summer Court?”
The banshee glanced at Iain; despite his initial protests, he had gone quiet, attentive. James had slipped past his brother and was watching with breathless fascination. The banshee smirked at them.
“It is to the north,” she said. “In England, near Scotland, around the area once known as the Lake District.”
Deirdre looked back at the basin; the light was starting to fade, the images blurring. She leaned forward, hoping to glimpse something concrete before it vanished entirely. “So I’m Scottish after all?” Her hair slipped from behind her shoulders, falling over the basin.
Before a single strand could brush the basin’s surface, the banshee hissed and pushed her back. Deirdre let out a startled cry; the banshee didn’t push her hard, but the moment her hand touched her, an electric jolt shot through her body. The water started to boil in the basin, and for a moment her vision went hazy; her head reeling, she slumped backward on the floor. Her limbs felt like lead, and her heart was pounding loudly, almost drowning out James asking what happened.
“My magic is not to be disturbed,” the banshee said tartly, picking up the basin and rising to her feet, looking down at Deirdre through slanted eyes. Her heart still racing, she pushed herself up on her elbows unsteadily. The place where the banshee had touched her skin above her high-collared shirt was burning, though the fire was starting to recede.
“What did you do to me?” Deirdre gasped, grabbing her shoulder, looking up at the banshee.
“Magic does what it wills, at times,” the banshee replied, putting the large basin down on a low shelf in a corner.
“What does that mean?” James asked quickly.
“None of your concern.” The banshee pointed at James. “Beware of cats, boy. Be on your guard.”
“Cats?” James and Deirdre asked in unison in the same bewildered tone.
“We’re leaving, all of us,” Iain said firmly; he reached down and grabbed Deirdre under one arm, ignoring her protest of “Hey!” and hauling her up and pushing her toward the exit as if she could not walk herself. He gave the banshee a hard look. “If you hurt a human… if you hurt this girl…”
James looked at Deirdre, alarmed, as if expecting her to suddenly fall over again.
“She didn’t hurt me,” Deirdre protested, though she still felt shaky on her feet, her quickened pulse still dying down.
“Let’s just get you home before any other Iron Wardens catch you here,” Iain murmured, steering her out of the tent and into the crowded street. He let go of her arm once they were walking along at a steady pace.
“Care to buy some fruit before you go?” a tall faery from a nearby stall asked, holding out a basket of the fruit that smelled so strangely familiar. Deirdre stiffened as she recognized the faery from earlier; it was the thin, balding, red-haired faery that made the grocer lock his doors.
When the faery thrust the basket in front of Iain to get his attention, he jerkily shoved the basket and the faery’s hands away; the faery lost balance and fell back onto the ground. The basket fell on the street, fruit scattering everywhere and splatting wetly on the pavement.
The crowd around them froze, all eyes turning toward them, focusing on Iain. Pulling herself back up, the faery began retrieving the fruit; James leaned down and began to help her.
“James!” Iain barked. His younger brother froze, looking at the plum-sized fruit in his hands and gulping. He hastily put it into the basket and backed away, standing beside Deirdre.
The faery picked up the basket and sniffed, eyeing Iain. “You knock over my goods, then chide your brother who tries to pick up after your mess? Typical soldier.” She spat the last word like it was a curse. The other faeries surrounding them began to mutter; the most human-looking nailed Iain with dirty looks.
“You’ll regret selling that,” Iain retorted. “You know you’re breaking the law.”
“He’s been inhaling iron all day long.” One of the faeries surrounding them hissed. “It’s gone to his head.”
“That’s not all he’s inhaled,” the basket-holding faery said with a grin.
But her smile vanished when Iain produced his radio and turned it on. Just as he opened his mouth to speak into it, she held up her free hand, saying, “All right! You’re correct, soldier. Don’t call them here!” Her gaze flashed to James, then back to Iain. “Things get ugly when soldiers come here. You never know who could get caught in the middle.”
To his credit, Iain didn’t even blink at the barely veiled threat. “We’re leaving. If you do this again, there will be consequences.”
Her voice was smooth and placating as she stepped away, bobbing her head up and down. “Yes, yes, of course, soldier. Of course.”
Turning, Iain hissed and said, “Come on” to her and James. The throngs parted for him as he headed down the street. Deirdre waited for James to go ahead of her, then followed close behind, only looking back once. The faery was picking up the rest of the fruit, and all the faeries that had been circling them had disappeared into the crowd.
Once outside of Ferriers Town, Iain insisted on escorting her back to the school. Worn out from all that had happened, she did not put up a fight. Most of the walk was dead quiet except for the occasional sound of James wiping his hands off, as if they were dirty. They did not have any fruit stains on them, but to Deirdre they still smelled slightly of the food, even from a distance.
“Is there something special about that fruit?” Deirdre asked as they turned onto the school’s street. “Why is it illegal for her to sell it?”
Iain and James exchanged glances, but the younger spoke up first. “It’s not good for us. It’s… it’ll make you sick. And it’s addictive.”
“Fruit makes you sick?”
