The Stolen: An American Faerie Tale

by O'Connell, Bishop

  “It don’t matter.”

  “What? Of course it matters! Does this kind of thing happen all the time?”

  Brendan swallowed. “Not like it used to, but—­”

  “Look, I’m the closest thing she has to family.” He pointed at Caitlin. “I don’t know anything about you, though.”

  “Easy there, buc—­”

  “No!” Edward took a step closer. “Maybe you don’t care why they took her daughter, but I’ve known that little girl since she was born. She’s like my own daughter.”

  “Will it help get her back?”

  “What?”

  “Will knowing why they did it help get her back?”

  “It might, actually. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know much about all this, but I can help.”

  Brendan laughed.

  “You dismiss me out of hand and I’m just supposed to trust you with getting my friend’s daughter back?”

  After watching Edward for a moment, Brendan half smiled and nodded. “Aye, you’re right.”

  “I, what?” Edward furrowed his brow. “I am?”

  “Time is an issue here, boss. There are all kinds of things they could want the girseach for, but figuring out that kind of thing isn’t what I do.”

  Edward waited.

  “I don’t have time to go into it all, either way,” Brendan said. “You’re right, you’ve got no reason to trust me, but we need to get past that now, don’t we?”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Edward narrowed his eyes. “Do you swear?”

  “What?”

  “You seem the sort who values honor and your word. Do you swear that you’re only in this to help Caitlin get her daughter back?”

  “No.”

  Edward’s face dropped.

  Brendan smiled and stepped close. “I’m also interested in giving the oíche a dose they won’t soon forget. And that’s the truth of it, lad. You’ve my word.”

  Edward looked at Brendan for a long moment before he nodded. “All right.” He stepped to one side. “What do I do if they wake up while you’re gone?”

  “They won’t stir till dawn at the earliest.” Brendan put a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “Just watch over them and keep them safe. I’ll be back when I find something or, God willing, the girseach herself.”

  “Why’d you help her?” Edward asked as Brendan started to leave. “You don’t know Caitlin or Kris. So . . .”

  Brendan shrugged. “Well, it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? You can’t just leave someone to the mercy of this like. They’ve got none, you see.” He let out a breath. “I told you figuring things out wasn’t what I do.”

  Edward nodded.

  “Well, this is what I do.” Brendan didn’t look away from Caitlin. “I don’t just walk away.”

  Not anymore.

  “A lot of ­people can and do. It’s human nature to look out for ourselves above anyone else,” Edward said.

  “Well, it’s not my nature, then.” Brendan stepped outside. “Raise the wards as soon as the door is shut, and don’t lower them for nothing. I’ll be back, I swear it.”

  Brendan closed the door behind him and glanced over his shoulder when he felt the thrum of the wards. He got into his truck, turned the engine over, and headed back to the highway.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Edward passed his hand over the knob and focused his intent. The familiar tension of the wards coming to life put his heart a little more at ease, but apprehension ate at his insides as the headlights of Brendan’s old truck flashed through the window. The vehicle vanished down the street, and Edward was alone in the overwhelming silence.

  He let out a deep sigh and ran his hands through his hair.

  “All right, genius, what now?” he asked, but the darkness didn’t answer. “Sure, now you’ve got nothing to add.”

  He retrieved a stethoscope and a sphygmomanometer from his black doctor’s bag. There were upsides to being a psychiatrist besides being able to prescribe meds. While he didn’t often use his medical training, he remembered it in pristine detail. Actually, he remembered everything in pristine detail. He’d always had an eidetic memory, or as close to one as he’d ever heard of, but it had proven to be both a boon and a hindrance for him. He’d always done well in school, never having to study something more than once, which had earned him a full scholarship. Unfortunately, as a general rule ­people didn’t like spending time with a walking, talking encyclopedia.

  He checked the girls. Their blood pressure was good, their breathing and heart rates were slow but not dangerously so. This fae slumber was fascinating. The effect was more powerful than the strongest anesthesia. It made him wonder if Rip Van Winkle was more than just a story.

  As he put his equipment away, he found himself staring at Caitlin, and he thought back to their first meeting, when she was just a nursing intern. She’d been so lovely that he’d actually walked into a wall when he’d seen her. He’d been mortified, but she’d just smiled and helped him up. He smiled now as well, remembering so many shared lunch hours at work after that, and those wonderful Saturdays he’d spent with Caitlin and Fiona at the park. He couldn’t help but smile as he thought of Fiona’s laughter and Caitlin’s radiant smile as she’d pushed the giggling little girl on the swing. She was his best friend. Hell, she was his only friend, and he’d contented himself with that eventually.

  He let out a sigh, turned the large leather chair to face the couch, and collapsed into it. His head fell back, and, as he stared up at the ceiling, he slammed his hand on the arm of the chair. That was another problem with having an eidetic memory. He was so used to knowing things that when he didn’t, it really, really, REALLY bothered him, especially when it was something he should know, like, say, a wizard knowing about faeries.

  He rolled his head to one side until he was staring at the open door to his study.

  So do something. You’re a wizard, do some wizarding.

