ã€ŠThe Solstice Warsã€‹


 One

    An F¨®mhar || Autumn

    A long time ago --fad¨®, fad¨® --

    peace brought upon us a bloodbath.

    It was never the first,

    and would not be the last.

    <hr>

    One

    An arrow whipped by through the mist.

    Footsteps, deft and running, darted past the treeline.

    The forest provided cover from the emptiness of the rock-scattered, moonlit moors; between them, tufts of grass waved with no wind, and in the open paced two cloaked figures. Their green capes and hoods were turned to black where shadows pooled in the fabric-folds, and silver where the moon touched them. Faceless from this great distance, they held their bows at the ready.

    Their quarry crouched low, then lower, among the bushes, heaving gasps of air, and each breath set her throat aflame. She hid, adrenaline setting a bright, burning course through her veins, the urge to do something, anything, buzzing in her fingertips. Heat sparked and fizzled against her cheek, the lower half of her face exposed beneath a mask worn not for protection, but for anonymity. She reached up, swiping from her freckled cheek to her jaw.

    Her hand came away smeared with red, glistening in the glow of the full moon.

    They¡¯d hit her.

    ¡°Curses be upon you,¡± she growled, and were she not fleeing for her life, her voice would be music, each word rolling from her lips and ending with a lilt. Now, she forced them out, the high of flight giving way to fury. It shoved aside the flimsy little rational thought that said: That¡¯s what you get for trespassing.

    And she found herself sliding an arrow from her quill. She placed it against her bowstring with grace turned lethal, and with reverence -- fear, even -- for what she hoped and willed it to do. Its head bore a terrible weight, both physical and imbued with the knowledge that it was made to bring death, beyond any scrap of a doubt, upon one¡¯s enemy. This weapon was not an ordinary one. It would be too heavy from this distance to reach its mark, so she must approach, closer to the promise of danger and the threat of her own death. And even then, only the one arrow would leave her with one more hunter to kill, who would draw power from vengeance, power enough to match hers.

    But rage made her brave.

    Fueled by the wound to her pride, she stalked them, flipping the balance between hunters and prey. Crossing into the heart of enemy territory was the smallest price of all to pay for what lay within -- what she must reach.

    Look closer, she urged herself.

    Her sight sharpened to crystal.

    She saw her surroundings as if they were drawn in ink, a spread in a tome of instruction that laid out nature¡¯s grand designs with strokes precise, color absolute. The blur of the treetops above splintered into individual shades; each twig and vine and bramble was outlined to perfection even in the midnight dark; every possible path toward her pursuers thrummed with the magic innate to this land. It laced the woods like cobwebs, winding from tree to tree in gossamer, glittering strands. Some of them began deep belowground, in a womb of soil and warmth; others fluttered to and fro in the sky; still more tangled in plants and around rocks, caught upon themselves. Every single one cast a white light that danced against the backdrop of the forest, ghostly. They were a phenomenon visible only when one reached this state: Soil¨¦ireacht. Clarity.

    As she followed the thickest strand, she picked her way across stones so that her walk was as near to undetectable as could be. Within minutes, she was taking bounding leaps, and all pretense of stealth had fallen into nothingness. All but her footfalls made not a sound -- anything not critical to whatever had triggered the need for Clarity receded to the outer fog of consciousness. Breathing was no longer agony, but energy, carrying her ever closer to her targets. Her enemies.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    A twig snapped beneath her boot.

    The hunters spun on their heels, poised to fire.

    At close range, she fired first.

    Her iron arrow missed.

    Shit.

    She was too near to run, too far to wield her knife, wrought also from deadly iron, and so she waited. The second it took for them to lunge at her felt simultaneously like a fraction of itself and like a looped repetition. Again and again she saw them. Cloaks trailing as they jumped. A blade gleaming mercury-bright. Soil¨¦ireacht showed her the intricacies of their movements from one angle to another to the next. Its strings pulled her hand into her own actions. She blocked that shining blow with a slap of her leather sleeve against her assailant¡¯s wrist. All else was silent.

    In the state of her focus, she knew that the other hunter stood behind her. He was about to slash from the back of her neck to the side -- across the vein that carried her heartblood, not an instant wasted in killing her. She twisted out of his path, hair unfurling from beneath her mask in a raven curtain and drifting in her wake. With no sharpened vision to guide them, the hunters stumbled. His dagger embedded itself in the moorland moss. His partner, whom he¡¯d missed by moments, hissed.

    She didn¡¯t hear the hiss, but saw it in curled lips, slitted eyes, bared fangs. And she raised her knife.

    The female hunter¡¯s snarl of an expression faltered; she tensed, as though fighting to stand in a storm against gusts that screamed louder, louder, louder each time she attempted to keep her balance. The knife, it seemed, repelled her.

    Their quarry grinned a wolf¡¯s grin.

    And then she heard the howl.

    Triumph snapped to razor-cold fear. The hunters¡¯ danger had called the hounds. Soil¨¦ireacht shattered. A torrent of noise slammed and broke into pieces by the thousands against her ears -- rasping breath, shouted insults, whipping winds on which peals of their laughter rose and were carried into the nighttime air to rain back down and shatter, too. It was chaos.

    Among it, the thundering of paws.

    Worst was the barking. They were dogs, but not dogs, and their bark was different. Their bark was cavernous, existing at the very deepest depths of sound, shaking her bones like parchment, sinking into the ground and crushing the last strands of magic.

    ¡°You¡¯ll face me again,¡± she spat in the tongue of these lands, which just as her voice, should flow like lyrics, but the words were rendered rough and ugly and cruel.

    With that, she fled.

    Her footfalls kicked up dirt and moss, and with each landing pulsed a word in her mind: Clarity, Clarity, Clarity!

    It wouldn¡¯t come.

    The hounds¡¯ paws thudded along behind her, and the distance between them and her diminished quicker than she could create it. She ran, breath searing once more, acid pain flooding up her legs and engulfing her until her body was nothing but pain, a symphony of it. By now, the clack of their teeth in their slavering mouths echoed across the field.

    Her side had their hate and stealth and trickery, yes.

    But their side had the hounds.

    And it was then that she realized: she was running into their territory. The thought brought hope bursting in her chest -- the candle-flame sort of hope that flickered against hurricanes of certain doom. She chanced a look over her shoulder.

    They were dogs.

    But not dogs.

    She saw only masses of shadow, shaped vaguely like something canine, with green fire there one instant, gone the next, licking out from where their muzzles should be. Their forms rolled and rippled as they chased her. And their eyes, their not-eyes, were pinpricks, yellow dots of light that didn¡¯t look at her as prey, but as a life to steal for themselves, with which to do whatever it was they wanted.

    The overwhelming wrongness of the sight spurred her onward. She hurried, faster than she ever remembered hurrying before. The woods streamed past.

    There came a rush of air behind her.

    A pressure around her ankle.

    If there was an opposite of Soil¨¦ireacht, it was this: dullness, darkness. She would not have been able to process what had happened, even if she¡¯d tried, and she didn¡¯t. There was something immensely defeating about the hound¡¯s maw clamping down on her limb, which of course she didn¡¯t know. She knew only that she had ended.

    Just like that. She hadn¡¯t even come close to her goal. Everything had ended. The hounds had started to lift her onto their backs, so that they could carry her away.

    There then came something warm, wet, trickling from her body to... somewhere. If she¡¯d been awake, she¡¯d have seen her own blood vanishing into apparent nonexistence. She¡¯d have seen something else, like a gouge, sputtering out flecks of glowing white as it began to open. And open it did.

    She flashed to awareness. Her ankle -- she couldn¡¯t feel it. But she could watch the light yawn from empty air, her blood being tugged toward its presence and strengthening it, pulling it wider. What sounded like a gasp was actually wind as the portal sucked it through to whatever lay beyond.

    The portal. She¡¯d made it. She hadn¡¯t ended. Yet.

    In one final attempt, she swept her arm forward, throwing out a spray of red, grasping onto the energy inside; among the hounds¡¯ outraged yelping, it yanked her through.

 Two

    It was a cold, grey morning, like many such autumn mornings on the outskirts of London, and something felt off. It¡¯d felt off since he¡¯d opened his eyes at precisely eight am, one hour ago. Whatever it was, it wasn¡¯t wrong -- just a subtle, back-of-the-mind nagging that he wrote off as forgetfulness. Rather like an itch, he supposed. Perhaps he¡¯d neglected to buy bread the previous day, or some other thing that wasn¡¯t always included in his routine.

    He could have failed to realize that his laptop, placed upon the coffee table in the living room where the windows overlooked mist-cloaked hills and a semi-near, semi-distant city skyline, had drained its battery overnight.

    And so, there he stood, still huddled in lavender fleece pajamas as he rested against the kitchen island, awaiting the kettle to whistle. Fingers brushing the softness of sleeve hems, he listened, and he counted minutes. The squeal from escaping hot air alerted him. Three.

    He crossed the space between himself and the cabinets, which he opened to reveal stacks on stacks of tea tins, and jars of loose leaf, and clipped-closed brown bags of sugar. Foregoing the breakfast blends, kept to the left hand corner of the middle shelf, he instead cupped one such jar into his hand; upon removal of its lid, it released the heady scents of lavender and clove in a swirl that drifted, lingered, and dissipated.

    By the time he clasped his mug, its warmth just barely on the edge of too hot in his hands, the bothersome sensation had grown from an itch to a burn. He continued to ignore it. Comparative Botany took priority over anxiety, and he had less than half an hour before the class began. His fellow students would have already begun filling the chatroom that replaced a lecture hall and typing their messages that replaced beginning-of-class chatter -- Oh my God, did you hear Nathan dropped a whole cake out the window? What a legend! Or maybe, Did you see the latest Brexit meme? No, show me... Haha, is that a Union Jack on Pepe the Frog?

    He rolled his eyes, imagining how inane it would all be, and from the table, slid his laptop. It greeted him with a blank, black screen; he experienced a momentary irritation before plucking the charging cable from the floor and pushing it into place. The tea he placed just out of toppling range from the cable, atop a coaster reserved only ever for tea.

    Once the screen awakened, he logged into the chat in a flustered hurry. Ten out of fifteen students were online -- meaning that he was not the last one there. He exhaled relief in a breath he hadn¡¯t realized he¡¯d been holding, and almost in the same moment, a ping accompanied a private message.

    thomas.winston: Hey mate, where were you last night? Everything okay?

    william.whiteswift: Last night?

    thomas.winston: Yeah, we were gonna call

    William again felt a rush of relief, but for a different reason. The anxious itch vanished: he had worried over nothing but a forgotten Skype call with Thomas, who seemingly held the title of his one friend in the whole country. Maybe in the whole union. People... unnerved him. They annoyed him, even. Something about large crowds of them screamed Too many too much too many too much! and as such, his education was left to the safety of the Internet.

    william.whiteswift: Sorry about that. Must¡¯ve been exhausted and gone to sleep early.

    thomas.winston: It¡¯s no big deal. I¡¯ll remind you tonight

    william.whiteswift: Alright. And, so a one-word reply wouldn¡¯t sound brittle, he added, Cheers.

    That was the end of it, thanks to Thomas¡¯ careful respect of William¡¯s quirks, which included a tendency toward brief conversations: no more words than were needed, and no fewer.

    His attention shifted to the upcoming discussion, guided by sips of tea, as the professor logged into the room. The class would soon engage in debate as though rivals in competition; much as face to face discourse made him long for some tear to rip through the space-time continuum and whisk him away into oblivion, he often enjoyed it online.

    Unless it were about something boring, like the scientific names of fungi, which it was.

    William decided to not pay attention, and were any questions thrown his way, to Google the answers. For the first merciful portion of class, his method worked. He could not have pinpointed how long it took, but at some time into the session, awareness of that feeling flickered back to life. It was not clear to him whether the nagging sensation had just now returned, or if he¡¯d just now tuned in to its presence; either way, it released an urge that wriggled into his focus.

    Go outside.

    Why? William had his impulses, and even the occasional intrusive thought, both reaching from simple to bizarre, but this one was bizarre in its simplicity. Go outside -- that¡¯s all it was.

    His gaze flitted from the screen to the window, and his mind whispered, Yes yes yes yes yes!

    Not yet. Not while class was still in progress.

    No no no no no!

    Just a glance couldn¡¯t hurt. Placing his laptop on the table, also well out of cup-spilling range, he stood, and on sock-muffled footsteps, wandered to peer into the mist. He first looked straight outward, wondering if something was different about the London skyline; next, he looked down, his eyes settling upon the front lawn, below the window. Again, there was nothing out of place. He wasn¡¯t entirely sure what he felt: satisfaction? Confusion? Disappointment? Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    The laptop spit out another ping, and he stepped back to see that the professor herself had messaged him. His stomach dropped to his feet -- sinking.

    Prof.rose.blanchard: William, you¡¯ll work with Johnny, Nathan, and Abby N. in next week¡¯s report.

    His breath came out in another relieved huff, absent the reprimand he¡¯d expected.

    william.whiteswift: Okay, thank you.

    And moments later, with no second consideration and quick as instinct, he fired off another message: Is it okay if I don¡¯t say anything more this class?

    Prof.rose.blanchard: That¡¯s fine. You¡¯ve only had one other absence. It won¡¯t hurt your participation grade.

    william.whiteswift: Thank you, again. Family business.

    He snapped his laptop closed, and he nearly forgot to exchange his pajamas for a sweater and jeans. A mere two minutes elapsed before he ducked out of his room, flung the back door open, and darted down the steps that lead from the porch to the yard.

    If only he¡¯d counted again, and known how long two minutes could really be.

    ???

    The first thing that seared itself into William¡¯s memory was not the girl sprawled across his flowerbed, crushing his hydrangeas. It wasn¡¯t the great, black layer of clouds that rolled in along the horizon, their bellies swollen with rain as if to prophecy her demise. It was her blood.

    He wanted to lurch into the bushes and vomit. There was so much, a veritable tide, the source of which he could not quite tell, what with the sickness that rose in his throat. It¡¯d always sounded so clich¨¦d when people said the world spun, and now, he understood what they were trying to say.

    There was no world -- only him and the dying girl and his phone left stupidly on his nightstand. His feet remained planted on the ground, but through his eyes, it spun this way and that, warping and dipping until he hadn¡¯t a clue which direction was up, down, left, right. He couldn¡¯t move. He couldn¡¯t think. He couldn¡¯t have called an ambulance even if his phone had been in his pocket.

    And because of his stillness, he really was going to watch someone die.

    With a gentleness that nauseated him even more than the blood -- moments like these should plummet from the sky and crash and explode -- the ground stabilized. Little by little, each spin came slower than the last, and he was able to shuffle forward.

    His breath caught, scratching like swallowed leaves.

    The steps toward her became bearable, one at a time, when he counted them.

    Five steps. That was all.

    He had never seen an injury quite like this.

    The sea of scarlet was coming from her ankle, and he could describe the skin there only as lacelike, for the layers did indeed fall upon one another like the weaving of lace, slashed thin. It glistened, half flesh and half membrane, some of her skin cut into larger swaths, and much more into claw-fine strips, fraying in a way that wasn¡¯t merely wrong, but unnatural. Perhaps the cause had been some kind of machine, but then, her bones would have been shattered. The joint did not bend to any angle at which it shouldn¡¯t be, leading him to realize, contrary to the carnage he saw, that it was fine. How could it not be broken? What had done this in the first place? Had she been -- he tensed against another wave of nausea -- bitten?

    Would she ever wake to tell him?

    Her chest rose and fell, the movement so slight that it was almost beyond perception. Bracing for how slick the blood would feel, and how warm, he placed his fingers upon the pale inner plane of her wrist. The moment before he found a pulse fractured, his own heart fluttered, and he felt himself drowning, maybe in water and maybe in ice, and then it was there. Thready, inconsistent, like grasping for something small in the dark and getting only brushes of its surface -- but there.

    He had no room for urges or anxieties, but for a single imperative: Get her inside. Before he could, he would have to wrap the wound, lest it spill out the very last of her blood. With no other option in immediate reach, he yanked off his sweater in a tangle of sleeves and arms, and knelt. He did not let himself think of how the fabric would burn against exposed muscle if she were conscious. Instead, he wrapped, cinching the ends of the sleeves together as a tourniquet.

    William had carried people before. His frame hid a strength that belied its size, and even so, when he lifted her, with her head slumped onto his collarbone, he almost stumbled. She was lean, and couldn¡¯t have been much taller than William himself, but he struggled, weighed down by more than this girl. He could swear it, yet could not say what.

    The stairs would be a challenge. He took a breath, stepped forward, and climbed, at each stair envisioning safe passage to the next. He did not count anything now, but fixed split energy on her and on the door.

    Mercifully, as he crossed the threshold, the rain began to pour in earnest, a rolling, rhythmic beat, dripping over the eaves and pattering onto the brambles below. It lashed its way into the living room after him, soaking the mud mat and floor.

    His cup still sat on the corner of the table, half full and abandoned, opposite his closed laptop. He felt disquiet squirming like a worm. These objects were so ordinary, and this girl was so not, and as he laid her on the couch, she shivered. It was a good sign, meaning that she was responding to the change in temperature -- thus, there was hope for her yet.

    He took no more than forty seconds to rush to the bathroom, heft over his shoulder the duffel kept beside the sink, and rush back. There, he heaved it atop the table, letting the cup roll onto its side and spill a brief, miniature tea waterfall into the carpet. Unzipped, the duffel revealed medical supplies piled between twin lines of zipper teeth: gauze in rolls, bottled peroxide held in Ziploc bags, boxes and boxes of tiny metal instruments. He dug through them, pushing them aside to unveil, like rock settling into striations across millennia, another layer underneath.

    There were leather pouches tied with twine, yellowed boxes holding matches, vials of greenish liquids that sluiced back and forth within their bounds, tomes shedding flakes of leather dried from age. Stuffed among their parallel spines, more glass jars glinted, and these were filled not with tea, but with stones. All carved flat, into a uniform oblong shape, each one bore the same engraving: a trio of spirals, arranged to sit at the points of an invisible triangle, some facing left and others right.

    The Celtic triskele.

    William grabbed the nearest jar, with no regard to which he picked up, for they served a shared purpose. His hands had touched her skin, but in his state of hyperfocus, his brain had not registered what they felt: a buzz, a hum, a pulse beneath her pulse, fading more the longer she lay wounded. Modern tools could quell her blood loss, but only the triskele could restore that fervent, sharp, ancient energy.

    He knew now. He knew what she was.

    So, he set to work. The hours passed in a blur of ointments and gauze, spiral-stones on her forehead and sternum, bitter oils and herb smoke and words whispered from his lips as a mantra: Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me...

 Three

    All the world was smeared over with a viscous haze, and all she could sense as she struggled out of three days¡¯ sleep was pain. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a long throb from somewhere low on her body. For a single moment that stuttered and dragged, she didn¡¯t remember where the pain came from, and then she did -- her ankle.

    It told her two things: that she wasn¡¯t dead, and that someone must have healed her, at least somewhat.

    She mulled over these bits of information, rolling them around and poking and prodding them, looking for holes. The fact that she had lived was absolutely certain. Everything ached way too much for her to have died, and she smelled lavender. Nobody had ever told her that being dead had a smell.

    As for the healing, she didn¡¯t feel anything wet where the hounds had caught her. An image of a dog-shaped shadow flickered across the stage of her eyelids, growling, springing, vanishing. Though she struggled with her half-sleeping brain, she could not determine how long it¡¯d been since the attack. But from the dryness of the wound, and the feeling of something soft packed in around it, she estimated perhaps a day.

    Wakefulness fell into place one piece at a time. That soft surface was everywhere, filling the space around her body like clouds. From it, the floral scent drifted. There was light coming from somewhere beside her, not enough to sting her closed eyes, but enough that they fluttered open to find its source.

    The window to her left had its slitted blinds at an angle to let the sun shine through. It cast slats of pale yellow across the blankets draped over her form, making them looked ribbed in brightness and shadow. The more she allowed her vision to adjust, the more outlines, then shapes, then objects materialized: bed posts, bookshelves, curtains, chairs. There was one by the bed, and another by the desk tucked into the far left corner, between herself and the window.

    She prepared for another wave of pain and propped herself up on bent elbows to look in the opposite direction. In a snap of a second, she wished she hadn¡¯t.

    From the ceiling to the floor stretched a flag. That flag. A sapphire backdrop, a red x, a white x, a great scarlet cross slashed across the foreground. She cringed, tasting bitterness and sickly breath. How had she landed in England? Why had that been the first place to which her thoughts had gone when she¡¯d grasped the portal? Gods, had that memory dredged up from the nebulous swamps beneath every bit of rationality she¡¯d ever scraped together? If this really was England, then whether it was chance or the fate goddess Morrigan toying with her, she couldn¡¯t think about it.

    So, she steeled herself against it, giving the thing a mental smack into the sludge of other Things She Could Not Think About, and was done with it. Vast scores of countries bore that mark. Wherever she¡¯d landed, all she had to do was recover, leave, and find some place to adequately blend in.

    If the hunters and their hounds were a threat, then the people from whom they hid were lethal.

    There came a creak from outside the room. The door handle turned. Her heart slammed against her chest, fear searing away dullness.

    She wasn¡¯t sure that she could even walk, but she was sure that she wouldn¡¯t lie down and surrender. Her hands clenched into fists, lacking any weapon but knuckles and curses.

    They fell slack when the door opened.

    He was sunlight, the young man who stepped inside -- shoulder-length honey hair, skin warm and fair, as he laid upon her a heather gaze, grey-green as the sea in autumn. His clothing was plain, but a peaceful sort of plain, pale denim and a cable-knit sweater that spilled down to his thighs, and bunched at his wrists, letting his fingers emerge clasping a white box between them. It was plastic, hooked closed, and large enough to contain perhaps a book. But the box was nowhere near as enthralling as his expression.

    He hadn¡¯t expected her to be awake, had he?

    The two were locked at a standstill. It was like what people said of empaths and psychics: they didn¡¯t look at you. They looked into you.

    Instead of what she was sure he¡¯d say -- Who are you? What are you? What happened? -- he asked only one question. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°Do you feel alright?¡±

    His voice held none of the lilt she heard in Belfast or Dublin or home, only a velveteen calm, sweets for the ears. Her precarious hope toppled. Never had she heard a voice more undeniably English.

    Her own would not come. The air began coursing with electricity, as though this one room in this one home in this one inescapable country was poised on the edge of a lightning strike to end all lightning strikes. She remembered how it¡¯d felt when Soil¨¦ireacht had broken. Right before the break, the air was just like this. And she was going to feel it again unless she answered. Why that was so certain, she couldn¡¯t say.

    ¡°Yes,¡± she managed at last. The single word rasped, hoarse in her throat.

    His stare faltered from hers, and his stance shifted, losing the tension that her unexpected consciousness had brought.

    ¡°How... how did you get hurt?¡±

    ¡°How did you know what to do?¡±

    ¡°I know what you are.¡± And, before she had the chance to take fright or offense at his blithely casual tone, he added, ¡°I¡¯m not going to tell anybody.¡±

    For the second time in as many minutes, there was nothing that she could say.

    In her silence, he took a step forward, rubbing the corner of the box with his thumbs like a worry stone. Another charge of energy pulsed through the air, from him to her.

    ¡°Well,¡± he said, and stood still, no more than another foot nearer. ¡°I was going to change the dressing, but... you can do it yourself, I suppose.¡±

    It was less of a statement and more of a question, and within it, buried deep, was fear that she¡¯d not noticed moments earlier.

    That¡¯s right. You should be afraid.

    A trace of... something... flickered through her, though she¡¯d not said anything to intimidate him. It couldn¡¯t be guilt. There was no time for that. She willed it away with a raised brow and a clever line -- or so she intended.

    ¡°You really do know what I am, then.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I...¡±

    ¡°Give me no more favors, then. And give me the box.¡±

    He held it out at arm¡¯s length and balanced it in his hands, as if offering a priceless gem on a cushion. Sparks leapt between their fingertips, invisible, when she took it.

    ¡°Might I at least ask again what happened?¡±

    As she¡¯d suspected, when she lifted the hooks and flipped the lid, the box was stuffed full of the supplies to clean and dress her wound -- so white, so sterile. She leafed through bandages in individual wrapping, and packets of disinfectant wipes, and vials covered in paper, which were printed with so much medical jargon that she couldn¡¯t make heads nor tails of it.

    Under the latter, she uncovered a flat pebble.

    ¡°The hounds did it,¡± she said, and she turned the pebble over. Three etched spirals stared back at her. That was at least a sign that she¡¯d not been captured by some amateur researcher.

    ¡°The Wild Hunt?¡±

    ¡°Surprised?¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± he repeats, in the sort of lost, awkward tone used only for surprises. ¡°I wasn¡¯t aware they still...¡±

    ¡°Exist?¡±

    ¡°I guess so.¡±

    ¡°A lot of things still exist.¡±

    His eyes flicked back to hers, surely searching for an explanation. She gave none, not to be standoffish, but because she was bracing for what she would see under the gauze around her ankle.

    ¡°Go away, now,¡± she prompted, the box set upon her lap.

    He bowed his head, retreated, and nudged the door closed behind him. That electric crackling left the air, fizzling to nothing and leaving her body heavy as iron. She exhaled exhaustion, pushed the blankets away, and gingerly peeled back the first strip of gauze. Round and round her hand pulled it, like a snake, until it lay piled on the bed sheets, the inner layers red-brown with congealed blood.

    Her stomach clenched. Ice raced down her spine. The skin was raw, red, sliced into oblivion by teeth the likes of which she should not have survived. But what made her mind stammer, unable to rationalize the sight, was how the slices lay flat, edged in crimson and glistening with an oily sheen. It was almost as though they¡¯d been glued. While she hardly dared, she brought her leg closer to her face, grasping by the knee, and took a breath. The odor brimmed with the same pungent sterility of the box; whatever the oil was, it had done just as much as the triskele rune to stop her blood loss.

    ¡°Do it myself,¡± she grumbled, squinting at the type stamped across a disinfectant packet. It did not tell her whether to use the wipe first, or to open the vials, which she presumed held oil. ¡°Real useful.¡±

    She could not have known that he had stayed just outside the door, perched on one of the few areas of hallway floor that did not creak, but she did know that if she didn¡¯t hurry, he¡¯d return. So, she shrugged, sighed, and tore open the packet. At first, she recoiled from the cold, damp square inside and the waft of alcohol smell -- it burned her nose, making her sneeze, which sent yet another lance of pain through her aching body.

    But what was she if she couldn¡¯t handle this? Nothing. She dabbed every inch of the wound, stifling a gasp, and with her other hand, wiped her eyes dry when they began to water. If she¡¯d survived the hounds, then she could do this without giving in to weakness.

    With each oil trail she trickled onto the new roll of gauze, and each loop around her ankle, she reminded herself of that.

    To repay her debt to the young man, she¡¯d refrain from harming him. It was the best he could ask for, really, bringing her into his home.

    Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow, she¡¯d disappear, keeping one of this world¡¯s precious few kind souls safely in the dark.

 Four

    William knew his faerie myths and he knew them well. His parents had never questioned why specifically these so entranced him -- hyperfixation, the therapist had said -- and, thus, they let it be. But he knew the answer as to why. They weren¡¯t myths. The raven-and-bone, stardust-and-silence girl in his guest bed proved that much.

    If he were a fool, he would have called her beautiful. As he saw her again in his mind¡¯s eye, all of her features conspired to create a concoction of wild, stay-on-the-path danger, and ethereal, blink-and-you¡¯ll-miss-it allure. When most people heard the word ethereal, they would have thought of white, chiffon things, of angels and wishes and wisps.

    But there she was, and she was shadow. Black-silk locks with the shade and sheen of ravens¡¯ wings, ghost-pale and pointed face, freckles dusted like stardust across her cheeks. A lace of scars crept up her collarbone from beneath the sleeveless tunic she wore, olive suede pockmarked with cuts, perhaps from arrows or blades or claws. The tunic draped down to her hips, an athlete¡¯s form, lithe and ready to leap and run. He had not dared to question what was packed into the pockets of her pants, a touch of ordinary among everything else -- cargo pants, ripped across the knees. Her clothing still bore a crust of dried blood, but with her skin clean and hair combed, something within himself had shifted. It was a simple sense, just one second changing to another. She stopped looking dangerous and started looking... pretty.

    For a length of time that he could not specify, William had stood halfway slumped against the wall. He was mere inches from the door and perched upon one of the few non-creaking places on the floor, certain that she would hear him if he took one wrong step. Retrieving the first aid kit now would bring disaster. It would just have to wait, for that was how things went with the fae. With her injury, she couldn¡¯t have physically hurt him, but he was still at the mercy of far worse things than a beating. Far more permanent things.

    A chill skittered across his skin, perhaps from the cold air, and perhaps from unease, which lurched about the corners of his consciousness like a lame beast, snapping at hapless thoughts that wandered too close. They morphed into a story: he¡¯d make a mistake and anger her. Then, he¡¯d hear pan-pipes and drums, always, even as he slept. And then, one day, he¡¯d wake up with pointed ears and an almost-Irish accent just like hers. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Reality jolted into place when his phone buzzed. Blinking away his waking nightmares, William slid it into his hand and scowled when it kept buzzing. Thomas¡¯ name appeared across the screen, and with a huff, he accepted the call. Besides his mother and father, it seemed that nobody else who knew William would dare call instead of texting.

    Even so, he couldn¡¯t keep the snap out of his voice. ¡°What?¡±

    Thomas¡¯ response was immediate; rushing conversations and activity filled the background. ¡°Really, Will, what¡¯s going on?¡±

    ¡°Nothing.¡± Ever so slowly, he lowered himself to his knees, and inched to the other side of the hall, where, thanks to it being the center of the house, the floor had settled.

    ¡°I¡¯ve known you long enough to know that¡¯s a load of bull.¡±

    Free hand upon the wall for support, he stood. ¡°It¡¯s not bull. There¡¯s a first time for everything.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re trying to tell me to shut up without saying the words ¡®shut up¡¯.¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯m not. Don¡¯t worry about it.¡±

    ¡°Will...¡± Thomas¡¯ words trailed off, and he heaved a sigh. ¡°That phrase never fails to make me worry more. You forgot our Skype call again.¡±

    The beginning of a headache pulsed behind his temple. ¡°I¡¯m busy with that assignment.¡± When he received no answer, he added, ¡°My botany report.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not... I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s the truth. Did something happen?¡±

    Without meaning to, guided by some force beyond the realm of control, he glanced to the guest bedroom door. ¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡±

    ¡°Okay... I¡¯m going to be nearby soon. This Tesco¡¯s muffin selection is awful. I¡¯m going to yours.¡±

    The unease-beast lumbered into the middle of his mind, and William half-expected to hear it laugh. ¡°Thomas...¡±

    ¡°I could stop by, if you want --¡±

    ¡°No!¡± He¡¯d said it too quickly, with too much force. The ensuing silence made him wince.