“Yeah, their fruit. It’s called Pan, or faery fruit.” James moistened his lips, nervously looking from her to his brother and back again. “They make it themselves, you know—the faeries do. They cross-pollinate with their magic. That’s the only way the fruit can exist.”
“Weird.” She tilted her head. “Why would something that makes you sick be addictive? Is it like drinking too much alcohol or something?”
James nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s better to stay away from it.”
“It’s better to stay away from Ferriers Town altogether,” Iain added gruffly. “It’s safer for the humans and the faeries that way.”
She sighed. “If you say so.”
After a moment, James asked, “What do you think she meant, about the cats? I suppose some people think they’re bad luck. They aren’t the cleanest of animals either.”
“I wouldn’t think anything of it.” Iain frowned at them behind his shoulder. “It’s just good that you didn’t have to pay her for that rubbish.”
“How do you know that it’s rubbish?”
“Because,” Iain said, “that’s what people like that faery do, James. They tell you things you want to hear or things that you couldn’t possibly disprove. It’s how they manipulate you.” Iain turned his back to them again. After a while, he said seriously, “It was… cruel of her to tell you that, about your parents. No one’s even seen the Summer Prince in ages.”
While Deirdre’s first instinct was to contradict him, the strange, electrifying sensation that had run through her when the banshee touched her held her tongue. She still felt odd; her heart was still beating loudly in her ears even though it was no longer racing. She was weirdly aware of her blood pulsing in her veins as they kept walking.
When they reached the school gates, she finally remembered her manners and thanked them for walking her back. James muttered that it was no problem, a small smile on his face.
“Just try not to break curfew again,” Iain said shortly, turning and beginning to head away, muttering something that sounded a lot like “country hick.” Deirdre stuck her tongue out at the back of his head.
J
ames hesitated before asking, “Are you doing something tomorrow? I-I know some things about the country. I mean, if you’re going to leave the city, you know, like the fortune-teller said… I’ve read a lot about faeries, and… maybe you’re interested?”
She blinked a few times. “Um… are you asking me if I want to talk with you about the fortune?”
James nodded vigorously. “There’s this place, like a café; it’s the only one in town. Iain won’t be there.”
She smiled. “All right!”
His eyes lit up, and his voice lost its nervous strain. “Great! So tomorrow at one? One p.m.?”
“James! Hurry up,” Iain called, looking back and stopping.
“See you!” James gave one awkward wave as he hurried after his brother. Deirdre waved back, then turned and headed through the gate, beaming.
Looks like I’ve made at least one friend, she thought, humming.
Heading around the building instead of going through it, she stepped off the sidewalk and began to skip on the soggy lawn. After a few paces, she landed on a twig, which shot out from under her on the slippery ground. Her ankle twisted, and with a cry she pitched forward on the muddy ground.
“Ohhh…” She pushed herself up, wiping the mud off her face and blouse. “And this was all clean!”
Grumbling in irritation, she began to stand up. The moment she put weight on her ankle, pain jumped up her leg.
“Ow!”
She promptly took her weight off and eased herself to her feet more carefully. When she tested her foot again, the pain was still there, making her hiss. She glared at the twig she had slipped on, just a step away from her. Her blood was pounding in her ears.
“This is all your fault!” she snapped at it, wishing she could kick it.
Immediately her hands felt like they were burning, and the twig abruptly snapped loudly in two. She let out a startled shout, jumping back on her good leg. Her hands turned icy as her heart slowed once more.
For a while she stood there, awkwardly balanced on one foot, staring at the twig, waiting to see if it would do something else.
Nothing.
“Was I just hearing things?” She frowned at the twig. “It could’ve broken when I stepped on it… and maybe it just fell apart then. That makes sense… I guess.”
She gave the twig one last, suspicious look before hobbling back to the dorms, rubbing her suddenly cold hands together to warm them.
Chapter Eight
Once they exited the train at Corwen, the brothers half walked, half ran through the town and up the hilly street that led to the military housing. All the shops and buildings around them were closed for the evening, darkened and empty like shells washed up on a cold, rocky shore.
While they jogged along, Iain attempted to think of some excuse as to why they were out past curfew that didn’t involve mentioning Ferriers Town, as that subject was highly sensitive in their household. But as they came upon the housing, Iain still had nothing solid in mind.
A tall iron fence surrounded the community, along with a guard who opened the gate to residents and guests. The guard shook his head knowingly at James as they waited at the gate. No civilians out past curfew.
The houses were all connected and identical. Plain, small, and poorly maintained due to lack of funds. There was a small patch of a garden outside with wildflowers that was nearly overgrown with weeds. The lights were off in most of the houses, save for the Callaghan house. Smoke was curling from their chimney, which could mean only one thing: company. Their father only lit the fireplace when they had guests, as it was a waste of gas and sucked the heat from the rest of the house.
Iain and James noticed at the same time and exchanged wry glances. “The Fancy Prancers must be here,” Iain said, using the scornfully crafted nickname James had invented for Boyd and Philip Prance a while ago. Iain had thought it was quite clever, and so he’d started calling the brothers by that name behind their backs to the Iron Guard. To his delight, the nickname had caught on, and now everyone in the garrison was calling them Fancy Prancers. Philip remained unaffected, while the name made Boyd red with anger every time he heard it.
