An Artificial Night od-3

by Seanan McGuire

  She was silent long enough that I was afraid she’d hung up. Then, quietly, she asked, “Why? You know I promised to kill you after last time.” Was it my imagination, or was there regret in her words?

  “I know.”

  “And you still want my help. Why are you that stupid?”

  The moment of truth. “Because Luna Torquill gave me a message for you.” If Luna was wrong about asking the Luidaeg for help, I was a dead woman. I wondered vaguely whether I’d have time to call the night-haunts before she could get to me. They’d be pleased to hear of my impending death; they did me a favor not long ago, and from what I’ve seen, they’re fond of visceral paybacks.

  “A message from Luna?” She sounded interested despite herself. “What is it?”

  “He Rides,” I said, and waited. The next words had to be hers.

  “How many children?” she asked, after a long pause. Resignation hung heavy in those words.

  “At least eight. Maybe more.”

  “Damn it!” Her voice rose in a shriek. I heard things shattering behind her, but couldn’t tell whether she was throwing them or whether they were breaking out of sympathy. “Damn it damn it damn it—why the fuck is she sending you to me?”

  “Because she thought you might be able to help.” Because it takes darkness to understand darkness.

  She sounded heartbroken when she spoke again. “Why me? Why can’t you people just leave me alone?”

  “Because we need you, Luidaeg. Because I need you.”

  She caught her breath and held it for a moment. Then, slowly, she said, “I can help.”

  “I know,” I lied. I hadn’t known. I’d hoped. After what Luna said to me, hoping seemed like the best course of action I had.

  “I don’t come cheap. You’re willing to give me a blank check?”

  I winced. “Yes. I am.”

  “You’re still an idiot,” she said and laughed, low and bitter. “It’s good to know some things never change. You’re at Shadowed Hills?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hang up and get over here before I change my mind. I need you to do exactly what I tell you to. Can you handle that?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’d better know so, or we’re finished before we start. Leave now. Don’t go home. Once you’re on the road, don’t stop, don’t look back. Have you eaten today?”

  “Not much. I’ve had about half an egg, some home fries, two bites of blackberry pie, three cups of coffee, and some tea at Lily’s.”

  “I can work around that. Get your ass over here.”

  The line went dead. I hung up and turned toward my car, massaging my throbbing temple with the palm of my hand. I didn’t look back—something that became increasingly difficult as I got into the car and pulled out of the parking lot. I eventually decided that “don’t look back” was a literal command, and I’d be fine as long as I didn’t actually turn my head to see what was behind me. It was a cheat, but it was the best I had.

  The drive to the Luidaeg’s took more than an hour and a half, thanks to that famous San Francisco traffic. She lives next to the docks; it’s not easy to get there even when the tourists aren’t out in force. Fill the streets with idiots who want to see Pier 39 “one more time,” and you’re lucky if you can get anywhere near the water without getting stuck in stop-and-go traffic. My headache had developed into a full-grown migraine by the time I reached her neighborhood.

  The brightly colored tourist traps gave way to crumbling, half-decayed buildings that looked like they were longing for an excuse to collapse. They pressed in on each other, creating a corridor of close-set looming walls. The air stank like stale water and rotting fish. I’ve gotten used to it—visiting frequently makes it easier to bear—but that didn’t keep me from wondering how she could live with it every day. I guess the answer is simple. The Luidaeg was born to the marsh and fen, the places where land and sea meet, mate, and destroy one another. She lived there still.

  Spike huddled in my lap, watching the landscape and occasionally letting out a small, frightened whine. Judging by its reactions, it knew who we were visiting, and it didn’t approve. It doesn’t like the Luidaeg. It never has.

  “It’s all right, Spike,” I said. “She’s not likely to rip off your head and show it to you.” That pleasure was reserved for me.

  I slowed as the Luidaeg’s building came into view on the left. It was a heap of crumbling brickwork and peeling paint that looked like it was going to collapse any day. I think she’s the only tenant—at least, I hope she is. No one should live that way unless it’s by choice. I pulled into the first available space. Whimpering, Spike followed me out of the car. I couldn’t reassure it. Hell, I couldn’t even reassure myself.