    As the possibility of Thomas finding the girl was almost overwhelming, his friend relented. ¡°Alright. Alright, just promise we can talk in the next... two days?¡±

    ¡°Fine. Two days.¡± His reply came out subdued, followed by a slow exhale, and the bubbling mix of dread and frustration stilled. ¡°One more thing.¡±

    ¡°What is it?¡±

    ¡°If... if I¡¯m busier than normal, or distracted, I¡¯m still fine. It¡¯s not a big deal.¡±

    There came another silence and another wave of anxiety to make his stomach turn.

    ¡°Will, if something¡¯s happened --¡± William hung up, left alone with his lies.

 Five

    Field Mission HQ, Glasgow, Scotland, 02:13

    Marty O¡¯Flannigan had been awake for fourteen consecutive hours. Three monitors¡¯ screens cast a blue-light halo around her frizz of hair, and the angles of her shoulders, and the clutter scattered in heaps around her. The room was pitch dark save for the computers¡¯ glow -- not just from the monitors, but from consoles tucked beneath desks, pouring out beeps and buzzes and flickering flashes of LEDs, and through their sounds traveled an undercurrent of whirring. At regular intervals, their fans picked up speed, cooling their interiors and making nearby papers flutter. Various objects weighed the sheets down: a half-eaten granola bar, a stapler, a rock. A plastic bag of ramen packages, tucked between two stacks of papers and books, crinkled in the fan-breeze.

    She was deep in a noodle- and cold chip-fueled surveillance of a city alleyway, which occupied the screen directly before her -- a path of angles and concrete and trash piled high as the eye could see. Crude scrawlings plastered the wall, though here and there, someone had crafted images of interest. There was a mouse balanced on limbs of exaggerated length, more spindle or stilt than leg. Further up, a girl with an owl¡¯s head spread her arms wide. Earlier, Marty had tried to busy herself by imagining what colors painted these pictures, as the black-and-white footage robbed them of all hue and life, but it had only reminded her of how boring this was. She¡¯d rather clean the dust from the air vent, which hadn¡¯t been done in days.

    With her gaze locked on the alley, she plucked another chip from the cardboard box in front of her keyboard.

    Another chair squealed behind her; wheels rolled across about five feet of clean space. The fans wafted a sandalwood scent toward her as her partner steered himself closer.

    ¡°Hey, Marty, gimme a fry,¡± he said, Southern-drawling the last word.

    His voice was a breath of candle smoke, soft enough to drop to a whisper at any moment, a husky rasp trailing in its wake. It was the kind of voice that entranced those unlucky enough to be swayed, paired with the kind of appearance that kept them under a spell: tousled brown waves, ocean eyes, a pierced brow, an all-American chiseled jawline complete with a knife scar below his lip. More scars, too irregular to be self-inflicted, notched his arms, bared in a denim vest and white tee with the sleeves torn off. He was fit, muscles defined even at rest, and his skin a tan counterpart to Marty¡¯s sun-deprived pallor.

    She wasn¡¯t falling for a scrap of it. Without a single glance at him, she handed him the squishiest, most unsatisfying chip she could find.

    He asked for another seconds later, waving his fingers in a ¡®come here¡¯ motion.

    Marty closed the box. ¡°Focus.¡±

    ¡°On what? There¡¯s nothing happening.¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s our assignment anyways.¡±

    ¡°Man...¡± He slouched back in his chair, elbows draped over its arms. ¡°I wish I was still in Memphis. Always something crazy to see there.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not. Deal with it --¡±

    Movement in the alley grabbed her attention, pulling with it a bright streak of hope that maybe, finally, something had happened. A drunkard stumbled from one side to the other, shuffled along the wall, and vanished around the corner. Marty slumped forward on her desk, chin propped up on one curled hand.

    ¡°Damn,¡± she mumbled.

    ¡°What city is that, anyway?¡± The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Marty spun to face him, her hands now cupped in the universal gesture for baffled outrage. ¡°You don¡¯t even know what city we¡¯re watching!?¡±

    ¡°I forgot!¡±

    ¡°You forget everything -- it¡¯s Manchester! England!¡±

    ¡°Not my fault we get stuck with the cases no one else wants.¡±

    ¡°No, Don, it is your fault! Killarney was a disaster! And Cork, and Edinburgh --¡± She waved her arm, smacked a styrofoam cup, and spilled lukewarm noodles onto the desk. They worm-wriggled off of the edge and spattered on the floor. ¡°Great. Thanks.¡±

    ¡°Not my fault,¡± Don grumbled again, and retreated to his station, where he stared at his own feed of the Manchester alleyway with his shoulders hunched.

    Marty shoved her chair aside, stalked to the supply closet for napkins, and dropped them in a pile on her workspace. She spent the next several minutes wiping up noodles.

    At a ring from her headset, still plugged into the computer and hanging over the left monitor, she stood. A window had appeared, blank grey except for a blinking phone icon, an ¡®accept¡¯ button, and a line of text.

    Incoming Call: Agent Baxter Avery, Field Training Department.

    Don had already joined, twirling the cord of his own headset around his thumb. Marty grabbed hers and pulled it on, settling into her chair. She gave herself no more than five seconds to assume a false air of calm, then clicked accept.

    Avery¡¯s voice came through in crystal clarity, northern English without the clipped syllables and rushed words so common to the region.

    ¡°Careful, or they¡¯re going to stick you two with a London case,¡± he was saying to Don, who drummed his fingertips on his mousepad.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with London?¡± Don asked.

    ¡°Think, newbie. It¡¯s damn near impossible to navigate. And it¡¯s not easy getting help. The average Brit won¡¯t take you seriously when you inquire about the supernatural.¡±

    ¡°Then Manchester¡¯s just as bad --¡±

    ¡°Don, please!¡± Marty interrupted. ¡°Can you pay attention instead of complaining?¡±

    Avery took and crushed Don¡¯s opportunity to fire back. ¡°Enough bickering. Don, care to outline the case for us?¡±

    He shot Marty a withering glare, and she mirrored it in force, but let him speak.

    ¡°Sure. There¡¯s a faerie of unknown type hiding somewhere in the eastern part of the city. We know it¡¯s a threat because four people have gotten sick with something mysterious, after making social media posts about feeling observed. Before they made the posts, there was an increase in toadstool ring sightings around parks and such.¡±

    ¡°Thank you. Marty? What type do we theorize the faerie to be, and why have ring sightings increased?¡±

    Marty jumped on the chance to prove that she knew more -- that Don was the beginner, not her. ¡°Toadstool rings are associated with decay, and are most frequent during autumn. This is the season of the autumn equinox, and of the festival Samhain.¡± She emphasized the pronunciation -- so-when -- for Don, who, without fail, mispronounced it every time. ¡°During Samhain, it¡¯s believed that the veil between Earth and the supernatural is thinner. In short, this is because the lunar energies are heightened between the equinox and winter solstice. The fae can use these energies to open portals through the rings --¡±

    ¡°Marty, the type? I would hope Don¡¯s aware of all of this.¡±

    He rolled his eyes, and to Marty, mouthed, Of course I am.

    ¡°I¡¯m getting to it. Because of the link between fungi and decay, death-aligned fae are better at opening these portals than life-aligned fae. Respectively, they used to be known as the Unseelie and Seelie courts.¡±

    ¡°So the faerie in Manchester is death-aligned,¡± Don finished, seeming eager to ride the coattails of Marty¡¯s explanation. She flipped him off, silent.

    Avery confirmed their theory. ¡°Good. How long do you have left to find it?¡±

    ¡°Two days,¡± they said at once.

    ¡°Right. Marty, I want you watching those social media pages and I want you watching them closely. Whatever lying you need to do, whatever documents you need forged, just find this thing. Don, I know you¡¯ve kept using that rusty old shiv. Get some new iron. Cold-forged, or else. Can I count on you both?¡±

    ¡°You can,¡± Marty swore, and to herself, she made another, secret promise: that she would do anything it took to salvage the reputation Don¡¯s negligence so frequently ruined.

 Six

    Fog had settled over London in a shivering haze, poised on the line between mist and rain. It was a quintessentially dreary English morning, and the city still slept in its pale hours. On main streets, lines of cars migrated to office buildings, the tops of which were lost in low-hanging clouds; people trudged inside, and they shook their umbrellas, and they vanished into their corporate hives. The side streets held a hush and a drizzling cold, only one car passing by the hooded girl who cut a path through trash bins and sodden cardboard boxes.

    Her jacket, a size too loose, and draped in hunter¡¯s green folds around her form, was not really hers. How peaceful he¡¯d looked as he lay curled in bed, a mound of blankets piled upon him, a triskele-rune resting in his palm. That honey hair had fallen in a curtain across his forehead, soft strands pouring onto his pillow and ever-so-faintly waving with each breath.

    How she¡¯d wanted to snatch the rune and run.

    How she¡¯d forced herself not to.

    A jacket would be all she¡¯d take. Instinct decreed it.

    Soil¨¦ireacht had served her well in opening his closet door without so much as a squeak -- each string pointing to dents in the hinges, or oil-bare places, or ridges in the wood that would have scraped each other had she not seen them. She¡¯d not even dared to breathe, though the length of her effort was not of entire necessity. His breathing did not falter once, and as she slid from the ranks of his hanging clothing something she didn¡¯t suspect he¡¯d miss, she took one more pause. One more glance.

    If she¡¯d felt the anger he so feared, she would have asked his name.

    That was the last thing she let herself think of him. She crept from his room, waved her hand, and the threads of Clarity set the bedroom door shut behind her.

    Without anything to break them, they¡¯d stayed, winding past seemingly random sections of floor. They lay there like a carpet of vines, their glow casting just enough light for her to see in the pre-dawn dark. She avoided the places that they avoided, and they wove ahead as she made her gradual advance, guiding her. They took her past bookshelves in the hallway, a cabinet of dishware at the corner between the hall and living room, around kitchen cabinets and a granite island.

    She looked back. There was a notepad left on the island, and a pen. Impatient, the threads writhed, but she reached for both. The digital clock on the stove blinked, changing from 4:34 a.m. to 4:35. He¡¯d not wake for hours, she was sure, and still, she did not have all the time in two worlds.

    Three minutes dragged by. The threads licked up her calves, and with a gentle shake, she cast them off. At last, with no wise words or kind words or grateful words to write, she scrawled a single line. She tore the sheet from the pad, folded it, and placed it between two metal canisters that glinted in the light of Soil¨¦ireacht.

    The mystery of how faeries -- supposedly -- took infants from their homes with no sign of entry had a simple answer. She left through the front door just like he would. It unlocked, and the threads slipped through to lock it behind her before fading away.

    Not once did she look back again.

    ???

    She twisted behind a dumpster that blocked an alley, slim enough to slip through the gap. The chance of someone else being there was almost nonexistent, as the dumpster would be too heavy to move without machinery. Shelter was in order -- it was beginning to rain.

    She took a long breath and leaned against the wall, head tilted upward to let the water sprinkle her skin. No harm in stopping to savor it.

    What was next? The usual lying and tricking and swindling? At home, the way between safe point one and safe point two was littered with falsehoods like a mountain slope with stones. There, everyone from child to ageless adult knew that. It would be safer here, she supposed. With her people, the English had long since earned a reputation for ignoring things they didn¡¯t understand.

    They would ignore, then, how her face appeared real, yet lacked something. It was as though she¡¯d been born from a dream, but not in a beautiful way: people who looked at her didn¡¯t remember looking at her. Most humans bore reasonable similarities to others; she bore none. The difference was not enough to earn her praise, and the glamour was slight. Any stronger, and it would be too convincing, too different. People would look for too long, instead of making fleeting eye contact and ceasing it when something seemed off. If you stared into the abyss, after all, it stared back into you. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    She would just have to avoid the observant folk, and would have to steal her way to safety. Stealing food would be easy enough -- medical supplies, marginally more difficult. She hadn¡¯t had the time to find where the young man kept his, and some tiny, stupid, irrational part of her brain told her that he¡¯d know where she¡¯d been in his house.

    At least Clarity would help her evade the security cameras that dotted the city. There were times when she detested modern inventions, and this was one of those times -- at every turn, someone could be watching her. There were smartphones to look out for, and videos, and the Internet.

    It hadn¡¯t been nearly this bad the last time she¡¯d been in London.

    That thought, too, she slapped into the lake of Things She Could Not Think About, which was starting to feel more like an ocean, and if she tested the waters, she¡¯d fall deeper and deeper until she drowned.

    For now, she had to build a camp. Would the alley do? She cast a sweeping gaze around her, regaining her bearings. The path between buildings was a dead end; at its far wall, steeped in darkness still, she could discern bins and broken boxes. Grey metal plates lined the sides, perhaps openings to electrical panels and equipment closets and the like. Then -- there. One of the plates sat propped against the left building, leaving a yawning black square that it should have covered. She hesitated.

    The space within was a cave of shadows and dust, brick and steel, a long rectangular area that extended both forward and up. It was as though the building contained its own hallway just inside the wall, and the hallway was filled with a staircase. The structure was wrought from the same metal as the door-plate, each step scored through with grooves and ridges to prevent a slip; after apparent years of neglect, combined grime and dust had layered on thick. Though the air did not strongly stink, odors wafted from every surface -- dirt, animals, plastic, grease. It was nothing that she could not get used to. As her sight adjusted, a pile of miniature bones appeared in the gloom beneath the bottom stair. She wrinkled her nose, not wanting to stare at a place where rats went to die. Above that, another stair had fallen, left somewhere on the ground below. Her eyes followed the railing up to the end, so dark that she could barely tell what was there, until the outline of a doorway materialized. It beckoned to her -- the urge to explore things she shouldn¡¯t, to discover secrets that weren¡¯t hers.

    After another hesitation, another flicker of reason, she began to climb. They were bolted to the wall, so her momentary worry about her wound was for nothing. The higher she climbed, the mustier the smells became, and once she reached the top, she was breathing through her mouth but still tasting grease. Heart thumping, she tried the handle. It didn¡¯t budge. She urged Clarity to come, and of course, it didn¡¯t. She¡¯d used so much of it only an hour ago.

    With a huff, she descended, one careful step at a time. There wasn¡¯t enough room to sleep without crawling under the staircase, which, possibly, she could. She knelt, favoring her uninjured foot, and reached her hand through.

    Please, she willed. Please, I just need a little.

    A single thread unraveled from nowhere and curled into a ball in her palm. She could have sighed in relief. It didn¡¯t give a bright light, but it gave enough. The stairs hid more space, built upon smooth concrete; at the very back, glass shapes winked. She nudged herself further, grasping the inner edge of the bottom stair. They were beer bottles, which must have fallen and rolled, as it was too tight a squeeze for homeless or even teenagers.

    For tonight, this was the best she could do.

    She slid through, wincing at both her ankle throbbing and her jacket snagging on the ridges. It took several moments, and several tries to turn to the least painful angle, but she soon sat on the cool ground, catching her breath.

    The thread disappeared, a barely-there candle extinguished, and she laid back with her hands behind her head. She did not notice when her eyes closed, or when the tides of sleep began to ebb at the edges of her mind.

    Dawn was only just approaching, and she felt as though she¡¯d been running for days. How many had it been since the hounds? Three? Six? How long had it taken the young man to reign her energy back into its bounds, keeping it from spilling out along with her lifeblood? Everything began to throb, her head included; her body ached against the concrete. She let her thoughts loose to stray -- wishing there was soil beneath her, and moss, and pebbles, and trees above, their browning leaves whispering hush-hush in the wind. She pictured birds flitting from the branches and following their migration path to warmer skies, squirrels digging for buried acorns before winter¡¯s approach. There was a musk in her imaginary air, the scents of earth and wood, and a full moon among her imaginary clouds, pooling silver and power upon her.

    The scene made her ache far more than the concrete did. She pulled her wandering thoughts back into range. A goal -- she needed a goal.

    Think of a name. Using her real one would easily get her killed.

    Ainsel.

    She couldn¡¯t keep the smirk from her lips. Mine own self, said the changeling children of folktale books when asked who they were. Time had shaped their answer into that name. Time would give her the energy to reach a forest. To recover. To earn vengeance.

 Seven

    William¡¯s green rain jacket had gone missing. He stood before his closet, blinking in the watery light that reflected against the mirror beside him, and knew it was odd to think of missing clothing, not of the girl.

    The first thing he had done upon waking was to pick up his phone and check the weather. Intermittent rain -- of course. He¡¯d gone to his closet, looking for the spare jacket, as his usual had tea, creamer and all, spilled down the front. Now, after searching and searching, he could only conclude that it was gone.

    And if that was gone, then...

    He flung his door open, crossed the hall in two long, springing steps, and burst into the guest room. The breeze teased the curtains into a flutter, sending goosebumps prickling up his arms, bare in a tee shirt. Nothing was out of place, save for the blankets on the empty bed, bunched at its foot where she¡¯d pushed them aside and slid free.

    Senses dull, caught between soul-breaking disappointment and breath-giving relief, he touched his fingertips to the bed sheet. There was a dark smudge on the side nearest the window; mist had made its mark there, as well as in a circle on the floor. Everything within him was frozen as he pulled the window closed, and the curtains stilled.

    Just like the minutes before he¡¯d found her, he could not decide how he felt, or even how he should feel.

    She could have at least thanked him, right?

    Wrong.

    He should be thanking her for not slitting his throat or cursing him in his sleep. His thoughts strayed back to her every time he tried to shove them away -- he could not think like that. The Celtic mythos was as venomous as it was enchanting: full of demons and devils and dark, dangerous things that lulled you in and clutched you and didn¡¯t let go. There was a reason people still lined doorways with salt, and placed scissors by children¡¯s beds, and hung ivy and rowan and blackberry around their homes.

    Time to burn these sheets, he thought, deadpan.

    But instead, he bundled them together, hefted them up, and carried them along the hallway, where he turned the corner into the laundry room. It was a dim, cool space, just large enough for a top-loading washer, dryer, and shelf holding boxes of supplies. He dumped the entire bundle into the washer, poured in a generous capful of detergent, and set it to intense wash with a beep.

    When he dropped the lid, it clanged into place, and he imagined that he¡¯d plunged the past six days¡¯ problems into a soup of hot water and soap to scour them from existence.

    The faerie. All of that blood. The fear, the dread that she wouldn¡¯t live, the certainty that she would. Thomas, catching on.

    And something else, a vagueness that had slept at the back of his brain for years upon years. His childhood dreams.

    Forest, lush, alive with birdsong, sunshine streaming through the trees and cutting swirls in the mist. His feet sinking into a mossy carpet, fronds springing up around his toes. His teeth crunching through the sweetest fruit he¡¯d ever tasted, dribbling pink juice down his chin, its texture sublime. He could recall no more detail than that -- only the brilliant, sparkling song that freedom and adventure wove together. The dreams had started when, by chance, he¡¯d read a picture book that spread wondrous images of ¡°fairyland¡± out before him, and after that, they wouldn¡¯t leave his head.

    He saw a flickering picture: himself, nine, sitting in the yard and wailing because his mother forbade him from wandering the summer woods alone.

    Another: himself again, crying in his father¡¯s embrace as he trembled in the wake of a nightmare. He remembered nothing more than running from someone.

    William shook the memories away, envisioning what he was now: a student, a friend, the son of a surgeon. A faerie healer, apparently. He¡¯d seen his first faerie at ten, a wizened thing, perhaps the height of a cat, pilfering dried apricots from a bowl on the kitchen table. The creature had frightened him so much that he¡¯d decided to never enter the kitchen unaccompanied. It had scampered off to somewhere unseen, and insistent as he was, his parents blamed him, though their late-night conversation revealed just how confused they were that he¡¯d steal apricots, of all things.

    He¡¯d seen his first dead one a month later, a pixie crushed against the wheelbarrow like a bug. In secret, he had gathered it into his palm and buried it by the flowerbed. Sickened, he¡¯d skipped school the following Monday. Whatever these were, they could die. But if they could die, maybe they could be saved.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    William breathed a heavy, huffing sigh, trying again to brush it all under the rug. It was time to go back to normal, and await the next being of the realm beyond his, and hope that one would only need stitches or a handful of triskele-stones.

    And, like an ordinary university student attempting to go back to normal, William called his mother.

    The phone rang twice before she picked up, her voice crisp, the clip of her shoes audible as she took purposeful strides down a linoleum floor. ¡°Will, is it important? I¡¯m on my way --¡±

    ¡°To a surgery?¡± His shoulders slumped. ¡°I¡¯ll call later.¡±

    ¡°No. I¡¯m on my way to a lecture. What did you need?¡±

    Having prepared no statement, no excuse, he faltered. ¡°Just -- just to stop by, or have brunch, or something. It¡¯s been a while. I¡¯ve been busy.¡±

    ¡°Brunch... The lecture will take me two hours...¡± She was briefly quiet, and Will heard muffled voices and papers shuffling. He took the small fraction of time to thank whatever powers that be for his mother¡¯s focus on her work. ¡°Right, it¡¯s eight thirty now. Be here at ten thirty. Is that good for you?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s good.¡± And, to maintain the illusion of being fine, he added, ¡°Thanks. I¡¯ll see you then.¡±

    With that, he hung up and hurried to the bathroom for a hot shower.

    ???

    The sun had begun to peer from behind a layer of clouds once William was sitting adjacent his mother in the cafe attached to St. Albertus Mercy Hospital. It was not as cramped as he¡¯d started to fear -- the crowds kept to the upper level, from whence came sporadic bursts of laughter and plate-clinking. Here, on the lower floor, the two had claimed a small corner table, minimizing opportunities for accidental bumps as people walked by.

    William stirred a bowl of vegetable stew, and hadn¡¯t yet spread butter onto the roll that came with it. He hoped that he appeared to be waiting for it to cool, rather than holding back a torrent of nerves and worries. Enticing aromas swirled from his bowl -- pepper, potato, butternut squash. Yet he could not bring himself to feel hungry.

    Dr. Eleanor Whiteswift watched him with a hawk¡¯s stare, eyes blue as the sky and glinting behind gold-framed glasses, blonde hair tied into a bun. The sharpness of her gaze lent her what her students called severity, her colleagues intensity, and William scientific analysis. She analyzed everything, from the sound of a person¡¯s breath to the pauses between their words to even what color they wore that day, as she was surely doing with him right then. William glanced from his cream-colored turtleneck to her grey button-down, her satchel hanging from the back of her chair, and the glimpse of blue scrubs inside. Even as she cut a slice of cheese quiche with perfect, straight strokes, she watched him.

    He attempted regular conversation. ¡°How has work been? Any interesting surgeries?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re all interesting.¡± She took a forkful of quiche, still observing.

    ¡°Any... dangerous ones?¡±

    That nudged her attention away from William. ¡°I helped Dr. Pajeeri remove a neuroblastoma from a little girl last week. She¡¯s set to make a steady recovery.¡± She spoke without any wonder or softness, only with the satisfaction of a job done and a life saved.

    ¡°How long did it take you?¡±

    ¡°Seven hours in all, including preparation and cleanup.¡± As his heartbeat was beginning to calm, signaling him to gradually let his guard down, her eyes snapped back to his. The analysis resumed without a beat missed. ¡°What has you interested in surgeries again?¡±

    William forced himself not to slump, and his gaze not to lower, and his hand not to shake as he sipped a spoonful of stew. After rooting fruitlessly for an explanation, he shrugged. ¡°Interests change, I guess. People change.¡±

    Eleanor arched a brow, just past the frame of her glasses. ¡°William?¡±

    ¡°What?¡± He tried his best to feign innocence.

    ¡°Are your studies going well?¡±

    He resisted the urge to sigh yet again, giving her a slow nod of agreement. ¡°They¡¯re going as well as ever. I¡¯m still top of my class.¡±

    ¡°In which courses?¡±

    ¡°Comparative Botany, Organic Chemistry, Sustainable Ecology. I¡¯ve come in second in Introduction to Agriculture, and I¡¯m considering Theories of Evolution for the spring.¡±

    Her hint of a smile revealed her approval, and at least that lifted some of the iron weight from his shoulders.

    ¡°Good,¡± she said. ¡°What¡¯s really going on, then?¡±

    ¡°Nothing.¡± His heart began to thud anew. This was going to be a repeat of his phone call with Thomas, and he could not hang up on a face-to-face discussion. Even if it were possible, the last person on Earth who would let that slide was Eleanor.

    Instead of pushing the issue, she simply shook her head and finished off her quiche. ¡°We can talk more when we aren¡¯t so busy. I¡¯ll have your soup put in a tub to go -- I¡¯ve got ten minutes to get back. Dr. Kramer¡¯s asked me to review a mountain of charts.¡±

    William sent out a prayer, to whoever or whatever might have listened, that his relief was not evident. He mumbled his thanks and gave her a hesitant smile in return. With a pat on his shoulder, she was gone, swallowed into her world of tests and machines and life and death.

    A server swept by and picked up his plate; behind the counter, they rushed to fulfill the request, all too familiar with Dr. Whiteswift¡¯s hard-pressed, black-and-white sense of time. A brown bag, printed with the cafe¡¯s logo --  a coffee cup, steam in the shape of a heart -- was soon deposited on his table. He grasped it by both the handles and the bottom.

    The walk home was mottled in sunlight and clouds, muggy humidity thickening the air as though August had returned for one last bout of summertime heat. It strengthened autumn¡¯s earthy smells, and William had to duck beneath many a tree to avoid russet leaves spilling water upon him. With every step, and every puddle he bypassed, doubt ran in rivulets into his mind.

    Things weren¡¯t normal.

    Interest change. People change.

    What else had changed?

 Eight

    Mission Location #Fm-Wd-023, Manchester, England, 13:05

    Marty heard only her and Don¡¯s rasping breaths, punctuated by the creaking of rusted chains that hung from the ceiling. Every once in a while, pigeons fluttered outside, unnerved by what had just transpired inside the abandoned warehouse in which the two stood. At least, Marty was standing. Don was half-upright, half-kneeling, his knees bent at an angle sure to set a weaker person¡¯s legs aflame with pain; the faerie he clutched in a chokehold writhed and spat.

    Bristling with iron -- nails in her tool belt, nails in the pockets of her camouflage pants, nails poking like brass knuckles between the fingers of one fist -- Marty stalked the salt circle that she¡¯d poured around Don and his snarling capture. In her other hand, she grasped what appeared to be an ordinary radio.

    Don held his own weapon of choice, a curve-edged iron blade, solidly nine inches long, to the creature¡¯s throat. Even he had struggled, and at one point, would have lost his grip had Marty not thrown salt into its eyes. Now, he rested the knife against its pulsing jugular with a lightness that was almost teasing: he could end its life at any moment he wished, on a whim, but refrained, listening to the rambling that started to pour from its mouth.

    ¡°Wait, wait! I -- I know things. Things about this place.¡±

    ¡°What else is new, bud?¡± Don spoke with a languid laziness, drawing the words out, as if to savor the moment by tasting it.

    ¡°I-I know things you can use! Can help you! Clues!¡±

    ¡°Clues. Y¡¯all think we¡¯re detectives, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re -- you¡¯re looking for bigger problems than me! Problems. I know much bigger ones, here! Here in England!¡±

    ¡°Oh, really?¡± Marty twisted some knobs and pressed some buttons on her radio-device. It released a stream of static, which settled to a faint buzz, similar to the sound a phone makes when someone is on the line but saying nothing.

    ¡°You!¡± Its broken-glass gaze turned to her, unnaturally yellow. She suppressed a shudder. ¡°You¡¯re a Scottish girl, Scottish lass -- you know of magic! Can¡¯t you feel things?¡±

    ¡°Mhm.¡± She nodded, glancing upward, pretending to think. ¡°I can feel an urge to heave my lunch into the nearest loo.¡±

    Don allowed himself a laugh, a crooked grin.

    The faerie hissed, a sound that sputtered like leaking pipes. ¡°There is something here! In this country, bigger problem than me, bigger problem than you! I feel it!¡±

    Grin ceasing, Don perked an eyebrow.

    Marty crossed her arms, facing him over the creature¡¯s scruff of red-brown hair. ¡°This is the ranting of a mad faerie trying to save its own skin. If we¡¯re not turning it in, then kill it.¡±

    The knife pressed closer.

    ¡°Turning -- no, no, no!¡± The creature squirmed with a renewed vigor until Don gave it a squeeze, and it stilled, a rat in a python¡¯s stranglehold. ¡°Kill me. Be done with it.¡±

    Disgust made her lip curl, and she could not help but turn her head away. Pathetic.

    Agent Avery¡¯s voice from the radio saved her having to answer. ¡°You two. Stop wasting time. I want this target at headquarters.¡±

    ¡°What?! Why!?¡± Don¡¯s shouted question stretched the last word into taffy.

    ¡°Don!¡± she snapped. ¡°Please -- quit whining!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s rare that we have one try and cut a deal,¡± Avery said, ceasing their argument before it began. ¡°If it¡¯s lying, which I¡¯m sure it is, I¡¯ll execute it myself.¡±

    She and Don exchanged a glance, and for a fleeting second, she glimpsed the exhaustion hiding behind his expression. Faerie opponents presented challenges of their own. As much as his habits grated on her, Marty did not dare interrupt the mental battle in which he engaged every time they caught one.

    The faerie trailed off into mumbling, dazed; both Marty and Don had the chance to sigh, shake their heads, and ponder the situation.

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± she said at last.

    Don echoed her, and Avery gave them one more order: ¡°Go to the loading dock of the warehouse. There will be a ride ready for you in four minutes.¡±

    From her belt, Marty grabbed her canister of salt -- purchased at the supermarket for two pounds. It still held a good amount, more than enough to herd the creature from the warehouse floor to the back double doors. She scuffed her foot across the circle, breaking it, and with his knife still at the ready, Don guided it through the gap. As they walked, Marty dusted salt left and right, forcing it to follow a straight line. The doors stood ajar, blocks of mass and steel, once admitting entire machines and now caked in dirt. She braced herself, planting her feet firmly on the ground as she twisted her torso as near to the opposite angle as she could; it took her three shoves, using momentum where she lacked Don¡¯s strength, but on the third, they screeched open. She steadied herself, her arm and shoulder already stinging from repeated impact.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°Coast clear,¡± she managed after a look from side to side, up and down, at the cluster of other disused buildings around the entrance. They provided the agents and the faerie ample cover. Don dragged it out, and it began to hiss again; she poured a new barrier, eliciting a glare from their capture. He restrained it, a sheen of sweat across his forehead, for the entirety of four minutes.

