by Cate Corvin
She was gathering her own packages, all of which were consistently charmed against water because it had a tendency to pour from her mouth when she spoke. One of the hazards of being an angry water spirit, I’d been told.
I was unchaining my bike when she came outside, her pink fairy wings bobbing ludicrously on her back. “I’ve got a lot of packages for Thornwood today,” she said, piling her packages in her basket. “Want me to take yours?”
I shook my head. Having to go out of my way to Thornwood would give me more time to cool down and work off the dregs of my emotions through uphill exercise.
Nadiya’s dark, liquid eyes looked me over, and a little more weight lifted off my chest. She was feeding on my anger, drinking it up like fine wine.
“Want me to drown him?” she asked, her expression never changing. Water gushed out of her mouth and down the front of her shirt, mixing with the rain.
That got a real smile out of me. “Not today, Nadiya.”
“Whenever you want. I’m hungry,” she said mournfully. Those dark eyes were eerie against her death-pale skin, and her hair was always wet, like she’d just been submerged in a river. “Just give the word.”
I wheeled my bike towards the street. “If I see him again, I might. So he’d better hope I don’t see him.”
Nadiya’s smile was all sharp teeth. “And I’ll hope you do.”
With friends like the rusalki, who needed humans?
2
I wiped sweat out of my eyes, already missing the rain.
All of my deliveries to Mothwing Falls had gone smoothly, and I hadn’t caught sight of Ioin, thank the trees. I might’ve lost what self-control I had and shoved his head through a tree.
Then I’d pedaled five miles to the marina district, Acionna Harbor.
Usually Acionna was one of my favorite districts: it overlooked the Eridanus River and the bay, and all of the buildings were whitewashed and plastered with shells and pearls. The smell of saltwater usually filled the breeze that came off the river.
Today, the rain had let up, but the breeze was nonexistent, which meant my bun had become a poofy mass and my clothes stuck to my skin uncomfortably.
And worse, the Seelie Garda were stationed on every street corner.
The block where the Ghosthand Killer had taken down their latest victim was cordoned off. Fae of every variety were pressed in against it, the journalists the most vicious among them to get to the front. The flying Garda had their hands full keeping the sylph and pixie paparazzi from snapping photos.
A news van was parked up against a curb, and I slowed my pedaling to a crawl as a cameraman crouched in front of a stunning beautiful Gentry Fae in a suit.
Her chestnut hair gleamed with a thousand highlights in shades of autumn, and her blue eyes were like the winter sky: blue, but deceptively cold.
Everyone in Avilion knew Oriande Snowdrop, the head of Seelie Public Relations. Aside from Queen Titania herself, and her tabloid-fodder offspring, Oriande was probably the most famous Gentry Fae in Avilion.
Oriande straightened her suit jacket and batted an overly helpful pixie away from her hair, then held a microphone to her mouth as they began the broadcast. “Good afternoon, Avilion! We interrupt our traditionally-scheduled broadcast with an update on the Ghosthand Killer-”
I realized I was gawking at the famous Gentry and stepped on the pedals, speeding downhill over the shell-paved road and skidding to a stop when I’d reached my next destination, the Oyster Marina.
The package was addressed to one of the Mer. I scooped it out of the basket and walked my bike to the edge of the marina, where a number of large, gleaming fish lurked just beneath the skin of the water.
I knelt down, keeping a hand on my bike. “I have a package addressed to Shelleissei Merion,” I called, and one of the fish broke the surface of the water, its scales gleaming in shades of lapis and mint.
It opened its mouth wide and I dropped the package in. With a splash of its fins, the fish disappeared into the almost-black depths of the bay.
I stood up, my legs already tired enough to protest any more cycling, but Thornwood was another seven miles away, and almost entirely uphill.
But all I had to do was think of Ioin and I was on my bike, pedaling like my life depended on it. By the time I got home, I’d be too hungry and tired to think about him at all.
