by CJ Brightley
How would it be reported, anyway? Aria Forsyth, missing. Aria Forsyth, killed by a vagrant. Killed by a fairy? She glanced at him again. He didn’t look like something the word fairy might describe. Fairies were small, glowing sprites, with wings, who loved nature and water and such. Fae sounded a little fiercer. That word suited him. She rummaged in her mind for the old stories. He’d mentioned fairies, vampires, and elves, as if the legends overlapped. She’d thought they were quite distinct.
He didn’t drink blood, but he was definitely carnivorous. She applied the word carefully, trying not to think about the pig’s heart. It was still bloody, and she suspected it had been delivered that way upon request. A little extra blood, please. Like frosting on a donut.
Vampires. What did vampires fear? The cross. Garlic. A stake through the heart. Elves. She didn’t know much about elves. Tolkien’s elves were beautiful, cultured, and strong, but she wasn’t sure that was the kind he meant. That concept was so recent, and the older lore tended more toward impish little devils, troublemakers, and pranksters. That didn’t seem to fit him either. Fairies. She couldn’t remember what they feared. Iron? She thought vaguely of the Seelie Court and Unseelie Court of the Fairies, but couldn’t remember what they were. She did remember that fairies were said to be amoral, rather than immoral, outside the laws of human interaction. Wasn’t there something about a blood tithe to the underworld? Not that she believed in the underworld. But she hadn’t believed in fairies either.
She took off her still damp boots and socks and laid them to dry on the floor. Then her coat. She glanced at Owen. He hadn’t moved, his eyes closed. He might have been dead but for the faint movement of his chest as he breathed. She turned away and pulled off her sweater. She tugged at the bandage around her arm and finally pulled it off with a preemptive wince. The wound was small and clean, a narrow slit scarcely the length of her thumbnail, and it had already started to heal. A thin film of skin showed dark red over the cut, with smudges of dried blood around it. She pulled her sweater back over her head, unfolded the bandage, and spread it out.
She wanted to be angry with him, but maintaining it was hard. He’d jerked her away from a bullet that would have killed her. Sure, it was meant for him, but he could have saved himself more easily if she wasn’t there. He could have run across the bridge long before they’d arrived. He could have used her as a shield if it came to that.
True, too, the fact that she’d been the one to bother him. The one to find his apartment and try to break in. Twice. The one to see him on the bridge and hold him with her questions, even as they tracked her to him. She hadn’t known, but he had.
He had reason to be angry with her, not the other way around.
A slight sound caught her attention.
Eyes closed, he sang. Barely audible, under his breath, he sang. The tune rose and fell, wove into a tapestry, repeating itself in layers that seemed to stay in her mind after the sound had faded. The words weren’t English. She wasn’t sure all the words were composed of sound at all. But in her mind, she pictured a forest, a green and vibrant forest, filled with mist and the sound of things growing. A rushing stream with water cool and clean and fresh as morning. And Owen, stepping one bare foot into the stream, kneeling, not minding the water soaking the ragged hem of his pants, bending to drink from one hand, graceful as a deer.
She blinked and stared at him across the room.
Craggy mountains of stark stone rose behind hills so green they hurt her eyes. A forest, the trees old and vibrant with a past rich enough to merit their own history books. Textured bark and wood. Lichen, cool blue-green. Yellow-green moss cloaking rounded boulders. Water flowing over smooth pebbles. This time he stood, one hand resting on a tree trunk, head bowed slightly and eyes closed. He opened his eyes and looked straight at her. Blue eyes clear and cold as a winter sky.
She shook her head, blinked, and stared at him again. He lay as before, motionless but for the slight rise and fall of his chest.
Did his song give her the vision? She tried to tell herself that was impossible, but nothing in the past two days had been normal.
Aria spent hours staring out the window. Thinking. She ate another sandwich. She looked at Owen occasionally, but he never moved. It got dark, and she lay on the floor. It was cold and uncomfortable, but at some point, she fell asleep.