  The Luidaeg’s door was set deep in the shadows, sheltered by a rickety fire escape. The frame was darkened and warped by years of neglect. There were no wards; she didn’t need them. Raising one hand, I knocked.

  “It’s open!”

  Great, a self-service portal to hell. Just what I always wanted.

  The door swung silently open when I turned the knob; the Luidaeg likes special effects, not clichés. I stepped inside and choked, trying not to gag on the mixed smells of seaweed, mold, and rotting fish. The dark hallway was filled with clutter and half-seen obstacles; a light flickered at the other end, very far away. Spike flattened itself against my ankles before climbing my side to huddle on my shoulder. Giving it what I hoped was a reassuring pat, I began picking my way through the garbage on the floor. Things moved in the darkness near the walls, scuttling and hissing, and I was suddenly glad my night vision isn’t as good as my mother’s. Spike hissed. I stroked its head with one hand and kept walking.

  The Luidaeg was in the kitchen, rummaging through a water-stained cardboard box. Gas lamps filled the room with a shifting, unsettling glow. She looked up as I entered, asking, “Did you look back?”

  Sometimes I think the Luidaeg never ends a conversation; she just puts them on hold until you come back into range. “No,” I said. “And if you think that was easy at rush hour, you’re nuts.”

  “I never said it would be easy.”

  “I know.” I thought about adding “but I don’t understand,” and decided against it. I wanted her to help me. Pissing her off would be a bad idea.

  She put her hands on her hips, eyeing me. I waited. Never rush anyone who’s personally witnessed continental drift.

  The Luidaeg doesn’t use glamours to make herself look human; she’s a natural shapeshifter, and she’s as human as she wants to be. Freckles and a peeling tan warred for dominance over her features, and a piece of electrical tape barely held her oily black curls in a rough ponytail. She was wearing stained coveralls and heavy dock boots, leaving her arms and upper chest bare. She could have been in her late teens or early twenties. There was nothing fae about her, and that was scary as hell. She’s Firstborn and incredibly powerful, but she can hide so well I’d never see her coming. There are a lot of things I’d rather face than the Luidaeg on a bad day. Like Godzilla.

  “Did Luna tell you what was going on?”

  “Some.” I found a reasonably clean spot on the counter and leaned against it, trying to ignore the cockroaches scuttling away. “She said Blind Michael was riding because he needed new members for his Hunt.”

  “Pretty much.” She snagged one of the larger roaches and popped it into her mouth. I winced. Swallowing, she continued, “He Rides once a century. Before that happens, he sends his Huntsmen to bring him suitable children. They find the kids, catch them, and bring them to him.”

  “Why children?”

  “Because they’re young enough to become his.” She shook her head. “He can’t have a Hunt without Riders.”

  “Why haven’t we killed him?” I blurted and instantly regretted it. Blind Michael was the Luidaeg’s brother; her sisters died at the hands of Titania’s children a long time ago, and she’s never forgiven Titania’s line for their deaths. Considering my own
heritage, reminding her that Firstborn can be killed didn’t seem like the best possible idea.

  She narrowed her eyes, pupils thinning to serpentine slits. “It’s been tried. Once it was even tried by my sisters and I—we belong to Maeve, but that doesn’t make us monsters. Remember that, child of Oberon: even we can tell the difference.”

  The Daoine Sidhe are claimed by Titania, not Oberon. This didn’t seem like the right time to point that out. “Why didn’t it work?”

  “Because there are rules, and they weren’t followed.”

  I frowned, reaching up to stroke Spike. It huddled against my neck, whining. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever seen Blind Michael?”

  Blind Michael was part of the local landscape. Everyone knew his name, everyone had seen his Hunt riding the Berkeley Hills in search of prey. Smart people kept their distance; if you weren’t careful, you might end up on the wrong end of their spears. I’d seen Hunt leaders, and I’d seen Hunters. Had I ever seen their lord? “I don’t know. I think so?”