I was almost too hungry now to keep going, having skipped both breakfast and lunch. My stomach rumbled and cramped painfully as the sun began to sink behind Avilion’s tall buildings, lighting up the glassine spires of the Seelie Palace in the distance like a living sunrise.
“No food until you’re done,” I muttered. The last place I wanted to be after full dark was out on the street. Just because the Ghosthand didn’t tend to strike more than once every full moon didn’t mean there wasn’t a first time for everything.
The white buildings of the Acionna gradually became more traditional architecture. Every house on the street I took had balconies spilling over with green ferns and blossoming flowers.
It was a longer route to Thornwood, but it was better than crossing near Sobek Street, where the Unseelie and Solitary Fae held sway.
Night had completely fallen by the time I reached the huge iron gates to Thornwood. A Garda in a crisp green uniform halted me with a scowl and one raised hand, displaying six fingers.
“Identification, please.” The look on his feline face made it clear he didn’t think much of my damp hair and short shorts. Or maybe it was just the fact that I was a Lesser Fae trying to enter the wealthiest district in Avilion.
I dug in my pocket, cursing the skintight shorts, and pulled out my ID card. He made it a face when he gripped it by the corner.
“Sorry about the sweat,” I said blithely.
His lip curled as he examined the card. “Briallen Appletree… Lesser Fae, dryad… place of residence, Mothwing Falls. Temporary Residency.” The Garda swiped my ID through a chip scanner. “Reason for entry?”
I didn’t have the energy to be rude, although it was obvious by my bike, the basket, and my shirt why I would be there. “Package courier for Fairy Ferry.”
The scanner beeped and the Garda handed my card back. “Your presence is approved and recorded. Proceed.”
He pulled the gate back, and I shoved my card in my pocket before pedaling inside. The gate whispered shut behind me as I entered what might as well have been another world.
Whereas Mothwing Falls was cramped and crowded, with apartments layered over shops and artisan studios pressed between them like putty, Thornwood was a place of shade and mansions.
Enormous willows hung over the street, glimmering with pixie lights, and each manor was encircled with stone walls and plaques declaring the names of old Gentry families. More than one guard stalked the shadows, their unseen eyes on my back as I pedaled through the district.
It was almost entirely silent, although at times I’d catch a wisp of laughter, the clink of glasses, a cut-off moan. I kept my eyes on the road ahead, only stopping to check the name on the last package.
Oddly, there was no name, but the address was legible. It was near the very back of Thornwood, in the old sector. There were rumors that some of the older houses in Thornwood were actually where Queen Titania had lived and founded Avilion, before the Seelie Palace was built.
I sighed and pedaled harder, even though I’d already busted my time limit on being out past nightfall.
The manicured mansions gave way to the original buildings. More than one fairy ring of mushrooms glowed under the moonlight on front laws, and the stone walls surrounding the houses became rougher, overtaken by moss and tipped with sharp iron spikes.
I finally found my address nestled at the very end of a dead-end street, and found myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, it would be okay to lose a package this one single time.
The house was painted with shadow, the windows dark. A gnarled blackthorn tree rose above the stone wall surrounding the house lik
e a sentinel.
I leaned my bike against the wall, tucked the package under my arm, and tried the gate. It opened easily under my hand, unlocked and inviting.
This looked like exactly the kind of place the Ghosthand Killer would live.
Maybe I was walking right into a trap, and my body would be the next soulless husk they’d find sprawled out on the street… I could already imagine Oriande Snowdrop adjusting her pearls as she prepared to give a moving eulogy and boost her ratings…
I shivered as the gate closed itself behind me. I was being dramatic because I was tired and ravenously hungry. I wouldn’t even turn down an apple right then.
I picked my way over a stone path lined with foxgloves and belladonna, all the way up to the black front door. A piece of paper had been pinned to it.
“‘Please deliver to the back entrance’,” I read, and scowled. Suddenly my theory about the Ghosthand didn’t seem so far-fetched at all.
