Moonshine

by Jasmine Gower

  “Daisy,” Mr Swarz whispered, but despite his panicked use of her first name, she ignored him, opting to focus on Cyan as he knelt to pick up the other spoons and dig around amongst the various shiny objects. He ran long fingers across the buttons, seeming to delight in the tiny clinking sound of his nails against their surfaces, before spying the chocolate. He dropped the spoons with abrupt disinterest and grabbed a square of candy, sniffing at it before delicately testing it with his tongue. Finding it to his liking, he stuffed it in his mouth and grabbed two more pieces.

  Daisy leaned forward. “Hello, dear.” Cyan looked her in the eyes, blinking slowly as he examined her face. He didn’t say anything. To the best of Daisy’s knowledge, faeries couldn’t speak, at least not in any language a human could understand. After taking a moment to acknowledge her, he returned to picking at the chocolate, placing piece-after-piece into his mouth.

  “I appreciate you showing me this, Miss Dell,” Mr Swarz said, “but I am afraid I don’t understand how this correlates to your magic.”

  Content that the faerie wouldn’t harm her, she stood and waved Mr Swarz into the ring. “Bring my bag here, and I will explain.” He did so, and she dug another candy bar out to hold in her hand, in case Cyan should need some more bribing once he finished his current haul of chocolate.

  “They are the ones who create the artifacts. Anyone who can convince one to commune with them might be able to talk them into enchanting a trinket. It takes only the most basic grasp of magic to trigger the trinket once it’s made, and unlike your methodical magic, it involves using willpower to pull the magic out of the trinket, rather than pushing the magic out of one’s own body.”

  “And that’s why it does not require mana?”

  “No.” Daisy looked away, glancing at the chipped paint peeling off the grimy sides of the abandoned farmhouse. She didn’t know how long the place had stood empty, nor how her grandmother had originally found it or when. “The power of the magic is inlaid in the trinket upon its creation, like it has its own pool of mana. That’s why it takes none of the body’s energies.”

  Mr Swarz cocked his head, nearly tipping off his tidy bowler hat. “Then these trinkets have a limited amount of uses?”

  Daisy shrugged. “In a theoretical sense, I suppose that’s true. They can only hold a finite amount of energy, I’m sure. But that amount must be enormous – I’ve never heard of casting a trinket dry. My grandmother never mentioned such a thing, and I’ve certainly never experienced it myself.” She glanced down at Cyan, who had finished his initial offering and remained crouched as he leaned toward her, sniffing suggestively toward the hand that held the spare chocolate bar. He appeared to be no threat, but she began unwrapping it and breaking off pieces to toss toward him, anyway. He snatched bit by bit out of the air as she lobbed them in his direction.

  “That energy comes from the faeries, then? They simply imbue their own power?”

  She shook her head. Feeding candy to the creature gave her something of an illusion of innocence, but she was finding it too bittersweet. “No. They are not that generous. Even if they were, creating trinkets takes more power than they can willfully give.” Mr Swarz kept silent, even as she was sure her answer didn’t clarify. She sighed and braced herself for the truth she had ultimately agreed to share when she chose to stay on with the Stripes days ago. “The faeries’ magic only determines the type of ability the trinket has. The power to use that ability comes from human life, and it requires… more energy than a human can survive being taken from their body.”

  Mr Swarz was silent, but he took a cautious step around Daisy – nearing the faerie – to face her when she refused to look at him. When she glanced up, his expression was set in a steely glare framed by furrowed lines in his brow and around his eyes.

  “You speak of human sacrifice.”

  Daisy willed herself not to look away. “I do.”

  Mr Swarz took an abrupt step back, and it startled Cyan to his feet. Standing upright, the faerie glanced once toward Daisy before shifting his attention to Mr Swarz, looking him up and down with a curious glint to his eyes. Swarz was focused on Daisy, however.

  Even as he glared, his voice was less accusatory than Daisy expected, and that in itself worried her. “You said you couldn’t make these artifacts. Is this what you meant? That you will not take part in the sacrifice required to accomplish it?”