    Marty remembered, her thoughts edging into a tangent, her first target transport. The wait for a ride had only been two minutes then, that year and a half ago, and how long they¡¯d seemed. How sloppy that catch had been, too -- locking the thing in a janitor¡¯s closet and lodging a chair under the handle.

    The rumble of an engine and the crunch of tires on gravel returned her to the present. A black van rounded the corner, Thorne & Sons Electrical printed on the side in plain white lettering, complete with a phone number and website. Its side window lowered and the driver peered down at them. He looked for all the world like a normal man: heavy-set, balding, oil smears staining his uniform. His nametag said Jerry.

    Marty felt herself slump in relief.

    ¡°How¡¯d this one go?¡± the man asked, jabbing his thumb toward the faerie.

    ¡°Well enough, Jerry,¡± was her reply, and she pulled the door open for Don, who hoisted the creature in. Instead of seats, a two-walled cage occupied the back of the van -- steel bars inside, iron outside. She reached around him and swung it open; he unceremoniously tossed their capture inside, then slammed and locked it.

    Marty¡¯s adrenaline crashed. She hadn¡¯t realized how intense it had been, how buzzing and wired she¡¯d felt, until it was gone. Every single catch was the same: the burn of searching, the blaze of fighting, the crash. She sank into the seat behind Jerry¡¯s, eyes drifting closed; the van gave a slight sway as Don shut the door and sat next to her. She took a long, deep breath, inhaling the plastic-and-upholstery smell of a clean car.

    ¡°Least we¡¯re just going from Manchester this time,¡± Jerry said, seeming oblivious to her reluctance for conversation.

    Don, though he knew it or not, gave her room to rest when he answered. ¡°Drive¡¯s only about four hours.¡±

    ¡°Only?¡± Marty muttered.

    ¡°Marty, where I¡¯m from, you can drive for eight hours and still be in the same state. You seen the size of Texas? California?¡±

    She groaned in response.

    Their driver laughed, gesturing behind him to his seat pocket. ¡°Snacks in there. You both could use some. Water¡¯s by the cage.¡±

    Don¡¯s arm brushed her knee as he reached over. There came a crinkling sound, then a smack when something landed on her lap. Her eyes snapped open and she snatched the two bags of peanuts he¡¯d given her. Don took an energy bar for himself.

    The drive was a silent affair. Marty was partially aware of the sky deepening to violet, the van stopping, Jerry coming back with some kind of food in a brown bag, Don snoring. Overhead, the sky was a sweeping plane, swaths of stars emerging as they trawled further and further from Manchester. They glittered and shone a light only seen in wild places, free places, like the scattered-lake plains of central Scotland, where the hills still rolled green as spring, green as life.

    ???

    The agents¡¯ base was, supposedly, a hotel. Locals found it odd that they saw the same people arriving, day after day, in different vehicles, some marked and some not. But the city of Glasgow saw more than its fair share of the odd, and as such, they learned not to question it.

    Having exchanged salt-and-dirt encrusted pants for leggings and a too-large tee shirt that hung well past her thighs, Marty lounged in bed, headset on. Beside her, Marty¡¯s laptop poured its glow out over her face. Their permanent residences being hotel rooms had taken some adjusting, but having two queen-size beds and a mini-fridge restocked daily with beer had made it a given in the end. She now slurped her usual ramen noodles from a thermos, and took orange slices from a plate on the nightstand. A bottle of Belgian ale was, of course, wedged into the pillow mound against the headboard. Marty was a master in the art of not spilling one¡¯s beer.

    She adjusted her microphone, chewing a piece of orange, as she waited for Don to answer her call.

    When her pointer hovered over the cancel button, he replied, voice slurred. ¡°I¡¯m here.¡±

    ¡°Are you drunk or tired?¡±

    ¡°Not drunk. Damn sure ready to sleep for a week -- was gonna take a nap.¡±

    ¡°I swear, if Avery sends us that far for the next mission...¡±

    ¡°It ain¡¯t far.¡±

    ¡°Not,¡± she corrected. ¡°It¡¯s not.¡±

    ¡°Whatever. Did he tell you anything?¡±

    ¡°Avery? No.¡± She checked the time on her laptop -- 22:14, and 10:14 p.m. below that. ¡°It¡¯s been a while since we got home. Sort of expected to hear something by now.¡±

    ¡°You reckon he made the deal?¡±

    ¡°Avery¡¯s not daft. Does make me wonder, though... of all the ways to try and save itself, why would the faerie say that?¡±

    In his silence, she imagined that he shrugged, as if to say, You tell me --You¡¯re the experienced one.

    ¡°Bigger problems in England,¡± she quoted, musing. ¡°Bit weird, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Weird is par for the course.¡± It seemed that he¡¯d say nothing else, but he added, ¡°If we¡¯re assigned to England again, something might be up.¡±

    ¡°Mhm. And even if we¡¯re not... when we can, we should keep an eye out.¡±

    ¡°What, unauthorized?¡±

    ¡°No! Shut up. I just mean it¡¯s a good idea when we are not on assignment. In case.¡±

    ¡°Whatever... I¡¯m gonna log out of here. Come wake me if something else happens.¡±

    ¡°Right. Don --¡± She stopped, deciding better than to say what she¡¯d planned, and took her last swig of ale.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Nothing. You did good for once, that¡¯s all. Don¡¯t screw up again.¡±

    ¡°Love you, too, best friend.¡±

    Without another word, Marty hung up and removed her headset. She placed the empty dishes and bottle on the nightstand; mere moments after her head met the pillows, she plunged into sleep.

 Nine

    Ainsel¡¯s world was filled with the rustling of leaves. Yesterday¡¯s storms had since crossed London, cleansing the air of the humid haze that had so heavily gripped it before; they had given way to a clear, crisp night, a picture of autumn for storybooks. Just as in her vision from her cave of concrete and steel, the moon shone through wisp clouds, at its midnight zenith in the sky. It wasn¡¯t full, but waxing, and that was close enough for her.

    She took a hungry breath and let the feeling of being back among nature wash over her. In London¡¯s southwest sector, Richmond Park was a haven, an echo not only of home, but of anywhere not choked with city lights and hard edges and artificial reeks growing stale under a prim exterior. How many hours she¡¯d taken to reach the park, she was not certain, and could only say that the journey had occupied the entire day.

    Being a day¡¯s walk away from the young man and his brick house at the edge of its own miniature green space -- that was enough, too.

    On her back beneath an oak tree, between roots that twisted from the ground in whorled wooden arches and cradled her like hands, Ainsel lay and tried to make sense of her new imperatives. Tomorrow, she¡¯d have to steal more food. Her satchel, pink canvas, tattered from exposure to the elements, and picked from a garage sale behind turned backs, was tucked into the crook of her arm. Inside, at the bottom of a cellophane bakery bag, she had one last dinner roll. It would have to be breakfast; there was no sense in starting without fuel. And she of course needed a map. They were easy to find, free at tourist kiosks scattered around the district¡¯s main streets.

    With a huff, she rolled onto her side.

    Had she really been reduced to this? A thief, a street urchin?

    Ainsel scowled at the root in front of her face. She hadn¡¯t been anything more than that before she entered the portal, and she¡¯d only entered it to break laws anyway. What a fool she¡¯d been to expect a change.

    That gave her an unexpected lance of pain; she tightened her grip on the satchel and focused hard on keeping each breath as steady as the last. She hadn¡¯t cried since she was a stupid child.

    It was power she needed, more than food, more than a map, she decided, and up to sitting she pushed herself. Ainsel straightened her back, lifted her head, and let her wrists rest loose upon her knees. She reached into the brush of the breeze, the crunching leaves, the magic that she hoped, against all hope, was there.

    Soil¨¦ireacht emerged, weaving from her palms and stretching, as though its threads had been curled, confined, for much too long. They wound around her before wreathing out again, poking to search for magic in the ground. She watched them work; a chill raced across her skin when they found the soil.

    They burrowed deeper and deeper; Ainsel felt the tug of worry, and a dullness growing.

    Further still they went.

    Nothing.

    A core of bitterness dropped into her stomach, a rock, unforgiving and leaden. London was already gone. Perhaps all of England was. It rent a fresh gouge through the detachment she¡¯d crafted, and Soil¨¦ireacht lashed in frustration to mirror hers, and an angry, grieving scream threatened to tear from her mouth.

    Look what they did to their own land.

    Tears welling, Ainsel let her mental dam crack. She let herself remember her mistake.

    Thirteen years ago, something had happened in a London suburb.

    Something that someone had done when she herself was thirteen.

    Something that she swore she¡¯d lock in the past and never, ever regret.

    Her fingertips recalled the sparks that had jumped between them and his. Every inch of her thrummed again as she relived that first meeting: the electric atmosphere, the speechlessness, the touch of her very soul being seen and known and feared. The momentous bravery of what he¡¯d done struck her in full. To save something that he believed could kill him without hesitation, to pour his own energy and sweat and time into the act, knowing he could fail at any second -- it was noble.

    Her breath hitched, and her jaw clenched, but she cared not an ounce.

    What she¡¯d done had been unspeakable, and how had the universe rewarded her? It had given her to a stranger who had, in turn, given her life. There was a dangerous imbalance in all of this, for try as she might to tell herself that not killing him had also been enough, it seemed so insignificant. Her note to him, if he¡¯d even found it, was meaningless. You are unharmed -- I am absolved of my debt. How could that possibly compare?

    A debt like this took so much more.

    She did not let logic stop her, as the logic of the fae was far too close to pride. I cannot show you kindness, because you will think me weak, it said. What crap.

    Ainsel slung her satchel over her shoulder. She zipped her jacket -- his jacket -- against the wind. And, through a blur across her vision, she ran.

    ???

    Shivering, she rang his doorbell, once, twice, again and again. Stone silence greeted her, and she could barely see, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes and smearing her cheeks with damp paths that stung like ice in the wind. Clarity would not come, and even if it had, there would be nothing she could do -- she wouldn¡¯t reach it into his room, into his bed, to grab him and shake him awake. It would frighten him, and spill everything further out of balance, and so she waited, her breath coming in gasps now. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Inside, a light flicked on. She winced, squinted.

    The front door inched open, and he stood before her, silhouetted against the warmth of the stained-glass lamp on the kitchen ceiling. Bleary, blinking, he lowered the meter stick that he clasped. Another pang shook her, some emotion that she could not quite pinpoint. Pity? Maybe. What could a meter stick do against an intruder? Or was it admiration, for what courage must it take to approach the unknown with so makeshift a weapon?

    They were still, Ainsel fighting back a breakdown on the threshold, the young man surely struggling to process what he saw.

    At long last, he stepped aside, moving his hand in a slow gesture for her to enter. She did, her gasping making her cough, and each cough ripped at her throat until it was raw. The door closed behind her. He did not yet speak, stepping around the granite-topped island, toward the counter and cabinets.

    She settled into the nearest chair, where she slumped forward on the island, head in her arms -- a desperate attempt to quiet herself. A cabinet creaked, and she heard the sounds of him shuffling small boxes and tins. Something clinked; there was the rushing of water, a thunk, a low mechanical clicking. Two more clinks followed, metal to china; on instinct, her mind flashing warnings of iron, she peeked out at him. He set aside a pair of mugs, spoons sticking from them.

    She resumed her slumping, strength spent. When the water in the kettle bubbled, then boiled, she did not move, nor did she count minutes.

    The chair beside her faintly scraped against the floor. Steam unfurled, wafting past her arm, and though her head throbbed, she adjusted little by little until she was sitting up. She smelled clove and chamomile from the mug on a saucer he put before her, and they smoothed the shakiness in her body. Ainsel slid her fingers through the handle, and gentle as he had been when he¡¯d offered her the box of gauze, he interrupted.

    ¡°Not yet.¡± His voice was liquid gold, even through the hoarseness of semi-sleep. ¡°It¡¯s still steeping.¡±

    She could bring herself to do no more than nod and sit.

    Time oozed by, molasses-slow; he raised his own mug and took a sip, and she followed. The flavors of spices, carried along on a current of earthy sweetness, brought her thoughts to a standstill where they had been a thunderstorm.

    For the first time that night, Ainsel trusted herself to speak. ¡°What should I call you?¡±

    She didn¡¯t dare ask his name, as doing so would demand more power than was right for him to give, and perhaps more than was even possible. A wordless glance flickered between the two, and she fought another wave that nearly knocked her from her precarious place of calm: that was understanding written in the shadows of his eyes. He knew faerie customs.

    ¡°Liam,¡± he said, and he waited, hands pressed to cooling china.

    Her reply came in a whisper. ¡°Ainsel. Why did you let me in?¡±

    Liam looked to the window; half-bare branches shivered as thicker clouds encroached on the moon.

    ¡°It¡¯s freezing out there, and you¡¯re...¡± He trailed off, sounding lost.

    She could hold back no longer. ¡°I¡¯m -- I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°For?¡±

    And in that instant, there was nothing she wouldn¡¯t have given to tell him the truth, to tell him what lay buried under thirteen years of lying, even if he¡¯d had no part in it. But the wish lasted a tiny fraction of time and splintered into dust. It was her problem, and hers alone.

    Instead, she gestured to the jacket; loops of fabric hung loose where they¡¯d caught on the metal staircase.

    Like the ability to ignore, the tendency toward excessive politeness ran strong in this land. But when Liam¡¯s gaze met the frayed strings and then returned to hers, she knew that his was genuine.

    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± he assured. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you rest?¡±

    She almost wanted to say yes, her focus tugged from him to the soft white room with its single window and flag on the wall. Almost. Her cheeks grew hot, shame swallowing all else.

    ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    ¡°Not here. It¡¯s... it¡¯s not...¡± Her turn came for her words to die away, and mentally, she fumbled for an answer. ¡°Right. It¡¯s not right.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t -- I don¡¯t know. Everything.¡± And, without thinking, she said, ¡°I¡¯m not going to hurt you.¡±

    The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, wistful and kind and tired, as though she¡¯d brought him equal parts sorrow and relief.

    ¡°I figured.¡±

    ¡°What does that mean?¡±

    ¡°It means...¡± He paused, letting the wind fill the lull. ¡°If you were going to hurt me, you¡¯d have done it already.¡±

    ¡°You trust me?¡± Unease gnawed at her, a dark, acrid thing, and she could not keep it out of her tone, questioning what could have caused the bitter half of his bittersweet response. If he trusted her, this was worse than she thought.

    ¡°I suppose so.¡±

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you think I hear that every time I help the fae?¡± His expression remained even, but his intonation -- it sent a frost chill prickling down her spine. An intensity had crept in, a fervency that left her hot and cold at once.

    ¡°Just take me to rest if you¡¯re that determined.¡±

    His spell ceased, and drinking down the last dredges of tea, he stood. Again, she followed, too trapped in swirling worry to attempt dignity. After Liam, she took the same path that she had when she¡¯d left the guest room, where she¡¯d slept with the window open wide. He faced forward, like he was certain of her being behind him, though she walked without sound.

    The room was just as it had been then -- spotless, not an object out of order. Liam pulled back fresh clean blankets and revealed fresh clean sheets, that same lavender perfume puffing from the linens. The sight of a bed, a place safe as the forest to sleep, called to the deep ache in her muscles; she started toward it.

    ¡°Wait.¡±

    Out of confusion more than a desire to listen, she did so. Liam left for the hall, and the air itself deflated -- the static charge, linked to his presence, vanishing. It leaped when he reappeared, folded clothing in his arms. The look he gave her was one of searching, and reaching, and she was reminded of Soil¨¦ireacht. How earnestly it worked, how honestly. But whatever Liam wanted to say, he kept it to himself, setting the clothing upon the blankets and retreating for the final time.

    There came the muffled thump of another door closing. She sank to the floor, against the bedpost, and sat still. A curious hush descended on her consciousness -- she could not describe how she felt, not with complete accuracy, and concluded that she felt silent.

    If the physical body could succumb to exhaustion, then so could the spirit.

    Ainsel unfolded the two items. He had lent her a black sweater, and striped shorts, and it mattered not that they were a size too large. She changed, her movements numb, then tossed her tunic and cargo pants into the corner.

    Soil¨¦ireacht flipped the lights off, and she huddled into bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Ainsel never did sleep that night, racked with what was unmistakably guilt.

 Ten

    William¡¯s morning started like any other. At eight, his alarm clock coaxed him awake, under a sky-spanning layer of clouds; at eight-fifteen, he shuffled to the washroom for a shower. He turned the temperature to the edge of searing, filling the green-tiled room with steam, and there he stayed for another fifteen minutes. His bathing was followed by a charcoal and rosewater face mask -- if he left the house with a spot, the world may as well implode -- and, finally, shaving.

    Now, the Reese¡¯s Puffs in the kitchen cabinet were calling his name. After a box of chocolate Lucky Charms, he¡¯d sworn to stop buying so many American snacks, but they were still burning a hole in his wallet. And Ainsel was burning a hole in his mind.

    William knew she¡¯d be awake, too, and imagined that she was somehow watching him without even needing to see him. He could not be certain that it was impossible. Decades and decades of research could not tell him everything there was to know about the fae; if he wanted that much knowledge, he¡¯d would have to earn it for himself. Which involved leaving the safety of west London.

    He poured a bowl of cereal and started the kettle for English breakfast tea. That was safe: it was predictable.

    Ainsel wasn¡¯t.

    While he waited for the water to boil, he found his gaze traveling to the guest room, which he also swore to never think of as ¡°her room¡±; luck willing, she would not stay long enough to settle in. As for why she¡¯d come back at all -- that mystery needed an answer sooner rather than later.

    The kettle whistled, and he filled his cup; the tea bag bobbed to the surface before he poked it down with a spoon. Quickly, and making as little noise as he could, William finished his cereal; he tried to enjoy it, but the possibility of danger loomed over him.

    I¡¯m sorry, she¡¯d said. It¡¯s not right.

    No amount of apologizing would ever alter the fundamental nature of the fae. His respect for them dipped its roots in dread; not all fae caused harmless mischief. There existed terrors like the bean sidhe -- the banshee -- and the redcap, a goblin that soaked its hat in its enemies¡¯ blood. Every single one of them added fuel to his nightmares. He remembered, on the side, that he was out of salt. The only blood on Ainsel had been her own, of course, though he couldn¡¯t afford to be any less careful.

    He would have liked to fix a real breakfast for her. But in terms of predictability, Ainsel was a wild wolf in a dogs¡¯ kennel: apt to snap the fingers off of anyone who offered aid, and there was no telling when or where or why.

    If he wanted answers, best to get them early, before Ainsel decided to abandon the debt she owed him.

    William straightened the collar of his flannel, a pleasantly plain russet brown, and the grey shirt over which he wore it open. He placed his bowl in the sink and took long drinks of tea, attempting to calm his already fraying nerves. The passing of time urged him to hurry, and he could not wait any more.

    He approached and knocked once. The sound echoed; he heard it again and again, halfway wishing he wasn¡¯t doing this.

    All Ainsel said was, ¡°What?¡±

    There was no rescinding his actions now. He inhaled, held, exhaled. ¡°May I come in?¡±

    A pause -- then: ¡°Fine.¡±

    Tea still in hand, he entered.

    With the window cracked to admit tendrils of a chill September breeze, Ainsel sat upright on the bed, her back to him and legs hanging from the edge. Over her left shoulder, she had swept her hair, against which her neck starkly contrasted. William stood distracted -- his sweater suited her, black as her raven tresses, and if she had to, she could pass well for a normal Goth girl.

    ¡°What?¡± she repeated. She turned, giving him an ebon-eyed stare.

    ¡°Why did you come here?¡±

    ¡°Why did you allow me to?¡±

    So this is how it¡¯s going to be, he thought. Deflecting my questions with more questions.

    Aloud, he said, ¡°I told you. It was freezing last night, and leaving you out there would have been wrong.¡±

    ¡°How would that be wrong?¡±

    He hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The wrongness was obvious, but the reason, he had more trouble explaining.

    ¡°I... I used to be petrified of faeries. When I was ten... I saw one dead. It was little -- a pixie. And I thought that... if I¡¯d gotten there sooner, I could¡¯ve saved it.¡±

    At her silence, he winced, ready to flee.

    She let slip a quiet sound between a sigh and a laugh, and muttered something too low for him to hear.

    ¡°Pardon?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s so naive,¡± she said.

    ¡°Pardon?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s naive! Thinking anything good could come from saving faeries...¡±

    That was a smack on the cheek. Baffled, he couldn¡¯t help himself. ¡°Something good does! I mean, you¡¯re -- you¡¯re alive! You¡¯re here!¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to be here!¡±

    ¡°Is that true?¡±

    When she looked up at him, two whole worlds of hurt swirled behind her eyes, two whole histories full of all the grief and deceit and regret that history inevitably hides.

    Against common sense screaming for him to hold his tongue, he pressed on.

    ¡°If you didn¡¯t want to, you¡¯d have refused. Why did you not go to Ireland, or anywhere else other than here?¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°Ireland?¡± A clearer laugh, but a harsher one, edged in stone. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t last a day without being found. It¡¯s... easier here.¡±

    ¡°Easier to keep being fae a secret... but by some miracle, you stumbled upon the only faerie healer in all of London.¡± Alarm bells began blaring inside his head, blasting warnings of how astoundingly, astronomically dangerous this was. ¡°Why? Did you know beforehand who I am? Did you seek me out?¡±

    Lasting a lightning-fast splinter of a second, a caught look flashed across her face. She turned away from him once more. ¡°No.¡±

    If this was a faerie¡¯s legendary ability to lie, then legend was merely a disguise for ineptitude. There was a sparking charge in the atmosphere, trying to nudge him over the line. He could keep pushing. He could pry the answers from her.

    But it could cost him his life. And besides that, she slouched, her eyes now cloaked in the shadow of her hair and gazing at nothing. His stomach churned, nauseous. He¡¯d gone way too far.

    ¡°Sorry,¡± he mumbled, reaching for the doorknob.

    He glanced back when she started to speak in muffled tones.

    ¡°I came here to... to do something bad.¡±

    Not knowing what, if anything, he should stay, he remained still.

    ¡°I¡¯d decided to hide in the States, but when the hounds got me, I just... lost that. I lost my plan. The portal was my only chance, and it brought me here.¡±

    ¡°Into my backyard...¡± William spoke softly himself, trying to tease the locked problem apart, to see what it contained and how it worked. His mind provided no key, and how long had he been up, anyway?

    He checked his watch -- nine A.M. sharp.

    ¡°Ainsel. I have to get to class now. I¡¯ll still be here, but... I¡¯ll be focused.¡±

    She didn¡¯t reply. William felt his heartbeat in his head and heard it rushing in his ears.

    ¡°Sorry,¡± he said again, and in a hurry, retreated.

    ???

    William, despite all his ¡®superstitions¡¯ and oddities, had a lifelong knack for faking his way through most anything. Many a schoolteacher had claimed to spot rushed assignments from kilometers away, and many a student had snickered their doubt, but only a few would emerge with grades intact. William was always, no matter what, among their ranks.

    Maybe, he theorized, anxiety worked its own double-edged magic; maybe the impending doom of failure whipped his productivity into a frenzy, letting him climb to levels of insight that only genius could attain. Or maybe he was simply an expert procrastinator.

    The first stage of his botany assignment was his target now -- researching. Reporting. Johnny, Nathan, and Abby would be awaiting his findings on the viability of mushrooms as medicine. He rushed to pick up his laptop from its place atop the coffee table. There, he settled onto the couch, the cushions of which melted like feathers and fluff around his body, so that he was sitting more in it than on it.

    He finished his Google searching with time aplenty to spare, even typing up a page of notes to supplement inevitable whim-based conclusions. His teammates had already joined the group chat when he logged in at 9:24. Class began and progressed without a hitch; Ainsel receded as near to the depths of his consciousness as possible, for such an enigma could only ever lurk, not be forgotten.

    An envelope icon blinked green in the chatroom sidebar. He nudged his pointer over it and clicked.

    thomas.winston: Hey Will, what¡¯s up?

    william.whiteswift: Same as usual -- nothing.

    thomas.winston: You feeling alright?

    William rolled his eyes.

    william.whiteswift: Not a bit under the weather. Why?

    He knew that he should not have asked why, for he was only feeding the conversation, but without it, Thomas¡¯ suspicion would likely grow.

    thomas.winston: Because. When we talked the other day, you were acting weird

    william.whiteswift: Acting weird is pretty normal for me.

    A blissful minute passed without a response from Thomas, and just when William thought he¡¯d been persuasive enough, there came another message. Strike one.

    thomas.winston: it¡¯s not a normal weird. You seem really stressed about something

    william.whiteswift: Your aversion to punctuation is stressful.

    thomas.winston: mate. Come on. Is it a girl?

    william.whiteswift: ???

    That was all he could think to add. In honest confusion, he sat and attempted to decipher what Thomas meant. Ainsel? The room lurched. Thomas would have to be aware of her for that. And William would need a death wish.

    william.whiteswift: No. I haven¡¯t met anyone.

    thomas.winston: you know I don¡¯t mean to bother. Just, last time you were like this, you¡¯d been having insomnia.

    william.whitewift: That was, what, two years ago? I¡¯m fine.

    thomas.winston: been staying up too late reading or something?

    Finally -- a good lie, and one that Thomas dropped into his lap like a gift.

    william.whiteswift: I¡¯m starting to learn Old Irish.

    Little did his friend know, William already had a decent grasp of Old Irish, and of modern Irish, for that matter; both were about as useful as pig Latin in London, except in the hypothetical chance he needed to translate them for a project. Which, when taking natural science courses, was never. No, that language, its current iteration still steeped in something mystical and deliciously strange, was reserved for the other part of his life.

    How shocked Ainsel would be if he tossed out a sudden Conas at¨¢ t¨²?, or How are you? -- he almost found the idea funny.

    thomas.winston: that¡¯s really what has you so busy?

    william.whiteswift: You know how I get.

    thomas.winston: okay, okay... think I could come by this week?

    His surroundings dipped, spun, stilled. It left his heart beating at a nervous clip. If Thomas visited, then Ainsel would have to be gone, or hiding, and William had no idea if she¡¯d cooperate, and asking her to journey on or hide was a gamble anyways.

    thomas.winston: Will? You there?

    Strike two.

    william.whiteswift: I¡¯m here. When exactly would you want to visit?

    thomas.winston: could bring some crisps and dip on Friday night. That and shite reality TV sound good?

    William hovered his fingers over the keyboard, sliding back from the precipice of panic. Filling their night with junk food and terribly acted television programs would keep Thomas¡¯ attention far away from signs of Ainsel.

    william.whiteswift: I¡¯ll plan on it.

    thomas.winston: think I should bring Arthur?

    He shivered -- not regarding Arthur, Thomas¡¯ lazy lump of a Rottweiler -- but at one of the very first things Ainsel had said to him.

    The hounds did it.

    A forty-six kilogram dog anywhere near her would end in catastrophe: William had no desire to see what she might do to defend herself.

    william.whiteswift: Better not. My allergies have been acting up.

    He did not await Thomas¡¯ reply and did not check the class chatroom, for his mind raced elsewhere. There were plans to finalize, excuses to weave, attempts to make at convincing a faerie to either lay low or leave -- but that familiar sick ache grew a smidge stronger every time he considered the latter. She¡¯d just returned, and from the state in which he¡¯d found her on the porch, something had happened that she was too proud to admit.

    Too afraid.

    If he feared the fae, then the things that they feared must be a thousand times worse. A ball of ice sat in his chest, unmoving. Something within him cracked at that very moment, and against all he held sensible and right and solid, he made another promise: Learn what Ainsel was hiding. Or drive himself mad trying.

 Eleven

    Field Mission HQ, Glasgow, Scotland, 07:35

    For the past two days, Glasgow had been swallowed in a rainy deluge. It poured in sheets against the windows of the Four Clovers Hotel, where the very highest floors existed in a realm crafted from fog and frost.

    On the highest floor of all, the twenty-third, Marty, Don, and Avery were in their own private world: only themselves, a gleaming glass-top table that spanned half the conference room, and a projector. Avery paced, hands clasped behind his back, as he waited for the dinosaur device to whirr to attention.

    He walked a lion¡¯s walk, each step a slow prowl; ice-shard eyes raked his surroundings, framed in straw-blonde sideburns. Avery was not of particularly impressive stature, average at most, but it was his gait -- and his gaze -- that commanded obedience. His face was carved, as though from granite, for marble was too delicate a descriptor; where most men still had hints of softness in their cheeks and their lips, Avery¡¯s features cut firm lines. Darkness lurked behind an exterior that he controlled to the letter. Professionalism rendered cold. Grace rendered lethal. His voice, in Marty¡¯s opinion, was the only thing that saved him.

    Avery turned on his heel, facing his juniors, as the projector awoke.

    Don jumped awake as well when Marty drove her elbow into his side.

    ¡°Your Manchester mission was a shining success,¡± Avery said, wasting not a second. ¡°Now, we¡¯ve gotten word of new developments. You are needed in --¡±

    ¡°London?¡±

    Avery stared at him, the look hard as rock. ¡°Ballycastle.¡±

    ¡°Northern Ireland again?¡± Though it sounded at first like a complaint, Marty heard the relief in her own words.

    Avery fixed that piercing stare on her, and he paused. ¡°Yes, again. The Ulster branch is overworked and there¡¯s a brownie colony growing in the Dark Hedges.¡±

    Don raised his hand, did not wait to be called, and inquired, ¡°What¡¯s got them so overworked?¡±

    ¡°None of your concern, Agent Wheeler.¡±

    Marty, risking admonishment, smirked in Don¡¯s direction.

    ¡°Agent O¡¯Flannigan.¡±

    She winced, dutifully looking to the map of Northern Ireland¡¯s county Antrim spread across the whiteboard. The town of Ballycastle was marked with a black x on the far northeastern shore; a red line spanned from there to another x -- the Dark Hedges. Marty thought, of all things, how freezing it would be up north, then with a flicker of spiteful glee, how Don would hate that even more than she did.

