by Liz de Jager
He snarls at me and I grimace at the smell of his rancid breath in the confined space.
‘You know what else is stupid?’ I say, backing away from him, luring him further into the small room. ‘Hunting in the same school for over a year. You must have been desperate. Desperate and stupid. Your clan must be so relieved I’m sending you back. Your antics in the Frontier have been a true embarrassment to them.’
It’s this final insult that makes David Gardner transform into a monster. In the space of a heartbeat I’ve come to share the room with a creature no human should face. Gone is the teenager with the bright future. In his place is a monster from an ugly nightmare. Raw-boned and big, he easily tops seven feet. Sickly grey skin ripples across his narrow, hunched shoulders and his long sinewy neck flexes as he swings his head to try and keep track of me. His face has a wide flat nose and curving thin mouth. His eyes, still impossibly human, blink at me before the pupil dilates and narrows into a vertical stripe. The silver claws at the ends of his muscled arms are a good three inches long – being cut by them would mean a course of antibiotics and a few days in the infirmary at the Manor.
The thing about banshees is that there are very few of them and they work hard to keep the equilibrium within their small matrilineal clans. There are even fewer male banshees, and once a male’s appetite for human girls quickens there is no way that female banshees will stand being around him, even if it means losing a mate. It is about politics too, and the banshee clans would rather lose one of their strong male partners than face the displeasure of the Unseelie ruler, the Queen of Air and Darkness, Suola.
The banshee in front of me has no reason to be here and no permission from his clan mother or the Unseelie Queen. He is a rogue and knows that I am here to send him back.
I keep my iron baton in my hand and focus on the creature. Long thin teeth slide from engorged gums and, as he lunges for me, I run past him, somersault over the couch and come up behind it. There’s an audible whump on the other side of the couch as he runs fully into the magic circle it had taken me most of the day to set up.
I peer over the back of the couch and see him standing in the middle of a gently glowing circle, holding his head, making confused clicking noises in the back of his throat. The air is filled with the sickening smell of singed skin and I swallow against the bile rising in my throat.
I cast an eye at the wooden floor covered by the threadbare carpet he’s standing on, noticing with relief how strongly the sigils I had so painstakingly crafted with phoenix-blood ink shimmer all around him. Because I didn’t know how strong he would be, I had layered two magic circles, one within the other, hoping that if he got through the first one the second one would stop him. It was extra work and time consuming, but because this is my first solo gig I do not want to screw up.
I stand up on shaky legs and walk around the couch to stand in front of him.
‘By the authority of the High King of Alba and by the trust placed in the Blackhart family, you are sentenced to return to the Unseelie Court, where you will face punishment in accordance to the treaties signed by the Queen of Air and Darkness. You are guilty of unlawfully accessing a gateway, of killing a human boy and impersonating him for the duration of your unauthorized visit to the human realm and by direct interference, causing the death of three young women. You will have no chance to plead your innocence as the Court found you guilty in your absence. Your sentence will be carried out when you arrive at the Unseelie Court.’
I’m relieved that my voice quivers only slightly as I speak. I keep my eyes on the creature in the magical circle at all times. He’s raging, testing the strength of the walls by hammering on them. Each time he does, bright sparks of energy singe his hands and forearms.
‘I see you now, girl.’ His voice thrums low in his throat. ‘There is so much darkness around you.’ He pauses, waiting for me to say something else, but I bite my lip and give him my best Clint Eastwood glare. ‘I can taste your future, Blackhart. It’s filled with pain and anguish. The Dark Gods hunger and no one else will be there to help you. Do you think you can survive what’s coming, all by yourself?’
I am standing in front of him now. And once more he looks like Dave Gardner but there is nothing in his eyes that looks even remotely human. I know he’s playing mind-games but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a grain of truth in what he’s saying. Banshees are weird at the best of times and the males are especially touched, more likely to go off the rails in puberty because of their hormones, which is why so few of them outlast any of the females in their clans.