  “Yes. My grandmother created all the trinkets I own, and she explained how to me, showed me this faerie ring, but…” Daisy shook her head. “My grandmother, she came to Ashland from Noeyen when it was shattered by war and invasion. She was one of the first here, when it was a wild frontier filled with refugees from different lands, all strangers and willing to destroy each other to ensure their own continued existence. She did what she thought she had to in order to survive, and I don’t blame her for it, but the blood she spilled to accomplish that is on her hands alone.” She shook her head again. “This is why I didn’t want to tell. I thought I might be able to let her methods be a secret that die with me. I won’t be responsible for her crimes being repeated.”

  Mr Swarz’s frown eased, but it didn’t calm Daisy any. Her other concern about sharing the secret of her magic with him, although she did not say it, was that he himself might not have the same reservations that she did. She glanced toward Cyan, who stood still and upright, watching Mr Swarz. Daisy had summoned him for more than mere show, and she waited to see if she would be in need of her otherworldly acquaintance’s protection.

  After a stretch of silence, Mr Swarz nodded. “As well those methods should die. I apologize, Miss Dell. Had I known what kind of position this put you in, I would not have asked…” He trailed off as his eyes drifted toward the faerie, examining the creature as it examined him. He didn’t ask why Daisy bothered to call Cyan to the scene if she did not intend to have him craft any new trinkets. “I can understand how mage-hunters would take interest in this. Did your grandmother have any enemies that might have known any of this, or wished to know? If so, I think it for the best that we help you keep this secret from them, whether or not they are related to what happened at the Gin Fountain.”

  Daisy let out a long breath. She wasn’t sure how far to trust Mr Swarz, but every time he proved himself a little more worthy of her faith it was a weight off her heart. “I don’t know, but I’m not keen on this getting out to much of anyone, if I can help it. Aside from you, of course.”

  “I will keep this to myself,” he said, “for now. If there comes a time when Angel or Grey needs to know to help ensure your safety or stop these hunters, then I will consult you before imparting anything to them.”

  “Grey?” She had heard him mention the name before, but she didn’t know who this individual was.

  “My boss, the founder of the Stripes. I doubt I will have reason to speak of this to anyone else in the company, though. I will keep your secret as close to my heart as it is safe for me to do.” With his attention back fully on Daisy, he wasn’t looking when Cyan – perhaps noticing the easing tension – took a careful step forward, sniffing experimentally. “This is disconcerting, though. Do you know anything of the identities of the people who were sacrificed? Perhaps one or another has some descendant out for revenge.”

  “No, my grandmother never told me much in detail. Just that the faerie would draw the life from her sacrifice and imbue it in the trinket. I don’t know where she found the sacrifices, or what she did with their bodies afterward. Maybe a few are buried around the property here, but I just don’t know.”

  Mr Swarz bowed his head. “It’s fine. The attack on the Gin Fountain will provide us with a fresher trail regardless, so it would a better use of our efforts to–” He broke off with a start as Cyan slunk right up to him, curiously sniffing at his collar. Daisy had to hold back a laugh as she watched her boss’ pupils expand in terror. “Miss Dell,” he begged in a frantic whisper. Cyan did not appear to notice Mr Swarz’s nervousness and leaned closer.

/>   “I think he’s looking for more candy.” She had another bar still tucked in her bag that Cyan apparently couldn’t detect, but she didn’t reach for it. She preferred to hang on to one, in case things got a little too strained with their transdimensional friend. Mr Swarz, to his credit, did not make any sudden movements or loud noises as Cyan began plucking at his coat, trying to shake loose any possible treats that might have been hidden there. “He’ll be no danger so long as we don’t antagonize him, I think.”

  “But he will accept human sacrifices? More of this difference in appreciation of existence that you spoke of earlier?” Cyan pulled away from Mr Swarz for a quick moment to look him in the face, studying his eyes, nose, and lips before leaning in again, sniffing so close to the crook of the man’s neck that he was very nearly nuzzling him. Mr Swarz’s back straightened and he shifted his feet with an awkward jerkiness. “Your friend is quite affectionate.” There was a soft blush across his pale face, but she thought better than to tease him about it.

