An Artificial Night

ELEVEN

I AWOKE FACEDOWN in the middle of a marble floor that had been white once, before it was buried under years of mud and gore. My head was throbbing in time to an unseen samba band. I took a brief mental census, confirming that my aching head was still attached to the rest of me before pushing myself upright.

I could feel the blood the Luidaeg used to make my candle even before I realized that my fingers were still wrapped tightly around it. The flame blazed up as soon as I looked at it, growing until it was a foot high and burning brilliant red. That couldn’t be good. Raj was nowhere in sight. That could have meant he’d managed to escape the Hunt, but I didn’t think so. There was probably some ceremony he’d already gone through that I still needed to undergo in my new role as one of Blind Michael’s captive children. There are always ceremonies in Faerie, even in the parts that we’d rather ignore.

The room I was in was probably a ballroom before it became a prison. The walls had been shattered about ten feet up, and the roof was entirely gone. Brambles boiled over the walls on three sides, obscuring all the doors. Tattered tapestries hung between the loops of briar, their patterns worn away by dirt and time. The sky had grown even darker while I was unconscious, but there were still no stars. No stars at all.

Shadows too dark for changeling eyes to pierce pooled at the base of the walls, and I could hear giggling and rustling noises coming from inside them. That wasn’t promising. I’ve learned to never trust the laughing ones; they’re either insane or genuinely glad to see people frightened and in pain, and either way, they’re likely to cause problems.

I stood, trying to ignore the shivering weakness in my knees. The Rider that knocked me out had obviously done it before, because I wasn’t dead—it takes skill to knock someone out from behind without smashing their skull. If I was lucky, the pain would pass before I needed to run. I seemed to be counting on luck an awful lot.

It took a moment to be sure I wasn’t going to fall down. When I was confident my balance would hold I called, “All right, I know you’re there. Now come out where I can see you.” My words almost echoed Acacia’s, and that coaxed a small, wry smile from my lips, even as I wondered whether May knew where to find me. What good is a Fetch if she isn’t there when it’s time to die?

My voice echoed against the walls. As the echoes faded, the children came creeping into the open. At first they came in little groups—two and three at a time, staying tight and close together—but the groups grew larger as they got bolder, until they were approaching in clusters of five and six and even eight. They ranged from toddlers to teenagers on the edge of adulthood, and there were a lot of them, moving too quickly for me to count. I froze, watching them. They were wrong. The children were …

The children were wrong. It was hard to tell their breeds or make my eyes define what I was seeing. Some of them were easy to identify—he was Daoine Sidhe, she was a Bannick, he was a Barrow Wight—but subtly changed, until they looked more like parodies of their races than actual fae. Others were strangely blurred and blended, twisted into strange mockeries of what they should have been. Pointed ears and cat-slit eyes, scales and fur, wings and long, thrashing tails were combined without any visible logic, creating things that were entirely new, and entirely wrong.

There was a Tuatha de Dannan, perfect and unaltered, except for the streaky brown feathers that turned his arms into ragged wings. Behind him was a Centaur with the hindquarters of a small Dragon. He had iridescent green scales in place of fur, and his hooves were more like talons. A Piskie with webbed hands and legs that tapered to fins straddled his back, her snarled hair tied out of her eyes with a strip of dirty linen.

I opened my mouth to test out their bloodlines, and gagged on the impossible mixture that hit the back of my throat. Their blood might remember how they started, if I had the time to taste them out one at a time, but in a group, they were smothering. He hadn’t just changed them on the outside. He’d changed them all the way down to the bone.

Faerie has her citizens and her monsters, and sometimes the two are the same, but it’s by design, not accident or malicious alteration. We are what we were meant to be, and every race has a role to play. The Daoine Sidhe are beautiful and fickle and so tied to blood that our hands are never clean. The Tuatha de Dannan bridge the gaps between our varied lands, gatekeepers and guardians. The night-haunts may be monsters, but they perform a service the rest of us can never repay; they eat our dead and keep us hidden. We do our jobs.

Even the Firstborn, unique as they all are, have a role to play. They give us legends and night terrors; they give us things to aspire to and avoid, and without them, Faerie would lack focus. There would be nothing for the heroes to hunt for or the villains to aspire to become. We need them as much as we need each other. But these children had no purpose anymore. The things they’d become were nothing natural, even on the strange shores of Faerie. It didn’t matter how it had been done, or why; all that mattered was that it was too late to save them. All I could do was hope the children I’d been sent to save weren’t already among them.