    ¡°What¡¯s the mission objective?¡± she asked, hoping she did not sound too eager.

    ¡°You¡¯ll arrive less than an hour before nightfall. Still plenty for their team to brief you. After dark, it¡¯s a simple bait and eliminate setup. No heroics. That goes for both of you.¡±

    ¡°Kill, don¡¯t capture?¡± Don followed the line, fingertips tapping the table.

    ¡°Kill, don¡¯t capture,¡± Avery repeated. ¡°We¡¯re not transporting hordes of brownies over the Irish Sea.¡±

    ¡°Understandable,¡± she said. ¡°How and when are we getting there?¡±

    ¡°You depart in forty minutes. Your train ride from here to Ayr is one hour. There, you¡¯ll board another, and that will take you from Ayr to Ballycastle in just over eight hours. The tickets were sent to your non-classified email accounts.¡±

    Inwardly, Marty heaved a beleaguered sigh. Eight hours? She supposed that she should have adjusted to travel times by now, and had heard that each mission was easier than the last, but that long in a small space with Don was always miserable. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Aloud, she replied, ¡°Thank you, sir. Is that all?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s all.¡±

    There was no need for Avery to tell them they were dismissed. Marty slung her backpack on, letting it hang loose, and Don was right behind her as they emerged into the fog-darkened, crimson-carpeted hallway.

    Side by side, they approached and entered the lift at the end, passing under bronze doorways that reflected back warps of their faces, cast in shades of yellow. She pressed 4 for herself and 3 for Don, and as the lift began its descent, she rested against the wall.

    The silence between them was palpable. She bounced her foot, feeling Don¡¯s eyes on her and forcing herself not to shudder from the chill of the metal surface on which she leaned.

    He spoke first, a hush in his tone, a tension. ¡°Was Avery acting funny?¡±

    ¡°What makes you say that?¡± Despite herself, she knew exactly what he meant: Avery¡¯s hesitation at Don¡¯s question. His watching them, searching their expressions.

    ¡°Why was he mad when I asked him about London?¡±

    ¡°Maybe he was just annoyed that you¡¯d got off-topic.¡±

    Marty also knew what she herself was trying to do: rationalize. Deflect.

    ¡°I dunno. Kinda felt like... I¡¯d gotten a tad too close to something.¡±

    ¡°Don, I doubt it. Keep pushing him like that, and he¡¯s going to push back.¡±

    Shaking his head, her partner hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and started to whistle. It was a better sound than wild speculation, and as such, Marty let it fade into the background of consciousness. She began a mental list of what she would need: nails, salt, weapons. Ivy leaves. Socks, scrunchies. St. John¡¯s wort. Toothpaste. A good, thick book for the ride.

    She brushed past Don the moment the lift doors opened. On swift footsteps, she marched to her room, where she slid her suitcase from beneath the left bed. From under the right, Marty pulled a grey hardshell case, just past the length of her arm, all scuffed surfaces and padlocks and weight. It wasn¡¯t a painful weight, but a solid one, and she placed it aside with ease and care. She spent the next twenty minutes in a blur, stuffing her backpack full of supplies and spare clothes -- what she was wearing now would undoubtedly end up covered in dirt and blood. And bog sludge, if they had to go traipsing through the bog, which she didn¡¯t doubt.

    They regrouped in the parking lot, the expanse of which was as near to empty as the agents could hope. Don¡¯s rain coat was zipped up to his chin, an American flag patch sewn to each sleeve. He held his own hardshell case, more scratched and much heftier than hers, and shouldered a bulging backpack without so much as slouching.

    Along the way, Marty made a stop at the closest convenience store for coffee and breakfast sandwiches of questionable freshness. Don stood guard outside, where he pretended to slouch and yawn, while in reality, he stayed to ensure that they were not being followed. Marty eyed him through the window as she paid. She took a cursory glance about the store, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and returned to the mist-laden morning air. Don grabbed his sandwich and coffee as she slurped hers -- lukewarm, unsurprisingly. They finished their meal in a rush as they cut through the early beginnings of a crowd toward the station entrance, into which they vanished as though they¡¯d never been there at all.

    ???

    Behind drawn blinds and closed doors, Avery sat at his desk, phone in hand. He leaned on one elbow, which pressed against the wood and did not improve his mood. Taking a breath of preparation -- all of this was necessary, whether he liked it or not -- he dialed the number and called.

    It rang only once. Despite a thin veneer of static trapping the other person¡¯s voice, he could hear their accent clearly: fast-paced, lilting.

    ¡°Does the Scottish branch have a lead?¡±

    ¡°I believe so. It¡¯s not yet clear.¡±

    His contact snapped at him, fire in their voice. ¡°Then make it clear.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. We¡¯re still working on it --¡±

    ¡°We?¡±

    ¡°My branch. But my best juniors are in Northern --¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t want juniors. We want full agents.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. We¡¯ll ask the English branch for help.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t rely on the English branch forever.¡± There came an acidic addition: ¡°They aren¡¯t your people anymore, Avery.¡±

    Avery put his free hand to his forehead and rubbed, struggling to will away his frustration. Everything he said was a losing battle.

    ¡°I know,¡± he conceded. ¡°But they might be our second best option.¡±

    ¡°Second best? Who takes first place?¡±

    His chair squeaked when he twisted to face the window, and he rolled the blinds up. The city was a painted skyscape, cloud and concrete and steel and mountains.

    ¡°You.¡±

    Avery¡¯s contact went quiet.

    At what they said next, his heart began to thud, a drumbeat of sudden and wild adrenaline, roaring through his veins, feeding the energy that the office so terribly stifled.

    ¡°Four.¡±

    He whispered, reverent as he sealed a secret deal, ¡°Four.¡±

 Twelve

    Ainsel awoke, some time after nine, to the rain she¡¯d come to expect here. It tapped a pattering rhythm against the window and rooftop, weaving its way into that delicate space between being awake and being alert. She rolled onto her side, avoiding her injured ankle, which still pulsed pain if she moved it too sharply; over her head, she pulled a pillow, hoping to drown out the noises of water pouring from the heavens.

    This worked for several seconds, after which it wasn¡¯t so much the sound itself that dragged Ainsel out of her attempt to sleep; it was her awareness of the sound. She groaned, low in her throat, and slid her legs free of the covers. Her wound did not flare with the same sensitivity as days earlier; it had been wrapped in fresh gauze since last night, when she¡¯d found a bundle of it, a package of wipes, and a vial of oil in Liam¡¯s desk drawer. Had he put them there on purpose, anticipating her return? Could he have somehow known?

    She ignored her own questions; they were worth too much trouble for the time being.

    It would, at the very least, be a peaceful morning -- without Liam, for taped to the nightstand was a note. She plucked it free and rubbed the bleariness from her eyes. In neat, thin handwriting, it read:

    I¡¯m going to run some errands; back in a few hours. Please don¡¯t break or steal anything. If anyone comes to the door, pretend you¡¯re not there. You¡¯re welcome to food and tea. - Liam

    This was as good an opportunity as any to uncover more about him, if not specifically why he bothered to heal faeries. She eased her way off of the bed and stretched with a series of cracks from her joints. Running from the park to Liam¡¯s house, on top of everything else leading up to it, had made them ache. Still, it was better to do something about their aching than to curl up and complain.

    Ainsel stretched one limb at a time and ran a hand through sleep-ruffled hair, trying to smooth it to a more manageable position. Life at home did not often provide her a chance to style it, or adorn it, or wear anything other than what was practical. She worried the sleeve of Liam¡¯s red sweater, glancing down to white-and-blue striped pajama shorts, which extended to the knee. How silly she would look if caught in this ensemble back... there. Back then.

    The seriousness of the situation in which she¡¯d landed herself reared its hideous head. Here she was, forced to flee home, stuck in a country at once familiar and more foreign than the ocean¡¯s trenches. In less than two decades, London had transformed, brimming with new technologies and new customs, and without a human whom she barely knew, she¡¯d be lost.

    You won, she reminded herself. You survived the hounds of the Hunt.

    And Liam had known of their existence. What he¡¯d said to her still burned in her mind.

    Did you know beforehand who I am? Did you seek me out?

    First came one answer: No. Of course not.

    Then came another, arguing with the first: Yes.

    But how could she have known? It was common knowledge that healers existed in human lands -- be they shamans or psychics or green witches -- though their numbers had dropped to scarcity with the advent of the modern era. Ainsel didn¡¯t doubt that London was full of people claiming connections to the supernatural, yet to happen upon the only genuine one was cause for more careful questioning. Unless, of course, Liam was not the only one.

    She stretched her back now, hearing and feeling her vertebrae give satisfying pops, and crossed the threshold into the hallway.

    The distance it spanned was not of significant length, but the color of its walls weaved the illusion that it receded to a greater depth. Ainsel paused to muse at it -- she herself would not have chosen muted teal for her home, and would have sought something darker, perhaps a sable black or umber brown. In the corner, which sat otherwise empty, a floor lamp poured out light. She noted the dish cabinet she¡¯d passed, at the left where the hall and kitchen met, then packed-full bookcases beside each of the four doors. On the one adjacent the guest room hung a strand of what looked like beads and herbs.

    She approached and ran her fingers along its length, cool and smooth as polished ice; the entire thing was stitched together with leather cord through the holes in the beads, some of which were not that at all, but stones -- flat, penny-sized, and glinting with something gold. She knelt closer; from every single stone, a painted triskele winked in the lamplight.

    The longer she touched the object, though, the more her fingertips began to itch. Her attention inched away from the triskeles and settled upon the herbs tied among them: age-faded yellow petals with the shape of tear drops, all arranged around a middle point. Strings, half-dried, trailed from their centers. St. John¡¯s wort.

    She snatched her arm away and tried to rub the itch from her skin, wanting to kick herself and thanking the universe that the plant was essentially dead. Ainsel concluded that this could only be William¡¯s room, for where else would he put St. John¡¯s wort and triskeles together? And why else, other than to keep the fae out of his private space? This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Cheeky, she thought. Let¡¯s see what else he has lying around.

    Instead of the doors, Ainsel headed for the cabinet, and there, she took a left, at which point her feet sank into carpet. Here, the walls were a much more pleasant slate shade, the carpet a warm cream to balance the receding effect that cool colors had on the eye. There was no television set, no game console, nothing electronic save for a laptop on the coffee table, which along with a plush sofa, overlooked windows that provided a skyline panorama. It was all a balance of humility and refinement: limited as the space was, she saw not a hint of kitsch.

    Ainsel turned; over a long bench holding shoes -- all in a row and quite stylish, she noted -- was the kitchen. In daylight, when she wasn¡¯t sneaking away or breaking down, the granite countertops look quite different. They occupied a place of light, one wall sky blue and the rest ivory; a beveled crystal orb hung in front of the window, reflecting a thousand sparkling swatches into the room. She stopped and stared at them; as she wandered near, they bounced along her arms and surely her face. What struck her as odd was that there were two refrigerators, one miniature and tucked beneath the counter. She pried it open to reveal rows of glinting bottles, all with labels in silver or metallic rose or other such expensive-looking hues. Ainsel closed it, careful not to jostle them.

    William hadn¡¯t seemed the posh type, but again, whatever the truth was about him, it remained a mystery for now.

    And leading toward every mystery was a trail of clues.

    In a house this small, it was harder to lose her bearings than to gain them. The only direction she hadn¡¯t yet gone was to the four remaining doors that were not the guest room or Liam¡¯s room. She chose one randomly, and much as she expected it to be locked, it swung inward at her push. What lay behind it flattened a sudden, bright burst of curiosity: a washer, a dryer, dirty clothing heaps, clean clothing stacks.

    With a huff of disappointment, she checked the next, just across from where she¡¯d just been. Emerald-green tiles covered the space around her, punctuated by sapphire ones; the floor was fashioned of milk-white marble, interlaced with streaks of grey. The vanity top matched the kitchen counter, and above it, Ainsel¡¯s reflection gazed back at her.

    All things considered, she did not look terrible: sleep-deprived circles had formed under her eyes, and her cheek was still scraped but healing. She didn¡¯t spend long before the mirror, something black grabbing her attention from within the slightly ajar vanity cabinet.

    As she knelt, she tugged free a bag of surprising weight and size. She eased it onto the rug and felt along it for the poke of sharp objects or the dizzy nausea of iron. None came; she slumped, releasing a breath she hadn¡¯t realized she¡¯d been holding. She unzipped the top, and the sides peeled open like a mouth.

    It was stuffed with medical supplies -- modern ones. She sifted through them, finding gauze and white boxes and bottles of pills that must held a few years¡¯ supply collectively. There was nothing of interest here, either.

    Until her fingers brushed some soft object. Her mind blanked. More gauze? No. It was almost like fur.

    Ainsel lifted up a box with a smudge of deep red on its closures and, with great care, picked up what she had touched.

    It was a rabbit¡¯s pelt, minus the head. What was that doing in there?

    She gathered the ordinary objects and dumped them in piles on the floor. A thrill raced through her, bright and fresh and alive.

    Gravel crunched outside. There was a thud and the quieting of an engine. She was too absorbed in her discovery to notice.

    The bottom of the bag was filled with things more suited to a mystic¡¯s workshop than a one-level brick house on the west side of London. Animal furs, wrapped in leather. Pouches of feathers and tiny bones. Pouches of dirt. Herbs and dry moss in Tupperware tubs. And, to Ainsel¡¯s bewildered excitement, jars of triskele runes as though they were pennies hoarded to exchange for bills. She cradled a jar in her palm, entranced.

    Then -- the front door creaking. Plastic crinkling. Footsteps.

    ¡°Cac,¡± she muttered. Shit.

    Ainsel shoved it all back, cringing at how much noise she was making, and managed to stow the duffel where she¡¯d found it. The footsteps came closer and stopped just outside.

    She knew she would have to say something, but crouched there, ablaze with shame.

    Liam spoke first. ¡°Ainsel?¡±

    Again, she faltered. ¡°It¡¯s... it¡¯s me.¡±

    The doorknob shifted, almost imperceptibly, but did not turn.

    ¡°Are you alright?¡±

    Her embarrassment at Liam catching her snooping burned hotter. Now, it intermingled with a thread of guilt -- how very like him to ask about her well-being, not what she was doing with his belongings.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine. I was just looking for a comb.¡± As if she needed to, she added, ¡°For my hair.¡±

    ¡°Oh, there¡¯s an extra in the middle drawer. You can have it.¡± The pleasantness of his tone made abundantly clear that he was placating her.

    Her excuse hadn¡¯t worked in the slightest.

    ¡°Liam, it¡¯s nothing. Forget it.¡±

    He remained quiet, then said, the barest hint of hesitation in his voice, ¡°Do you... want to talk?¡±

    ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡± Ainsel hadn¡¯t meant to be harsh, and rushed to explain. ¡°I really am fine. It¡¯s best not to dwell on things.¡±

    ¡°You sound just like me when I¡¯m trying to hide something.¡±

    At that, she could not resist a comment, and meant this one. ¡°You¡¯ve gotten real smart with me since I arrived.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯ve realized you¡¯re not going to kill me.¡±

    She felt her lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. ¡°I could do worse than killing you.¡±

    Still, he persisted. ¡°Again, if you wanted to hurt me, you¡¯d have done it already.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know me, Liam.¡±

    Her statement was met with silence. With heaviness.

    I¡¯m sorry, she wanted to tell him. Intead, she buried it in thicker, heavier silence.

 Thirteen

    The only sounds in Don and Marty¡¯s train car were the muffled rumble of wheels and a mechanical hum just soft enough to hear. With the doors locked, and their belongings spilling across the otherwise empty sections of their seats, they sat across from each other.

    Marty held her book open on her lap -- a kidnapping mystery starring a snarky detective -- while Don poured crisps and Skittles into the same Ziploc bag. Reading, she ignored both him and the sea blurring by as it melded with the dour shade of the clouds. She¡¯d have to make the novel last, and as such, took in each page at a wandering pace; in her peripheral vision, she caught a streak of red as something was flicked through the air.

    Marty smacked her book shut. Don was busy tossing candies from hand to hand, occasionally dropping them. The offending cherry Skittle had come to rest beside her foot.

    ¡°Don.¡±

    He tossed another, unaware.

    ¡°Don! For God¡¯s sake!¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Stop it. You¡¯re getting on my nerves.¡±

    Don heaved a sigh, peering into his bag of snacks. ¡°I¡¯m... you know.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Marty set her book aside, atop her backpack. ¡°Enlighten me.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not really sure.¡±

    It was Marty¡¯s turn to sigh, and she twisted sideways, arm resting across the top of her seat as she watched the endless expanse of the ocean. It swirled, and crashed, and churned.

    ¡°You need to talk, or you¡¯ll spend the whole ride sulking. I hate it when you sulk.¡±

    ¡°You hate it when I do anything,¡± he said.

    ¡°Oh, hell.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re not denying it!¡±

    ¡°Yes, I am!¡± She froze, stole a glance through the glass door of their car, and looked back to Don when the other passengers remained oblivious. ¡°I am. You¡¯re convinced that I don¡¯t want you here.¡±

    ¡°And what if I wasn¡¯t here?¡±

    She said nothing, letting her temper sink down to manageable range.

    ¡°If you weren¡¯t, then I would not have a partner. You¡¯re the transfer -- if something happened to you, including you bailing, it would be my fault. I¡¯d be off the force.¡±

    ¡°So, you¡¯re keeping me around for your career and that¡¯s it.¡±

    ¡°What else would it be?¡± Her retort came out half-hissed, half-spoken.

    ¡°Maybe I want to be -- Nah. Never mind it, alright?¡±

    ¡°Gladly.¡±

    Marty reopened her book, and minutes morphed to hours, and she relaxed into comfortable certainty that they would reach Ballycastle without another argument.

    ¡°Hey, Marty?¡±

    ¡°Jesus. What now?¡±

    ¡°You given any more thought to the Avery thing?¡±

    She willed herself not to tell him off, slowly shaking her head.

    Don said, ¡°I have. In all my time being here, he¡¯s never taken our targets in and questioned them.¡±

    ¡°So? You¡¯ve only been in Scotland for a year and a half.¡±

    ¡°And how many targets have we got together?¡±

    ¡°Twenty-three.¡± Marty raised a brow, confused curiosity reigning over anger. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, minus the Manchester case. That¡¯s real weird, isn¡¯t it? Only one spared out of all the rest we¡¯ve killed. And on Avery¡¯s orders.¡±

    ¡°So...?¡±

    ¡°You reckon it gave him actual information?¡±

    ¡°Stop being stupid.¡± Her memories flashed to Avery in the conference room: that long look. That hesitation.

    ¡°Marty, why are we going all the way to another island to kill some brownies? Can¡¯t the Ulster guys deal with this themselves?¡±

    ¡°You heard him. They¡¯re overworked.¡±

    ¡°But these are brownies! Not redcaps, not kelpies, not a damn banshee. Couple of brand-new trainees could knock this job out in a day or two.¡±

    She stared hard at Don as if trying to wrench an explanation from him by sight alone.

    ¡°Don, what the hell are you saying?¡±

    ¡°What if he wants us out of the way?¡±

    The world stopped. Their train kept rolling, of course, but every scrap of her energy and attention was fixed on her partner.

    ¡°Why would he want that?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know! It¡¯s just not right!¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s not right is you picking apart everything that our superior says. Antics like this are probably what got you pulled from the American branch.¡±

    Their conversation broke. Don kicked his feet up to rest on his own backpack, which he¡¯d left on the floor. He acted as though Marty wasn¡¯t even present, stone-cold silent. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Marty, though she might have appeared guilty had he looked at her, was caught in a maelstrom of suspicions and possibilities and frustrations.

    Bigger problems in England.

    Sparing a target with no explanation.

    A mission to Ballycastle for a minor type of fae.

    Don wasn¡¯t mistaken. Avery¡¯s behavior had been so subtly different that she hadn¡¯t perceived it as odd at the time. It was official: something was very wrong.

    ???

    While autumn gripped the British Isles in hues of russet and grey, here spring reigned. It flourished across the land, where the hills swept high into mountains and the mountains swooped deep into valleys; forests pooled in their rocky creases like liquid, the tallest trees extending far above the rest and fanning leaves into a bluebell sky. Toward the west, woods thinned to brush, which in turn lessened further and further until the ground dropped, giving way to cliffs that speared the frothing sea. The water glittered cerulean, and that was what, to the naked eye, would mark this place as something else, something beyond. It was too bright to lack innate enchantment, brighter than the famed Caribbean or the lagoons of Iceland or the mineral-tinted ponds that dotted the fields of Yellowstone.

    To those who belonged here, magic made itself known. Flowers burst up after footfalls, animal or otherwise. Creatures whose fur was streaked with shimmering lines gazed down from branches. Bushes overflowed with fruits, and if one was picked, two more would sprout.

    This was not, however, an untouched wilderness. Glass planes winked through the trees. Lights on strings arced this way and that, illuminating boardwalks covered in moss above the surface of a fen. The paths lead like roads toward vast clusters of structures -- glass intertwined  with wood, as though they¡¯d been built into the forest, instead of the forest being cleared to admit them. They had porches and decks, windows and doors, vines cascading down their walls in waterfalls of life. There were houses and storefronts, benches and fountains. Carts full of crates. Boxes of produce. Triskeles and knotlike inscriptions absolutely everywhere.

    And there were people.

    Some hurried to and fro with their arms full of items; some wandered, peeking into shops or leaning on fences or holding the hands of chattering children. Their skin was milk-pale; every once in a while, one would appear with an olive tan, standing out in the crowds. Their hair fell in waves, sprung about in bouncing ringlets, was wound in braids; it came in emerald and clover and pine, coal and midnight and raven. Like normal people, their body types ranged -- some soft and curved, others muscled, still others thin as waifs.

    No matter how each one looked, they all shared a single trait: ears tapered to points.

    In the largest city, they all took care to not approach a row of their own kind, stationed before a path that spiraled up into the canopy. Far overhead, more glass glinted, and though the citizens were forbidden to enter, what lay above the treetops was immense.

    It was, unmistakably, a palace.

    And in this palace, where every entrance was protected -- including the branches straight beneath -- order was king. Rather than the draping cloth and hardened leather that those below wore, servants, officials, and guards clad themselves in uniform. A rich rowan painted their suede, their boots leather as well and a deeper hunter¡¯s green. Blades hung in sheathes at the guards¡¯ hips, some only daggers, some reaching to their knees; if too long to be held at the hip, their weapons were tucked against their backs.

    Everyone inside, from humble maid to exalted politician, bore the same insignia upon their chest: three ravens, talons clasped, spinning in the pattern of a tri-pointed swirl. Where their claws were locked, there sat a vertical line, from the left side of which extended four more lines, shorter and horizontal.

    On the very highest level of the palace, in an ivy-cloaked dome that overlooked his land from valley to sea, stood their ruler.

    He was pale as his people, and his hair -- lightest, warmest sage -- might be mistaken for blonde. It swished down to his waist, no braids, no adornments. He kept it well out of crystal-bright eyes, which gleamed even when he paced beneath spots of ivy thicker than the rest. They were like a cat¡¯s, and he moved like one, too, carefully. Gracefully. His movements matched his face: delicate brows and a delicate nose, high cheekbones, which constellations of freckles crossed. A bare chin, at the middle ground between pointed and round, completed features that he wore as though made for him: young but wise. Androgynous but effortless. And, most of all, so fair that his word was law.

    Even so, he smiled, at ease.

    It certainly gave his assistant some peace of mind. She stayed standing, as he had not yet settled at the meeting table -- a slab of a once-great tree, sanded and lacquered so dappled parts of it shone in the sunlight.

    She rose to the height of his chest. If her expression was not so severe, and her uniform not so tailored, she could pass for an adolescent; curls of fern green flounced when she clutched to her chest a clipboard strained with documents. Her gaze flitted from him to the papers she held, and though she didn¡¯t once tap her foot or fidget, her impatience was clear in the way she watched him.

    At last, he took his seat, and gingerly, she removed the documents from her clipboard. It took her a moment, but she gathered them into one neat stack, which she placed before her leader as she joined him at the table.

    She was greeted with a theatrical sigh.

    ¡°Really, Fedelmid?¡± he asked, making a sweeping gesture to the mountain she¡¯d brought him to sign. His voice was a rhythm, his question a song, crafted from dulcet tones and self-assured ease.

    Fedelmid, seeming used to such greetings, only nodded.

    ¡°It¡¯s been thirty years and already you¡¯re working me to the bone.¡±

    She nodded again, having nothing to say.

    ¡°Ah, well.¡± He slid a feather pen from nowhere, and proceeded to sign the heap of documents, its plume dancing as he wrote.

    All the while, he graced her presence with his commentary.

    ¡°Are they mad? I¡¯m not lowering the taxes on dwarven ale.¡±

    And, ¡°If Alfheim wants a trade deal, they¡¯ll have to ask nicely.¡±

    Then, ¡°There will be no such law. Free travel to Earth... insanity.¡±

    ¡°Sir?¡±

    He heard Fedelmid, but did not look up.

    She cleared her throat. ¡°Supreme Minister, sir.¡±

    He focused on her with his trademark smile; it faded when she didn¡¯t smile in return.

    ¡°There is this, too,¡± she said, withdrawing a folded paper from her lapel pocket and handing it forward.

    The Minister took it, leaned back in his chair, and began to read. In the absence of witty remarks or even displeased ones, a hush sank into the room.

    ¡°Well,¡± he murmured. ¡°They still haven¡¯t let that go.¡±

    ¡°Have you, sir?¡±

    ¡°Never.¡±

    ¡°What shall we do about it?¡±

    His reply was a jagged one, lacking any pretense of politeness. ¡°The number of years since it happened -- that number is powerful. We¡¯ll keep hunting the bastard who did it.¡±

    ¡°How? The culprit has avoided us for --¡±

    ¡°I know. Perhaps our old friend Johnathan will have some ideas.¡±

    Fedelmid wrinkled her nose. ¡°But, sir, he has avoided the Fae for over two centuries.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t care. Find him and that idiot T¨¢rlach. Meanwhile...¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°Meanwhile, I will try something, too. I¡¯m going to contact some other friends of mine. They have been wrapped up in a conflict on Earth, but maybe it has been long enough. Maybe now, they will have the time.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t mean...?¡± Fedelmid¡¯s question trailed off and lingered unspoken.

    ¡°Yes. I do. Fedelmid, send for a courier. We need help from the Coalition Of Unorthodox Research Teams.¡±

    She bowed low, and off she rushed, deep into the palace to track down the Minister¡¯s most trusted couriers. When she found one hunched over his desk, not a single word passed between them, but a glance. He knew, and he penned a letter, and he stamped the sealed envelope with Urgent, then Classified.

    Thus, it began: a plea for aid from the only people who could bring justice swiftly enough. But for eight hundred years, they had shifted from ally to enemy to back again, and where in the cycle they sat now was as deep a secret as could be.

 Fourteen

    An Geimhreadh || Winter

    For shame, for shame, do n¨¢ire, n¨¢ire,

    the forsaken gave life to flames,

    and could not stave their burn,

    and bled our blood for rain.

    <hr>

    ¡°You don¡¯t know me, Liam.¡±

    He heard it over and over, an echo through the suddenly blank caverns of his mind, and lost track of just how long he stood with his hand on the doorknob. Why did that statement make his head spin? Why did it drop rocks and sickness into his stomach? It was true, after all.

    But he had been making progress -- or so he¡¯d thought.

    William knew that he should not have said what he said next. ¡°I can start.¡±

    ¡°No, you can¡¯t.¡± She sounded pained, her tone at once empty and brimming with dark, ugly things; William imagined that the secrets she kept were what made her feel so heavy.

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    ¡°Believe me, you don¡¯t want to. I¡¯ve told you too much already. And stop trying to help me... it¡¯s going to come back and bite you in the arse.¡±

    ¡°Ainsel --¡±

    She stormed out of the washroom. He jumped back, catching himself before he stumbled. When she shoved past him, her shoulder bumped his. The impact released a spray of invisible sparks. Ainsel swept through the hall and into the guest room, where the door slammed by itself.

    William was left shivering and shaken, rubbing where she¡¯d hit him. His fear of Ainsel¡¯s abilities had lessened, but in their place, fear for her had crept up on him. Whatever she was hiding from, there couldn¡¯t be any possibility of it following her to London. The thought gave him a creeping chill.

    He needed a distraction.

    Thomas?

    William pulled out his phone and called his friend, fingers shaking.

    ¡°Will?¡±

    ¡°Shh! Not so loud.¡± That was much too close to his real name, even if Ainsel was too far to hear it.

    Thomas now spoke with distinct alarm over barking and voices in the background.

    ¡°What¡¯s going on? Are you in trouble?¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯m fine. Just...¡± William realized mid-sentence that he hadn¡¯t rehearsed an explanation, and was left stumbling for one. ¡°I¡¯m just watching something. On YouTube. My chemistry class is canceled.¡±

    ¡°Alright...¡± He could practically hear Thomas trying to rationalize his strange behavior. ¡°Did you need something? Do you feel okay?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m okay. Are you... are you busy today?¡±

    ¡°Got to leave the dog park and stop by the grocery store. Why?¡±

    ¡°Well, you don¡¯t think I could come by today instead of Friday?¡± There was a pause, and William gave yet another lie. ¡°My mum invited me to have dinner on Friday.¡±

    ¡°Of course you can.¡±

    ¡°But?¡± He knew there was a but, even if Thomas wouldn¡¯t say it aloud.

    ¡°What about your allergies?¡±

    ¡°My -- Oh. No, they¡¯re fine. Much better now.¡±

    ¡°If you insist. Anyways, walking or driving? Or the bus?¡±

    William hesitated; though the walk was long, and a crowded bus was out of the question, he felt rather uneasy about leaving the house looking unattended.

    ¡°Actually, I¡¯ll pick you up. We can go to the store together. When can you be ready?¡±

    ¡°Give me, um...¡± He glanced toward the guest room before turning the other direction. ¡°Twenty minutes. Or twenty-five.¡±

    ¡°Twenty-five it is. And are you staying the night?¡±

    ¡°Might as well. See you soon.¡±

    The moment William hung up, some feeling washed over him that he couldn¡¯t pinpoint, and it stuck to him like humid air. He found himself wondering what Ainsel would think if she awoke to find him gone. But he couldn¡¯t cancel on Thomas, and he couldn¡¯t stay here. Beneath what he then recognized as guilt, William unearthed another sensation: awkwardness.