She blinked at the ceiling. It was light again, and by the angle of the cool shadows, the sun had been up for some time. She stretched and sat up, expecting to feel terribly sore, and was surprised to feel refreshed instead. She closed her eyes and stretched her shoulders again. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time, actually. Strange. She’d had odd dreams. She couldn’t remember them clearly, only the impressions they’d left. Green forests. Running water. A feeling rather than a memory.
A movement caught her eye and she glanced over to see Owen shift. He rose without looking at her and stood at the window. His motion was stiff, painful, but he didn’t cough. His bare feet made no sound on the thin industrial carpet as he moved to look out the other window.
“Good morning,” she ventured.
“Hm.” The answer was noncommittal.
She sat up and hugged her knees. “Do you know the test subjects?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed. “What are they doing with them? I mean…” she wondered if there was a way to say it diplomatically. “What exactly are they trying to find out?”
There was a long pause, and he didn’t look at her. “We don’t know yet,” he said finally.
This too, she had wondered about. “We? Are there many of you Fae?”
Now he looked at her over his shoulder, a long, thoughtful look. Finally, he said, “Not as many as there were.”
She took a deep breath. “You sing beautifully.”
She might not have noticed the smile if she hadn’t been looking for it. A slight twitch of one corner of his mouth, as if he were amused rather than complimented.
“Do you need another pig's heart? Because I’m getting low on food and you didn’t have dinner last night.” She tried for a light tone and felt it fall flat between them.
“Not yet. Soon.” He turned to look out the window again for a moment before unwrapping the bandage from his left hand. He flexed the fingers, made a fist and then spread the fingers wide with a wince. He cradled it in his other hand and sat on the floor, eyes closed.
And he sang. Leaves rustling in a summer breeze, light streaming through like beams of gold. She was lost in it.
She blinked and stared at him again. He looked down at his hand and flexed it again, turned it over and rubbed it fiercely with his right hand.
“May I see?”
He held up his hand toward her. It was whole, strong and pale and perfect as his other hand.
Aria knelt in front of him. “May I?” She nearly didn’t wait for his nod before reaching out and holding his hand in both of hers. It was unscarred, the skin smooth and white over the fine strong bones. Cool to the touch. “Does it hurt?” she whispered.
“It’s a little sore still. But it works.”
“How did you…?” She didn’t know what to call it. Heal? The word was too innocuous for what she’d seen. “The bone was broken, wasn’t it?”
“Several were. The singing helps.” He did not elaborate.
She suddenly realized she was still holding his hand, peering at it inches from her nose like he was a lover. Or a science experiment. She dropped it and scooted away from him on the floor. “I’m sorry.” She frowned. “What about your other injuries? Can you heal them too?”
“Yes. But I’m tired. It takes effort. And time.” He took a deep breath, and she realized he was fighting exhaustion already.
“Is there something I should do to help?”
He studied her face, cool blue eyes not giving her any hint of what he was thinking. Finally, he said, “Why were you at Dandra’s?”
She blinked. “Researching. For my thesis. I’m study
ing history.”
His eyes remained on her, evaluating. She shifted uncomfortably, and the silence drew out.
Finally, she asked tentatively, “Are you really that old?”
“Why would I lie about that?”
“You probably remember everything I’m trying to research then.” She smiled.
He glanced away, and said softly, “I remember a lot of things.”
Aria swallowed. “My thesis is on, well, it was going to be on how things have changed since the Revolution. I was trying to narrow down my topic, because it seems like so many things have changed. And I found this book, someone’s memoir. No one important. He talked about the forest, and the wind in his hair when he rode his bicycle as a child. I remembered riding my bicycle down the sidewalk in the sun, and the trees.” Her voice trailed away as she watched Owen for a moment. He was staring off into the distance somewhere past her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
He nodded.
