The Changeling's Fortune (Winter's Blight Book 1)

by K. C. Lannon

James slipped off his shoes in the entryway. Marko did the same, hiding a smile.

  “Iain?” James banged his fist on the wall of the hallway frantically, trying to be heard over the noise. “We have company!”

  “Yeah?” Iain bellowed back. James could hear him set down a pan on the stove and stride toward the hallway. “It wouldn’t happen to be your girlfriend, would it? Because I would hate to embarrass you—”

  Iain slid around the corner, dressed in his civilian clothing: plain brown trousers and a T-shirt. He was also wearing house slippers, and his wild hair was pushed from his face with the bandana he wore while cooking.

  Iain looked from James to Marko, breaking off abruptly, his cheeky grin fading. He pulled the bandana from his head, letting his hair fall. “James,” he said, “who is this? Is everything all right?”

  Marko thrust his hand toward Iain to shake. “It’s been a while, Brishen. I’m your Uncle Marko.”

  Iain stared for a moment before narrowing his eyes. “You used to work at the hospital, didn’t you?” He folded his arms. “I think I remember you now.”

  Marko lowered his hand slowly.

  James could tell Iain was not pleased (it might have been the pointed glare that gave it away), but he did not care. “Marko was in the neighborhood and wanted to catch up.”

  “I have something for you.” Marko held up the plastic bag for emphasis. “But first”—his eyes gleamed—“what is that delicious smell?”

  * * *

  Iain watched carefully as Marko scarfed down a bowl of the stew he’d prepared for him and wondered why he had decided to show up now after years of absence and what he wanted from them. He looked to James occasionally, who seemed too anxious to eat and instead was staring at Marko like he was the most interesting person he’d ever encountered.

  He knew very little about Marko. Marko and Mum had grown up together in Neo-London, though they’d apparently had a falling out a few years before Mum left. He’d seemed nice enough from what Iain remembered as a kid, but the name also stirred caution. He remembered with sharper clarity what his father had said. When Iain had asked his father about the Rom who was a nurse and why they hadn’t seen him in a while, he had replied that Marko was a dangerous man, that Marko was obsessed with their mother.

  Had James not been there, Iain would have asked him to leave instantly. But he wanted to spare James from hearing what their father had told him if he could. Perhaps Marko would leave without needing to be told.

  Marko scraped his bowl clean with the chunk of bread Iain had given him. “Good hospitality is difficult to come by these days,” Marko said matter-of-factly. He gestured to Iain. “And you are quite the chef.”

  “Thank you,” Iain said stiffly.

  Marko smiled. “Kallista was always telling me you had skill for it. She was right.”

  The air seemed to grow static and thick at the mention of their mother’s name, as if the house atmosphere was unused to it being uttered. Iain glanced at the floor.

  Marko scooted his chair back and retrieved the bag from the floor at his feet. “I’m not just here to catch up or eat,” he said seriously. “I’ve come to give you these.”

  Marko produced a small stack of letters from the bag and handed them out to Iain. “These letters are from your mother, sent to me over the past few years. There isn’t much in them besides our conversations, but I hope they’ll give you answers.”

  The letters were worn and weathered by rain, the parchment thick and old. Iain took them in his hands hesitantly, his knuckles blanching as he gripped them.

  Mum. They’re from Mum.

  Iain recoiled from his thoughts, startled by how much he wanted them to be true. Maybe he was no less naive than an orphan girl who placed her hope in a faery fortune. He knew he’d been harsh to judge her when he was still just as desperate for answers as she had been.

  Maybe I was crueler to dash her hopes than the banshee was for raising them…

  Iain forced himself to think everything through even though all he wanted to do was believe what Marko was saying. There was so much that did not add up, like why Mum would write to a man who had stalked her and why Marko hadn’t come forward with the letters before now.

  “Why are you telling us this now?” Iain asked.

  Marko sighed. “Kallista made me promise to never tell you. I don’t know why. I think she may have wanted to protect you. I’m telling you now because you deserve to know why she left.”