Their gift of foretelling usually manifests during times of great distress. And right now would definitely count as him being in distress. He knows I’m ready to send him back to Suola’s Court, right into the waiting jaws of her Beast. I’ve heard stories about her famous executioner and the delight he takes in torturing all those who oppose the Dark Queen, and it’s given me nightmares for a week, so, in a way, I don’t blame him for trying to rattle me.
‘Feel free to tell your queen all you see, monster. I’m interested to hear what she has to say about this mess you’ve left behind for us to clean up.’
‘Best to watch your back, Blackhart. Most of Alba would like to see you and your family burn.’
I’m unimpressed by his threat. ‘I’ve heard that before, monster. We all have. And as much as the Fae dislike us, we do what’s necessary to prevent monsters like you killing humans.’
He gives a low rasping laugh and licks his lips with a disturbingly pink tongue. ‘Never go to the Otherwhere by yourself, Blackhart. I’ll find you. I’ll tell my friends about you. Maybe we’ll even come back here and find you. Imagine the fun we’d have.’
‘Tell your friends “hi” from me when you see them. Before you die, that is. Or maybe you won’t even see them. I hear that Suola’s kept her Beast on a short leash lately and he’s hungry.’
I’m lying through my teeth but he can’t know that. A distressed whine rises from him and I cover my nose with my shirt as the room is suddenly drenched in the smell of fear and something else unpleasant I try not to identify.
I hold up the small carved wooden token that’s been hanging around my neck for the past two weeks. It takes a few moments for him to stop pacing so he can focus on what I’m holding. When he does, he stands up straight and a look of alarm crosses his reptilian features.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Don’t . . .’
‘Shut up.’ I let the token dangle off its chain and I watch his eyes follow it as it swings. ‘You didn’t give Chloe or Sandra or Jo a chance. I don’t see why I should give you the option of travelling back to the Otherwhere on an easy ride.’
I walk towards the door. Just as I reach it I turn around and snap the little piece of wood neatly in half between my fingers. The sound it makes is a subsonic boom that shakes your bones and makes you feel a bit funny in the head.
I watch as the walls I had created so painstakingly with my own magic flash downwards, not unlike a laser scanning a document. The lower it gets, the faster it flashes, taking the banshee – aka a boy called Dave – with it, basically slicing him to bits before my eyes. I stand there and watch it happen. I don’t really want to, but I make myself. I owe it to lovely Chloe, who fell in love with the wrong guy and who paid for it with her life.
When the beam reaches the floor where the sigils are inscribed, it runs along the ground widdershins, in reverse, taking the ink with it. Within seconds there is nothing left in the room that shouldn’t be there. Unless you count the stench of singed skin, fear and urine, none of which I can do anything about.
I close the door behind me with shaking hands and turn the lock, pocketing the key. Time to go and report to Principal Williams that Arlington Secondary School will now no longer be plagued by supernaturally motivated suicides.
Chapter Three
The graveyard at dusk is still. I jump over the fence a few metres away from the locked iron gate and make my way along the
tumbled stones and ancient yew trees standing guard among the graves. I ignore the long shadows snaking their way across the ground as night falls. I’ve been here so often that I could find my nan’s grave while wearing a blindfold.
The gravestone isn’t ostentatious. Above Nan’s birth date and the date that she died, the simple lines read:
MIRABELLE BLACKHART
GRANDMOTHER, SISTER, AUNT FRIEND.
‘EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL.’
I sit down next to the gravestone and lay the bright spray of yellow flowers on the ground. Someone’s been keeping a good eye on her grave and it looks neater and tidier than some of the others.
I hug my knees to my chest and only find my voice after a few minutes.
‘First solo job, Nan. It went okay, I think. I sent the banshee back and I was tempted just to burn him and the whole building to the ground, but that would have been messy and I think Uncle Jamie would have been really annoyed with me.’