  “You haven’t. You’d know. Blind Michael doesn’t leave his lands, because as long as he stays there the rules protect him, and he’s safe. That’s why my sisters and I couldn’t kill him. You can’t hunt him in his own halls, you can’t follow him into his own darkness.”

  “But I’ve seen his Hunt.”

  “They ride when the fancy strikes them. He Rides only when there are children to be claimed. He’s vulnerable one night out of every hundred years—the odds are against you. No one stops him.”

  “I will,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel.

  The Luidaeg shook her head. “This isn’t another crazy changeling, Toby. This is Blind Michael. He’s stronger than I am. I couldn’t stop him. What makes you think you can?”

  “Nothing,” I said, with complete honesty. It pays not to lie to the Luidaeg. She might take offense and rip off one of your limbs. “I’m probably going to die horribly.”

  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your fatalistic outlook on life,” she said, clapping her hand down on another cockroach. “It’s always been one of your best features. Why bother going if you know you’re going to fail?”

  “I have to.”

  “Why?” she asked, popping the roach into her mouth. “It’s pointless. If you’re that anxious to die, just say the word. It would save us all a lot of trouble.”

  “I don’t want to die.” That’s why I was negotiating with a woman who’d threatened to kill me at various points in the past. Sometimes my life seems devoid of any logic whatsoever.

  “Then why?”

  “I have to,” I repeated. “He took two of my best friend’s children, and there’s a third who won’t wake up, no matter what we do, and that doesn’t even touch the kids he took from the Court of Cats. I have to try. How could I live with myself if I didn’t?”

  “I see.” Almost gently, she said, “If I help you—and you need me to help you—you’ll owe me. Can you live with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Luidaeg. Three times asked and three times sure.” I shook my head. “You want my word, you have it. Now please. Tell me what I need to know.”

  “Fine.” She crossed her arms, leaning against the cutting board. “You have to move fast; he’ll have started to change the children, but he hasn’t had them long enough to do any permanent damage. Wait too long and you won’t save any of them. You’ll go tonight, and you’ll go alone, and you won’t look back. Because the rules say so.” Her smile showed the edge of a single scrimshaw fang. “It’s the beginning of September. He’ll hold them until Halloween night, changing them to suit his whims, and then they’ll Ride. It’s his way of remembering our mother. Her Rides were always held on Samhain night.”

  I nodded, feeling the first flickers of hope. “So there’s a chance.”

  “The rules let you try, right here, right now. I don’t know if you’ll succeed.” She yanked open a drawer, digging through it. “The rules require me to warn you, just so you know.”

  “Warn me?”

  “You go alone. You can take any help you find, but you can’t ask for it. You fight with what you have and what you’re given; neither steal nor buy any weapon of any kind. You can take each road once, and only once, and some roads not even that often. You go now. Are you ready?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really. Do you know where you have to go?”

  “Blind Michael’s lands.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “If that’s all you know, you’re finished before you start. Stop, think, and ask again.” She straightened, a paring knife in one hand. The handle was made of pearl and abalone, and the blade was a curl of silver barely wider than my finger. It looked like it could cut the air.

  I kept my eyes on her face, trying to ignore the knife. It wasn’t working. “Just once, I wish you’d speak English like a normal person.”

  “What would be the fun in that? Give me your hand.” I blinked, automatically holding out my left hand; she grabbed it, raking the blade across my palm. It cut deep, but there was no pain. Yet.

  “Hey!” I yelped, yanking my hand away.

  She looked at me impassively. “Give me back your hand.”

  “No!”

  “We can do this the easy way, or we can not do it at all. You can wander the hills looking for Blind Michael and never see him coming … or you can give me your hand, and I can give you a road to follow.” She shrugged. “It’s your call. You owe me either way.”

  Great. Rock? Meet hard place. I extended my hand, trying not to think about what I was doing. Spike jumped down to the counter where it crouched, rattling its thorns.

  The Luidaeg looked at it, amused. “Fierce protector.”