  Nghalon, as he’d named the voice, just to have something to call it, was one of the less comforting aspects of the house. Edward wasn’t even sure it was the house, because sometimes he heard Nghalon in his office as well. No one else could hear it, and as a result, he frequently wondered if practicing magic was causing him to lose his mind. Of course, he’d never heard of an auditory hallucination being quite so sarcastic. It was like being haunted by the ghosts of Waldorf and Statler from The Muppet Show.

  “Sure, now you have some advice,” Edward said. He extricated himself from the chair. The study was large, and like all the rooms in the house, it didn’t fit the layout. The house was larger on the inside than on the outside, literally. He’d taken measurements once to be sure.

  The blaze in the fireplace, which took up nearly a third of the wall, was crackling as always. Someday he’d have to figure out how to extinguish it. It was like a giant version of a trick birthday candle. Shelves covered the walls, and they were filled with books ranging from recent medical references to ancient tomes in languages he couldn’t even identify. An old wooden desk and chair near the center of the room, a small wet bar, and a love seat not far from the desk finished the décor.

  He poured himself some whiskey, took a sip, then set the glass on the desk and walked to a bookcase. He went along the shelves, reading the titles. Of course, in any other setting, he’d be able to remember every title and its location, but another treat of this house was the library’s tendency to rearrange the books on its own. Oftentimes he’d find entirely new books. They usually had to do with whatever he was considering at the time, so that rather made up for the rearranging thing, which really annoyed him.

  A familiar title jumped out at him. He removed the book and sat down at his desk. He turned on some music to settle his nerves, and Tom Waits’s gravelly voice filled the silence as Edward took another drink. He flipped through the book’s pages.
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  Hadn’t he seen some kind of tracking spell before? Maybe he could use it to find Fiona. Alternatively, maybe he could find a way to wake Caitlin.

  “No, let’s solve problems, not create new ones,” he told himself.

  After several minutes, he hadn’t found anything. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. When he opened his eyes, he flipped more pages, his patience faltering.

  Then he stopped.

  He adjusted his glasses and turned back a ­couple pages. The symbols were familiar. He read the description and noted the symbols were related to connections and scrying. Scrying! If he could see Fiona, then he could not only find out where she was but also make sure she was okay. He examined the page; it looked simple enough.

  Famous last words.

  “Not now,” he said to Nghalon. “Besides, you were wrong about the protection spell, weren’t you? I told you I knew what I was doing then, and I still do.”

  He pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk drawer. Thankfully, this spell didn’t require blood over ink. He copied the circle from the book on a little bigger scale. He slowed his breathing and focused on the intent behind the symbols, filling them with power. When he finished, he looked the drawing over and compared it to the original. It was a perfect match. Now he just needed to collect the ingredients.

  He opened a large steamer trunk behind the love seat and looked over the labeled boxes, collecting what he needed. A crystal, a small silver bowl, and—­

  “Angel’s tears?”

  He looked closer at the book to make sure he’d translated it right. When he knew he had, he looked in the trunk and, sure enough, found a small glass bottle labeled such. When he saw the last item on the list, his heart sank.

  “A piece of the one you seek.”

  “You stupid . . .” He should’ve known he’d need something of Fiona’s, blood, hair, something. But where would he get anything like that? Caitlin didn’t have her purse, and he couldn’t leave to go to her house.

  He carried the items he’d collected to the desk and considered the problem. A sip into his second whiskey, the answer came to him, and he wanted to kick himself. Of course, it was going to be a bit awkward, but he resigned himself to the task, rose, and walked to the living room.

  Caitlin was still sleeping, her chest rising and falling in a most appealing—­

  He clenched his jaw. It was the only way. He just had to treat it like an examination. He took a deep breath, pulled the blanket away, and knelt down.

  Slowly and deliberately, he began looking over her blouse for stray hairs. He reminded himself of the reason he was doing this, and that it didn’t make him a pervert.

  He didn’t find anything.

  When another thought came to him, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

  “You’re not just dreaming these things up to satiate some perverse fantasy,” he whispered. “There’s no other option.” It was a sound argument and he intended to cling to it, desperately.

  He opened his eyes, reached down, and slipped a hand into the front pocket of Caitlin’s slacks. They were tight, which made it hard for him to keep his hand away from her leg. The shaking of his hand didn’t help either.

  Again, nothing.

  He looked at the other pocket, sighed, and cast a beseeching look skyward. After a moment, he shoved the voice that was calling him a sad little deviant down, next to the one telling him to enjoy it. They could keep each other company and let him focus on the task at hand.

  He slid his hand into Caitlin’s other pocket, and his fingertips brushed something. He gripped it between two fingers and pulled it out. When he saw the spots of discoloration on the handkerchief, he couldn’t help but smile.

  “Oh, thank God for kids and snot.”

  He covered Caitlin with the blanket and went back into the study. He placed the bowl inside the inner circle on the paper. Next, he poured in the angel’s tears until the bottom of the bowl was just covered. He wrapped the crystal in the handkerchief, took a deep breath to focus, then slowly lowered the wrapped crystal into the bowl.

