by Karen Chance
“And where would you suggest I go?”
“Back down,” he waved a hand. “Toward the river.”
“But you said it was at the top of the hill!”
“I may have been mistaken.”
“Do you mean to tell me I trudged all the way up here for—”
“You trudged up here because you wouldn’t order a certain officious clerk to do his job,” John reminded him, which won him a squinty-eyed glare. But it also resulted in his companion stomping back down the hill, in a manner that made it clear that he was unlikely to stomp back up again.
That was all right. If John was correct, this wasn’t a problem Jonas could solve.
He didn’t bother going any further, since it wouldn’t help. Instead he sat down, the rough bark of a tree at his back, and closed his eyes. And listened.
He always found it odd when people talked about the quiet of nature; to him, it was louder than any town, with thousands of creatures chirping and buzzing and hissing and slithering and eating and mating on the hillside that was their world. To one with ears to hear, it was deafening. It was also irrelevant, at least to his current search, and after a few minutes John managed to filter it out.
There were human noises, too, the harsh shrill of a train's horn, the distant metallic snick-snick of some kind of farm equipment, and the sound of inventive cursing from Jonas. Who had reached the river again judging by the frenzied splashing. John smiled. And then he filtered that out, too.
For a while there was nothing else, just the wind in his ears and the smell of grass and good English earth in his nose. He extended his senses, not straining because this was not something force would help, but just mentally touring the area. Unlike Jonas’s attempt to bludgeon his way through the hillside’s defenses, John melted into them. This time, there was no painful flash to sear his mind, just the soft shushing of grass as his sense form waded through it, feeling it brush against him now, thigh high, a warm, dragging caress.
Before long, he was smelling honey. And then more than smelling; it was a taste, a burst of sunshine on his tongue. He licked his lips, enjoying the delicate flavor, smelling the clover that had fed the bees, feeling the warmth of the sun on their hive through long summer days. He chewed the comb until his jaw was stiff with it, until the wax softened in the heat of his mouth, until it released the last of its sweetness.
Until it came again, that single note on the breeze.
It was as delicate and fleeting as a whisper, blown along like a leaf and as ephemeral as the air that carried it. But John had heard such songs before, and he knew the way of them. He waited until it was closer, a sweet chime, like the taste of honey distilled, but with a faint plaintive appeal underneath. And then he sang a single note back, not a word, not even a thought, more of a question mark in musical form—
And it had barely left his lips when a song, full-blown and loud, exploded around him in a cacophony of excitement. Little trills ran up and down his spine, into his ears, and across his tongue like small bursts of happiness. It warbled at him, so fast and so excited that he couldn’t keep up, much less find a break in which to—
He stumbled. Which was fairly surprising as he hadn’t realized that his body had been following the lead of his senses. Not until his shin barked up against something solid and unyielding, blocking his path.
It was a fence, old and weathered and draped in swathes of honeysuckle. Golden coin sunshine flickered down through the branches of several old apple trees, dappling the boards and the verge of a path leading up to them. It took him a disorientated moment to realize that he’d skirted half the hillside, ending up almost completely opposite from where he’d begun, where the grasses and genteel decay had hidden the little tableau.
Not that anyone would have expected to find a fence there, as it was busily guarding . . . absolutely nothing. At least, nothing that John could see, besides a tangled bit of undergrowth and a few more scraggly apple trees. But there was something there, nonetheless. Something glowering at him from the space between the trees. Something strong with resentment.
Power. Anger. Challenge.
And underneath that, a great and powerful sadness, hopeless and dark, that hung in the air like a dirge.
“Any luck, then?”
John jumped slightly at the sound of Jonas’s voice carrying up the hill. It sounded like the braying of a donkey for a moment, as harsh and discordant as the magic the man had used a few moments ago. Until John’s ears adjusted back to human levels, and he swallowed and answered.
“Not yet. And you?”
“Nothing. John, are you sure—”
“No. Now that I think of it, I may have misremembered the area.”
“You misremembered?” John looked over the side of the hill, to see an outraged little war mage with wet trouser cuffs waving a grass-tipped cane. And spouting something John didn’t bother to listen to because he was busy listening to the fence, which was still burbling happily. It would be the easy part—or at least, it would be, if Jonas would ever shut up.
“Yes, I know. My apologies,” he yelled down, with no sincerity at all. “Do have a nice flight back.”
Jonas cut off mid-sentence to glare at him. “A nice flight.”
“Good day for it,” John grunted, tugging at a heavy stone that had been pushed up by one of the apple tree’s roots, shoving the fence slats out of place.
“You aren’t coming?”
“No. I thought I’d stay for a bit, go over it again. Best to be sure, you know.”
“You could make sure by coming back to the office and checking the book again,” Jonas said suspiciously.
Bollocks. “Yes, but that would require dealing with that benighted fool Edwards, and I find I’m no longer in the mood.”
That, at least, was true.
“No longer—” Jonas broke off with an oath. “And I wasn’t in the mood to go trudging ‘round the wilderness, either, before you dragged me out of my office!”