    In his own room, he rushed the packing job, managing not to forget anything except for a toothbrush. He checked his reflection in the washroom mirror -- no pimples, no dark circles, and no flyaway hairs. William did not notice that his duffel, in the cabinet below the sink, had been moved. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    There was one thing left to do.

    On his way out, he plucked a stack of Post-Its from the junk drawer in the kitchen. As Thomas would arrive at any minute, William could only scrawl a quick note to Ainsel.

    I¡¯m sorry. Don¡¯t steal anything, don¡¯t break anything, don¡¯t answer the door unless it¡¯s me. I¡¯ll be back tomorrow morning.

    As an afterthought, and to be safe, he added, I¡¯m not mad at you.

    With that, he was off, standing on the front porch to await his ride. William urged himself to not look behind him, and to not want to, for there was no point in making the situation even worse.

    ???

    William sat tucked between crinkling grocery bags and a drooling mass of fur at his feet. If there were one smell he could delete from the world, it would be dog breath, and Arthur slouched with his head on William¡¯s lap, tongue lolling. Thomas focused on the road. It wasn¡¯t that William disliked dogs; they just stank sometimes, especially the large ones.

    He gave Arthur a pat between the ears, sighing. ¡°Thomas?¡±

    ¡°Yup?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s really no trouble that I rescheduled?¡±

    Thomas chanced fleeting eye contact in the rear view mirror. ¡°It¡¯s really not. You want tea when we get there?¡±

    William was well aware that Thomas had changed the subject for the sake of peace in his car -- the past week of deceit and almost-arguments wasn¡¯t over. Arthur stared at him with round eyes and perked ears, as if sensing that something was amiss.

    ¡°Tea sounds great. Thanks.¡±

    Nothing else was said for the rest of the ride, and when they slowed to a crawl down a cul-de-sac of brick houses slightly less well kept than William¡¯s, he tried to feel to feel relieved or pleased or relaxed. He couldn¡¯t.

    They reached the end, where Thomas pulled into his driveway, where a plastic flamingo completed the front yard; it was there as a joke and made William at least smile every time he saw it, but right now, the concept of joking felt wrong. Arthur at least helped calm the tension, and William let him out first; the dog trundled from the car and made his meandering way to the porch, where he waited, panting.

    Thomas followed, carrying all four bags inside in one trip. He was broad-shouldered and heavy bodied, not fat, but the sort who whiled his free time away at the gym -- while Willima¡¯s free time was better spent delving down rabbit holes on the Internet. His height would be imposing if not for the easygoing slump of his shoulders and an expression that gave no sense whatsoever of intimidation.

    As if immune to the chill of autumn, Thomas wore his usual band shirt and denim shorts, the back pocket of which had been ripped and never repaired. Where William was clean, Thomas was scruffy. Mid-length hickory hair lead into a beard that, while needing a trim, was about the only thing on his person for which Thomas cared about upkeep. There had been times when William envied Thomas¡¯ beard-growing capability; that didn¡¯t matter now as much as it used to.

    He was the last one in, his overnight bag tucked under one arm, and closed the door behind him. Thomas had already begun to unload the groceries; Arthur lay sprawled on the floor, whining at every item that he wasn¡¯t given.

    William tugged off his shoes and placed his belongings at the table, quiet as he made sure not to say anything that would set off his friend¡¯s lie senses.

    ¡°Do you need help putting things away?¡±

    Thomas shrugged and crumpled the bags into a ball, stashing them under the sink with a heap of others. ¡°I¡¯ve got it. You want the air mattress or the couch tonight?¡±

    ¡°Couch is fine.¡±

    ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll grab some blankets later.¡±

    Before their casual conversation could morph into the serious one that he knew was coming, William retreated to the living room with his backpack. A wall stocked with photographs -- mainly of Arthur -- separated it and the kitchen. There was no door here, only an empty archway, and there was no carpet, either; Thomas had put down a flower-patterned rug not unlike the ones in elderly ladies¡¯ homes. The furnishings here were as simple as his own: a sofa, a coffee table, a bookcase decorated here and there with rock memorabilia. The one major difference was a flat-screen television against the wall facing the sofa. Two windows let greyish light stream in from the right side of the room.

    William slid his laptop from his backpack, which he then dropped in the corner. The moment he sat on the couch -- not plush, but pleather, minimizing the amount of dog hair that clung to it -- he opened his laptop to let the time pass by in a blur.

    Once Thomas had seen to his own responsibilities and joined William with an entire plastic bin of snacks, the day had deepened into a velvet-sky night, clouds having scattered to reveal a full moon, and by its light, the yard was cast in silver. Arthur had curled up beside the window to nap, his fur shining with each rise and fall of his flank.

    William pried open a tub of onion dip while Thomas flipped through the channels to search for the absolute worst reality program he could find. Watching spoiled teenagers snark over handbags and dates was, without a doubt, a respite from an ocean of worries.

    If all good things must end, then the good things were a dam, and in ending, they broke, pouring forth all the bad that they kept at bay.

    Out of nowhere, Thomas asked, ¡°Will, you trust me, right?¡±

    He lowered the dip and slowly, silently withdrew his hand from the crisps. ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Then... why do I feel like that isn¡¯t true?¡±

    ¡°It is!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re keeping some secret --¡±

    William cut in, and he couldn¡¯t steady the tremble in his voice, or relax his dread grip on the couch cushion. ¡°I¡¯m just different, alright? It¡¯s fine! You¡¯re stressing about nothing!¡±

    The pause before Thomas spoke was worse than if he¡¯d shouted. He leaned with his elbows on his knees, forehead in his hands, and each second he went without answering was a jolt of fear.

    ¡°William. People who are different still have patterns of behavior. They have habits. And as of late, you have been way off your pattern.¡±

    No matter how skilled William was in faking and avoiding, he had been caught. He forced a deep breath, hoping that his next words would not shake as much as his last. If they had warded off his mother¡¯s analysis, then perhaps they¡¯d serve him well with Thomas.

    ¡°People change. And -- and interests change. That¡¯s okay.¡±

    ¡°Of course it¡¯s okay...¡± Midway through speaking, he slouched back against the couch to stare at the ceiling. ¡°Those changes don¡¯t happen in a week, though. What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    Failure. Yet again.

    ¡°Nothing is wrong.¡±

    ¡°Are you having insomnia? Will -- is it night terrors?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not having insomnia. Or night terrors. And regarding sleep, I really should get on that. Like, now.¡±

    Thomas, with no more options, packed up their snacks and left for the kitchen. Alone at last, William set to work draping blankets over the couch and piling on the pillows; he drew the blinds shut and changed into his lavender fleece pajamas there in the living room. The heat was kept at a reasonably warm level, but without layers aplenty, the air would soon feel just cold enough to keep him awake.

    Sleep was indeed fitful that night -- not from chills and not from Arthur¡¯s rumbling snore, but from the dreams. They were filled with images that hadn¡¯t played across the stage of his subconscious since childhood; he didn¡¯t hear them, didn¡¯t smell them, and didn¡¯t feel them. He only saw.

    A stream bubbling among stones. A ring of spotted red toadstools. A pointing finger, outstretched hands, a face that he couldn¡¯t remember no matter how much he studied it. And dogs. Dozens of long, lanky, black dogs, muzzles to the ground, loping across a field under liquid metal moonlight.

 Fifteen

    Friday dawned bright and clear, the storms having passed and left a rare period of sunshine. It streamed through the window, and there had been so little of it lately that for a split second, Ainsel couldn¡¯t tell what it was.

    She rolled onto her other side, squeezing her eyes shut tighter to block it out; her attempt to ignore the sunlight paved the way for other minor annoyances to eat into her concentration. A hair fluttered against her forehead, tickling like a spider. The sheets lay uneven at her feet, one side bunched and the other smooth. And it was quiet -- strangely so.

    Blinking away sleep, she sat up in bed. The alarm clock on the nightstand told her that it was almost nine thirty, and by now, she should have heard the sounds of Liam starting his day. Either he wasn¡¯t awake, or he¡¯d left.

    One at a time, she slid her legs out of bed, and there came no pain from her ankle as she stood. She peeked around the door frame and into the hallway; after a glance left and right, she was met with nothing.

    ¡°Liam?¡± she called. Silence was her answer. There had been no point in calling anyways, as she could not sense any hint of his presence; the air hadn¡¯t the same energy that he did.

    This was at least another chance to search for clues -- but her stomach ached an empty ache. She tied her hair into a low-effort bun and made for the kitchen. Something on the island caught her attention: a note, folded in half and upright, in the shape of an inverted v. When she flipped it open, her hunger vanished.

    I¡¯m not mad at you, it said.

    He had indeed left, and from the rushed scrawl in which the note was written, he¡¯d been in a hurry. Of course he had reassured her instead of being angry -- even after catching her rooting through his things. He was probably just protecting himself: why antagonize the faerie in his house?

    And there was no sense in forgoing breakfast because Liam had done something odd. Toast would do, as long as she managed not to burn it.

    She checked each cabinet in turn, noting the absence of junk food and the strict organization of what he did have. There were Mason jars filled with grains, bags of trail mix, granola bars, teff cookies -- whatever teff was. Ready to give up on her endeavor, she opened the refrigerator. The majority of its contents were fresh-scented and green; on the upper shelves, fruits sat in rows from ripe to unripe. At last, she spotted a wrapped loaf behind a spray of celery leaves.

    She tugged it free and took another jar labeled avocado pulp. It looked enough like butter, and was a safer bet than the clarified ghee or butter flavored coconut oil. Pleasant as it was to have options that weren¡¯t artificial, she wasn¡¯t keen on unfamiliar yellow goo.

    As she dropped a slice into the toaster, tires crunched over gravel outside. She parted the window curtains, watching a small silver car enter the driveway. Liam stepped out, backpack bulging and a rolled blanket tucked under his arm; the car then pulled away and vanished around the corner.

    Ainsel wasn¡¯t sure whether to dread or anticipate his approach. She wasn¡¯t even sure if she should speak to him, lest either of them say something to make the other feel awkward. Mere decades ago, things would have been different; she could have killed him for daring to help her. But thirty years had passed since that had changed. Now, here she was fretting about embarrassment and making toast.

    At once, it sprang up with a clang and the door swung open.

    She jumped and almost knocked over the jar.

    ¡°You¡¯re -- you¡¯re back.¡± Her own words made her inwardly wince. He¡¯d been inside for ten seconds and already she¡¯d made the atmosphere awkward.

    ¡°Yes... How are you? Did you sleep alright?¡±

    ¡°Fine. Yes. You?¡±

    There was a long pause, which she filled by spreading a layer of pulp onto her toast. When Liam still did not respond, Ainsel stole a glance at him; she could not help but notice how dark the spaces beneath his eyes were, and how slow his movements were as he eased his backpack to the ground.

    ¡°Liam?¡±

    ¡°Sorry?¡±

    ¡°Did you sleep alright?¡±

    Surprise flickered across his face, and he stopped, half-kneeling, half-standing with his hands on the straps. The look appeared and disappeared in an instant.

    ¡°I did. Glad to see that you¡¯re doing well.¡±

    Liam accompanied his lie with a polite smile. Ainsel stared down at him, her heart thumping and her instincts blaring a warning. There was no way that he was telling the truth. Direct questioning would never work -- but lies of her own would. They had little room for honesty anyways, so what was a bit more deceit? This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°You know,¡± she began, and waited as he took a seat at the table. ¡°My wounds hurt quite a lot if I overdo it. I understand that it¡¯s best for me to stay here and rest.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re sure?¡±

    ¡°Completely.¡± She spoke around a bite of toast and feigned watching the clouds as an excuse to stay turned away from him. ¡°You have no idea what really happened out there. What I survived. And you¡¯re not going to ask, are you?¡±

    ¡°Not if you don¡¯t want me to. Which is what I¡¯m assuming.¡±

    ¡°Of course I don¡¯t want you to.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡± He stood, stretched, and took something from the fridge. There came a cracking noise, then fizzing. ¡°So... I didn¡¯t expect to see you using the toaster.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Well, you¡¯re...¡± Liam fell quiet, taking a sip of seltzer. ¡°When were you born?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m twenty-six. Plenty young enough to know what a toaster is.¡±

    They both lapsed into silence. Ainsel soon set the butter knife she¡¯d used in the sink.

    ¡°Sorry,¡± he said.

    She wasn¡¯t certain why he was apologizing, and as such, only replied, ¡°Whatever.¡±

    In an apparent attempt to change the mood, he asked, ¡°Do you know any good television programs?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t watch television.¡±

    ¡°We could. If you¡¯d like.¡±

    ¡°What, now?¡± She¡¯d spoken too quickly. Irritation had slipped into her voice. If Liam had indeed meant right then, that was a lost chance to look farther than the house for information on him and his motives.

    ¡°We don¡¯t have to. I was just... offering.¡±

    Ainsel rested her elbows on the counter, letting her temper cool and logic take control. He would know if she were trying to urge him outside. It would clue him in to her hiding something. And if he suspected that, she may not have a chance at all.

    ¡°Fine. I have nothing else to do.¡±

    ¡°Nor do I. It¡¯s Saturday.¡±

    ¡°Do you even have a television?¡±

    ¡°I do, but...¡±

    She followed his gaze to the door with the string of beads and poisonous plants.

    ¡°I¡¯m not going in there.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll bring my laptop out. Like I¡¯d planned.¡±

    ¡°Fine,¡± she said again, and she left for the sofa before he could say a thing in return.

    The plush cushion puffed and then settled as he sat beside her. Being so close to him lit the air aflame with that invisible charge, like she was standing in the rain, but instead of rain, it was electricity, showering down in sparkling drops. She drew her arms closer and her legs tighter, not wanting her limbs to touch his. In case of what, she wasn¡¯t positive.

    Liam held the computer open on his lap. It was protected in a plain black shell, on the corner of which were two stickers: a triskele and twin snakes winding around a winged staff. The former was not in the least unexpected, but as for the latter -- her memory stuttered and clicked into place.

    A caduceus signified a medical profession. Was healing the fae his job? Who employed him, then? Or did he work alone?

    Liam typed a string of letters, seemed to briefly deliberate, and clicked something. She stared into the screen as an eerie theme song played, echoing with whistles and the occasional flourish of piano music. Strange images danced: eyeballs, ghosts, twisting bodies. Ainsel only pretended to stay focused.

    ¡°I hope you like stuff from the nineties. It¡¯s The X-Files.¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± she said, and her attention was less elsewhere than right here, frozen on him. He acted as if this were normal, like he¡¯d invited a friend to waste some time, not revived a dangerous faerie from the precipice of death.

    ¡°Ainsel -- I¡¯m sorry. I mean it.¡±

    Her gaze snapped to him. That had come out of nowhere.

    ¡°This is all... new,¡± he continued. ¡°Your -- your kind tend to leave here as fast as they can. You get why I¡¯m not used to this.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s obvious that you¡¯re not used to it. I don¡¯t blame you.¡±

    He gave her just the beginning of a smile; another charged wave pulsed between them. She pulled her eyes away and, without realizing, gripped her hands together hard enough that her knuckles went white.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how long you¡¯ll be here. And I don¡¯t want anything major from you. That¡¯s not why I did what I did.¡±

    Then why? she wanted to say, but held her tongue.

    ¡°I guess, Ainsel, that I wanted to do what was right. Or... no. I had to, actually. Listen, anyway, I want answers, but not now. It¡¯s too soon to ask that of you.¡±

    She could have leaned into the wild, stupid, improbable irony and laughed -- it was like he was reading her mind.

    ¡°Liam...¡± She shook her head, pressing her lips together to keep from grinning. ¡°There are things I wish I could tell you. I can¡¯t. You¡¯re smart enough to respect that.¡±

    ¡°I am.¡± His agreement was soft, and if he was curious or frustrated or anything else, he gave no hint of it. What he then said shattered that softness. ¡°You¡¯re hiding, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    She felt the writhe of Soil¨¦ireacht, her own energy, lashing more in startled fear than in anger. How did he know that?

    ¡°I can¡¯t go back. I told you. England is safe.¡±

    Liam, rubbing a lock of hair between his thumb and finger, said nothing.

    Finally, he inquired, ¡°Why? Because you did something bad?¡±

    She couldn¡¯t keep this up -- couldn¡¯t stay and deflect question after question about what it was she¡¯d done, not with someone as earnest as Liam. He might understand. And if he understood, then he would hate her with all the vigor and poison of lifelong nemeses.

    ¡°We are never talking about that. Ever.¡±

    Ainsel did not give him a moment¡¯s opportunity to answer. She stalked to the guest room, let Soil¨¦ireacht smack the door shut, and huddled into the desk chair.

    Seething.

    Shaking.

 Sixteen

    Field Mission Base 04, Ballycastle, Northern Ireland, 17:35

    As a grey Sunday drew to an end, the sky released a covering of coastal fog. It rolled in across the shore, over piers and boulders and parks, ghostly among the dwindling daylight.

    Right on the cusp of the ocean, this side of an already small town was a far cry from Glasgow or Manchester. The surrounding hills sloped up into mountainous ground, and down into cliffs; like streams, cobbled streets wound between homes and main streets, and at last reached out toward the water.

    At the end of one such street, a white house rose above the rest, paint chipped and stonework weathered, all but two of its shutters closed: the first on the top floor, the second below that. Beside the door, a wooden sign was nailed: Department of Marine Meteorology Studies. That was all -- no university or company or phone number. Adjacent the sign hung a mailbox rusted from exposure to constant humidity.

    From the top floor window, Marty watched an occasional car pass by and gulls bicker for scraps. She ached too much to do anything else, and could swear that she still stank of peat. After a night and a day spent trudging through a bramble-filled bog, pulling her spare clothing from her backpack had felt like Christmas morning. They had only started at the Dark Hedges. Most of the mission had been to follow the Northern Irish team, doing what they said when they said it, laying trip wires and bait piles and sheets over holes bristling with spikes.

    It had been a less than welcome reminder of her early training, and compared to her previous hunt-down and face-off chase, it was drudgery. There had been no thrill, only hissing creatures that were more hairless cat than fae.

    Only Don¡¯s misery from the cold had made the trip bearable. Neither he nor Marty had joined the team¡¯s wisecracking, but now, he¡¯d wandered away from her to find them. Alone, she ignored bursts of laughter, his included, through walls from nearby.

    The top two floors were reserved for casual gatherings and overnight stays, since most of the real work -- besides that in the field -- was confined to the basement. Keeping the bulk of their work belowground was protocol back in Glasgow and at any other location, though Marty often heard rumors of things being different in the Dublin offices. According to Don, they even partied on weekends.

    She heaved a sigh and drew the blinds closed. What she wouldn¡¯t give to be in a city, whether her home city or one on some far-flung island. If she¡¯d had the energy, she would have explored the town; still, she wasn¡¯t certain that she¡¯d find a decent Internet connection.

    At least here, at the so-called fourth mission base along the northern coast, it was decent enough. She slid her phone from her pocket, slouched lower in her windowside armchair, and began to scroll. The news was too dire, spilling prophecies of despair across her feed; memes were more Don¡¯s territory. On top of that, she had finished her book.

    So, instead, she let her eyes drift closed, listening to the ticking clock on the nightstand as she thought.

    Six junior agents, three senior, two secretaries, and a courier made for a sparse team: most teams were at least twice this size. But few as they were, they had been perfectly capable of exterminating brownies on their own. So far, Marty had seen nothing to substantiate Avery¡¯s claim that the entire Northern Irish branch was overwhelmed -- even in a place so small that some maps didn¡¯t include it. Besides, if that were true, the Irish branch would be scrambling to aid them, being just a border away.

    Why send the two to Ballycastle? Why not somewhere more active, like Belfast or Derry or Craigavon?

    A knock at the door jolted her from her sleep-deprived analysis. She jumped up from her chair, phone still in hand, and squinted through the peephole. Don peered back at her, his arm around the shoulders of someone she recognized from their mission, but could not name.

    He was Don¡¯s height, and roughly the same build, though his skin tone was closer to Marty¡¯s. A scruff of ginger hair poked from beneath the flat cap that he¡¯d flipped backwards; a beard the same shade framed a round face dusted with freckles. Like most sent into the field, he had his share of scars: a nicked eyebrow, a pockmark on his forehead. Instead of tactical gear, he wore jeans and a pumpkin orange pullover. It was his grin that caught her attention: crooked, with a lip ring glinting in the hallway lamplight. He¡¯d been among the agents making jokes that night.

    She let the two in, stepping aside to let them pass.

    Don launched into an immediate explanation, his voice alive with the excitement of wild theorizing. ¡°Marty, I told Sully here about Avery being all weird, and --¡±

    Marty cut in, holding her hand up. ¡°Wait there. You¡¯re spreading gossip about our commanding officer? Don¡¯t you think anything through?¡±

    Sully, whom she¡¯d remembered was called Agent Hughes, gave her a more apologetic smile, easing away the tension. ¡°Nah, don¡¯t worry; I haven¡¯t told a soul. I don¡¯t plan to. Agent O¡¯Flannigan, right?¡±

    Arms crossed, she flicked a brief glare at her partner. ¡°Right. What have you heard?¡±

    ¡°Might I continue?¡± Don asked, his tone a mocking version of Southern gentility.

    ¡°Fine. Continue.¡±

    With a partial laugh at Don¡¯s sarcasm, and probably Marty¡¯s annoyance, Sully leaned against the wall to listen.

    Don cleared his throat and resumed. ¡°He swore not to repeat a thing. I told him how we got this mission in the first place, and how soon it happened after Manchester. I mean, we¡¯re juniors, and that was real soon for our rank, wasn¡¯t it?¡±

    Marty sank into the armchair again, drumming her fingers on the cushion. ¡°I guess.¡±

    ¡°I also told him what the faerie said.¡±

    ¡°Don, why does that matter? It was trying to save itself!¡±

    ¡°I know, but of all the damn things to say --¡±

    ¡°If I may,¡± Sully interjected, stepping forward from the wall, ¡°I think it¡¯s less about what the faerie said and more about the timing.¡±

    ¡°The timing?¡± she repeated.

    ¡°Yup. It told you there were bigger issues in England, then almost immediately after, you were sent away from England.¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    Marty rolled her eyes, wanting to scream in frustration. Sully was just as bad as Don.

    ¡°Yes, we were sent away because there was nothing that big happening.¡±

    ¡°So we were sent to the middle of nowhere? Where there¡¯s nothing happening, either?¡± Don said. ¡°No offense, Sully.¡±

    ¡°None taken.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡± she snapped. ¡°I don¡¯t know what direction this whole mess is going, or what Avery is up to, or if it¡¯s even a mess at all! Maybe it¡¯s nothing, too!¡±

    Don huffed and gave no reply.

    When Sully spoke again, he did so slowly, with the sound of another theory forming. ¡°Here, juniors are kept out of anything above a certain danger level. It¡¯s the same in Scotland?¡±

    ¡°Well, yes, but the worst you have out here are kelpies! Juniors can hunt a --¡±

    ¡°No, they can¡¯t,¡± Don interrupted. ¡°Not in Scotland.¡±

    Under her breath, she muttered, ¡°Oh, for God¡¯s sake.¡±

    ¡°But you two caught a regular old faerie,¡± Sully said. ¡°The sort that used to steal babies back in the day. You can handle those.¡±

    Needing an outlet other than shouting at them, Marty began to pace. ¡°This is unbelievable. We¡¯re discussing whether our superior is involved in some plot to stop us from gaining experience.¡±

    Don shifted his weight from foot to foot, seeming hesitant. Marty paused in her prowling to watch him.

    He gave a tenuous suggestion. ¡°I¡¯m not so sure that¡¯s what it¡¯s about. Whatever¡¯s going on, he must want to protect us.¡±

    ¡°Of course he wants to protect us. It¡¯s his job, Don.¡±

    Sully, who had spent the past several seconds chewing his lip in thought, said, ¡°There was this one time -- in the Derry bases, not here -- that the senior agents did bar their juniors from missions. See, the whole border is crawling with redcaps. I¡¯m talking colonies.¡±

    Don raised a brow. ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°And a redcap colony can wipe out a team in... five, six hours. So, instead of juniors, they brought some help over from Ireland. Lifford and Letterkenny, to be exact. Border towns. I hear it was some brutal stuff.¡±

    ¡°So, England has, like, a redcap infestation?¡± Even Don¡¯s resolve was beginning to erode; Marty heard it in his voice.

    Sully shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. ¡°Could be. That¡¯s all I¡¯ve got.¡±

    ¡°Well, maybe... maybe Avery just wants us to brush up on the basics,¡± she offered, but didn¡¯t believe a single one of her own words.

    ¡°Then why couldn¡¯t he sign us in for training exercises?¡± Don said.

    She fumbled for an answer, but her mind lay blank, either because she was too exhausted to argue, or because Don was right -- or both.

    Sully stretched, cracked his knuckles, and patted them each on the back. ¡°Hope the journey home tonight goes well. You two have my cell if you want to reach me.¡± With a wink, he added, ¡°My unofficial one.¡±

    With that, Sully left, nudging the door closed behind him. Marty and Don were alone to pick apart the pieces of the debate they¡¯d just had; in a flash, her promise changed.

    To hell with babysitting Don. It¡¯s time to figure out what Avery¡¯s hiding.

    ???

    Under a star-sprinkled sky, Avery¡¯s office was locked, with the blinds drawn and lights off. It would appear that he had gone, if not for the half-whispered, half-spoken conversation taking place within.

    ¡°We do have a lead,¡± he assured his contact. Avery stalked the length of the room, perhaps five by five meters, head down and movements tense.

    ¡°And what would that be?¡±

    ¡°During my questioning of target twenty-three, it was revealed that in recent years, there was a taking. I have been waiting for the right time to tell you.¡±

    ¡°A taking? That sounds like a lie.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not certain it is one.¡± He stopped, looked over his shoulder at the office door, and went on. ¡°The culprit was never caught, and this target insisted that he felt a strong death-aligned presence --¡±

    ¡°Avery, you cannot pinpoint one faerie in an entire country just based on insistence! You have no evidence and there is no clear motive for a taking to begin with.¡±

    ¡°We will determine a motive, and with permission from Dublin, we can question the target again.¡±

    ¡°Enough! I want action. Calling my circle in was a mistake.¡±

    Sudden panic lanced through him, leaving his heartbeat racing. ¡°I promise that you will have action --¡±

    There came a scuffing sound from the hallway -- footsteps on carpet. Silent, Avery peels  aside the blinds on the door. He could have sighed in relief; a company messenger, disguised as a janitor in an ivy green uniform and pushing a bucket of cleaning supplies, stood before him. She checked twice that no other staff were present, then slid an envelope from her apron.

    He muttered a request for his contact to wait, and stepped outside.

    ¡°Yes?¡± he asked.

    Her only response was to hand the envelope forth, and she shuffled away, the wheels on her bucket clicking. Avery once again locked his office as he retreated, at which point he switched on the lights. The envelope was at once sturdy and soft, with flecks of organic matter embedded in its paper. Phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, he turned it over.

    Urgent. Classified. Tall, red letters, a muted shade as though the ink was natural in origin, not manufactured. His breaths started to come deeper, and little by little, he felt the same thrill burning through his veins that he had when he¡¯d last called his contact.

    ¡°Avery?¡± she prompted.

    ¡°I¡¯m here. Just... just a moment.¡± He pried the flap open, hardly daring to touch it in case he tore it. When he teased the letter out, his instinctive sense was confirmed. In as clear but quiet a tone as he could use, he read it aloud.

    Our dearest Friends at COURT,

    Much has transpired in the last thirteen years, from war gripping both our precious lands, to the most wondrous of Breakthroughs and Inventions. We know not where you stand on the spectrum of ally to rival to enemy, thus it is with great Risk that we reach to you now.

    The Supreme Minister must waste not a minute. We in the Realm require your aid towards the peace and prosperity of our Society, and his Eminence the Supreme Minister offers you exceptional reward for your Labor upon our behalf.

    This is, purely and simply, an issue of Justice. While the Fae may have different perceptions of justice than Humanity does, we share many commonalities, and we regret to inform you of the problem with which we have struggled for too long.

    We seek the perpetrator of the Realm¡¯s first accursed Taking in over a century. We¡¯ve reason to believe that the motive was political -- perhaps retaliation for the implementation of our Democracy -- and that the perpetrator fled to your lands.

    Agent Avery, we have reached to you for your connection to us by Blood and your high regard of professional conduct.

    Officer Leary, we have reached to you for your deep understanding of Rebellions and the forces who lead them, whether gracious or cruel.

    Do not delay. Samhain approaches.

    Send us your agreement by courier, and have a blessed day.

    Avery, almost breathless in a storm of disbelief and adrenaline, resumed his pacing. He scanned the letter again and again, watching but not feeling his fingers tremble.

    At long last, his contact spoke, her voice uncharacteristically hushed. ¡°Damn him. Forcing our hand, then thanking us for it.¡±

    ¡°My gut feeling was correct.¡± He said it just as much to himself as to her, still processing what he had read.

    ¡°That death-aligned energy...¡±

    ¡°Is the Realm¡¯s fugitive,¡± he finished.

    ¡°All lines connect... Avery, keep your juniors out of this. It could get them killed.¡±

    Avery shuddered at the thought, placing the letter on his desk with both fear and reverence. ¡°Where should I send them?¡±

    ¡°Far away from this. I need you in Dublin before the end of the week. Can you do that? Can you be here?¡±

    For a fraction of a second, he hesitated, before he said in complete earnesty, ¡°For you, I will do anything, Leary --¡±

    The phone clicked.

    He was left in the dark, but seeing with more clarity than he had in thirteen years.

 Seventeen

    Sunday was solace from a week of intermittent rain, the sky now swathed in pewter and mist; the sun became a haze behind the cloud layers, an echo of bright light. That morning, William had taken the opportunity to weed the garden while he still could, and had trimmed away the crushed, dead parts of his hydrangeas. Conditions would not stay dry for long, and as such, he¡¯d retreated indoors instead of watering anything.

    As morning stretched into midday, he reclined on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table; one hand navigated his laptop keyboard, while the other clutched a cup of tea in a knitted cozy. His phone sat squarely on the corner of the table. William had two more assignments due tomorrow, and it was best to complete them before Ainsel could shatter his focus into pieces.