I clear my throat and touch the petals of the flowers. ‘I brought you some sunny flowers. I thought they’d cheer you up a bit.’
The silence in the graveyard acts as a balm to my frayed nerves and I watch as something, a beetle of some sort, pushes its way along the grass on the far side of the grave.
‘Please tell me you’re not planning to turn into a creepy Goth and hang out in graveyards.’
I try not to show my fright and twist towards my uncle Jamie’s voice. How a six-foot-three guy weighing two hundred and fifty pounds can move as quietly as he does is a skill he’s yet to share. The knife in my hand is a reassuring presence and I don’t slide it back into its sheath in the small of my back when he sits down on the ground opposite to me.
He leaves a single white rose on the ground next to my yellow flowers.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him. His features are difficult to make out in the darkness but his silhouette is something I’ll recognize anywhere.
‘Catching up with you before I head to Hawaii. I’m training some US government people down there.’
‘Nice. Do I get to come along?’
His chuckle is low and charming. ‘Oho, a good try, but no. You get to go home and sleep and eat. You look like you’re made from candyfloss, like you’ll drift away on the breeze any second.’ He waves his hand in the air to show me exactly how wafty I look.
I scowl at him in the dim light. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You used a lot of magic. You need to rest. Do the paperwork to close the case and just relax. You’ll be off on more adventures pretty soon.’
‘I’m ready now,’ I say.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks me, blatantly ignoring my comment.
‘Just wondering about stuff,’ I say. ‘How different my life would have been had she lived and the house not been burned to the ground.’
He sits quietly next to me for a bit before he drags out his dented pack of cigarettes and fiddles with it between his fingers.
‘Did you ever wonder why Mirabelle made you do boxing?’ he asks me. ‘Or why she insisted you learn karate?’
I look at him in confusion. ‘She never made me do anything,’ I reply. ‘I chose to do those things.’
‘Do you remember her prompting you?’
I hate to admit it, but I remember her showing me the karate pamphlets. It took a few weeks but I eventually told her I’d be interested in taking classes. The boxing happened later, when we moved to the village and the local gym advertised classes after school. I liked the idea of learning how to defend myself, especially as the karate instructor I had in Germany had me compete in my age group and I enjoyed the competition.
‘What are you saying, Jamie?’
‘Mirabelle’s been training you how to look after yourself all your life, Kit. You may not have realized that, but she knew a time would come when you would be drawn back into the family. And she wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be at a disadvantage.’
I want to argue with him, but I can’t because I suspect he’s telling the truth.
‘Why did she run from the family? If she knew about my gift, about the magic, she should have stayed.’
‘Mirabelle wanted to give you a chance to grow up as yourself. She knew that your life as a Blackhart would mean one of constant training and learning about the Otherwhere. She saw your parents’ death as a chance to give you the opportunity to have the normal childhood that none of us had. Then, when you were older, she would tell you about the family and you could make the decision to join us or walk away. We thought we’d tell you on your eighteenth birthday. But things changed when she was threatened; when she called me.’
I grunt. ‘Too late.’
He sighs and shifts uncomfortably.
‘Are you going to sit here the whole night, feeling sorry for yourself?’ Jamie’s voice isn’t as harsh as it could be. ‘I’m heading to the airport and if I don’t leave soon I’ll miss my flight.’
‘I’m done,’ I say and stand up smoothly, keeping the knife by my side. It was night-time in a graveyard. You just never know what might lurk in the dark.
‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ he says to me and drops an arm around my shoulders, giving me a quick squeeze. ‘I’m proud of you. You did really well sorting out the mess at that school.’
I beam a smile at that but pretend to watch my feet, not wanting him to see how much his compliment mattered to me.
‘And I’m being serious, Kit. Go back to the Manor, do your paperwork and just relax. Mrs Evans is away at her niece’s wedding so you’ll have the whole place to yourself. Brownie weddings go on for at least a week, if not more if all the clan turns up.’