“Maybe that’s a good thing, for once,” James suggested. “Maybe Dad won’t even notice I’m out past curfew.”
“James,” Iain said as they reached the front door, hesitating, “why don’t you go on upstairs, yeah? There’s no reason for both of us to get a lecture.”
James was squinting at a moth that was bouncing uselessly against the light bulb over their heads. He merely shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.
Iain reached into his pocket and produced the house key, then pushed inside. He nearly jolted when he saw his father perched on the steps right across from the door, waiting. The entryway was so dimly lit that he could only make out the human shape of his father, while his expression remained a mystery.
“Please do save whatever excuse you have planned for another time,” Dad said quietly. “While I’m certain it is creative, I don’t want to hear it.”
There was a huge burst of laughter from the living room down the hall, and Iain could hear Boyd and Philip shouting playfully about something. He could hear the muffled, static-laced voices from the radio buzzing.
Iain shut the door behind them and began taking off his shoes before setting a foot beyond the entryway.
“It’s not Iain’s fault.” James spoke up suddenly, stepping out from behind Iain. “We were on our way home, but I wanted to stop to look around at—”
Iain was snapped out of his quiet state and whirled around in complete disbelief at what he was hearing. He didn’t know if James was thick enough to mention he’d been in Ferriers Town, but Iain wouldn’t put it past him.
“As your older brother, everything you do is Iain’s fault.” Dad rose to his feet and stepped into the light of the hallway. He did not look stern, merely tired. “Now go to bed, James. Your brother and I have much to discuss.”
James didn’t budge. “I don’t think I can sleep with all that noise they’re making,” he said, gesturing down the hall. “And won’t they technically be out past curfew if they don’t leave now? That’s a bit hypocritical, if you ask me, even if they are with the Iron Guard.”
Iain grabbed James’s arm and gave him a not-too-gentle shove toward the stairs. “Don’t be stupid, James,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “You’re exhausted from your extremely successful first day of school.”
He glared at James the entire way as the younger brother climbed up the stairs and to the small, two-roomed second floor and disappeared into their bedroom. He nearly shattered his teeth when he heard James slam the door.
“Well, don’t be impolite,” Dad said as he started down the hallway. “Come and join our guests. We’ve been waiting for you to arrive for a while.”
Waiting for me to fetch them more beers? Iain wondered.
That was usually his assigned task—that or washing dishes—when Philip and Boyd were over. When Iain was younger, long after Dad had sent James and Iain up to bed, Dad and the Prance brothers would all sit in the living room, throw back a few beers, and either converse rather drunkenly or listen to the latest game on the radio. When Iain was younger, he used to sneak into the hallway, crouch by the banister, and listen in with curiosity. It was always puzzling to Iain how his usually reserved father became so loquacious in strange company and how he was capable of speaking in more than sharp, critical remarks.
Mum had never liked it when Dad brought the Prance siblings over, not even the first time they’d come over when the Prance boys had been in their early teens. Dad told her to cook dinner for them and to wait on them. They’d always seemed uncomfortable whenever Mum was around, and they’d halted their conversations like she was waiting to catch them saying something wrong or curse them. Iain smiled to himself when he remembered setting the table one night and Mum had pulled him aside and told him slyly to use the cheap dishes instead of the nice china, for such wonderful company
.
Iain followed his father down the hallway and into the living room, past a small table that held photographs of Mum’s family and a little figure of Saint Sarah. He wondered what his father had to discuss with him, and more troublingly, why that conversation had to be held in front of Boyd and Philip.
What could I have done wrong? There’s probably something I missed.
“Apologies for my absence, gentlemen,” Dad said merrily. “The boys have returned unharmed.”
Boyd and Philip were squished together on the small sofa in the living room in front of the fireplace, hollering about something on the radio. Boyd leaned his head back and squinted at Iain, asking, “You get me a drink?”
Iain retreated toward the kitchen, which was an open but tiny room just across from the living room. He grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and set them on the counter. Before returning to the living room, he stopped to water one of the wilting herb plants he was growing in the windowsill. He inhaled the scent of coriander, trying to push away his nervous thoughts and think about instead what recipe he could use the herb for this week.
“So,” Philip called from the living room, “what was the holdup getting here? I hope no faeries gave you trouble.”
Iain sighed. “There was this girl—”
“We should have known a girl was involved,” Boyd chimed in with a laugh. “That’s the only reason you joined the Iron Wardens, isn’t it, because ladies like a man in uniform?”
“Nah,” Philip chimed in also. “I haven’t seen Iain with a gal in ages. A bit over that scene, are you?”
Iain hadn’t thought about it. The last girl he’d had any sort of relationship with had been Elaine, and he avoided thinking of her entirely. At least he had until today. Now he intended to keep an eye out for her, lest she attempt to befriend any more students.
“So what about this lass then?” Philip prompted.
Iain nodded. “There was this girl from James’s school. She’s new to the city, doesn’t know much of anything. She got herself into some trouble.” As Dad sat in his chair by the sofa, Iain added, “She was from Trinity, by the way.”