“We’re fifteen minutes from Stratford, not the middle of the Sahara. And it was the loo. You need to get a sight spell, Jonas.”
“What I need is to get my head examined. Every time I listen to you—”
“Yes, thank you for the help,” John said brightly.
Jonas didn’t bother to reply to that. John waited another moment, but he didn’t hear any more cursing. And when he crept quietly to the side of the hill again, his annoyed sometimes employer was nowhere in sight. John heaved a sigh of thanks, stripped off his coat and squatted down beside the fence. And got to work.
Chapter Three
T he problem wasn’t the fence itself, but the spell woven into it. It was a cloak designed to shield the property from intruders’ eyes and to raise an alarm at the presence of unwanted guests. It was fairly standard—at least for the fey, which was who had set it up long ago.
John hadn’t been sure of that on hearing that first, elusive note. He’d known it was elemental magic—there was no misjudging that—but it could have been Druid. Should have been, really, because true fey magic was rare on Earth these days. But then, Druid wasn’t all that common anymore, either, at least not in the Circle’s backyard.
But no, it was fey, chiming away like strings of tiny bells all along the length of the fence. But also jangling, discordant, and off tune in a dozen places, and here and there making some truly frightening sounds. But not half so much as what was coming from the other side.
John blocked that out for the moment, and just listened to the fence for a while.
Unlike human magic, which decayed quickly after the death or departure of the spell caster, the fey variety lived on. Literally, in this case, as it had bound itself to the flowers, the trees, the earth, drawing the strength to continue from their living energy. But without anyone to direct it, it gone a bit . . . off. Grown wild and cheeky over the centuries, but lonely, too, which was why it was so pathetically glad to have someone to talk to.
For his part, John
was rather grateful it was here, since he was out of practice and the problem further in was intimidating the hell out of him. But this was a happy, silly little thing, and bound to wood, thankfully, which was always easy. Anything that had once been alive and growing was, the cells fusing with the magic like notes from an instrument accompanied by a human voice.
He cleared his throat, feeling a little strange. How long had it been since he sang a song for something important, for something other than calling the woolen fibers in his socks to knit back together? He couldn’t remember. Of course, he’d sung spells frequently as a boy, taught by the fey who’d come to look him over because any fey blood gives a claim. One negated, in his part, by the demon blood that no fey line would have.
But they had been beautiful, those laughing faces, so unlike any he’d expected. Stories were told of them, dread stories of deceit and treachery and murder. And some of those stories were true. But they left out the dancing and the laughter and the generosity of the creatures who had spent a summer with him, singing to him, teaching him, even though one look had told them that they wouldn’t be taking him home.
They’d been regretful, because he picked up the old ways so easily, astounding the Druids he met thereafter, whose magic had once derived from the same source. He’d been good at theirs, as well, since it was merely a mixture of two he already knew, two different strands of his heritage. But it had surprised them, since almost all of their adepts were women.
John had often wondered about that. It wasn’t that men couldn’t do the spells—the difference between humans was, after all, fairly small, and in any case, it had never prevented male fey from mastering their magic. It had never prevented him, and his fey blood was miniscule. But most men could not. The Corps could not, leading to their contempt and fear of a magic they didn’t understand, a magic that whispered instead of roared.
John eyed the fence.
And then he sang to it, in the old language, because he’d never spell-sung in any other. Sang the songs the golden ones had taught him, some of the words of which he didn’t even understand. But he knew most of them, and he felt the rest in his bones. And it seemed that he hadn’t lost the knack, after all, because all the broken pieces of the fence happily listened when he sang about getting in line, coming back to true, behaving themselves. And soon it was all nice and solid again, with a tinkling melody twining merrily about the posts.
John patted it absently. So much for the easy part.
A gate in the fence opened effortlessly under his hand, but he didn’t walk through, unsure if he wanted to open this particular can of worms. If the situation was what he thought it was, it could be dangerous—would be, really—and he didn’t owe the house, or its owner, anything. This wasn’t his business, he told himself; wasn’t his problem.
Just like a wild, half-demon child hadn’t been the fey’s.
Yet they had stayed, and helped him, and taught him the magic that had saved his neck more than once. And whatever fey blood was coursing through his veins wouldn’t let him leave with that debt unpaid. At least, he assumed that was why his feet were carrying him up a winding garden path that materialized like mist as he trod on it. He certainly hadn’t told them to do it, he thought testily, and then he saw the house.
And suffice it to say, the estate agent’s book had been somewhat . . . out of date.
What emerged from the mist was a queer, lopsided thing, late medieval by the look of it. Two story, with wattle and daub walls and heavy shutters closed against the sun. And it was completely overrun with plant life.
Grass had turned the sloping roof into a recreation of Jonas’ hairstyle, only in green. Heavy vines had eaten into the walls, to the point that it looked like the house had veins coursing under its skin. And, most disturbingly, a forest of half-dead apple trees had crowded next to the foundation, so numerous that their almost bare branches still managed to block most of the sun. Yet they were strangely orderly, like parishioners in a church.