But there was a beaten path in the overgrown grass leading around the side of the house. I jumped off the porch and followed it, cursing when unseen thorns brushed my legs and drew blood. “This is why we need real pants, Numa,” I muttered.
I rounded the corner and my stomach cramped. There was another blackthorn tree, but scattered around it was smaller bushes, each dripping with faerie fruit.
The berries seemed to glow under the moonlight, crimson red and bruise purple, promising to be tart and sweet and plump with juice. My mouth flooded with saliva and I thought back ruefully on the free tart I’d turned down.
They weren’t my fruit to eat. The sooner I dropped the package, the sooner I’d be home to make myself dinner.
I found my way to the back door and porch, where a stone sat like it was expecting the package. I placed the paper-wrapped parcel on it carefully, just in case the owner was watching, and paused when I felt eyes on my back.
Every hair on the back of my neck rose.
I decided to take a risk. Keeping a tight rein on my magic, I felt for my fellow tree, the blackthorn with twisted branches. What lives here? I asked.
The tree said nothing in reply, but it gave me the distinct impression of being smug and watchful. It was a well-fed tree, happy with its sun and water and rich soil.
More feelings twined into my mind as I reached out: the faerie fruit bushes, cajoling and caressing me.
They’d worked so hard to dig their roots deep; their owner tended them with a loving hand, gave them everything they needed to thrive. As a tree-sister, wouldn’t I just try one bite?
I swallowed saliva again, imagining how fresh and tangy the juice of those berries would be.
I didn’t even realize I’d left the porch and high-stepped through the grass to the bushes until I blinked, and realized I held a clump of berries in my hand.
My stomach growled, twisting painfully. This morning at the bakery seemed like a long-distant dream, the day a blur of keeping my mind busy. I hadn’t thought of food or water in hours.
I picked one of the berries off the twig I held, rolling it between my fingers. Its ruby-red skin was dusted with gold that transferred to my fingertips, and a bead of juice welled out of the fruit and stained my skin.
I sucked the bead of juice off my finger without thinking, and every taste bud in my mouth suddenly exploded, clamoring for more. It was as tart and sweet as it’d promised to be, but it also tasted like sunlight and wine and spices…
I popped the berry in my mouth, followed by another. Then I tried one of the purple ones, licking the juice that rolled down the side of my hand. The purple berries tasted like the night felt, comforting and close, sweeter than the red with a floral tinge.
Before I realized it, I’d eaten every berry off the twig I’d plucked. It fell from my hands as I licked my lips, determined to get every last drop of faerie fruit. My stomach had gone silent, apparently happy with its tiny feast.
It’d been ages since I’d eaten faerie fruit. The apples of Emain Ablach were the same way, but berries didn’t tend to grow well on our island, not when the apple trees choked them all out. Besides, I loathed apples with a passion.
I’d eaten five of the berries. The bushes hummed in contentment, their leaves stretching towards me like they were trying to brush my skin.
One more, they seemed to say. One more, tree-sister.
“One more,” I breathed, plucking a purple berry from a branch. They were my favorite, suiting my rather dark mood and comforting in their syrupy sweetness.
I licked the gold from its skin and rolled the berry in my mouth, wanting to make it last. Not even Web and Peaseblossom could make a dessert that tasted like this.
I stepped back and lowered my stained fingers, determined to leave. I couldn’t stay here all night, no matter how plaintively the trees called to me, nor could I eat all the fruit. It wasn’t mine. I was just lucky I hadn’t been spotted.
Guilt welled up under the greedy satisfaction. There was just having a taste, and then there was stealing. I felt vaguely like I’d crossed into stealing somewhere after berry number three.
I tripped over something in the tall grass as I backed away and windmilled my arms, but that didn’t save me. I landed hard on my ass with a sharp “Ooof!”
The moonlight sparkled over the grass, illuminating what I’d tripped over like it was shining a spotlight. The tangy sweetness in my mouth went to ashes.