  “I call him Cyan. He’s the same one I saw the two times my grandmother brought me here when I was a child. She only introduced me to him – no sacrifices. I think she was done making trinkets at that point, but wanted me to know in case I should ever need it.” The thought of ever needing to murder another human for a magical weapon, or even so little as a utility, sent a shudder through her. Mr Swarz shivered, too, as Cyan sniffed along his jawline.

  “So, he’s no threat to us?” he asked.

  “Not unless I asked him to hurt you, but even then, I’m not sure I’ve offered enough chocolate to successfully bribe him into that. I have no reason to believe that he would attack us unprovoked. He’s rather a sweetheart, don’t you think?”

  The feathery fringes on Cyan’s jaw twitched as he took in Mr Swarz’s scent. “Can he leave this ring?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think he will. The portals between our realms can only be opened inside the ring, and if he steps out, he will not be able to zap himself back home until he steps back in. Or if he found a different faerie ring, I suppose.”

  “Interesting.” Cyan pulled away but kept staring into Mr Swarz’s face. The faerie wore nothing that would read as a human expression, but his blank visage only made his examination seem more intense. “Perhaps we should return to Pinstripes, then. Even if there are any clues in your grandmother’s past about why you were attacked, the others may have picked up on some more relevant leads. I asked Angel and LaChapelle to investigate more about the woman that Ann-Marie reported seeing. We should check in with them.”

  Daisy agreed and ushered him outside the faerie ring. Cyan tried to follow but stopped at the threshold created by the mushrooms. He whimpered at them as they began walking toward the car, almost like a forlorn puppy. Daisy pulled the last chocolate bar from her bag and tossed it to him. “Thank you, Cyan. It was good to see you again.” The faerie caught the bar but made no move to eat it, only holding it in his long fingers.

  As Daisy and Mr Swarz returned to the car, Cyan turned and knelt to gather up the shiny objects she had left for him before standing before the white crack in the air. It expanded once more, leading into Cyan’s native world of color and light, and he stepped back through. Once he was gone, Daisy went to open the passenger-side door, and as she did, she saw Mr Swarz staring at the space where the portal had opened and was now closing again. There was a faint crease to his brow as his eyes focused on the point where Cyan had crossed back into his own dimension, now just a faint white crack, but Mr Swarz shook his head and got into the car.

  Daisy liked to think she understood some of what he was feeling.

  The first time Grandma Sparrow had brought her out to that farmhouse, she had been just a little child, still wearing shapeless cotton dresses and her hair in twists. Grandma Sparrow wore her hair in twists, too, but it didn’t look so girlish on her, hanging in long twirls down to the base of her shoulder blades. Sparrow had been a slender woman of middling height, just like Daisy had grown into, though in her age she walked with a stiffness not unlike Mr Swarz’s on his bad days. Her frail form had eventually been her downfall, when she died a few years back from bone cancer. But in Daisy’s childhood, she had still been strong enough to take the trek up the hills with her young granddaughter.

  They had to walk that whole way both times – an all-day trip – because Sparrow, like Daisy, had never been able to drive, and anyway, cars back then weren’t sturdy enough to make the distance. Daisy remembered how her legs had ached from the second trip, but she possessed no such recollection for the first. She had been so young, and all she remembered was the searing image of meeting Cyan for the first time.

  He had looked no different then. His otherworldly face didn’t age. But he had been snarling the first time she had seen him, standing beside Sparrow inside the faerie ring with an offering – Daisy did not remember of what – laid out before them. His inky eyes had glanced briefly over Daisy before turning to Sparrow, and his thin lips pulled back to flash his razor teeth at the old woman. Little Daisy’s stomach had felt like a solid block of ice staring at that deadly expression. That sensation was stained into Daisy’s memory, along with the overwhelming scents of afternoon ashfall and crushed, dry pine needles.

  Sparrow had held out her hands, shaking her head, but Cyan had not responded to this gesture. Seeing that she wasn’t communicating, Sparrow reached out to Daisy, pulling the small girl up to her hip, while keeping her eyes locked on the faerie and stating in a cold, clear voice, “Not this time.”