    It had not been easy to concentrate since her arrival. He¡¯d had a taste of what ordinary students dealt with -- the looming stress of work piling up to the ceiling -- and had decided that being responsible was more appealing than tempting fate.

    No matter how much Ainsel distracted him, whether on purpose or not.

    Therefore, when there came a creak from the guest door opening, he felt only two things, but in equal strength: disappointment and curiosity. He was halfway finished with the last of his botany report, and three-quarters with a chapter of chemical equations, but what on Earth could she want now?

    He could not keep the sigh out of his voice. ¡°What?¡±

    Her footsteps crept up behind William, and though he knew that she wouldn¡¯t harm him, a chill skittered down his spine. He turned, covering his mug as he did, to prevent the tea from spilling.

    She wore the same black sweater and striped shorts he¡¯d first lent her, despite that the guest dresser was fully stocked -- and that she could somehow sneak into his room to take his clothing whenever she pleased. It was one of her gifts, he reasoned, along with her apparent immunity to looking sloppy in pajamas.

    ¡°Liam. I want to talk. May we?¡±

    Though he appreciated her getting straight to the point, the appreciation came with a shadow trailing in its wake. It was the same underpinning of dread that accompanied keeping secrets from his mother: something bad was coming. He¡¯d be forced to confront some discrepancy between what he said and what he really thought; if anyone was as good as Eleanor at pulling a person¡¯s true opinions into the open, that would have to be a faerie.

    Aloud, he only said, ¡°Okay.¡±

    Her ebon eyes locked on his. Without bothering to ask first, she took a seat beside him. The couch cushion bounced, then stilled, and the two were too far apart for there to be a chance of them touching.

    ¡°How long do you think I will stay? I know you¡¯ve tried to take your guesses.¡±

    ¡°And how do you know that?¡± He stifled the urge to close his laptop, take his tea, and run to his room. It was doubtful -- though still possible -- that Ainsel had intended to scare him. William found the statement itself, simply put, creepy. Could she read his mind?

    ¡°Because you have no reason not to guess. This is new, as you said. So, of course you will try to figure it out.¡±

    That was reasonable, he supposed, and somewhat less unnerved, he let himself relax.

    ¡°You¡¯re right. I have tried, and I¡¯ve got no idea. So, you tell me. How long?¡±

    Her gaze flicked away from his, and as she leaned with her elbows on her knees, staring at the ground, the air felt somehow heavier.

    Just as he pictured himself apologizing, placing a hand on her arm, she replied. ¡°However long is safe.¡±

    ¡°For you?¡± he asked.

    ¡°For you. I wanted to leave a long time ago, and... I couldn¡¯t.¡±

    It took a moment for his brain to catch up with his ears, and as he processed what she¡¯d said, more questions sprung up from the depths of his subconscious. She wanted to actively avoid putting him in danger? Why?

    ¡°Do you mean... the night you came back?¡±

    He needed to say nothing more; her shoulders hunched and she lowered her head just enough for her expression to be hidden from him. But she could hide all day, and he would still know that she found the events of her return shameful.

    ¡°We can¡¯t just pretend that didn¡¯t happen,¡± he said, despite her obvious discomfort and his reluctance to upset her. ¡°I still need a lot of answers. What made you want to be here?¡±

    Ainsel shot William a glare that was all empty frustration, no venom. ¡°Nothing.¡±

    At that, he took a breath, steadying himself against revealing the tiniest hint of his own annoyance. His voice, thankfully, remained level as ever. ¡°You¡¯re the one who wanted to talk. You can clam up now... but it won¡¯t erase anything that¡¯s happened. And I¡¯ll still need answers.¡±

    She repeated her glare, but this one was even shakier in resolve than the last, and she clasped her hands together, squeezing them. ¡°I¡¯m just... not sure.¡±

    Her words meant nothing compared to her tone. It was clear, in the spaces between them and the wavering of their pitch, that she was sure but not ready. And in William¡¯s unbreaking awareness of her power, it was clear that pushing her had outcomes as terrible as failing his classes. He bowed his own head, trying to show his acknowledgment.

    ¡°Alright. Can I ask you something else, then?¡±

    She fixed him with a baleful stare, but it held leeway enough that he did not feel the need to back away.

    ¡°Ainsel, why do you want me to be safe?¡±

    ¡°You are wrong.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m wrong, am I?¡±

    ¡°I want to keep you safe. I have to. If I am not the reason that you stay out of danger... then there will be an imbalance between my actions and yours.¡± There was a lull in her speech, and he prepared to respond, but she took his chance. ¡°I did not do enough. For you, that is. Which is why I could not stay away.¡±

    The struggle of processing was longer this time, weighing him down, keeping him from saying anything at all before he managed to pull himself out of it.

    ¡°Are you grateful, or are you just... keeping things balanced?¡±

    A wry smile flickered on her lips, so fleeting that he thought perhaps he¡¯d imagined it.

    ¡°It is easier to agree with your second guess.¡±

    In typical faerie fashion, she¡¯d replied without really answering, and he was not sure whether to admire that or find it irritating.

    ¡°Why do you think that your being here puts me in danger?¡±

    Ainsel¡¯s hand-squeezing resumed -- among the only signs he¡¯d ever seen of her being nervous. Or maybe it was the sole sign.

    ¡°Ainsel? Are you running from someone?¡±

    ¡°No!¡± she snapped. Something in the strange, heavy air seemed to spark. It was as though he physically felt her burst of anger. ¡°Look, Liam. I do not run. But there are people who I¡¯d rather not find me.¡±

    ¡°And...¡± The question died in his throat, crushed by a deeper, stronger fear than dread. He tried again, wanting to wince at how hesitant he sounded. ¡°And do you think they will follow you to me?¡± This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°No...¡± She brought her hands up to comb through her the black silk of her hair, and William could tell it was an attempt to calm herself. ¡°They can¡¯t get here. They didn¡¯t even see where I went. There are so many worlds...¡±

    ¡°I know.¡± He spoke with a softness brought by relief -- there was no faerie death squad on their way to hunt him down. ¡°If they don¡¯t know where we are, then how am I in danger?¡±

    ¡°I am worried about your friends. They¡¯ll find out.¡±

    ¡°Friend,¡± he corrected, as if it mattered given the situation. ¡°Singular.¡±

    ¡°Fine. That person is going to start poking around, if they¡¯ve not already.¡±

    His recent run-ins with Thomas played like a film across his mind, and he turned over his phone. If he texted, William wouldn¡¯t have to see it.

    ¡°He has. He knows I¡¯m not acting right.¡±

    ¡°Lovely. That means either I don¡¯t have much longer, or... sometimes hiding is best when it¡¯s done in plain sight.¡±

    ¡°Sorry?¡±

    She clarified for him, her eyes once again meeting his: night against day, inky black against heather green. ¡°I want to see your friend.¡±

    ¡°What? But --¡± The room swam underwater, filling with a million possibilities of what could go wrong. All he ended up saying was, ¡°But... your ears.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not hard to hide them. Just lend me a hat.¡±

    William had a set of baskets in his closet holding winter gear, beanie hats included; he could not help but wonder if Ainsel had dug through them on her way to finding his rain jacket.

    ¡°Okay. Fine. Your ears are the least of our worries -- we¡¯ll need a whole cover story if you¡¯re going to face him.¡±

    ¡°Cover stories are easy, Liam. It¡¯s weaving little bits of truth into them that¡¯s the hard part. If he can believe some of it, then he can believe the entirety.¡±

    What Ainsel said cast a foul taint of guilt over the doubt that already gripped him: not only was the idea questionable at best, but it sounded as though they¡¯d committed a crime and were crafting an alibi. It wasn¡¯t like Thomas was somehow not to be trusted. Even so, he did his best to fake interest -- if Ainsel was going to plot, then better he keep her plotting as low-risk as he could, especially with his friend involved.

    ¡°Your name,¡± he began at last. ¡°It¡¯s Scottish, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Well, look at you.¡± Ainsel grinned a toothy grin, showing incisors sharp as a carnivorous animal¡¯s. ¡°I knew you could do this. Yes, it¡¯s most common in Scotland.¡±

    Despite being tempted to tell her that another such comment would mean the end of their conversation, he held his tongue. She was an excellent liar, but only when she wanted to be -- or perhaps William himself had been the one to somehow dislodge her knack for dishonesty. Perhaps this craftiness wasn¡¯t even her at all, but a mask. Images of her slid between his memories of every fib he¡¯d ever told his parents, every excuse he¡¯d ever given his few friends. She could cry, and hurt, and feel, and fear. For what purpose would she need a mask? Pride? Beyond that, he could not begin to guess, and it was not the time to analyze her, anyway.

    ¡°Right,¡± he said, hoping hard that he was being convincing. ¡°That¡¯s where you¡¯re from, then. You¡¯re... a student taking a gap year, staying here because you¡¯ve heard great things about London, and why are you staying with me?¡±

    ¡°I am a family friend. But not a friend of the immediate family... that is too close. Do you have cousins?¡±

    He paused to think, cycling through names and locations and ages. The location was most important: if he had no cousins who lived in or near Scotland, their alibi could fail them. And as luck would have it, there was just one.

    ¡°Yes. The oldest -- he lives up by the border, outside of Carlisle.¡±

    ¡°Perfect. What else? Oh. I do not have social media. That is in case he tries to find me on the Internet. You and I connected through email instead.¡±

    William supposed he should be surprised at her even knowing what email was, but with Ainsel, very little surprised him anymore.

    ¡°What about a job?¡± he asked.

    ¡°I work online. Can¡¯t exactly tell him I¡¯m down at the local Tesco, can I?¡±

    ¡°Well, no. And he can¡¯t exactly tell you his name...¡± The realization was an instant blow to the story. How could he explain wanting Thomas to keep his name a secret -- to keep both of theirs secrets, for that matter?

    ¡°For all intents and purposes, you changed your name, but only with me. Isn¡¯t that what it means when you give someone a nickname?¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡± His reply came as yet another question. What could Ainsel be up to now?

    ¡°Then give it to him, too. Say that you want support with the change.¡±

    Her suggestion gave slow form to the next piece of the plan, and he sat in silence. In his mind, he picked it up and turned it around to see if it would work. Even when his lies were a fraction of this one¡¯s size, he had only to ask for Thomas¡¯ support. If William needed him, then he would be there, all worries and all judgment reserved.

    ¡°I guess so. His name -- for you -- is Tom.¡±

    ¡°His name for me. I like that. What if he forgets, though?¡±

    William¡¯s common sense chose that moment to lapse. He recognized that what he then asked was terribly stupid, yet asked it anyway. ¡°Is it so bad if you learn our real names?¡±

    ¡°Yes!¡± Ainsel half-spoke, half-laughed, a sound less of amusement and more of incredulity. ¡°Gods. You really are naive.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not like you¡¯re going to use them against us! You¡¯re not a monster!¡±

    The laughter vanished from her voice, leaving it to fall flat. ¡°Anything can happen. Just make sure that he calls you Liam.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll...¡± He stopped; instinct told him that he should not use the phrase I¡¯ll try. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure of it. Also, clothing. I washed your trousers again, but the tunic...¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not very modern, is it? I¡¯ll find a replacement.¡±

    ¡°You can borrow another jumper. Or a shirt. That blood isn¡¯t coming out.¡±

    ¡°Is he going to wonder why I¡¯m wearing your clothes?¡± Ainsel let something else linger unsaid, as if hoping William would pick up on it. When he didn¡¯t, she added, eyebrows raised, ¡°Will he get the wrong idea?¡±

    ¡°The wrong --¡± Awareness clicked into place. He froze, the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck and reaching for his cheeks. Why would she even bother to say that? ¡°No! He won¡¯t. I¡¯ll make sure of that, too. And don¡¯t mention it again.¡±

    ¡°Good. I won¡¯t. Never again.¡±

    Ainsel stared wide-eyed at him, and William back at her.

    Clearing his throat, he reopened his laptop. ¡°Another X-Files episode?¡±

    ¡°Sure thing.¡±

    ???

    Wet weather had settled into the London sky by nightfall, and William had long since retreated to his room. There he¡¯d stayed until he couldn¡¯t bear putting off dinner, and now, he emerged, steps muffled by a pair of fleece socks. A chill hung in the air, as though the mist had drifted through the windows to settle upon each and every surface in the house. Cold and humidity made an unpleasant pair; as he crept toward the kitchen, he let his sweater sleeves rest loose around his hands. Even the floor left his socks sticking to his feet -- an autumn storm must be gathering just past the horizon.

    As he rested his arms on the island, he turned his gaze upward, watching cotton clouds billow. Street lamps cast upon them the orange tinge of sodium; it flickered in the dips and plains along their underbellies, like lightning without its thunder, and he was reminded of when he¡¯d found Ainsel.

    How fierce the sky had looked then -- more than just a specter of the great, dark storms that rolled through the foothills of the north, shaking stone and sea. It was a warning that nature¡¯s power was never far beyond steel and lights and concrete. Ainsel, too, was proof that there were things much older than the British Empire, and much more fearsome than humanity¡¯s conquests. He understood why humans did what they did: Greed. Dominance. Refusal to fail.

    But the fae? Nothing could explain their capriciousness, or the glee in playing with his people like dolls. Nothing, likewise, could explain what prevented Ainsel from taking part in the latter. That is, unless he asked her why, and he did not expect her to be honest.

    Slowly as  possible, so he¡¯d make not a sound, he slid a box of almond flour crackers from the cabinet. That would have to do; opening the refrigerator might wake her.

    Despite himself, as he began the return to the safety of his room, William found himself stopping. He saw, through the dark, her hair spilling over the arm of the couch; atop the other, a blanket gathered shadows in its folds. With how frigid it must have been, he wondered how she¡¯d fallen asleep at all.

    He should at least keep her warm, if she was so determined to keep him safe.

    It couldn¡¯t hurt, could it?

    He placed his nighttime snack on the shoe bench and inched forward, listening to his heartbeat echo in his ears. As his fingers sank into the blanket, he cringed at the tiny scuffing of fabric on fabric. She lay still, unaware, and before he could convince himself not to, he took his chance. Ainsel did not move except for the faintest rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath, even as he cloaked her form in knitted wool.

    In relief that she hadn¡¯t woken to tell him off, he sat beside her atop the coffee table. The wind began to grow, hissing through leafless trees; they conjured skeletons tapping the windows with only finger bones, and vertebrae rattling against wood, but there came no nervous jitter to his own breathing. Instead, he watched her, as though that would somehow reveal the truth that she worked so hard to hide.

    The clouds poured upon her a dimness of the sort that pools in small spaces after true night and before dawn. It contoured the curves of her face in silver -- the slope down her nose, the taper up and down her ears. Her cheekbone and her jaw were two cool grey lines, joined where her hairline began. They made her elegant, he supposed, rather than gaunt, as did the upward curl in her eyelids and the Cupid¡¯s bow of her lips. Before, he hadn¡¯t noticed such details. She hadn¡¯t given him the chance.

    William snapped back to reality. If she roused to find him staring, he¡¯d be the one hiding the truth: that he¡¯d simply wanted to look at her. That would not be enjoyable to explain, even though there was no deeper meaning behind it.

    He did not stay to let it happen. Keeping to a path along furniture and walls, where the floorboards wouldn¡¯t creak, he returned to his room with his box of crackers. There, he chose a novel from his shelf at random, and for hours he could not count, lost himself in a universe of imaginary problems. When at last he drifted into sleep, he did so for the first time in two weeks with his door ajar.

 Eighteen

    Ainsel woke in the waning half of morning, when the clouds cleared and let sunlight pour down, to the feeling of something soft draped over her, pacing steps, and Liam¡¯s voice. At first, she could not discern the words, and rubbed her eyes to try and wake up enough to listen.

    ¡°I can be ready at noon,¡± he was saying. He paused, then added, ¡°I¡¯ll check with her.¡±

    Careful not to move too much or make any noise, she sat up; the blanket upon her slid slowly into a bundle on her lap. Had she grabbed it in the night and forgotten? She peeked over the back of the couch; Liam was turned away from her, already dressed in jeans and a burgundy button down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cell phone to his ear.

    ¡°Right. And remember the nickname situation. I don¡¯t want things to be weird.¡±

    He stood still, nodding in response to his friend, with whom he must be speaking. When he resumed his pacing, she laid down again, and made light, shifting movements as if emerging from sleep. While he was none the wiser, caution was clear in his approach; it seemed he was wary of disturbing her. As such, he stopped at the edge of the living room.

    ¡°Ainsel?¡±

    ¡°Hmm?¡± She hoped that she sounded tired.

    ¡°Do you still want to meet Tom? There¡¯s this cafe nearby, and it¡¯s quiet enough that we won¡¯t get loads of attention.¡±

    ¡°Mhm. When?¡± Ainsel feigned a yawn and stretched one arm at a time.

    ¡°In two hours? I¡¯ve showered. You can go ahead.¡±

    The pause after his statement said more than the statement itself -- maybe he wanted to ask if she¡¯d slept well, or to admit he¡¯d given her the blanket, though Ainsel had probably taken it herself after all. She gave no answer other than a shuffling walk to the washroom, and for reasons she couldn¡¯t place, avoided looking at Liam as she passed him.

    Ainsel felt his eyes on her, but did not once turn, and locked the door behind her, more so an impulse than anything else.

    Shedding her pajamas felt like peeling away the events of the previous day. It had been a reasonable assumption that Tom might read into her borrowing Liam¡¯s clothes, so why did she dump it into her subconscious as soon as it came up? Because it was embarrassing?

    She shook her head at her foolishness and turned the water to a median temperature. Steam gave green tiles and plastic bottles their own miniature coating of fog. Letting it soak her skin, she searched for the shampoo, which she flipped open and squeezed into a swirl in her palm. It released some sharp, fresh scent, much like mint, but earthier, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. She lathered it in, rinsed out the excess, and leaned against the halfway-cold, halfway-warm wall.

    What would happen after this meeting? What came next -- filling the remaining holes in their story, decorating it with detail to make it as persuasive as possible? Though Liam was by no means poor at lying, she could tell it took a toll on him. If he had to continue, then at some point, he¡¯d begin to crack.

    She would just have to make sure that he didn¡¯t crack.

    Ainsel ended her shower with a handful of leave-in conditioner, which smelled of citrus. Once the water was off and she was dry enough to not shiver, she inspected her reflection: she was not as visibly exhausted as before. But she¡¯d wasted time doing nothing. When she peeked into the hallway, Liam was nowhere in sight; he had left folded on the floor her trousers, a white undershirt, and the cream-colored jumper that he¡¯d worn on the first day that she¡¯d ever seen him. She told herself not to think on it, and changed in a hurry.

    Once she rounded the corner, Liam was sitting at the kitchen island with a book on his lap and backpack slung over his shoulder. The sunlight cast his hair in liquid gold, while the crystal by the window threw sparkling shards of color across his face. He blinked as they danced over his eyes, and turned the page.

    Ainsel, for whatever reason, didn¡¯t call to him, but instead picked her boots from the shoe bench. Flecks of red trailed down their sides, and the left one was marked with a smudge just wide enough and dark enough for her to notice -- like the ghost of a stain, almost purged from the leather where Liam must have scrubbed it away. Pulling them on, she considered stealing new ones; he¡¯d saved her life and let her hide. She didn¡¯t need him to start buying shoes for her as well.

    ¡°I¡¯m ready to go,¡± was all she said.

    He startled out of his reading session, and appearing rather embarrassed himself, gave her a slight nod as he tucked the book into his bag.

    ¡°It¡¯s a short walk.¡±

    Liam did not look at her, stepped down from his chair, and held the door open. When she passed him, he tensed -- just the slightest bit, but combined with his saying hardly anything at all, it gave her pause. Had she done something to scare him?

    If she had, then needling him with questions was not the path to take. She followed him down stone stairs, where wrought-iron railings made her hands tingle if she touched them; it echoed the sensation that came just after spilling very hot water on one¡¯s skin, but wasn¡¯t quite pain. The iron was not pure enough to make her sick; still, she kept well away from it.

    It was a relief when Liam lead her past the rails and fences. There was no more imminent sickness pulsing at the edges of her vision, no more tension lurking in the gaps between their words to one another. Together, they wound through a realm of mist and sun, pavement and brick and rumbling, whirring, trilling city sounds.

    ???

    Their path ended in a sector of west London worlds away from what Ainsel had seen thus far: a gleam to every building, streets populated with sleek cars and people in even sleeker clothing. She could, with ease, imagine she¡¯d shifted forward in time to much later than the twenty-first century -- if not for Liam. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    Head up, shoulders back, gaze ahead, his demeanor here was as natural as hers on the windswept hills and charmed forests of her home. He checked now and then over his shoulder, and Ainsel made sure to meet his calm with confidence of her own. Appearing to the local folk that she belonged there was no challenge, especially given their hurry as they vanished into many-windowed towers that scraped the sky like fingers. Not one of them even looked at Ainsel, with her jumper and cargo trousers and slate-grey knitted cap, for longer than a fractured second.

    Whether Liam bought the act, she couldn¡¯t say, and he gave her no time to guess, guiding her around one last corner. Spanning an entire block, the St. Albertus Mercy Hospital cast upon the ground a shadow made of jagged shapes and glass glints. She supposed that today must not have been busy, as despite the orderly bustle around the doorways and the ambulances rolling in at regular intervals, it didn¡¯t scream with noise as she¡¯d halfway expected. What she had not expected at all were the glances the staff gave Liam, lasting tiny snips of time and followed by nods just as fleeting. He returned their greetings with the same smile he  gave Ainsel when he lied to her -- friendly, but lacking the intention to converse. An idea flickered to life and sat quiet, a warming coal before the fire blazed.

    She kept her pace with him, approaching their destination; the cafe tucked into the ground floor suggested to Ainsel a cave in the side of a cliff. It was square and wide, extending equally far upward and inward, with two staircases branching toward the upper level. The atmosphere inside mirrored that of its outside surroundings: brushed chrome replaced wood for the furniture, National Geographic instead of tabloids filled magazine baskets, and silver chevron-striped wallpaper added a classier touch than paint. Here and there, bright splashes saved the color scheme from monotony -- red cushions on the chairs, teal frames around the menus boards. Droplet-like yellow lights, crafted from metal and glass thin as paper, hung from the ceiling above each table. Art prints and drink coasters displayed the name of the cafe in varying typographical arrangements: Angelina¡¯s Tea & Gourmet.

    It therefore was her second surprise of this outing to spot the young man, perhaps Liam¡¯s age and looking just as out of place as she did, at an empty table in the back. But the oddity was only in his appearance. He rested comfortably in his seat while patrons in medical scrubs or trench coats or pantsuits paid no mind to his attire: a flannel open to show a World of Warcraft t-shirt, recognizable more by the logo outline than by the letters themselves. Shades completed the look, tucked atop a dark scruff of hair, which lead down into a beard trimmed and oiled. Liam waved to him in greeting, and he motioned them over. Already formulating what she would say and when, Ainsel followed.

    ¡°Name¡¯s Tom,¡± he said, reaching out a heavy hand, which she grasped and shook as she joined Liam at their table. ¡°Ainsel, right? Pleasure to meet you.¡±

    He had a trusting face, she noted -- his expression made it so, wide-eyed and never once looking around to assess his environment. He would be easy to fool.

    And so, she assumed her very best Scottish accent, which wasn¡¯t an accent at all, but a glamour of the voice, insisting to his and Liam¡¯s minds that what they were hearing was real. It was nothing more than a mask over how she really sounded: almost Irish, but not matching anything heard on the emerald island across the sea.

    ¡°That¡¯s right! Been a long journey here. Liam¡¯s said a lot about you.¡±

    The two friends exchanged a look of amusement, though the quickness in Liam¡¯s told her that he had forced it.

    ¡°Can¡¯t imagine what there is to say beyond me being a massive nerd,¡± Tom replied, and laughed at his own self-deprecating quip. ¡°Where are you from, again?¡±

    ¡°Edinburgh,¡± she said, letting her vocal veil shift closer to what it should be if that were true. ¡°Never been to London. Couldn¡¯t get much of a straight answer about it from...¡± Ainsel found herself hesitating.

    Liam filled the pause before it stretched for too long. ¡°Cecil. She always pronounces it wrong,¡± he added to Tom, who showed not a single sign of doubt. ¡°I¡¯m guessing she does it just to wind him up.¡±

    ¡°Haven¡¯t heard from Cecil in forever,¡± Tom answered, straightening his back to peer over Ainsel and Liam¡¯s heads at the order counter behind them. ¡°How¡¯s he been?¡±

    Ainsel reaches for the most generic answer her brain can produce: detailed enough to be plausible, yet too casual to invite interest. ¡°Says he¡¯s been swamped with housework, I think.¡±

    ¡°You know, he might be in touch with my father soon,¡± said Liam. ¡°Mum told me he¡¯ll be back in London within a couple of weeks. Dad, I mean.¡±

    ¡°Where did he go?¡± She wanted immediately to smack herself for asking a question that could have poked a hole in their story.

    ¡°Leeds. Remember?¡±

    Liam¡¯s tone brought an easy save, as though she¡¯d forgotten something only once or twice mentioned before. She could see no reason for him to lie about his father¡¯s trip to Scotland, which she presumed was business-related -- something had to pay for Liam¡¯s house and wine and car, unless that was all his own doing.

    Tom responded with a comment on the city¡¯s beauty, and their conversation wound down into one free of risk that they¡¯d be discovered. The more it trailed on and on, the less Ainsel paid attention to timing. At some point well into it, footsteps approached as a waitress delivered a platter of three red mugs and a teapot, sugar jars and pastries on ruffle-edged doilies arranged around the center. At Liam tapping her arm under the table, she waited, sure that she should do so. Of the several seconds that passed before Tom poured them each their tea, Ainsel could not determine the significance. Yet, for the first time in a great while, she didn¡¯t care so much about tracking every single tiny detail. Perhaps waiting was part of English etiquette, and what did it matter? This was not the disaster that she¡¯d feared it may be.

    That is, until Tom nudged Liam, hissing in his ear, ¡°Your mum is here! At the front!¡±

    Liam, having no other option, ducked beneath the table. Ainsel fought to stifle a bubbling mix of confusion and amusement, less it show on her face. Though there was enough furniture between here and the counter for him to hide, the students at the next table over had broken into grinning and whispering.

    She paid them no mind, twisting around in her chair to scan the newest row of customers. All but one stared upwards, browsing the menus. Ice-shard eyes met hers, glinting behind glasses; Ainsel felt a flash of certainty that they would pierce through any and all dishonesty, cunning as the oldest fae. But there came no interrogation; the smartly dressed blonde woman who had to be Liam¡¯s mother waved, smiled, and turned her attention elsewhere. Ainsel followed her every move until she disappeared through sliding doors in the back of the cafe, a brown paper bag in her grasp.

    Liam took his seat again at last, the very faintest blush coloring his cheeks. He kept his gaze downcast; for reasons of which she wasn¡¯t sure, the students¡¯ whispers set her heart beating faster and her temper jumping.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you all have a job to do?¡± she snapped. ¡°Or are you going to gossip instead of helping people with actual problems?¡±

    They ceased, and at his near-imperceptible nod of thanks, her heartbeat continued to race. She sipped her tea, feigning calm. Tom looked on in patient silence.

    ¡°So, Liam, what¡¯s wrong with seeing your mum here?¡± she asked eventually.

    ¡°She, um... she knows that I¡¯ve been preoccupied. But she¡¯s so busy with work that she hasn¡¯t a lot of time to bother me.¡±

    ¡°Not easy to hide from her, is it?¡±

    Tom mumbled his agreement around a piece of biscotti.

    After a slow, steady inhale and exhale, Liam said, ¡°Are you kidding? It¡¯s miserable. She finds out everything, given some time.¡±

    Despite the warmth, a chill streaked across her skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Earth was not devoid of people like Liam¡¯s mother -- direct, precise, intense people. Even with all that separated her and the Hunters, Ainsel was much closer to danger than she¡¯d at first let herself think.

 Nineteen

    Field Mission Base, Glasgow, Scotland, 08:25

    Neither Marty nor Don had ever been fond of Mondays, and with every moment she spent rushing to prepare for their latest meeting, she remembered why. Her alarm clock glared red numbers at her, mocking her for having overslept. That was no surprise, since she hadn¡¯t gone straight to sleep following the return from Northern Ireland -- though she doubted that Don had woken early enough, either.

    In case Avery sent them off to another country again, she bundled the usual supplies into her duffel: extra chargers, a change of clothes, dry shampoo, weapons, faerie poisons. And, of course, a book to read instead of talking to her partner. After pushing the entire thing aside, Marty stocked her briefcase with her laptop, pens in a rubber band, a legal pad, and the Ballycastle case file. She should have placed the file inside its own laminated folder, but with less than five minutes to go, stuffed it between the computer and notepad.

    Another check of the clock told her just how much time she had, and slinging the briefcase over her shoulder, she called Don on her cell.

    He picked up within seconds, sounding just as frustrated as Marty felt. ¡°Yeah, what? Tell me he¡¯s canceled it. Please tell me he¡¯s canceled the damn meeting.¡±

    ¡°No. We¡¯ve got three minutes; are you ready?¡± Marty swiped her keycard from the dresser, pushed through to the hall, and realized she hadn¡¯t turned off the bathroom lights. She swore under her breath.

    ¡°I¡¯m gonna have to be.¡± There came a zip, then a door creaking open and closed.

    ¡°Meet you there in two?¡±

    ¡°Yup.¡± With that, he hung up, in too much of a hurry to say anything more.

    The lift brought Marty to the top floor with perhaps half a minute left, and she walked at a brisk clip toward their conference room; Don had already taken his seat, doodling on a paper scrap, as Avery let the projector whirr to life. She took the next chair over, shaken from almost being late. Little by little, her jangled nerves calmed, and she slid her laptop onto the table, ready to take notes.

    ¡°Sir, when do you want our Ballycastle file?¡± she asked.

    ¡°Not necessary. Agent Wheeler has already sent it, and it¡¯s not one we need to revisit.¡±

    She felt Don¡¯s eyes on her, fleetingly, and returned his glance. But neither of them said anything, letting Avery continue.

    ¡°You both have shown a high and consistent success rate. Agent Dunn with the Northern Irish branch contacted me last evening and described your conduct as exceptional.¡±

    A lull in his speech allowed Marty a twinge of doubt -- Don? Exceptional?