She continued tentatively, “Well, I spent probably two hours reading that book at the back table, and I meant to go back to it. I went back the day I saw you asking about maps, and it wasn’t there. I asked Dandra about it, and she said she didn’t know what book I meant. But I know she did. It made me suspicious, I suppose. Like someone didn’t want me to read about the past. But I’m a history student! That’s what I’m supposed to be studying. None of my professors even seem interested in history at all.” The more she thought about their lectures, the more irritated she became.
“I wouldn’t expect so.” His eyes focused on her with sudden intensity. “It challenges them.”
She licked her lips. “What do you mean?”
“They live in a world of propaganda. Easy untruths that hide the tragedy of what they have lost. Of what they have done. Of what they are even yet doing. No one wants to face their own sins.” His voice didn’t rise, but he leaned forward just a hair, and she caught her breath. “You are a threat if you wish to know the truth of history. It’s one of many reasons they hate us. Because we remember.”
He leaned back, and she took an unsteady breath. He could, indeed, be intimidating when he chose.
He rose to go look out the window again, flexing his left hand. “We’re safe here until at least tonight.”
Aria watched him for a long moment before eyeing the food thoughtfully. “Do you think this is still safe to eat? It hasn’t been refrigerated, but it’s pretty cold in here.” She poked at the meat, and then finally made another sandwich. It wasn’t appealing, but she ate it anyway.
He remained by the window, eyes on the gray scene that spread out before him.
“Why do you like the bridge?” she asked. “I can’t remember much about fairies or elves or vampires. But I thought fairies were afraid of iron.”
He turned his cool gaze on her. “It’s old. Everything is new here. This city is made of plastic and concrete and steel, most manufactured in the last hundred years. It has no soul. The bridge looks new but the pilings and girders are original, from 1929. I’d prefer rocks and trees, but there aren’t many of those around here.”
“You can feel the age?”
He hesitated, as if searching for words. Finally, he said, “It’s like plugging in your car, but not exactly. I don’t run out of battery without it, but it gives me strength.”
“Why didn’t you sing and heal yourself earlier?” she frowned. “I mean, from what the vertril did, before they shot you? And why did you say I wouldn’t have seen a vertril?”
He took a deep breath, already tired, and she regretted her words.
No. If I’m stuck in this with him, I need to understand. I need to know what we’re doing, and why. And what might kill me while I’m doing it.
“Vertril are drawn to Fae blood. They were engineered to hunt us, and they have no interest in humans. Most humans never know they exist. They’re tracked too. If one is injured or killed, or even excited, the IPF won’t be far behind. But in the tunnel, it could crush you without noticing as it leapt at me.”
“Why didn’t you sing?” She tried vainly to think of a word to describe it.
“They were close by. Sometimes when they’re searching, they have sensors that can locate…” again he seemed to consider the words. “You’d call it magic, but the term isn’t entirely accurate. Magic is something outside the laws of nature. The Fae word is megdhonia, which translates to something like ‘use of the in-between.’ The in-between being,” he stopped and closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths to steady himself. “The in-between being the spaces between this possibility and that possibility. The laws of nature permit many possible outcomes, of which one comes to pass.” Another deep breath. “We can push our own energy into those spaces to direct the outcome.”
She blinked. “Do you know the future, then?”
“No.”
“How do you heal? What possibility is that? It seems impossible.”
“Only when you look at the whole. Each small part is possible. That this bone will be strengthened and set back into place is one possibility among many.” He stopped to catch his breath, and she waited.
“I’m sorry I ask so many questions. I just want to understand.”
He slid down the wall to sit leaning against it again. He leaned his head back, eyes closed. “If I’m to ask you to help us, it’s only fair that you know what we are. When I sing, it helps focus my energy into those spaces. And I ask for strength from El.” His chest heaved like he’d been running.
“Are you never cold?”