  “It does its best,” I said, watching with sick fascination as the blood started to flow over my palm.

  “You’d be surprised at how deep rose thorns can cut. They’re pretty, not safe.” She wrapped her fingers around my wrist, turning my palm toward the floor. Blood spattered on the dirty linoleum. The Luidaeg dumped a handful of tarnished silver coins into a baby food jar and shoved it under my hand, saying, “Hold this. We only need a little blood.”

  “Why do we need any?” I was trying not to be sick. I’ve never liked the sight of my own blood. If I get hurt in the line of duty, I can usually handle it until I’m out of the path of certain doom. Standing in the Luidaeg’s kitchen with no visible dangers—except maybe the Luidaeg herself—was forcing me to fight the urge to stick my head between my knees and pass out.

  “Because there are no free roads, moron,” she said, sorting through the mess on her counter. “You should know that by now.” She turned back to me, holding a length of filthy, off-white twine. “You’re going to need a map. The blood pays for it; proves you mean it.”

  “A map where?”

  “Back in time and just around the corner. You’re going to visit my brother, and he’s choosy about who he lets through the door. Give me that.” She took the jar from my hand. “Silver that’s come a long way already, the iron in your blood … it’s going to have to do. Go ahead and run your hand under the tap, but don’t bandage it. The wound’s not going with you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I turned on the faucet, looking dubiously at the cloudy water, and then stuck my hand under it. The cold registered a moment before the pain. I shrieked and jumped back, turning to glare at the Luidaeg.

  She shrugged. “I’m the sea witch, remember? Were you expecting fresh water?”

  I shouldn’t have been, but I was. I’d stopped worrying about the Luidaeg and started thinking only about her brother; that was a mistake. “No,” I said, quietly. “I guess not.”

  “Good girl.” She dropped the twine into the jar and screwed the lid on before shaking it. The coins rattled, and the blood sloshed against the glass. I looked away. “Wimp,” she chided. I looked around to see her uncap the jar, pouring the c
ontents into a wax mold, and topping them with salt water from the tap.

  “What are you doing?” Blood rituals are dangerous. If I was going into one, I wanted to know.

  “Making your map.” She lifted the mold and shattered it against the kitchen counter, easily catching the candle that fell out of the shards. “Perfect.”

  I stared.

  The candle was a foot long, made of multicolored wax. Swirling streaks of moon white, copper red and pale straw gold mingled together in long, lazy spirals. The wick was a deep, rich brown, like long-dried blood. “What the—”

  “There are three ways I could send you to my brother.” She turned the candle in her hand, making the colors in the wax seem to dance. “There’s the Blood Road—you could take it, but you don’t want to. Not if you want a chance to come home alive. There’s the Old Road, but even with my help, you couldn’t find the door as you are. You’re too much of a mongrel.”

  “What does that leave?” I asked. Spike was still rattling its thorns, growling. It didn’t like this. Neither did I.

  “The last road.” She held up the candle and smiled, almost sadly. “The road you walk by candlelight. It’s not going to be easy—it never could be—but you have iron, and you have silver, and you can get there and back if you hurry.”

  “How do I get started?”

  “Did you jump rope when you were a kid?”

  I stared at her. “What?”

  “Jump rope. Did you stand on the playground jumping over a piece of moving rope and chanting? Cinderella dressed in yellow, Miss Suzy’s steamboat?”

  “Of course.”

  “Blind Michael is a child’s terror. When you’re hunting bogeymen, you look for the nets you need in the stories you’ve almost forgotten.” Her eyes flashed white. “Look where the roses grow. You need to take a walk to my brother’s lands. Do you remember the way?”

  “I never knew it!”

  “Of course you did. You’ve just forgotten. How many miles to Babylon?”

  “What?”

  The Luidaeg sighed. “You’re not listening. How many miles to Babylon?”

  The phrase was familiar. I paused, searching for the answer in the half-forgotten memories of the childhood I’d long since left behind, and ventured, “Threescore miles and ten?”