It was a foot. A foot, still wearing a leather sneaker, the laces tied… and the ankle ending in a ragged stump. There was no blood, but there was no mistaking the glint of ivory bone and the ragged flesh, either.
I jerked to my feet, almost choking on the last berry before forcing it down. I had to leave now. My instincts were right, this was the home of the Ghosthand Killer, and I’d walked right into the trap like a rabbit in a snare-
A hand clamped around my upper arm, holding me in place before I could bolt. My heart began hammering in my throat.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a deep male voice whispered in my ear.
3
Before I could even think about yanking myself out of his grasp, I found my arm twisted behind my back, and he forced me to step through the high grass.
Towards the back door.
Who knew the Ghosthand Killer had such a smooth, smoky voice? It didn’t match the images I had in my head that went along with the blurry crime scene photos, the gray-skinned corpses with a hand burned into their chest before they crumbled into dust… on the other hand, maybe it made perfect sense.
He lured them in with his lovely deep voice, then sucked their souls out.
There was no way I was going out like that.
The porch was only a few feet away, the door cracked open like it was beckoning me to my doom.
I mustered up the last of my energy and smashed myself backwards, tossing my head to hit him in the face and hopefully break his nose.
But his face was too high. He had a foot of height on me. The back of my skull smacked into a hard chest and bounced off, so I resorted to my back-up tactic: lifting my heel hard enough to smash into his balls.
I felt my foot slam into a thigh as I simultaneously jerked forward, and his grip on my arm slackened for one second. As soon as I felt his fingers loosen, I was off like a shot, racing past the porch.
Something snared my ankle and ripped my foot backwards. I sprawled on my face in the high grass, yanking up handfuls as I tried to get away. The smell of earth filled my nose as whatever had snared me pulled me back, dragging me easily over the grass.
“What are you doing?” he asked in exasperation. A shadow crouched over me, and this time he twisted both arms behind my back before he lifted me to my feet and steered me back towards the porch. The thing snaring my ankle had released me.
“I’m trying not to die!” I snarled, trying to jerk away, but the Ghosthand learned quickly. He held me slightly to the side so I couldn’t kick him and pushed me through the door.
I stumbled into a dark hallway a
nd heard the death knell of the door being shut and locked behind me. Would he kill me here and dump my corpse, or was I going to be bound, gagged, and driven to one of the neighborhoods he tended to frequent?
“Die? You’re not going to die. What gives you that impression?” He sounded nonplussed as he prodded me down the hall.
I stepped into a room that looked like an office. An enormous ebony desk was set facing the room and one wall was plastered with notes and photographs. Bookshelves lined the wall behind the desk, and a fire was crackling in the hearth. A man’s jacket was draped over the back of the plush leather office chair.
A feminine gasp filled the room, followed by a sultry woman’s voice. “Oh, Robin, she’s perfect.”
I looked around wildly but saw no one else. Not until something on the desk moved.
The remains of a half-eaten dinner were laid out over an open book, but amid the stacks of files there was a miniature table and chair.
A tiny pixie sat in the chair, her legs crossed primly, goggling at me behind little spectacles made of wire as fine as spiderwebs. She held a doll’s teacup halfway to her mouth.
“That’s not why she’s here,” the Ghosthand- or Robin- said tersely. He released his grip on me and pushed me forward into the middle of the room.
I was trembling, but something seemed off. The pixie placed her teacup on her tiny table and stood up, smoothing down a skirt sewn from glossy green leaves.
“Why else would she be here?” She had a loud, stern voice for someone of her size, and looked me over like she was sizing me up. “She’s the right height, the right face, the right shape… much cuter than you, Robin. She’ll go further.”
“She saw Arrian’s remains.” There was a touch of a growl to Robin’s voice. “One of those damn cŵn annwn dug some pieces up again. I need you to brew that forgetfulness potion right now, Sisse.”
I pulled my eyes away from the assessing pixie. The photographs on the walls weren’t just any photos; they were mugshots, pictures taken from high on roofs and outside windows. Photos spying on people.