He huffed softly. “Cold is nature. Nature is nothing to be afraid of and bundle up against. Not for us.” Another pause, and he flexed his fingers again.
She stood and looked out the window as well. Today there were more boats on the river, a barge easing slowly beneath the bridge flanked by two tugboats, as well as smaller vessels speeding around them.
“Do you remember the beach? Do you remember forests? I didn’t before, but now I think I went hiking once, with my father. I didn’t remember until you sang, but now I’m sure I’ve been in a forest before.”
“Yes.”
His answer was so soft that she knelt beside him.
“You remember? What was it like? When was it?”
He held her eyes with his own, and, this time, she had no trouble reading the aching sorrow. “It was very beautiful. And it has been a long time.”
“Is that why the book disappeared? It had dates. I don’t remember, sometime in the early 2050s I think. Not long before I was born.”
He sang, eyes on hers, voice as soft and clear as a summer breeze. The sound wrapped around her, layer upon layer, clean and thin and sweet as clover. It wove, up and over and underneath. Running laughing through the warm, humid air, sunbeams breaking through the leaves. Flowers in his hair. Drinking from the stream, water cool and fresh, running between his fingers soft as silk.
“Yes. I remember.”
They stayed all day. Aria wrinkled her nose at the meat and decided it was inedible, but she ate the last of the bread and apples and cheese for lunch. She found a restroom down the hall with working water faucets.
“What books do you have? If we’re going to be here all day, I need something to occupy myself.”
He nodded permission for her to look without rising.
She unzipped his bag and set them on the table, aware of his eyes on her. The first had been blank, now nearly filled with page after page of neat, small writing. She wanted to read it, but wasn’t bold enough to flip through while he watched her so intently. She wasn’t even sure it was all in English.
The next was older, the well-worn leather cover dry and crumbling slightly at the binding. The paper inside was nearly translucent, though stronger than it looked, and it had been carefully wrapped with a long strip of leather to keep it from coming open. She frowned at the cover. There was a symbol and a line of text in some language she couldn’t read.
“What is this?”
“A Fae epic transl
ated into Old Irish.”
“Old Irish?” she frowned. “What is that?”
“I learned it when I was young, from my grandfather.” He smiled slightly at her confused look. “He thought everyone should learn to speak the human languages. That was the one he thought most relevant at the time.”
She set the book aside to look at later. She held two others up for him to identify.
“A book my grandfather wrote about his childhood. And a history book.”
She glanced at him. “And these?”
“Histories.”
Histories of what? She studied the covers. Old, though not as old as the epic. The languages appeared to be different, though she couldn’t read any of them. She didn’t even recognize the alphabets. She took them to the window for better light. “What languages are these?”
“Fae dialects.”
She glanced at him again. “Do you mind me looking at them?”
He sighed, his eyes closed again. “No.”
She opened one book and paged through with careful fingers. The books were well cared for but obviously old and she bent closer. “Was this handwritten?”
“Yes.”
The script shifted between writing so ornate it nearly formed pictures, characters and lines flowing like water through and around each other, and something slightly more akin to English cursive, though the letters were unfamiliar. One page caught her interest, and she followed the curves. “This is beautiful.” Her voice was only a whisper. “I meant to find something to read, but this is art. Can you read this?”
“Yes.” His voice was tired but tinged with amusement this time.
“How many languages do you speak, then?”
A pause. “Eleven? It depends on whether you count several of the dialects as separate languages or not.” He shifted against the wall, eyes still closed.
Aria studied his face. The bruise near his eyebrow had faded slightly, though it was still visible. He’d washed the blood from his face and hands that morning and changed into a new, clean shirt. The pants he’d washed in the sink; he’d reappeared in the doorway after a trip to the restroom and dripped his way back to the spot beneath the window. Now they were damp, as was the carpet beneath him. If he’d been human, he’d have been shivering in the unheated warehouse; Aria was, despite her thick sweater and coat.