    ¡°Wheeler, O¡¯Flannigan, do you feel that this is accurate?¡±

    The agents exchanged another look, mirroring each other¡¯s confusion. It was no secret to either of them that they were far from the best in their branch.

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± she said, and could not help but inquire, ¡°Where are we going next?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m getting to that. If you¡¯ll let me.¡±

    His stare locked on hers, and she wanted to sink into the ground in embarrassment.

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± she repeated, forcing herself not to mumble.

    Avery turned on his heel and clicked the remote. The screen shone blank in a shaft of sunlight; Marty¡¯s shame at pushing her superior vanished. She thought for certain that the device was broken -- until Avery faced them again.

    ¡°You two are taking a holiday.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± they said in unison, Don¡¯s tone one of eager relief, and Marty¡¯s baffled. She grabbed her mouse and her cursor flew to the calendar in the sidebar: they were not scheduled for a holiday.

    ¡°Contain your excitement.¡± Avery addressed Marty more than Don, arms crossed.

    She scrambled to correct herself. ¡°Well, it¡¯s just that there are none on our schedule for this month, and we thought we¡¯d have more missions before --¡±

    ¡°I can always rescind the offer.¡±

    Don¡¯s foot bumped against her own, out of Avery¡¯s sight. She drew her legs away.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, sir. Thank you.¡±

    Raising his hand and not waiting to be called, Don asked a flurry of questions. ¡°When are we leaving? How long do we have? And where are we going?¡±

    Avery, switching off the projector, answered each one in turn. ¡°Today, one week, and anywhere in Ireland or the United Kingdom, with the exception of England.¡±

    Marty¡¯s suspicion flared, and she could tell that Don¡¯s did, too, for his gaze sharpened. He sat silent, drumming his fingers on the tabletop to the rhythm of the American anthem.

    At last, he put into words what surely burned in both their minds. ¡°Why not England?¡± This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Things are tense between them and Scotland. Anyways, your combined budget --¡±

    ¡°Hey, hold on, now!¡± Don leaned forward, grasping the arms of his chair. Marty winced from the cold fire in the way Avery watched him. ¡°Since when is COURT involved in politics?¡±

    ¡°Don,¡± she cautioned, hoping it was too soft for Avery to hear.

    Still, Don pressed onward. ¡°Come on, the Irish and North Irish branches will drop everything to help each other! That don¡¯t seem political to me!¡±

    ¡°Agent Wheeler!¡±

    It was Don¡¯s turn to flinch. His finger-drumming sped to a rapid pitch. Not wanting to be there for the fallout, Marty returned her laptop to her briefcase and clicked it closed. She ducked out of the room, and just outside, slumped against the wall.

    Muffled shouting, halfway between outrage and real anger, reached through.

    ¡°Wheeler, I cannot believe this! I finish praising your conduct, then you turn around and give me that attitude?¡±

    ¡°It don¡¯t make sense -- things are always tense and it¡¯s never prevented the branches from working together before!¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t. It doesn¡¯t make sense. And, rather, it does.¡±

    ¡°No! Even when the English were tearing my country apart, we didn¡¯t cut ties with COURT, did we?¡±

    ¡°Did I request a history lesson? Have you forgotten you are a junior?¡±

    ¡°Have you forgotten you¡¯re supposed to guide us?¡±

    Marty turned out Avery¡¯s next venomous response; there was no point in listening to their yelling match when she could do nothing about it.

    She startled when the door creaked open, a dozen excuses for Don¡¯s behavior ready on the tip of her tongue. Her sudden alertness washed away when her partner himself stepped out, wearing the kind of smirk many young people did when covering discomfort. It was crooked and flippant and altogether fake.

    ¡°Alright, Marty, I know you¡¯re pissed, but --¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not.¡± That was indeed true. In ignoring him and Avery, she¡¯d given herself time to think: this incident was yet another slapped onto the pile of proof that Avery was lying.

    ¡°Wait, why not?¡±

    She gestured for Don to follow her, and he did, letting her lead him to the safety of the lift. There, she pressed the buttons for floors three and four.

    ¡°Because you¡¯re right. We aren¡¯t allowed to let politics influence our work, unless there¡¯s a literal war. And still, they¡¯d just send senior agents instead.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what I mean! ¡®Tense¡¯, my ass.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s making excuse after excuse. Not doing all the follow-up protocol for Ballycastle?¡± Involuntarily, she hesitated, heaving a sigh. ¡°I doubted your worries and I shouldn¡¯t have.¡±

    ¡°Hey. I get it.¡± His voice held a rare note of reassurance, and for once, it didn¡¯t give Marty the urge to smack him. ¡°I¡¯d think I¡¯d lost my marbles, too. Dunno where to go from here, though.¡±

    ¡°I might. Come to my room, and bring your stuff. We have to talk.¡±

    ???

    Marty sat cross-legged on her left bed, an ale in hand, laptop open atop an upturned plastic platter to keep its fans cool. Don had claimed her chair, facing the wrong way with his legs around the back cushion. He spun this way and that, fidgeting as she scrolled through pages of train tickets to other cities in Scotland.

    ¡°So, you¡¯re on board with me? All the way?¡± he asked.

    She took a swig of her ale, savoring the pleasantly bitter taste. ¡°I never said all the way. We¡¯re not going to lurk in here and hatch some harebrained scheme.¡±

    ¡°And I never said the scheme had to be harebrained. Maybe just a little whacked.¡±

    ¡°Don. Stop fooling around and cooperate.¡±

    ¡°Fine, I¡¯m sorry. What¡¯s going on in that head of yours?¡±

    Marty wedged the bottle between her knee and her thigh, then held her laptop up for Don to see what she had found. ¡°We¡¯re going to do as he says and go to Edinburgh. It¡¯s the best option this site has. If we seem to obey orders, we won¡¯t be in so much trouble.¡±

    He stopped his spinning with an intrigued quirk of a brow. ¡°But?¡±

    ¡°But we¡¯ll just make it look like both of us stayed. Heading to different places could give us a better chance to learn something useful.¡±

    A slow, toothy grin spread across his lips. ¡°You reckon one uf us could sneak into London without getting caught?¡±

    ¡°No way in Hell. Why won¡¯t you stop pestering Avery about London?¡±

    ¡°Because it¡¯s the capital! Go big or go home!¡±

    Marty did not share his exuberance.

    Don¡¯s smile faded, and he tucked his chin onto his palm, elbow resting on the chair. ¡°You¡¯re smart; you can figure this out.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not getting kicked off the force.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll only get kicked if he finds out. Besides, don¡¯t you remember saying we should keep tabs on things in England when we¡¯re off assignment?¡±

    ¡°Really wish you¡¯d forget about it,¡± she muttered, resuming her search for tickets.

    Don twirled a lock of hair around his thumb and began to whistle, appearing lost in thought. Marty even felt somewhat like he¡¯d dropped the subject, but to no avail.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got something,¡± he said.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll use your plan. How¡¯s that sound?¡±

    ¡°Like you¡¯re going to suggest another plan to use along with it. So tell me.¡±

    With pops in quick succession as he cracked his knuckles, Don perched on the edge of the bed beside her. ¡°You keep my credit card. Whenever you buy groceries or booze, put half of it on my card. Half the hotel price, too. Meanwhile, I¡¯ll take the debit card he doesn¡¯t know I have, and get myself a cheap flight to London.¡±

    ¡°You have an unregistered debit!? Are you completely mad?¡±

    ¡°You gotta be nuts to kill faeries for a living.¡± Laughing, Don patted her on the shoulder; she swatted his hand harder than she¡¯d meant to.

    ¡°No. This is the worst idea you¡¯ve ever had.¡±

    ¡°Marty...¡±

    ¡°Get out.¡± Regret appeared and disappeared in a lightning flash, too fast for her to do anything beyond recognizing that it¡¯d been there.

    When he slid off her bed, it returned -- and lingered.

    ¡°Don,¡± she said, eyes glued to her laptop screen, fingers flicking across the keyboard. ¡°There are Glasgow-to-London flights for one hundred and fifty pounds. Set your VPN to Scotland before you leave the airport.¡±

    He stood with one foot in the doorway, and awkwardly, she looked up from her search results. His smile to her was small, but genuine, and he walked away with only a wave. Though Marty could feel no warmth for him, one thing gripped her tight, setting her veins aflame with adrenaline: racing against the clock. Against the rules that bound in place each and every action she took at COURT.

    ¡°Game on, Avery,¡± Marty whispered. ¡°Game on, faerie scum.¡±

 Twenty

    Far from the stone-sheet cliffs of the western shore, out where the sea was a plane of cerulean, flat as glass without storm winds to rile it asunder, there floated a ship. Twin masts towered and speared a sapphire sky; sails unfurled in ivory despite the stillness of the air. Its presence was the kind poised to dart, sleekly streamlined. Built for speed, not for power, it appeared to move on its own as it slid forward with ease; too solid to be among the ghost vessels so feared among these lands, it must have had a crew to navigate.

    And a small crew it did have.

    Upon the forecastle deck, one manned the wheel: a flash of fresh-blood scarlet, a feather unfurling from a wide-brimmed hat. White straps crossed his chest, and at his back hung a musket, echoing a crueler era that trailed away behind them like the ruffled water in their wake.

    The second surveyed from the crow¡¯s nest: flame-bright hair swept to a coif, a russet-brown jacket with the sleeves torn off. His lapel pocket, too, was gone, as if it once had borne some insignia that he no longer wanted.

    Below them, their magic cradled the hull in an undulating mass: tendrils of light, tight-woven, keeping the ship on steadier a course than any other that traversed the great Farraige de na Grianstad: the Sea of Solstices.

    Then, like the minutes in which he scaled down the mast had been cut from existence, the faerie first mate was there beside his captain, who regarded him with time-worn seaglass eyes, not a shard of violence within them.

    ¡°They are fast approaching from due east,¡± the faerie said, and his voice was a song snippet, winding and leaping at every uptick, every lilt central to the lands of the fae. ¡°What are you going to do about it?¡±

    The captain removed his feathered hat to hold it upon his chest, revealing human ears and a circular scar on his temple the width of a quarter dollar. In contrast, he spoke like velvet: smooth and soft. Even without his touch, the ship kept course.

    ¡°Let them come. Set the magic still, T¨¢rlach.¡±

    Though fire flared in T¨¢rlach¡¯s green-jewel gaze, he snapped his fingers, and they drifted to a stop, Clarity holding them aloft.

    ¡°Finally done running, are you, my friend?¡± asked the faerie.

    ¡°Prod me with as many verbal jabs as you desire. We don¡¯t have time for a sparring match.¡± He tucked the hat onto his head. On black-booted footsteps, coattails swishing and hands clasped at his back, he padded across the deck to wait by the portside.

    T¨¢rlach wore a grin and a glimpse of wolf-like teeth as, he joined his captain in watching the boat well on its way toward them. It was perhaps a fourth of their ship¡¯s size, slim and low to the surface of the water, designed just as much for precision as for speed.

    In the breeze that the boat¡¯s own clip created, painted sails rustled -- three ravens, talons locked and turning clockwise, marked her crew as the Minister¡¯s folk.

    High on the mast fluttered a green pennant, signifying peace.

    They did indeed appear peaceful, for as their boat drew near, T¨¢rlach and the human in the scarlet coat could see that among them, there was no weaponry. This was a search party armed not with bows and guns or hounds and magic, but with maps and spy glasses and globes, not canons. Every last one wore the red-brown suede of government officials -- from the tall faerie male at the bow to the girl observing from the cabin. She was thin as a waif, almost childlike if not for her unflinching stare toward the crew of two.

    Near enough to dock the party came, yet they took no action. T¨¢rlach elbowed his captain, once but hard, on the side. When the offending musket vanished, unhooked from its straps and placed beneath the wall, the girl signaled to her group. Four men stood by each other, in adjacent pairs, then with a creak of wood and a squeak of hinges as they heaved levers, they lowered their bridge between the vessels. It thudded into place, and the men stepped aside, their bearing that of guards in disguise.

    A fifth official opened the cabin door. Out stalked the green-haired girl, fierce in her intensity and slipping a clipboard under her arm; without so much as a peek into the ocean, she crossed the chasm, one foot before the other like a slinking cat. In single file, the party accompanied her, speaking not a word.

    T¨¢rlach sprang to the stairs that sloped downward, more than ready to meet them on the main deck.

    Steel in his expression, the captain grabbed his first mate by the forearm.

    ¡°Let me lead the discussion,¡± he said, his tone a warning.

    The faerie¡¯s jagged grin widened. ¡°Why should you? Because you get nervous when you¡¯re not in charge?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± He allowed T¨¢rlach to pull free. ¡°Because you are a royal pain in the backside.¡±

    There was no more chance for an argument to spiral. The Minister¡¯s search party crested the top of the deck; as though she owned the ship herself, the girl marched straight to the captain, stopping inches from him. She whipped the clipboard out with a snap and flipped through the pages.

    A single look from her to the captain commanded silence. It seemed she was concocting a storm, for the air crackled with a tension jarring against clear skies. She cleared her throat and wrinkled her nose, which though subtle, would be forever burned into their minds. Disgust could not be better depicted through prose or paint or performance danced across the stage through humanity¡¯s most animated plays.

    At last, she said, ¡°I, Fedelmid, Assistant to his Eminence the Supreme Minister of the Faerie Realm, bear orders to find you. T¨¢rlach, Soil¨¦ireacht Grandmaster, Savior of Traitors.¡±

    T¨¢rlach risked a step forward, nothing else.

    ¡°And...¡± Her eyes slid to the human. ¡°Johnathan Avery, Bringer of Terrors and Traitor to Agencies of Death.¡±

    Again, Johnathan Avery¡¯s hat was clasped to his chest, feather bobbing in the breeze. He met Fedelmid¡¯s intensity with an expression of cool stone.

    ¡°We seek your assistance in matters concerning the freedom and prosperity upon which our society is built. Are you willing to aid us?¡±

    ¡°With all due respect,¡± Johnathan replied, ¡°we cannot agree to aid until we know what these matters are.¡±

    Fedelmid arched a brow and exchanged silent communication with her party of five faerie men -- all in more eyebrow arches, tapping feet, and sidelong glances at the two, as if conversing by telepathy.

    ¡°Understood,¡± she said. ¡°What do you know of the Taking thirteen years ago?¡±

    Johnathan shifted uncomfortably; T¨¢rlach took an interest in a whorled cloud.

    Fedelmid¡¯s temper sparked. ¡°Are you familiar with it or not? What did you see? Did one of your allies see it, traitor-savior? Did one of your carnage-hungry people, Avery?¡±

    ¡°My people are no more ¡®carnage-hungry¡¯ than any other nation during war. If you¡¯d be so kind as to hold your tongue --¡±

    T¨¢rlach cut in, his palm firm upon Johnathan¡¯s back. ¡°We were sailing this very ocean. As much as the Minister would like an excuse to jail us, we have no more knowledge than you. And, to save you the trouble of asking, no, we weren¡¯t responsible.¡±

    Fedelmid seethed, a poisonous snake ready to strike.

    Johnathan let his own anger settle.

    ¡°Nor do we know who was responsible,¡± T¨¢rlach continued. ¡°But you are in luck, for we have a theory.¡±

    ¡°We do?¡± muttered Johnathan.

    ¡°If this theory is one you are fabricating on the spot, then your punishment will be... unpleasant. And you both shall be subject to it.¡± The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Worry not, Lady of Governance,¡± said T¨¢rlach, as even he didn¡¯t dare to use her name. ¡°Have you considered that perhaps the culprit... disagreed with your motives?¡±

    ¡°Do you not think that is the first possibility we considered?¡± Fedelmid snapped.

    ¡°Ah, but who would be so brazen as to defy his Eminence? To deny a system by which the citizens of our fine Realm decide their fate, rather than a monarch deciding it for them?¡±

    Fedelmid shoved her clipboard into the hand of the nearest party member.

    To T¨¢rlach, she demanded, ¡°Where are you going with this?¡±

    Though Johnathan would also have liked an answer, he kept quiet.

    ¡°Well, Lady, think about it.¡±

    She scoffed and out a guess. ¡°Those still loyal to the monarchy. If any remained.¡±

    ¡°Well, no push for democracy is ever met with universal love. Is it, Johnathan?¡±

    For a searing fraction of a second, Johnathan wanted to punch T¨¢rlach with all the might he could muster. But there was no need to give his companion the satisfaction of riling him up. Besides, Fedelmid would lunge at the chance to punish him for harming one of her own, criminal or not. Thus, he ignored the taunt.

    Fedelmid¡¯s focus renewed, strong as ever.

    ¡°Do you realize what species the Taken is?¡±

    ¡°Human,¡± they said, together.

    ¡°Yes. And do you realize where the culprit must have fled?¡±

    ¡°How do you know that they fled to Earth?¡± Johnathan countered -- he already followed what Fedelmid must be saying.

    ¡°They could have taken a child from any nation in any world, and yet, they chose Earth. Why? Because Earth, historically, has been far easier than other worlds for us to access. It is almost certain that they will have fled there.¡±

    T¨¢rlach was now following, too, asking, ¡°And you are so convinced that the culprit fled at all because...?¡±

    ¡°Because we have looked everywhere! The Reformed Hunt is at our beck and call. Their hounds are the best of the best and have found no scent.¡±

    ¡°Then it seems they¡¯ve fled, indeed,¡± said T¨¢rlach, the very slightest snide note in his response and the smallest smirk on his face.

    Johnathan could stand skirting around the point no longer. ¡°I don¡¯t doubt that you have better help than a pair of criminals, Lady. What, exactly, are you asking us to do here?¡±

    ¡°The Minister wants you to stay in contact with us... and with our other aid.¡±

    ¡°And who might that be?¡±

    ¡°The Coalition of Unorthodox Research Teams.¡±

    T¨¢rlach let slip a sound that was part cough and part snicker.

    Johnathan winced, began to pace, and combed his fingers through his scruff of ash-brown hair. ¡°No. For the love of all that is good and decent, no. T¨¢rlach, please, don¡¯t you make us do this; i¡¯s madness.¡±

    Fedelmid practically hissed at them. ¡°Just why not!?¡±

    ¡°Because!¡± Johnathan made an abrupt stop, wide-eyed from both frustration and dread. ¡°COURT spends so much energy touting their hatred of war that I¡¯m convinced the polar opposite is true.¡±

    ¡°Your emotion is clouding your judgement. Unless you cooperate, there will be consequences, as I have already stated.¡±

    Now, patience whittled thin, Johnathan could not help himself. ¡°What else, besides war, would you call their picking off your kind in the shadows?¡±

    Fedelmid¡¯s reply was ice and rock and frost. ¡°Our kind do not belong on Earth.¡±

    ¡°You care so little about their demise?¡±

    ¡°You care less for the demise of the people whom your country and your own leaders and you yourself have murdered.¡±

    Even T¨¢rlach was stunned by that. He blinked, as if he could not believe what Fedelmid had just said, while Johnathan let his arms slump at his sides, defeated.

    ¡°Enough,¡± he whispered. ¡°I¡¯ve had enough. T¨¢rlach, handle this. Please.¡±

    It was then that some connection flickered into view, like a long-forgotten object buried in the ocean floor and revealed when sand washed away, glinting blue-tinted in a glimmer of sunlight. T¨¢rlach stepped in front of Johnathan, shielding him from Fedelmid¡¯s spoken knives to the gut.

    With his hat hanging from his fingertips, Johnathan retreated to the captain¡¯s quarters; there he stayed until the Minister¡¯s search party had left, and tranquil weather had given way to clouds swollen with rain, then finally, until day deepened into night.

    ???

    Inside, there was only the creak of wood as, outside, waves buffeted the ship, rocking it to and fro, while T¨¢rlach¡¯s magic held it upright. A storm had broken after all. It had come from nowhere to crack open the sky, unleashing winds that screamed across the heaving waters, and a downpour to rival those of legend.

    Johnathan watched it rage while he reclined in a cushioned chair as new as it had been the day they¡¯d stolen this vessel. He¡¯d tossed his coat onto the bed in the corner, made a cup of tea -- the kind that came in a block for dissolving -- and settled down to think about literally anything other than war.

    But when the subject had begun to fade, the door squeaked and closed. T¨¢rlach, again, did not walk. He never walked. Instead, he was in one place at one moment, then another place at the next. As such, he appeared beside Johnathan, who startled, and the cup became its own miniature uneasy sea. Tea sloshed and sprinkled onto Johnathan¡¯s lap.

    ¡°Thank you for that.¡± He snatched a cloth that he kept in his shirt pocket for instances like this and set upon dabbing the droplets away.

    His sarcasm was not shared.

    Johnathan¡¯s movements slowed; his eyes traveled up T¨¢rlach¡¯s pilfered trousers, up his tunic, up to a face that held no glee and no pride. He had lifted the glamour from his hair, revealing evergreen locks instead of ginger.

    ¡°What?¡± Johnathan asked. ¡°Why are you just stood there?¡±

    T¨¢rlach sat silent on the bed. Sitting on it rumpled blankets folded in a manner so particular, it¡¯d caused many a spat -- the faerie ranted that Johnathan was too neat, and the human grumbled about floating along in a pigsty.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± T¨¢rlach said. His apology lingered in the muffled roar of the storm.

    Johnathan, after sipping tea to soothe his nerves, replied, ¡°It¡¯s over and done.¡±

    ¡°It isn¡¯t. You can¡¯t steal a ship and run away this time around. What Fedelmid said, and yes, I¡¯m using her name; don¡¯t stop me --¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t necessary.¡±

    ¡°What Fedelmid said,¡± he repeated, stronger, ¡°was horrible. You and I both trust that you wouldn¡¯t ever belittle a life.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need a heart-to-heart.¡±

    A hint of T¨¢rlach¡¯s signature smirk ghosted across his lips. ¡°Too bad. She was trying to get under your skin, you know.¡±

    Johnathan leaned forward, placed his cup on his desk, and leaned back. ¡°It worked.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you start believing her. My Gods, you are miserable when you get down on your luck. I mean, you¡¯ll go into a room carrying this fog with you, and all the light is sucked right out. Like a vampire.¡±

    ¡°Did you come in here to talk, or insult me?¡±

    ¡°Maybe I¡¯m trying to smooth things over in my own special way.¡±

    ¡°Then stop.¡± He breathed out a sigh and listened to the wind screech. ¡°Bloody Christ. I knew that whole Taking situation would bite them in the rear someday.¡±

    ¡°I am with you there.¡± T¨¢rlach, with no consideration for Johnathan¡¯s blankets, rolled onto his side as he nestled a pillow between his head and his arm. ¡°I saw Takings hundreds of years ago -- three, four hundred. Tended to happen when the Unseelie were in power. The morbid bastards. Now, the Seelie... I respected us.¡±

    Johnathan, too exhausted to protest the destruction of his bed, nodded agreement.

    ¡°But, you see,¡± T¨¢rlach said, ¡°while the monarchy was a disaster, I didn¡¯t trust this democracy to be stable, either. I still don¡¯t. Do you?¡±

    ¡°Not particularly. Although, it¡¯s been thirty years.¡±

    ¡°Which isn¡¯t much compared to your two centuries, I know. A lot can happen in such a short period, though. Look at humans, for example. Your lives are so brief, and your nation conquered half the globe.¡±

    Johnathan swiped a newspaper from his desk, rolled it, and held it tight. It was an empty threat, of course, as he¡¯d tried at some point to attack T¨¢rlach -- and been knocked onto his behind by the glowing strands called Soil¨¦ireacht.

    Nonetheless, T¨¢rlach relented. ¡°All I am saying is that I¡¯ve noticed things out here on the Farraige. Things that do not bode well.¡±

    He lowered his makeshift weapon, and in doing so, cast off the remnants of his annoyance with his faerie crewmate. ¡°They don¡¯t. Do you remember that ship with the black flag, maybe eighty years past?¡±

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t forget it. That night was so damn dark, and the way our lights hit the flag honestly gave me the chills... and as fast as we went, she was just a tiny bit faster. We could never catch up.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s also the ¡®uninhabited¡¯ island you insisted was cursed to keep trespassing sailors like us out. Someone is going to immense lengths to hide, aren¡¯t they?¡±

    ¡°Mhm. Could well be the culprit of the Taking. Could also be some sort of rebels.¡±

    The thoughts made Johnathan shiver. ¡°They could be the same. And if they are... I¡¯m not sure I want to be involved.¡±

    ¡°Because you have seen enough of that? Rebellion?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen enough of them crushed, but no -- that¡¯s not what I meant. We may all be wrong. Maybe... this was done in a fit of bitterness, or fear, or poor judgment. Yes, it was hardly more than a decade ago, and yet...¡±

    ¡°And yet, regret doesn¡¯t always come after the fact. Chances are, this person, or these people, have already paid for their crime,¡± T¨¢rlach finished. ¡°You don¡¯t want to jump headfirst into a situation that isn¡¯t your business to begin with.¡±

    ¡°Precisely. That, and you¡¯re aware of how I feel about COURT.¡±

    ¡°I am with you there, too. COURT are cowards. Why the Minister is collaborating with them, I will never understand.¡±

    Johnathan stifled a yawn and swallowed the remaining dregs of tea. ¡°I don¡¯t want to know what he would do to someone for taking a changeling.¡±

    ¡°Me, neither.¡±

    After that, T¨¢rlach and Johnathan spoke no more -- enemies long, long ago, now adrift together in the dark as storms played tug with their only link to survival.

 Twenty-One

    Ainsel had found herself somewhere inky black and so cold that it made her ache, with no ground, no sky, no sun or moon or any other features. She wasn¡¯t blind, as she could see her own hands clearly, as if there was a sky, and there was a sun. Her feet seemed to be walking on something, even when she looked down to see if this place really didn¡¯t have a surface.

    She stilled and listened. When one listens to silence, their subconscious will weave into existence things to hear, and Ainsel heard them now.

    The lingering breath after a whisper.

    Leaves rustling where someone had passed them.

    A pair of echoes following footsteps.

    And, rooting her where she stood, barking -- hollow, deep, as if a cave had a sound.

    The barks, and soon the howls, traveled nearer. Paws pounded against emptiness. She grasped the air, searching for Clarity, and was met with more cold. Clarity was gone. Her hands fumbled for a weapon. There was no need: the hounds, or at least the noises they made, had gone straight past her. In search of what, she was unaware.

    Ainsel had to know.

    She crept along, hoping that she wouldn¡¯t trip over objects hidden beneath a veil of invisibility. Perhaps they couldn¡¯t smell her, and if not, then she was safe. Their path took her deeper and deeper into the darkness; she realized, after what could have been minutes or hours, that she was warm. The air had changed. She saw nothing, but the hounds had quieted, and a new sound wove its way to her ears.

    Perhaps near, perhaps far, a child was crying.

    Ainsel froze. Nobody came to give comfort. They were long, lost wails, and each one was a spear that left no wound but the feeling of a rock in her gut.

    Someone had to be blamed.

    It was her fault. She was certain of it, based alone on the blade-sharp guilt that had come from nowhere but was suddenly everywhere.

    There was no way. Ainsel hadn¡¯t lured this child from his home and his family. She didn¡¯t even know where she was.

    But the guilt was in her heart now, too, like an actual, physical thing probing around, then finding its target, then squeezing. The rock grew heavier; she wanted to be sick.

    What year is it? she asked her mind.

    Two thousand and seven.

    No!

    A bell chimed thrice.

    Her eyes snapped open as she jolted upright. A squeak came from the mattress springs, then a soft fabric thump. Minute by minute, her body stopped forcing her to gasp for oxygen. Groaning, she peeled her hair from her face to squint at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was three in the morning.

    And it¡¯s two thousand twenty.

    She needed proof, as foolish as she felt knowing that. Her head swam as she pulled herself out of bed and she grasped the corner post for support; she had to move slowly, or her vision would flicker in and out from sheer exhaustion. Ainsel didn¡¯t dare to walk in case the floor creaked and woke Liam; she shuffled to the wall, where she leaned beside his flag and let this silence -- this safe, calm one -- wash over her.

    And when her magic emerged the instant she called it, pooling white light across the carpet, the last of Ainsel¡¯s fear dissipated. One strand trailed toward the desk and upturned a book that had rested there; another took the fallen pillow and placed it back on the bed. She picked up the book and flipped to the inside cover in search of the publication date. Anything past two thousand and seven would assure her that some time had passed. Breath baited, she waited, and the glow of Clarity brought relief in waves: 2018. At least eleven years had gone by.

    Here, Ainsel¡¯s mistake was separate from her geographically and chronologically and almost all other ways for which she ever could have hoped. It couldn¡¯t hurt her anymore. So many people had tried to find her, and there wasn¡¯t any more chance that they would succeed.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    What about him? insisted her torn, tired conscience.

    At first, she was certain that meant Liam, but common sense told her the truth. Liam, whatever his reasons for healing the fae, and however was able to heal them at all, had no deeper link to her than his craft.

    And she found the notion so ridiculous that she didn¡¯t allow herself to entertain it for more than a second. She let it slip into the sludge of things to never, ever think about. The child¡¯s sobs reached through cracks in her barrier between acceptable and unacceptable thoughts. Even the hounds would never find him.

    The guilt from her dream crashed into the waking world.

    Ainsel braced herself against it and forced through gritted teeth, ¡°Don¡¯t cry.¡±

    Her two words fell into a nothingness that had jolted from calm to crushing. There was nobody here to stop her from sinking to the floor and wailing as the lost little boy had -- nobody but Ainsel herself. She wiped the beginnings of tears from her eyes.

    Of everything to want in this moment, she craved chamomile tea, the very same that Liam had made for her on the night she¡¯d returned. If she was lucky, it would calm her to the point of wanting to sleep again. Ainsel followed the route to the kitchen laid out for her; it still swerved to avoid places along the hallway that must be prone to creaking, too. Her skill in stealth served her well. With no worry of disturbing Liam, she made it to the cabinet, where by Clarity¡¯s gentle light, she took the right tin and the electric kettle by the sink -- it should be quieter than the stove. Despite the various small sounds of making her tea, there came no stirrings from the occupied bedroom. With a tall mug clasped in her hands, Ainsel soon crept again to the hallway.

    Just before she reached for her own door, she paused. Liam¡¯s stood ajar, and if she wanted to, she could step right inside. When it was closed, the string of St. John¡¯s wort formed a protective ward, but when open, the barrier was broken. Soil¨¦ireacht lashed and snaked toward it. The pull was one Ainsel could not have resisted even if she¡¯d wanted to -- and it was one that turned her blood to ice. Only when something terrible was happening did her magic pull her with such intensity. But never once had it taken her toward the source of its distress.