“New girl,” said a Urisk with long antennae growing in front of his stubbed and broken horns. He was wrapped in a stained muslin sheet, toga-style, with slits cut for his gauzy locust’s wings. The hair on his goatish legs was sparse and matted.

“New girl,” said the Centaur. The Piskie on his back smiled, baring a mouthful of unnaturally angled fangs.

“New girl,” she said.

The others took up the cry, whispering, “New girl, new girl,” as they crept closer. I stood my ground, fingers clenched white-knuckled around my candle. Luna warned me about Blind Michael’s children, telling me to beware and be wary, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t be afraid of them. I could pity them, and I knew better than to trust them, but I couldn’t fear them.

The Piskie reached out and tweaked a strand of my hair, twisting it between heavily webbed fingers. Her expression was politely fascinated; she was probably somewhere near ten years old. “Human blood,” she said finally, and yanked, hard.

I jerked away, clapping my free hand against my scalp. “Hey! That hurt!”

She ignored me, laughing as she held up the strands of hair she’d stolen. “Rider or ridden?” she demanded. “How strong?”

This seemed to be a great question, and an even better game. The children began to skip in a circle around me, chanting, “Rider or ridden, Rider or ridden,” over and over. They stressed the second syllable of each word, making it a singsong rhythm that clashed with the pounding in my head. I was uncomfortably aware that at least half of them were bigger than I was, and that the ones who weren’t either came paired with larger friends or had some sort of natural weaponry. All I could think of was the Jabberwock, with its claws that catch and teeth that bite. Me, I had my knife and my candle, and that was it.

The flame was burning higher and higher, and it seemed to be doing some good—only the Piskie had touched me. The circle they’d formed around me would draw in close and then spread out again, like the children were trying to stay out of the candlelight. I waited for the circle to close again and then thrust the candle out at arm’s length to test my theory. The nearest of the children shied back, nearly breaking the line.

“How many miles to Babylon?” I asked, half whimsically. The entire circle staggered back, so fast that some of the smaller children fell. The youngest I could see was a tiny Roane with raw-looking gills fluttering in the sides of his neck. He looked like he couldn’t have been more than three years old when he was taken. Oberon only knew how long ago that was; the Roane have been all but extinct for centuries. Oak and ash, how many lives had this man destroyed? Why hadn’t anyone stopped him?

There’d be time for hatred later. Right now, getting out was what mattered. I took a step forward. “Don’t you remember the answer? It’s threescore miles and ten.” The children moved back again. One of them hissed. “Can I get there by a candle’s light? Oh yes, and back again.” I was passing them, and they weren’t stopping me in their haste to get away from the light. All of them were fleeing now, all but that little Roane boy who couldn’t seem to get back to his feet.

Pausing, I offered him my free hand, heedless of the danger. It wasn’t his fault. None of them had chosen this. He raised his head and looked at me, eyes wide and empty. I jerked away instinctively just before he lunged, leaving his razor-sharp teeth to close on empty air. They opened a wide gash in his upper lip, and it began oozing blood that was practically black.

That would teach me not to reach out to the monsters. I stepped backward, holding up my candle like a shield. “If your feet are nimble and your heart is light, you can get there and back by the candle’s light,” I said, as fast as I could. “How many miles to Babylon? It’s threescore miles and ten—” I kept chanting, backing toward the wall.

The children were slinking back into a group, watching me with angry, empty eyes. It’s always nice to feel loved. I kept backing up, chanting the rhyme over and over until my shoulders hit the wall. I glanced from side to side. There were no doors. No way out.

Emboldened by my sudden stop, the group of children began creeping closer. They surrounded me in a loose semicircle, stopping well out of reach. The Piskie looked at me, saying, “Oh, you won’t go.” She seemed to be the unofficial spokesperson for the group. Most of the others didn’t say anything more complex than “new girl” without being prompted. “There’s no leaving before it’s time.”

“I see,” I said, not moving. “That’s good to know.”

“Good and bad don’t matter—there’s no point in running. Rider or ridden, it’s not your decision, and if it’s the second, to the stables you’ll go. If the first, you’ll join our company … for a time.” There was no softness in her smile. “Making enemies of the only friends you’ll find here isn’t wise.”

“Maybe she wants enemies,” said the Centaur.

“No one smart wants enemies,” replied the Piskie.

Considering that I’d voluntarily entered Blind Michael’s lands, I wasn’t sure I qualified as smart. “What happens now?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. They were avoiding the candlelight, but candles can’t last forever. Eventually, the wax would burn down, and they’d take me.

“Now we wait,” said the Piskie.

“We wait for Him,” added the Urisk, in a hiss.

“He’ll come.”

“Because you’re here.”