  “You know why she left.” James was breathless.

  “She did not leave us lightly. Leaving was the hardest thing she’s ever done, but she did it to protect you, Jal.” Marko folded his arms across his chest. “And before you ask, I have no idea where she is. She never told me, no matter how many times I pestered her. And I haven’t heard from her in over a year, which makes me worry she’s in danger.”

  James shot up from his chair, his face pinched in concentration. He was focused, his fingers twitching for a notebook or something to help sort out his thoughts. “I told you she wasn’t unhappy,” he said to Iain. “I knew she wouldn’t have left us for some reason like that.”

  Iain looked back at him, then he shot Marko a pleading look. Please don’t make me tell James what you did, what Dad told me. Convince me you’re not lying.

  “Let’s read them.” James walked around the table, reaching to take the letters from Iain.

  Marko glanced between them. “You read them, but you make sure your father doesn’t.”

  “Why?” Iain asked, his expression hardening again.

  “I— It’s very unclear—”

  “Yeah, a lot of this is unclear, like why you haven’t gone to any authorities if she’s really in danger.” Iain tossed the letters down on the table in front of Marko. He leaned down toward Marko, meeting his gaze intently. “What danger?”

  James was watching him closely.

  “Dark magic,” Marko sputtered out, seemingly just as perturbed by his own words as they were. “It’s dark magic.”

  Iain closed his eyes briefly. He’d heard enough.

  James was yammering on loudly, but Iain could not focus on anything he was saying.

  “Right,” he interjected. “So you’ve heard some of the more wild rumors about why she left, and you thought you’d try to get something out of it then?” He straightened back up. “I remember you. I remember what my father’s said about you. And if you’re trying to hurt him, going through me or my brother won’t get you much.”

  “Oh, Brishen.” Marko shook his head almost sadly, his disappointment palpable. “I had no idea how lost you’ve become.”

  Iain pointed toward the hallway, turning to look at James sternly. “James, go upstairs.”

  “What? No!” James scoffed. “I’m staying right here.”

  “James—”

  “You just want me to leave so you can beat him!” James shouted dramatically, jabbing a finger at him accusatorily. “That’s what Iron Wardens do!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Iain retorted just as loudly. “I’m not going to beat anyone. But I might give you a right good smack if you don’t—”

  The sound of the front door unlocking silenced them all momentarily.

  Iain lost track of where the letters went. He saw Marko stuffing something in the bag he’d brought, and he saw James dart past the table in a blur and race out of the kitchen.

  “Uh, okay!” James answered Iain again as he left. “I’ll go upstairs!”

  Iain was too preoccupied to wonder why his brother was listening to him for the first time in his life. He turned to Marko, who was struggling to stand. Iain offered him an arm for balance, which he accepted.

  “If you hurry, you can leave out the back gate,” Iain said, wanting to avoid a confrontation. “But I don’t want to see you around here again. Do you understand?”

  “I think I understand,” Marko said thinly. “It’s been made clear to me there’s no getting through to you now. Your father’s m
ade sure of that.”

  Before they could reach the door to the back garden, Dad walked inside. Iain tried to think of an explanation that wouldn’t implicate James for bringing Marko into their home. He hadn’t known any better, and maybe that was Iain’s fault for trying to protect him.

  Dad strode down the hall to the kitchen, not looking up from the file he was holding.

  “You’re home early,” Iain pointed out.

  Dad smiled faintly to himself.

  Well, at least he’s in a good mood for the moment.

  “Yes,” Dad said, looking up, “I had some personal business to attend to today, so I took off work—”

  He broke off abruptly, his expression unreadable as his gaze flitted from Marko and rested on Iain.

  “Marko came by. He just wanted to have a chat.” Iain’s throat was dry. “But he’s leaving now.”

  “I see,” Dad said. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in that. It has been a while, seeing as how he was just released from prison last week. So I imagine you had a lot to chat about.”