  “Yn dangos i mi beth sy’n cuddio. Dangos i mi Fiona,” he said slowly.

  There was sudden pressure in the room. It kept building with the magic, and soon he was having trouble keeping hold of it all. He gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts, but it was like trying to hold a fire hose at full blast. At the edges of his senses, he could feel sweat beading on his forehead.

  He had to focus. He could do this.

  Inch by inch, the power started slipping away from him, but at the same time, his senses began to expand out of the room and he almost thought he could smell Fiona, maybe even hear her voice. Exhilaration flooded him, then he was falling, and he fought to keep his focus.

  There was a flash, and he saw Fiona!

  She was lying on a concrete floor holding a pink blanket, apparently sleeping. He reached out for her, but the world around him vanished and he found himself in complete and utter darkness. He took a cautious step forward, but there was no sense of movement, or even of distance. A cold and pervasive fear crawled up his spine.

  He sensed something else in the darkness. He wasn’t alone.

  He fought to break the connection, to end the spell, but panic had shattered his concentration and now the magic had a life of its own. He felt like a little kid again, only this time he was trapped under the bed and the monsters were real.

  The presence drew nearer. Glowing red eyes emerged from the darkness. He could feel it reach out for him.

  “NO!”

  His mind raced. In a flash of desperation, he reached out to his body and slammed his hands down onto his desk. When the presence seemed mere inches away, he felt a flood of pain as the whiskey glass shattered and the shards bit into his hand.

  His eyes snapped open. The bowl was shaking inside the circle.

  “Oh fu—­”

  The crystal exploded and threw him backwards. His legs struck the bottom of the desk, the chair tipped over backwards, he smacked into the chair, and his head bounced on the hardwood floor.

  He lay there in a cold sweat, bleeding and trying to get his emotions under control. The music continued to play. He closed his eyes tight and felt tears roll down his cheeks.

  When he got to his feet, he bandaged his hand and started pacing. Fiona’s image came to him again, clear and just out of reach.

  “Damn it all!” He shoved the items off his desk and they crashed to the floor. He righted the chair, sat down, and put his face in his hands.

  “Nicely done.” How many times did he need to learn the same lesson? Knowledge and practical application were two different things. He was just glad Nghalon wasn’t saying “I told you so,” even if he was the only one who ever heard it. Glass shards and powdered crystal were everywhere, and the handkerchief was scorched. Somehow, the bowl had survived.

  All he could think of was those two glowing red eyes and the presence reaching for him. His heart stuttered and his hands started to shake as if it were in the room with him even now.

  When the image passed, his face was wet from tears and his body was shaking. Once he calmed down, he cleaned up the debris of his failure and ensuing tantrum. He found comfort in both the familiar task and restoring order to his home. Once the wreckage was disposed of, he got a fresh glass, poured two fingers of whiskey, and downed it in a single gulp. He leaned back in the chair. The wiser course would be to listen to music and drink until Brendan came back. Leave it to someone who knew what he was doing.

  He glanced at the living room. “I don’t know if I can—­”

  Something shifted on a bookcase.

  He ground his teeth and scanned the titles. They’d moved again. On the third row, he saw the newest addition to his library. He pulled the book out and looked at the cover. In gold embossed Welsh, he saw the words Ll
yfr y tylwyth teg. The Book of Faeries.

  He looked around the empty room. “Perhaps you could do this a little sooner next time?”

  As he opened the book, the shaking in his hands stopped. Maybe he could do something after all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After a long, quiet time on I-­93, Brendan saw the Boston skyline rise on the horizon. It hardly looked like the same city. The towers of glass and steel, and the haze of light that hung over them, seemed to swallow the city he’d once called home. As expected, Brendan’s memories threatened to get the better of him, but he dragged them away, tossed his cigarette butt out the window, and accelerated across the Bunker Hill bridge.

  The city seemed to now grow and change faster than ever. Hopefully, he’d still be able to find his way around.

  As he emerged from the tunnel, it struck him how attempts to preserve the city’s history had only served to change it. The pungent smell of glass, steel, concrete, and car exhaust poured through the open window. True, coal, wood smoke, and rotting garbage hadn’t been pleasurable, but it all felt so artificial now.

  He parked his truck and pulled a black sweater over his head. He grabbed one of his sheathed knives, tucked it behind his back, and pulled the sweater down to conceal it. Before shutting the truck door, he grabbed a small wooden box from under the seat. Most of the night’s stars were obscured by the glare of the city or blocked by the tall buildings, but near as he could tell, it was about one in the morning. He headed to a nearby alleyway, hoping the old tunnels and haunts were still there.

  Cars rolled by as he walked. They added to the constant noise that seemed to permeate the city. He’d never really adjusted to the noise. Ireland had been so quiet. He missed that quiet, even more so as the years went by. He found hints of it in the more secluded reaches of New England, but it wasn’t the same.

  When he turned down the alley, the large ogre standing guard outside the door told him the tunnels were still in use. Of course, mortals would just see some big guy with no neck in front of a nondescript door.