“New girl.”

“New blood.”

“Rider or ridden.”

“And maybe he’ll take one of us when he takes you.”

“To the Ride—”

“—the Hunt—”

“—to where the darkness waits—”

“He’ll take us home.” This last was from the Roane, who popped his thumb into his mouth as he finished speaking. His fangs fit neatly around it, barely grazing the skin, although the blood from where he’d bitten his own lip made that difficult to see.

“How long have you all been here?” I asked, keeping my shoulders pressed against the wall. I’d been distracted by their seeming innocence once, and I wasn’t going to risk doing it again. In this place, innocence could kill.

The answers came from all around, called out too quickly for me to see who made each one. “A long time.”

“Long time.”

“Many new children.”

“I was new once.”

“We were all new once.”

The Piskie hugged herself, saying, “Sometimes He comes and picks one of us, even when there aren’t any new ones. He takes us away to join Him, and we never come back here again.”

“Where is here?” Children like to talk—even monster children. If I could keep them talking, they might tell me something I needed to know.

“Home,” said a voice from the back of the crowd. The Piskie scowled over her shoulder before looking toward me again, eyes narrowed.

“The Children’s Hall,” she said. “It’s where we wait. You’ll wait, too, if you’re a Rider.”

“And if I’m not?” I was certain I wouldn’t like the answer.

“If you’re not a Rider, you’re ridden,” said the Centaur, smiling thinly. “You won’t come back here, if you’re ridden. You’ll go to the stables, and do your waiting there.”

That didn’t sound promising. “What—” A heavy grinding filled the air as the flame of my candle turned a brilliant white, blazing up another foot. The children stepped back, laughing, suddenly at ease. “What the hell?”

“You’ll understand now,” said the Piskie, through her laughter.

And everything changed. The walls of the Children’s Hall dropped away, transforming the shattered ballroom into a clearing ringed by warped, almost menacing trees. Riders lurked in the shadows of their branches. The candle flame abruptly dwindled to a tiny blue spark, and just as abruptly the children were upon me, pinching and shoving as they surrounded me on all sides. They pulled me back when I tried to break away, jeering at my distress.

A deep voice rumbled in the distance, drowning out the voices of the children: “Send me the intruder. Let her be seen.”

Still laughing, the children pushed me forward, and I saw Blind Michael.

He was tall—no, he was more than tall; he filled the sky. His arms were tree trunks, and his feet were the roots of the earth, and standing in front of him, I was less than nothing. I was dust and dry leaves skittering across the sky, and my only hope was that he would open those arms and let me hide under them until the world ended. His smile was the smile of a benevolent god, kind and merciful and willing to forgive all my sins. Only his eyes broke the illusion of peace: they were milky white, like ice or marble, and seemed almost as cold. I snapped back to myself for a moment, almost remembering who I was and why I was there; for that instant, I knew what I was looking for.

And then the glamour slammed back over me in a wave of glory, and He was my entire world. The children moved out of the way as I stepped forward, letting me pass. I wasn’t theirs to torment anymore—I belonged to our mutual god, and I was His and His alone. I was barely breathing as I realized the magnitude of my devotion. I would live for Him. I would die for Him. I would kill in the name of His glory …

A sudden wind whipped through my hair, snarling it around my face as the candle blazed white again. The air was abruptly filled with the sharp, ashy stink of burning hair. I jerked the candle away from myself, ready to throw it aside—I didn’t need it anymore, I was home—when a thin line of wax blew free and spattered on my lip, filling my mouth with the taste of blood.

There wasn’t much blood in the wax, but there was enough to let me break the glamour he was throwing over me. Blind Michael wasn’t a god; he was just a man sitting on a throne carved from old wood and decorated with yellowing bones. He couldn’t block the sky if he tried. Oak and ash, what had I been about to do?

I sucked in a breath, almost choking on the taste of burned hair, and said, “No.” My head was pounding, but there wasn’t time to deal with that now. I could have a migraine later, when it was safe to collapse. “I’m not yours. You don’t get to take me that easily.”

“Don’t I?” he rumbled, and his magic rolled over me again. For a moment, His voice was the shaking of mountains. The moment passed, and the glamour passed with it; it’s harder to catch someone after they’ve escaped you once, even if they only made that escape by accident. Thank Oberon. “I am older than you can dream, child. All things are easy to me.”

“Actually, I doubt that,” I said. When there’s nowhere left to run, take refuge in cockiness. “I dream some pretty old dreams.”