‘But I’m fine,’ I tell him. ‘A bit sore and bruised, but I’m okay.’ I hold my hand out and my magic shimmers around my skin. ‘See? If I was as tired as you’re making out, I wouldn’t be able to do that. And are you sure I can’t come with you? I’ll be no bother, I promise.’
Jamie lets out a long-suffering sigh. ‘I pity the man you decide to marry one day,’ he tells me as he vaults over the fence. He waits for me to do the same. ‘You just don’t know how to listen.’
I shrug, used to this. ‘It’s okay, we’ll be having so much sexy times there won’t be any listening.’
‘Oh, that is uncalled for,’ Jamie laughs, pushing me away. ‘You teenagers are just gross.’
I laugh as he climbs into his jeep.
‘I’m proud of you, Sparky. You’ve done well on this mission. Now, go home.’ He kisses my forehead before shutting the door.
I lift my hand in farewell as he spins the wheel and drives away into the night. I walk back to my own rental car, a small Fiat, and climb in. I’m soon back on the main motorway heading for the Manor and at least a week of solitude.
Chapter Four
Blackhart Manor: Blackhart Manor is built on an important confluence of leylines* (commonly known as a nexus or node) within the Devon countryside. Unsubstantiated reports claim that a gateway to the Otherwhere is located within the forest that borders the property.
*Leylines: lines of earth energy, similar to a highway, that criss-cross the earth, making it possible for those who have the ability to tap into it, to renew body, mind and spirit.
From an archived report filed in HMDSDI HQ, 1984
It’s weird waking up in the Manor to find myself alone. I came in during the small hours of the morning, expecting at least one or two of my cousins to be around, but the rambling old house is empty. I walk through the house, my footsteps echoing down the long passageways, through majestic rooms with high ceilings, wood panelling and chandeliers and furniture that would give apoplexy to all the hosts of the Antiques Roadshow.
I make my way to the kitchen with some reluctance. The place is sparkling and nothing is out of place. I’m about to rummage in the cupboards when I spot a note addressed to me stuck to the industrial-sized fridge, in a neat printed hand:
Breakfast is ready in the conservatory. Jeremy and I will be
back first thing on Sunday after Gwendolyn’s handfasting. Dinner is in the fridge.
And it is signed by our house brownie with a rather elaborate and dramatic E.
I make myself a cup of tea and carry it through to the conservatory. It’s a Victorian affair with lots of plants and a big glass table in the centre; it makes me feel as if I’m having breakfast in the jungle.
Mrs Evans is as good as her word. The elaborate breakfasts she plans when all the cousins and uncles and aunties are in town has been scaled down enough to feed a mere five of me. She’s not subtle and clearly thinks I need fattening up. I agree with her. It’s easier than arguing with the Blackhart brownie who runs the domestic life of the Manor with an iron fist sheathed in a Laura Ashley oven glove.
I dish myself bacon, eggs, toast, grilled tomatoes and a glass of ice-cold orange juice. This I carry to the table and fall to with gusto. It tastes as if it’s just been made and I don’t know how brownie magic works, only that it does, and I love Mrs Evans with all my heart.
Using my magic tires me out; it makes me hungry and I can sleep for a week after completing a tough ritual. But I know that, if I push myself, I can go on for longer, and will just need extra sleep and to nurse a bad head for a few days. Judging by Jamie’s mothering comments at the graveyard early last night, I must have looked really bad. I didn’t actually feel it then, and the only real hint of how exhausted I was came later last night as I slept like the dead until hunger woke me. Although I feel more human now, all I can think about is food and feeding this ravening maw that’s opened inside me. Yet another reason not to date: I can out-eat most competitive eaters any time of the day without blinking.
I have a second course (warm fresh pastries) and coffee before I get up and wander back through the empty house to the library, where I sit down with a sigh and start on the paperwork the closure of the case necessitates. There are seven forms to fill in. In triplicate. The wording has to be in Latin and, in some rare instances, Greek.