Or mourners at a funeral, John thought grimly.
He moved cautiously forward.
The place was utterly, deathly quiet. No birds called, no small animals scurried for cover; even the burbling fence was no longer audible. It was like stepping into an alien world, and not one happy to see him. John had the distinct impression that the door would have been locked against him, if an apple tree’s roots hadn’t propped it into a perpetually open position. He edged around the frame, careful not to touch it, careful not to touch anything.
It was dark inside, to the point that he could make out little past the swirling motes of dust disturbed by his careful entry. He started to call light to him, but some instinct told him that it would be a very bad idea. There was magic here already, magic in droves, tingling through the soles of his feet, crawling over his skin, boiling in the very air before his face, like an unseen, potent liquor that he drew into his lungs with every breath. He almost immediately felt giddy with it, reckless.
And that, he thought vaguely, would be an even worse idea.
He forced himself to get a grip and to look around. And after a moment, that became easier as his vision adjusted. There was light, and not only from the door. A few stray rays had somehow made it through the undergrowth and shutters both, spearing the darkness here and there in crisscrossing beams. It was enough.
It was more than enough, he thought in wonder, staring at huge old vines, some bigger around than his leg, that tangled on the walls and drooped down from the ceiling, and at the forest of roots sprouting up from between the floorboards, threatening to trip him with every step. Together, they’d pulled the room, which had once been a kitchen judging from the fireplace and shattered pots, so out of whack that it looked almost round. That was odd, but not particularly disturbing.
No, the disturbing part was welded to the middle of the kitchen floor.
John approached cautiously, awe and fear and shock running in equal parts through his veins, despite the fact that he’d known what he would find. Known what had to be here to explain the surfeit of magic that had no place to go, and no way to die. He knelt on what remained of the floorboards, which had once been oak but which were now . . . something Other.
He didn’t touch it. The very idea made his skin crawl, although he’d technically seen worse. At least, he’d seen things that were supposed to be worse, although at this very moment and at this very time, he couldn’t actually think of any. Because blood and gore and even death were natural, and there was nothing natural about this.
What lay in the darkness under its shroud of leaves was in the shape of a man. It wasn’t one—it never had been—although at one time it had been flesh and bone instead of wood, and muscle and sinew instead of ropy vines, although a casual onlooker might be forgiven for not noticing the change. The oak had pushed up from the floor in an exact replica of once noble features; the tiny vines spreading around it perfectly mimicked flowing hair. Even the pattern—ironically leaves and vines—on a long dissolved coat had been scrupulously reproduced, as if carved by a loving hand out of wood.
But no sculptor had done this. There were no chisel marks on this masterpiece, and even the greatest of sculptors can’t make the rings and swirls in wood conform to their vision. A living being had lain here once, who knew how many centuries ago, in exactly this manner.
And unless John was very much mistaken, he lay here still.
Chapter Four
W hat the hell is that?”
John jumped and spun, his heart in his throat and a gun in his hand. Which he lowered when he recognized the distinctive silhouette in the doorway. “Damn it, Jonas!” he holstered his weapon. “I thought you’d gone.”
“Obviously.” The word was dry. “And you did not answer my question.”
“It’s not easy to answer.”
“Try.” And the voice was no longer that of his slightly eccentric friend, but of a senior war mage with the authority to make John’s life a living hell if he didn’t lik
e the answer. And he wasn’t going to. Hell, John didn’t like it himself.
“It’s a fey,” he admitted.
“That is a fey?”
“Well, it was. Or, rather, it is.”
Jonas just looked at him.
“It’s not dead . . . exactly,” John explained. Badly. But he was still fairly shaken, and this wasn’t the sort of thing that English was equipped to handle. Or any other spoken language, for that matter. It wasn’t even something the fey discussed; it was simple felt.
But he didn’t think that telling Jonas to get in touch with his feelings was a great idea.
“And how does one not die exactly?” his superior asked, predictably.
“One is fey.”
Jonas scowled. “That’s less than helpful, John!”
And yes, it was. But the magic in the air was swirling about, making it hard to think, even about much less difficult subjects. Probably in response to the emotions emanating from one very unhappy war mage. “You mustn’t use magic in here,” John cautioned. “It . . . wouldn’t be the best idea.”
“And why not?” Jonas demanded, but he reigned in the anger radiating off him, and the power using it as a conduit. And as soon as he did, the room quieted. Slightly. John had the feeling it was never truly still.
But then, how could it be?
He licked his lips and tried again. “The fey don’t live as we do, therefore it should come as no surprise that they don’t die as we do, either.”
“Following you so far,” Jonas said, his eyes moving from the not-corpse on the floor to the walls and vine-draped ceiling and back again.
“They don’t have a spirit as we understand it. Or rather, they do, but it is fused with their bodies, indistinguishable from them in life, and accompanying them in death.”
“I thought you said they don’t die,” Jonas said, edging a little closer, even while his eyes continued to flick around nervously.
John really couldn’t blame them.