  Cyan must have understood this better – though, at the time, Daisy had not – and he dropped the snarl, taking a careful step away from the human pair. Daisy wasn’t sure how Cyan or any other faerie felt about the matter of human sacrifice, but he had apparently been angered that day, thinking for a moment that Sparrow meant for him to kill a child.

  He had seemed more pleased on their second visit, offering no snarling when he was summoned by Sparrow. Rather, he appeared to remember Daisy, and he marveled at how she had grown while plucking at the grassy green dress she wore, more mature than her last visit but still girlish and modest. Daisy had watched him in return while Sparrow intoned to her about magic and the Old Ways. It had only been on that second visit that Sparrow explained the element of ritual sacrifice. Perhaps she had meant to that first trip, and thought against it after Cyan had misinterpreted Daisy’s presence as an offering.

  “All power must come from somewhere,” Daisy remembered Grandma Sparrow telling her. “Most of the power that humans are capable of utilizing must come from other humans. Exploitation, manipulation. This. It is a cruel thing, but it is the way of the world. If I had not made those sacrifices, I would be trapped – still stuck in Noeyen under the rule of conquerors, or starving in this new place.”

  Sparrow had been living in Ashland for more than thirty years by that point, and she was fluent in the Iongathi trade language that most Ashlanders had adopted, though her accent was still heavy on the liquids and vowels with Noeyen influence. What Daisy heard the most in those words, though, was defensiveness. “Why did you leave Noeyen?” Daisy asked. They did not teach her about such faraway places in public schools, regardless that a third of her class was of direct Noeyen descent. Most Ashlanders wanted to forget the rest of the world.

  “War with the north.” Daisy had not learned which northern country it was – the Yen Highlands – until her sophomore college studies, the same year that Sparrow died. “They had taken half our country’s land by the time I fled, moving soldiers in to establish permanent homes in the houses we had been chased out of. I would have been forced into marriage or servitude with one of them had I stayed, so I stowed away on a ship delivering wine to Ashland, back when Soot City was just a cluster of stone shacks.”

  Daisy had never asked much more than that. Not how Sparrow used her trinkets to survive, not whose lives had been sacrificed for them, not who her father’s father had been, not even who had taught Sparrow such things
in her homeland, or anything about the faerie she must have communed with there.

  She had still been a child then, but she understood that her grandmother was defensive because she had learned to live with her defenses never lowered. She had come from a world where she was constantly assailed, where it was better to be constantly on-guard than caught vulnerable.

  Glad to have never lived in such a world herself, or at least not to the same extent, Daisy still took to heart Grandma Sparrow’s ideals of preparedness, even at the cost of personal morals and basic human ethics. But there were lines that Daisy would never cross herself, and she did not care if it was privilege – the kind never afforded to Sparrow – that allowed her to make such choices.

  Things were less tense on the drive back, now that Daisy’s secret was out in the open and she and Mr Swarz had not attempted to kill each other in any capacity during the outing. He had more questions for her, but not of the nature she expected.

  “You always call those enchanted items ‘trinkets.’ Why is that?”

  Daisy stretched out her legs as far as she could inside the car, glad to be rid of the earlier tension and a mite proud of herself for spooking her boss with that faerie. “That’s what my grandmother always called them. And that’s what they are, aren’t they? Just… trinkets. Little do-dads.”

  “I wouldn’t call anything made from the life energy of another human a ‘do-dad.’ Your terminology seems self-deprecating, is all.”

  His observation ripped away her pride and moment of ease, leaving behind a scar of indignant anger. “And what do you call them? ‘Artifacts’? What, that particular combination of syllables is more dignified? And this is something that deserves dignity? You yourself just pointed out that it’s blood sacrifice. It’s hard not to be self-deprecating, in that context.”

  His eyes shifted to look at her for a fleeting moment before returning to the dusty road before them. “Is that what this persona of yours is, too, then? Go to college only to take a secretary job; study magic only to waste your time slinking around clubs with mana freaks; spend all your money on pretty dresses rather than saving for a better future, just because it’s stylish? Is this part of your supposedly inevitable self-deprecation?”