  Iain’s stomach lurched. Nice one, James. Brilliant.

  Marko stared back evenly, seemingly unfazed.

  “Why don’t you show him the door, Iain?” Dad asked, gesturing back down the hallway. “Then maybe we can eat dinner together.”

  Iain nodded, grabbing Marko’s arm to support him and to get him moving.

  “I see the Iron Guard has had an influence on you.” Marko wrenched himself free once they were at the door, rubbing at his arm absently.

  Maybe I was a bit rough…

  “I’ve had a few run-ins with the Iron Wardens before.” Marko patted his bad leg gingerly. “I’ve got the reminder of that right here.”

  “Things aren’t like that anymore,” Iain said, more defensively than he’d meant to.

  “Aren’t they?” Marko’s smile was wry. “I guess not, now that there are so few of us Roma left to chase away. Now they only have the faeries to harass and turn us against.”

  Marko sighed, adding, “I was thrilled when I learned you’d joined… I had hoped you’d change things eventually.”

  “I—” Iain broke off, not wanting to get into a debate while he was standing in the hallway wearing slippers. “Just go.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Marko said, holding his bag to his chest.

  Iain opened the door wide. “That may be the case, but that’s on me.”

  Marko walked out, heading toward the gate; just before he exited, he turned back, calling out, “I wonder what happened to Kallista’s boy, Brishen. He would’ve been brave enough to read a few letters. And he would’ve been brave enough to see the truth of what was going on around him!”

  Iain shut the door.

  “Did that go all right?” Dad asked him once Iain returned. He was sitting at the kitchen table in front of Marko’s empty bowl.

  Iain didn’t hear him, his mind racing. Why would he lie? Why would he make up some story and fake letters to trick a kid like James? He knew it wasn’t beyond most people to lie, but he could not think of a reason beyond some sick, twisted satisfaction that Marko could gain that Iain couldn’t understand.

  “Listen”—Iain looked at his father—“about Marko—”

  “You don’t need to explain yourself, Iain. I trust that you remember what I told you and that you know when you’re being fooled.” Dad exhaled softly.

  Iain hesitated. “He said some things. About—about Mum.”

  “What things?” Dad asked firmly.

  Just say it. Just keep it together.

  Iain found that the words came slowly and with difficulty. Talking about her never got any easier. He wasn’t used to his father mentioning her anymore. “Not a lot of it made sense,” he admitted, “but he said she wrote to him.”

  Dad said nothing for a long moment. Iain wondered if he was even listening until he said, “If you remember what I told you about Marko, you know that would never happen.”

  “That’s what I thought, but—”

  “Iain,” Dad said sharply, “you know very well that I’ve questioned Marko before and that I learned nothing.”

  Iain nodded numbly.

  “Let’s just both agree to forget all about it. The Cataclysm Memorial is tomorrow, and I would rather we focus on more important things.”

  “All right.” Iain was grateful for that. “I’m going to check on James.”

  Dad’s mouth twitched at a smile. “As expected.”

  * * *

  James flopped down on his bed and pulled the letters out from under his shirt where he’d stashed them. He studied the envelope of one of them, searching for anything that might identify where it came from. There was nothing written on the outside, no return address, no name.

  That’s a little weird.

  A chill rolled down his spine when he thought about what Marko had said, the vague, but ominous words: dark magic. It was if he’d invoked something just by speaking it, as wary of the subject as some Roma were. Magic was considered by most to be marhime, spiritually impure. To the rest, magic was a silly thing and not to be bothered with. He remembered stories his mum used to tell about her encounters with faeries and their magic, which is what had ignited his interest in the first place. However, she always stayed clear of the darker sides of the folktales and the magic that surrounded them, being devout in her Christian faith.

  None of that had ever stopped James from digging deeper in his research, but he didn’t know much about what Marko could have been talking about. Tomes on magic were a rare find. He hated not knowing something.