“Do you?” His illusions were gone, and I could see him properly now. He was tall and thin, with skin streaked white and tan like ash bark, amber-colored hair, and ears that were forked like a stag’s horns. Just another fae lord, no less strange than the Luidaeg and maybe stronger than she, but not the world wearing flesh. He wasn’t a god, and I was glad. I can handle purebloods and Firstborn. I can’t handle gods.

“I want my kids back,” I said, keeping my voice steady. Even if he wasn’t a god, the Luidaeg was afraid of him, and I respected that. I respected getting out alive even more. “Give them to me, and I’ll go.”

“Your ‘kids’? You seek playmates? Come now, the best games are here. The best toys are here.” He dipped a hand behind himself, pulling out a crystal globe with a yellow swallowtail butterfly trapped inside it. The butterfly was frantic, beating its wings against the glass. “Stay.”

“I can’t,” I said, with level courtesy. “I have a job to do.”

“They thrust you into service so young? Poor thing, you’ve forgotten how to play. I can teach you. Stay.”

“No.”

“Well, then. If you’re so set—which of my new friends are ‘your kids’?”

“Stacy and Mitch Brown’s children. The children of the Court of Cats.” I paused, remembering Raj, and added, “The Hob, Helen. They’re my responsibility, and I’m not leaving without them. Give them to me, and let us go.”

Blind Michael laughed, sounding honestly amused as he tucked the crystal sphere away behind him. “Why should I?”

Good question. “Because I’m asking so nicely?”

“You’re in my lands, little girl. Why should I let you go, much less let you take any of my new family?” He kept turning his head, like he was seeing me from multiple angles. I glanced to the right and saw that the children on that side were watching me intently; they weren’t looking at their lord all. The Riders, on the other hand, were only looking at Blind Michael—I might as well not have been there. Interesting.

“Because I’m under your sister’s protection.” I held up my candle. The flame had died back to a glowing ember, but it was still burning. I tried to take comfort in that. “The Luidaeg promised me passage.”

“And passage you have had. Passage through my lands and through my consort’s wood. Now you are come to me. My pretty sister cannot guarantee your safety in my Court.”

Damn. “Because it’s no fun for you if you don’t let us go?”

“Hmmm. Almost a point, child—but you aren’t a child, are you?” He leaned forward, frowning. “You’re not mine. You should be. What are you, little girl that isn’t mine?”

“I’m here under your sister’s guardianship. Nothing else about me matters. Now let me go, and let me take my kids. You admit that I’m not yours.”

His frown deepened for an instant, becoming cold and puzzled. “You’re Amandine’s daughter, aren’t you? You are. I can smell it on you. Why are you here? She never came, and once a road is set aside, no other feet should claim it.”

“For my kids,” I repeated. I could worry about how he knew my mother later.

“Take them,” he countered. “Play a game with me, and save them if you can.”

Something in his words clicked. I straightened, hoping he wouldn’t hear the excitement in my voice. “I’m your prisoner. That’s not fair.” He was a child’s terror, and that implied a certain reliance on games. More important, it implied a dependence on being fair. Children don’t care about good or evil; all that matters is that you play fair and follow the rules. If Blind Michael followed children’s laws, he’d have to play fair with me, or winning wouldn’t count.

Root and branch, I hoped I was right. Blind Michael nodded, turning sightless eyes toward the trees. “It’s not, and games must be fair,” he said. “Shall we have a wager, then?”

“What kind of wager?” I asked cautiously. The fae may not have souls to gamble with, but there are other things that we can lose.

“My Hunters cannot see you while you hold my sister’s mark.” He gestured toward my candle. Bingo. They couldn’t focus on me directly. The children still could. That’s why he was watching me through them. “I’ll give you a head start before I loose my Hunters. If they can find you, if they can catch you, you belong to me, forever. If you can free your children …”

“If I can free them, you don’t follow us out of your lands.”

“Agreed. The children you have claimed can go with you, if you can escape me.”

I had to be missing something, but there wasn’t time to argue. “Deal.”

His expression sharpened. “So run, little girl, as far as your candle will take you. You have until I order my Hunt to follow, and my patience is not long.” He settled back in his throne. “Go.”

There was a rustling behind me. Turning, I saw that the children had moved aside, opening a clear path to the plains beyond the line of trees. I took off running without a backward glance, clutching the candle close to my body to shield it from the wind. Blind Michael’s Court howled and catcalled behind me, trying to break my focus. I just kept running until I was through the crowd, through the trees, and the sounds of the Court vanished behind me. I was suddenly on the plains where I’d started, surrounded by empty wasteland and miles away from my goal.

Only now Blind Michael’s entire Court knew I was here. And they would be coming after me. Just great.