  When he heard the creaking of the steps as Iain climbed upstairs, he quickly stuffed the letters under his pillow and threw himself down over it.

  Iain opened the door, stepping inside wordlessly.

  “You shouldn’t have treated him like that,” James said. He stared up at the ceiling, at the dark water stains that had been spreading for a while.

  “And you shouldn’t let strangers into our home. You’re much smarter than that.”

  James rolled over, his back to Iain. “He’s not a stranger.”

  I should tell him. I should just tell him what Marko did for him. If he’d even believe me… No, he’d never contradict anything Dad said, would he?

  “Listen,” Iain said. “I know you remember him from when we were kids, but he’s different now. He just got out of jail, James. He’s not the kind of person you want to trust.”

  “You would know all about people like that, wouldn’t you?” James murmured darkly.

  Iain sighed. “Yeah. I guess I would.”

  “So what if you can’t trust Marko?” James asked, raising his voice. “You can trust me, can’t you?”

  “Of course I trust you.”

  “Well, I think Marko was telling the truth.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “I guess we won’t know now, will we?” James sat up on the bed, turning to face Iain. “Did you help Dad chase him out this time?”

  Iain threw his hands in the air. “What are you talking about?”

  James just rolled his eyes. “Just forget it.”

  “That’s not how we deal with things.”

  “That’s exactly how we deal with things, Iain. Or haven’t you lived here?”

  Iain snatched a pillow from his bed and chucked it at James as hard as he could, smacking him in the face. At least it felt to James like he’d thrown it as hard as he could.

  James swiped the pillow away angrily, which only made Iain laugh.

  “Sometimes I think you don’t even want to find Mum,” James said, his voice trembling as badly as his clenched fists. “Maybe it’s good she’s not here to see how much of a jerk you’ve become.” He knew instantly that he’d crossed a line, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  Iain just stood there for a long moment.

  Before James could even react, Iain had thundered across the room in a few long strides. James sometimes forgot
how his brother must appear to civilians: towering and hostile (even while he was in his slippers), his eyes dark and inscrutable.

  “Get downstairs and clean up after supper. Now.” Iain grabbed him by his shoulder, hoisting him upright like he weighed little more than a mouse, and then gave him a hard shove toward the door.

  “Ow!” James yelped, more out of alarm than pain. He stumbled over the mound of clothing he’d left piled on the floor, then ducked around to glare at Iain.

  When he opened his mouth to retort, Iain hissed. “Shut it.”

  James felt his throat tighten, but he ignored it. He rubbed at his stinging shoulder furiously, thinking about refusing to listen but retreated downstairs regardless. He thought about instead what and when he would pack tomorrow, what books to take, and how glad he was that he was finally leaving.

  Chapter Twelve

  The house was always quieter than usual on the anniversary of the bombing. They never had anyone over on the anniversary—not even the Fancy Prancers. Iain had taught James at a young age to give their father space on the day of the memorial, though James was never sure why. He never noticed a difference in his father’s behavior on that day. To James, he maintained his usual reserved, stern nature. But Iain always claimed Dad to be particularly severe on the date, and so James did not question him.

  After his discussion with Deirdre at the café the day before, James had been so excited about their departure that he thought he would barely be able to sleep that night, like he remembered staying up the night before one of the few field trips he attended. However, after his conversation with Marko and his confrontation with Iain, he instead found himself kept up by restless thoughts instead of anticipation, staring blankly at the ceiling in the dark, going over and over what Marko had said to him and what he had said to his brother. When he had slept, his dreams had been sporadic and confusing, filled with odd, unexplainable creatures and magic and sights. But when he woke in the morning, he did not feel doubt or guilt about leaving.

  James climbed out of bed early. Iain was still sprawled out on the tiny twin bed, half his limbs hanging off the side. James dressed quickly into well-worn grey jeans, a grey sweater, and holey hiking boots he’d found at a thrift store. He left his mother’s scarf on the dresser after a moment of hesitation. He was going for a nondescript look so as not to draw attention.