    Ainsel, her desire for tea forgotten, placed the cup beside the wall and raised her arm, fist clenched. Every thread of Clarity present -- there must have been dozens -- streaked toward her and coalesced. They wove over and under each other, through and around, until they formed a shield spanning her height and double the width of her waist. Her muscles strained under the effort and her breaths reverted to gasps; the shield was the furthest that her defensive abilities could go. Ainsel had once heard tell of a Soil¨¦ireacht user who¡¯d deflected canonfire for hours on end to save an ally -- and had not even needed to rest. Already, her body ached the same pulsing ache it had when she¡¯d first awoken after the hounds¡¯ attack. Against what she was protecting herself, she didn¡¯t know. She had to act quickly, or she would tire too much to turn her magic to offense.

    Ainsel braced for a fight and entered his room shoulder first.

    In the absence of threats, she stumbled. The shield flickered, then disintegrated. Caught between panic and anger, she grasped for even the smallest strand. She found none, and it was no surprise, given how much force she¡¯d exerted.

    Hands on her knees, Ainsel looked toward the bed. Her stomach dropped. Liam lay curled on his side; through night¡¯s shadow veil, she could see the torment that nightmares inflicted. He was racked with shivers and had his face pressed against his pillow as if trying to stifle cries, grasping the sheets.

    Ainsel¡¯s own fear ceased. She did not let herself think, or hesitate, or hide behind any semblance of pride. This was not the time for that. On steps as soft as she could manage, she approached and laid over him blankets that he had kicked away. His shivering continued -- from whatever was gripping his mind, not from cold. What could she do? Nothing? She considered leaving and hoping that he would be fine.

    Her guilt returned in waves, buffeting her, trying to crash her to the ground.

    So, instead of letting him suffer alone, Ainsel began to wonder something.

    She knelt and placed her palm on his, her touch tentative.

    The explosion of sparkling energy that she¡¯d expected never came. Nor did the air gain the sudden, light feeling that it did in stories. Instead, the one way she could describe this was right. This was simply how things should be, and only now did she realize it, as though some instinct had lain dormant for eons until a catalyst plucked it free and tucked it into place.

    Longer and longer the time between his shivers grew. Ainsel readied to retreat when his fingers slid between hers. Electricity burst from them, raced through her, and faded. The sense of rightness remained, steady as ever.

    She inhaled, paused, exhaled, letting the remnants of tension go.

    ¡°No more bad dreams,¡± she murmured, and draped the blankets gently over him.

    Liam, like he could hear her, huddled deeper into their folds. If he were awake, then he wouldn¡¯t have allowed her into his room. At the very least, she doubted it, and her doubt took the form of memories.

    A wide-eyed look the day she¡¯d returned from death¡¯s doorstep.

    Strings of questions as to why she was here, asked in equal suspicion and worry.

    Here and there, smiles, fleeting as the end of summer.

    So she stayed slumped against his bed with her head barely on the mattress. Just as the last hints of Liam¡¯s nightmare dissipated, Ainsel gave in and let sleep claim her.

 Twenty-Two

    London, England, 10:35

    Don was greeted by a rare sunny sky as he awoke to the plane beginning its cityward descent. It had been a short flight, two hours at most, and it had begun covered in fog. Now, he gazed down at the sprawling expanse of London. The city was a silver carpet across a canvas of green, which faded in autumn¡¯s color-bleaching grasp; toward the outskirts, it lay flat upon the ground, and toward the center, spiked up into skyscraper teeth. He watched the ground grow closer, and the buildings filling it grow larger, and tried to follow winding streets toward his hotel. It should be somewhere near Heathrow Airport -- one of five major ports here. If he were being honest with himself, he¡¯d have admitted that he¡¯d chosen the western side because it was inland and thus warmer.

    Around him, the other passengers stirred from naps and gathered their things out of seat-back pockets. Don swept a large pile of candy wrappers from his tray and into the plastic bag at his feet. His neighbor in the aisle seat, with a smile, handed the bag over to a passing flight attendant.

    ¡°Oh -- young man, good luck,¡± she said to Don when the attendant moved on to the next row. She straightened her glasses and buttoned her cardigan, a winter coat resting across her lap. ¡°I hope you and your friend can reconnect after all this time.¡±

    Don gave an easy grin in return, unfazed by the tug of inertia and the roar of engines as the plane touched down. The safety lights overhead flicked off, and thus began the wait to exit.

    ¡°Good luck with the grandkids¡¯ party. Y¡¯all have a blast.¡±

    While he didn¡¯t dislike lying, he didn¡¯t enjoy it, either -- not when people were so friendly. The old woman had believed his cover story without a single question, and just as well: better to hide in plain sight, armed with a lie, than to lurk in the shadows, clutching the truth.

    After a long and boring fifteen minutes, the plane emptied; inside the dry-air confines of the airport, Don could at last find a place to sit. He perched upon a heater that spanned the length of the hall through which the crowd was moving. There, he slid his phone from the pocket, connected to the Wi-Fi, and was met with a notification: One message from #22315. Answering Marty could wait; he had to hurry.

    Before long, Don had woven through the sea of people toward the far more organized customs desks. He allowed himself a moment to admire the sheer calm: there was no meandering, no grumbling, no irate travelers or overworked agents. It was, in his mind, a blessing that he¡¯d never have to return to the American version of this.

    Bypassing tourists and businesspeople, he held his identification card at theready. His passport -- American, as he had left the Scottish one at home -- and his boarding pass from Glasgow were tucked into his front pocket for easy access. As he waited in line with mostly men in suits, he stared down at the picture of himself on the card. It looked like any other dead-eyed passport photo, and in it, he wore the same charcoal blazer that he was wearing now. Level Two Field Operative, Coalition of Unorthodox Research Teams, it said across the top. Below that, it listed his name, height, sex, and age, along with labeling him a transfer from the American Special Investigative Forces to the European COURT. Young as he looked, at twenty-eight, he was just old enough to be a Level Two: a junior agent.

    Lugging a suitcase full of iron, herbs, knives, and firearms was certainly easier with a government I.D.. Without it, he wouldn¡¯t be able to explain the surveillance equipment in his duffel, either.

    He looked up at the call of ¡°Next!¡±, having reached the front of the line at last. The customs officer waved him forward from behind a glass-walled desk, and he approached, placing all three identification forms upon the countertop. As the officer read through them, Don assumed an air on the edge of boredom: casual, but not so much that he appeared too relaxed. The officer nodded in satisfaction and gestured for Don¡¯s luggage, which he hoisted up and opened. With the occasional focused mumble, he nudged through the weapons, each encased in foam to protect it, then the equipment. He was completely nonplussed, but he must see things like this every day.

    ¡°What brings you to London?¡± he asked; it was nothing more than routine procedure.

    ¡°Scottish special forces transfer seminar,¡± Don said, keeping his accent at softer levelsthan usual. The more ordinary he sounded, the better. ¡°For five days.¡±

    ¡°Mhm,¡± the officer replied. ¡°And these herbs in jars?¡±

    Don slipped a piece of his cover story into his answer -- mainstream governments did know of COURT, but the fae remained a guarded secret. ¡°Tea. They¡¯re a gift for a friend once I¡¯m done with the seminar.¡±

    ¡°Mhm,¡± he said again, zipped the suitcase and carry-on, and handed Don¡¯s luggage back. ¡°You¡¯re free to go.¡±

    With his suitcase in hand and duffel hanging on his shoulder, Don tucked the three documents deep into his pocket. As he passed the final pair of officers before the customs exit, he added, ¡°Y¡¯all have a good afternoon.¡±

    A little politeness never hurt, after all. And neither did fast food once in a while. Now that he had cleared security, he finally noticed his grumbling stomach, and followed the hanging signs to the food court. Don couldn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d had a Big Mac; such things weren¡¯t permitted at COURT. Too many chemicals, too many empty calories, and not enough real, raw ingredients. Still, Marty did manage to sneak fish and chips into their basement office every weekend. She¡¯d once gotten them fried Snickers bars, too -- a Scottish delicacy, and to Don, a reason to let her temper slide.

    Waiting behind a cluster of tourists at the McDonald¡¯s kiosk, he sent her a brief message: you at your hotel yet? Perhaps five minutes dragged past without her answering. Don ordered the cheeseburger, waited another five, and soon headed for the main entrance with his brown paper sack of grease.

    With no meetings to attend, no hunts to start, Don had plenty of time for wandering and savoring his first real meal of the day. He carried his duffel with ease despite its weight, and spared a moment to be thankful for London¡¯s smooth pavements -- it would have been a pain to roll a suitcase down the cobbled streets of Edinburgh. Stopping to lean on a tree, he glanced at his phone yet again. Marty still had not responded. He sent her another message: It¡¯s really not that bad out here. Nothing weird so far, though. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    Indeed, the city looked as normal as any other, if a little cleaner than what he was used to. Every now and then, he checked the directions to his hotel; the closer he came, the more he paid attention. With hardly any trouble, he reached it: a slim brick building between two modern masses of glass, its doorway arched and palm-sized flags strung along the railings.

    Inside, three leather armchairs surrounded a fireplace -- the real kind, not one with the fake LED flames. In their center sat a table bearing stacks of books and a ceramic bowl of fruit. The warm air, laden with a cinnamon scent and something like old paper, provided respite from September¡¯s chill. His loafers sank into carpet as he stepped up to the front desk, upon which miniature trolley cars and double-decker buses trailed toward a concierge bell. He rang it for service and slipped a handful of chocolates from the dish. Check-in was seamless; he gave the concierge the same story that he¡¯d given everyone else along his journey, and in return, was given the key -- an actual key -- to his room.

    A winding staircase lead him there from beside the office entrance. Up in the halls, he noted the smell of mothballs, acrid and leaving an ache in his nose. But of course, what could he expect for a two-hundred-ten pound special?

    It took several moments of adjusting and readjusting the key for the door to open, and Don finally had a look at his room. The space was smaller than he¡¯d imagined: a twin bed faced windows cloaked in curtains, which were scattered with a pattern of roses and leaves. Between the bed and the window stood the desk, with just a lamp and a notepad upon it. A television atop a dark wood dresser occupied the left corner; in the right was a smaller table bearing a tea kettle, boxes of biscuits, and a basket of tea bags. He shrugged his duffel onto the bed with a thump and a mattress squeak, then peered inside the dresser. It held two mugs, two plates, two knives, forks, and spoons. On the shelf below that, there were only a Bible and a copy of Shakespeare¡¯s complete works. The bathroom consisted of a toilet, shower, and vanity all packed into a two-and-a-half meter cube. It, too, had a lingering mothball odor.

    Don rested against the door frame, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, and smiled.

    This was perfect. He didn¡¯t need to deal with Marty scouring for the cheapest posh rooms they could get.

    He hefted his suitcase onto the bed as well, releasing another squeal from the mattress, and kicked back in the desk chair. Completing his four nights¡¯ arrangement was the Wi-Fi password scrawled on the notepad. Phone in hand, he switched off his mobile data, logged in, and sent one more message.

    17881: come on! Lol

    It was now a quarter past noon; he relished the chance to relax, and so grabbed a carton of buttermilk biscuits as he awaited his partner¡¯s reply.

    ???

    Edinburgh, Scotland, 12:15

    Beyond their five hundred and thirty pound budget, Marty had not needed to worry about money. After all, her expenses were completely authorized, and that gave her a touch of comfort regarding Don¡¯s activities.

    Her living quarters for this holiday were also a great help. They weren¡¯t everything she would have liked -- so much time spent in basements and alleyways and goodness knows where else had given her a preference for the finer things. But nor were they whatever Don must have found. The room was sizeable enough to fit a queen-sized bed, an entertainment center, a chaise and ottoman, and a wardrobe full of extra pillows -- all without being so crammed that she couldn¡¯t move about.

    At its far side, double doors opened onto a chrome-fenced balcony with a table and chairs; there she lounged, a tin of oatcakes in her arm and a two-liter seltzer on the floor.

    She had a vast view across Edinburgh, a landscape crafted from curls of fog and blurs of green verdance, spindly church towers and medieval stone. The towers rose one by one from the mist, trailing up and up into the hills, which then swept into mountains swathed in an even deeper fog than this. And yet, Marty¡¯s gaze was glued to her laptop.

    Every once in a while, she nibbled an oatcake as she scrolled through local blogs and social media, looking for any clue regarding the fae. Her Bluetooth headset provided a feed of Scotland¡¯s less credible news channels; the credible ones would never touch anything with possible supernatural connections. Marty loathed listening to tabloids, and she tuned out the heaps of celebrity rumors and UFO sightings.

    Now and then, she looked from her computer to her phone, where she hid on incognito mode to read the English branch¡¯s forums. They wrote almost entirely about work -- where to buy supplies in bulk, where to get the purest iron -- peppered with complaints that nobody had heard from Dublin in forever. The latter was nothing new. English juniors would insist that Dublin¡¯s Command Center didn¡¯t communicate, the posts would disappear, and talk would float in from both England and Ireland that seniors had the gossip deleted. Marty didn¡¯t doubt for a minute that the juniors just didn¡¯t check their emails.

    She saw not a thing out of the ordinary, and instead, opened the chatroom. Marty and Don had downloaded it onto their laptops as well -- at least COURT didn¡¯t track agents¡¯ downloads. Not without reason, that is, and if all went as planned, they wouldn¡¯t have one.

    17881 at 11:40: you at your hotel yet?

    17881 at 11:51: it¡¯s really not that bad here. Nothing weird so far, though.

    17881 at 12:15: come on! Lol

    Shaking her head at Don¡¯s impatience, she increased the volume on her news feed.

    22315 at 12:17: I¡¯m here, at hotel, have found no evidence on Internet.

    17881: Where on internet?

    22315: EF.

    To name anything directly, the English forums included, could spell failure -- and naming Avery was a one-way ticket to termination, if he managed to find their chat log. Neither Marty nor Don dared to even mention his gender, in case.

    17881: Any word from the boss? They still think we¡¯re in the same place?

    22315: Nothing to suggest otherwise. But no word.

    There came a pause of about three minutes. Marty crunched the next oatcake a little faster than the last.

    17881: what if they ask for pictures?? You know, as proof?

    22315: They won¡¯t. They¡¯ve never asked for pictures before.

    17881: we¡¯ve never done this before though!

    22315: Cold feet? This was your idea.

    17881: Hell no. splitting up was YOUR idea.

    22315: And running off to where you are was yours. End of conversation.

    To smooth the waters before Don could say something rash, she added on.

    22315: We¡¯ll be fine, so think straight. We should see an increase in stuff happening within a day or two. Awake till 3?

    17881: Yeah, awake till 3.

    That, too, was a slight comfort -- and stronger motivation. Three a.m., the witches¡¯ hour, the cursed hour, was their best chance to see something that night, if there was anything to see. Marty didn¡¯t think she¡¯d witness faeries traipsing through the town square, but she could at least be online if Don relayed an incident.

    For now, the day would be best spent preparing. She turned in her seat, watching as a low-hanging cloud phased over a spire and peeled in half. Better to leave before the rain.

    ???

    A tri-colored flag flapped in the wind, too darkened by night for its colors to be clear. The road was empty save for a taxi rolling away; its back lights became eyes, and they stared, red and glowing, down a corridor of city concrete.

    When the car had gone, the only sounds were footsteps, then a horn honking in the distance. A man in a trench coat, clutching a briefcase, made his way down the street and around the corner. The clip of his shoes echoed, for his pace was quick. He kept away from street lights and vehicles, concealed, hurrying, hurrying.

 Twenty-Three

    The patter of rain against the roof guided William slowly from sleep. Among his nest of blankets, he shifted, and remembered maybe pushing them off during the night. He may well have dreamed it, along with whatever else he¡¯d dreamed -- he didn¡¯t quite recall -- and so, paid the blankets no more mind.

    Yawning an aching yawn, he stretched, and winced at the soreness in his muscles. It was the sort that came after running in his nightmares. From what, he didn¡¯t know; it always slipped from his consciousness the moment he awoke. William wasn¡¯t fully awake yet, anyways.

    That is, until movement on the floor made him jolt upright.

    Ainsel lay curled on her side, halfway sleeping. She hadn¡¯t even stolen a pillow, and used only her arm to cushion her head.

    The sight of her there knocked his usual attention to manners right out of order.

    ¡°Ainsel, what the hell?¡±

    She stayed still, and he saw that she¡¯d heard him, as her jaw tightened, like she anticipated a lecture.

    ¡°You scared me to death; what are you doing?¡±

    Eyes downcast, she grasped the edge of the bed and pulled herself up to sitting.

    ¡°Faeries can sleepwalk, too.¡±

    William took pause; his initial irritation melted away, leaving nervousness, which faded in turn. Her sleepwalking made more sense than her voluntarily wanting to be so close and so vulnerable. In flickering pieces, the nightmares came back to him -- something behind him, his feet thudding on moss as he ran -- and he wondered if she¡¯d had dreams as terrible as his.

    ¡°Are you feeling alright?¡± he asked, and was left with a lingering sense that he should not have said it.

    ¡°I¡¯m...¡± Her words trailed off; her breath shuddered. ¡°Fine. I¡¯m fine.¡±

    Either William wasn¡¯t as awake as he thought was, or emotion was muddling his better judgment, for he couldn¡¯t stop himself from doubting her aloud.

    ¡°No, you¡¯re not. What caused you to sleepwalk?¡±

    ¡°Why do you care?¡±

    The question was spoken in shaking tones, without a hint of hostility. Again, he stopped, this time since he had to truly think. It gave him the very same sense he¡¯d had when she¡¯d wondered why he didn¡¯t leave her in the storm. And that sense was one he couldn¡¯t name. Taking her in had been the right thing, and he¡¯d been sure that it was obvious why. Was it not obvious why he cared -- that caring was also the right thing?

    At last, he gave her what he hoped was a decent answer. ¡°Well, because... I was raised to consider others¡¯ well-being. My mum is a surgeon. My dad is a trauma therapist.¡±

    ¡°But why faeries? Why someone like me?¡±

    Now, William knew for sure that he should not say what he did, but he made no effort to stop himself.

    ¡°Someone who is wise... and shows mercy... and has morals and dignity and strength. Why not someone like you?¡±

    Ainsel¡¯s hands came up to cover her face. She sat in silence; William became aware, bit by bit, of the heaviness that grew in the air when he upset her. Whether it was real or imagined, he could not decide.

    And yet, he continued.

    ¡°You survived something that I know should have killed you. And you wouldn¡¯t have if you hadn¡¯t wanted to persevere. It wasn¡¯t just me who kept you alive.¡±

    At that moment, Ainsel¡¯s clear pain was contagious, for he felt it, too, twisting his stomach and making him shiver as though physically ill. She said nothing; their shared pain interwove until it was the only thing connecting them, binding them together like the caught roots of twin trees.

    ¡°What I did was beyond evil. I deserved the attack.¡± Her voice was hushed not only in volume, but in feeling. She sounded exhausted. Numb.

    It turned his blood cold to hear Ainsel call her actions -- whatever they were -- evil. That couldn¡¯t be true. Yes, her appearing so close to Samhain and the equinox meant something that he wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to acknowledge. And yes, he knew that ignoring it for so long had been stupid. But Unseelie or not, if Ainsel had wanted to harm him, he would already be cursed or dead.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± he said, and it came out in a whisper as well.

    ¡°I mean it was bad! Is that simple enough? Do you understand, or should I keep explaining? Because obviously, you don¡¯t know what a mistake is.¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    At her burst of anger, he flinched, but her jibes hurt more, lancing sharp as a blade.

    ¡°Hasn¡¯t everyone made mistakes?¡±

    The familiar heat of embarrassment reached for his cheeks: was that all he could say?

    ¡°They haven¡¯t made this one,¡± she murmured, and her fury was gone, replaced by a chill that crawled across his skin like spiders.

    William hardly dared to ask, yet did anyway: ¡°What one?¡±

    A spectral smile, empty of mirth, danced across her lips. ¡°You think I¡¯m a good person, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°I think you¡¯re trying to be. I¡¯m trying, just like you. Can you tell me what you did?¡±

    ¡°What if a child really suffered because of me? What if two children suffered?¡±

    The last of the wall that held back William¡¯s fear -- not of Ainsel, but for her -- splintered. He leaned down and grasped her hand; she froze, and his heart skipped at how icy it felt. His chill became all-encompassing then, enveloping the room, as if they sat in fog.

    ¡°Ainsel? How old were you?¡±

    He almost could not hear her as she murmured, ¡°Thirteen.¡±

    A lump grew in his throat, and he knelt beside her on the floor, where he clasped her hand in both of his. ¡°You were a child yourself.¡±

    ¡°Do you think... if they met me again, they¡¯d hate me?¡±

    It was all he could do to attempt reassurance -- William wasn¡¯t even sure that he wouldn¡¯t make everything doubly worse. ¡°I think they would see who you are now. If it were me, I wouldn¡¯t hate you, no matter what sort of faerie you are.¡±

    Perhaps Ainsel couldn¡¯t reply; perhaps she was too proud or too hurt or too afraid to.

    William took the chance and the risk to say, ¡°I don¡¯t know why, but despite all the secrets you keep, I feel like I¡¯ve known you for a very long time.¡±

    Ainsel¡¯s ebon eyes locked on his; unshed tears glistened in their corners and trailed wet smudges down her cheeks. Before he could apologize, or better yet, turn away so she wouldn¡¯t be seen in such a state, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her fingers tightened around the loose folds of his shirt, with her head laid against his chest. William was certain that she could hear the pace of his heartbeat, and he took a breath, striving for calm. She smelled like the soil that dampened under fallen leaves, like wood and lichen and earthy, musky mushrooms. The scents of autumn made him picture wandering a forest alight with the moon¡¯s brilliance through silver fireburst leaves -- not running, not being chased.

    The image lasted a precious moment, for he remembered the day that he¡¯d found her bleeding out her life. William held her as though holding her would dispel the memories, until at last, she slid free. Letting go gave him a harsher twinge than disappointment: it was loss. She should be there still, he thought, while he couldn¡¯t bring himself to put that into words. He didn¡¯t see blood when he blinked, and he didn¡¯t hear in his mind her sarcastic venom, but when she pulled back, something was gone. Exactly what, William didn¡¯t know.

    There was just one more thing that he had to tell her. ¡°Ainsel. I¡¯m not scared of you.¡±

    Her only response was a slow nod, and together, they stood. Ainsel¡¯s hand remained withdrawn from his, as did her gaze. He supposed it was just as well; what else could he say?

    ¡°Should I make us some breakfast?¡± he asked, hesitant.

    She nodded again and, passing by him on her way to the door, made quite careful to avoid touching him. As she did, he let slip another suggestion, straight from his brain to his lips, skipping the common sense department.

    ¡°Ainsel? Let¡¯s go out.¡±

    She swerved to face him, cheeks flushed. ¡°Sorry?¡±

    He wanted, for a lightning-hot second, to smack himself for how that had sounded. ¡°Outside. Down... downtown. For shopping.¡±

    In apparent disbelief, and apparent relief, too, she said, ¡°Right. Let¡¯s.¡±

    With that, she rushed to the kitchen. When she did, the room was somehow less full -- not in the physical sense of being alone, but in that she left a void. There had been more he¡¯d wanted to explain, more truths he¡¯d wanted to reveal, and that would just have to wait.

    ???

    The clouds had parted ways with the sky once William and Ainsel had reached the shops; sunlight poured cut a gleaming profile against their windows, though the mid-September chill remained. Thus, he wore his winter military coat -- a charcoal shade, collar propped to shield his neck, twin lines of buttons from the collar to the bottom hem. Ainsel must have not minded the cold, at least not today, for instead of a coat, she¡¯d borrowed his cream-colored jumper; he hadn¡¯t worn it in several days now, yet found himself unbothered.

    Nor did their not speaking bother him, for he wasn¡¯t keen on saying anything that could upset her outside the safety of his home. They now both wandered the consignment boutique to which he¡¯d lead her; his longtime source for suitably vintage and proper clothing held hope for her as well. In the back of the shop, beside the single fitting room, was a velvet armchair, where he rested with a new novel in hand as he watched her. Two canvas totes sat by his feet, one heavy with books, the other full from their trip to the department store. Ainsel¡¯s basket was already piled with dark colors, most of them black, with the occasional crimson or slate or umber brown. The cost wouldn¡¯t be any trouble; he had told her to ignore price tags, for he wouldn¡¯t have her feeling any more embarrassed or borrowing all of his things.

    His gaze flicked upward, then back to his novel, as Ainsel stepped into the fitting room and pulled its curtains shut. Minutes later, there came a rustling of fabric, to which he paid no attention, then a tap on his shoulder, at which he nearly jumped. Ainsel peered out from behind the curtains. She then brushed them aside. Whatever he had expected vanished from his mind; slowly, he lowered his book.

    Ainsel looked so different in a dress. It was a rich sable and reached knee-length; the skirt flounced outward, like the dresses of nineteen-fifties America, but the neckline was different -- a high collar, white as bone, and the sleeves capped in the same shade, with a belt in a line around the waist. She resembled a doll, but a haunted one, a play on innocence: equal parts charming and strange. He almost didn¡¯t want to stop looking, until the rational part of his mind snapped into action.

    ¡°It suits you,¡± he said. ¡°How much more time do you need?¡±

    ¡°I am finished. Let me change again and we can return.¡±

    Her reply was just as curt; he didn¡¯t let himself stop and analyze it. Perhaps it was overly polite, and perhaps that covered a hint of disappointment, as if she¡¯d wanted him to say something more, and perhaps he was imagining things that weren¡¯t there.

    In silence, their day of shopping ended, and with one more bag hanging from his arm, William lead her home just as such.

 Twenty-Four

    Beneath a sky mottled in blue and overcast hues, Clarity spread its glow across the yard. It flickered against each blade of grass and swept, mistlike, in the wake of Ainsel¡¯s guiding movements. Fully focused, she could see the tiniest refractions in the air, where sunlight bounced off of water droplets; she pulled it around them, so every strand remained unbroken, and first weaved it through space like a whip in slow motion. Then, she slashed downward; it became a sword and sliced into the ground. It left no wound. When it curled back between her fingers, she circled its threads around branches and peeled dead leaves into shreds. London may have lost its magic, yet Ainsel was at home in her own -- like meditation, except that it energized her instead of calming her. Practicing made her forget everything: the stress, the here-and-there ache in her ankle, the inexplicable want to protect Liam.

    If she had paid attention, she¡¯d have noticed the back door opening. The stairs creaked behind her. Ainsel¡¯s focus broke; noise rushed hard for her ears, and she rubbed them, smarting from the interruption. The last thing Clarity had told her before vanishing was that Liam had seen it. At least she wouldn¡¯t have to kill someone before they could snap a picture or tell the Internet what they¡¯d witnessed.

    Arms crossed, she trudged toward the stairs and scowled up at him. Steam furled from the mugs in his hands.

    ¡°What?¡± she asked.

    ¡°I just -- I was just wondering what...¡± As he floundered for an answer, he gestured vaguely in her direction, managing not to spill the tea.

    Ainsel sighed as her momentary annoyance vanished; she climbed the steps and took one of the mugs. ¡°Soil¨¦ireacht. Meaning --¡±

    ¡°Clarity,¡± Liam said with a calm sip of his tea.

    In the following instant, Ainsel¡¯s mind blanked. And in the next, she supposed that nothing should surprise her anymore, thus nodded her agreement.

    ¡°Right. It¡¯s energy that, if you can manipulate it, you can condense into a sort of... tangible light. Does that make sense?¡±

    Liam squinted at her hands, as if Clarity would burst forth then and there. ¡°A little?¡±

    ¡°Well. The word ¡®Clarity¡¯ really refers to the state you have to be in to access the magic that most lands hold. In London... there isn¡¯t so much of it. In wild places -- natural places -- there is a lot more. Anyways, you have to be... clearly seeing.¡±

    ¡°Like... how you can only astral project if you¡¯re asleep?¡± he asked.

    Ainsel shrugged, tasting her own tea: a sweet chai. ¡°I don¡¯t believe in astral projection.¡±

    ¡°But you¡¯re a faerie.¡±

    She almost wanted to laugh at him. ¡°So you should believe in all psychic mumbo-jumbo ever thought up because you¡¯re a human?¡±

    He lowered his gaze, as if embarrassed by his own assumption. ¡°I guess not. Why isn¡¯t Clarity mentioned in any literature on the fae?¡±

    She couldn¡¯t help finding that a tad innocent -- his thinking that books held every answer he needed.

    ¡°The literature won¡¯t tell you everything. It¡¯s not a common skill. The more we modernized, the more it died out.¡± Ainsel leaned against the railing beside him, gazing down to bristling evergreen bushes. ¡°I think there used to be Soil¨¦ireacht trainers...¡±

    ¡°You think? Why aren¡¯t you sure? They¡¯re your people.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m only twenty-six, remember? The democracy was implemented thirty years ago.¡±

    As Liam stared, quiet, she could practically see the questions forming on his face.

    ¡°What democracy?¡±

    Again, she took pause; here she was, using kitchen appliances and the Internet and

    modern Irish terms, yet he still didn¡¯t realize just how modern the fair folk had become.

    ¡°Liam, rebels overthrew the monarchy. The Seelie and Unseelie courts, the split rule, all of that -- it¡¯s gone. There¡¯s a Supreme Minister now.¡± She watched him work through that before adding, ¡°He¡¯s a massive arsehole.¡±

    His lips twitched upward and he swallowed tea before letting slip a laugh. Perhaps he hadn¡¯t expected faeries to have the very same problems as his kind.

    ¡°Can he use it?¡± Liam asked.

    Only half-jokingly, Ainsel shuddered. ¡°He can¡¯t. For which I¡¯m thankful.¡±

    Liam took a longer, more relaxed drink. ¡°So, if there are no more trainers, how did you learn to use it?¡±

    ¡°How did you learn to heal the fae?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m...¡± It seemed he was struggling to answer, and at last he said, ¡°I¡¯m self-taught. Gifted, but... not in some psychic way.¡±

    ¡°There you go. I taught myself, too.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d say you did well. Anyways, what exactly does Clarity do? How does it work?¡±

    ¡°All I know is that it lets me see in more detail than I can otherwise. If I am in danger, I think it senses that. And I¡¯ll see what is happening behind me.¡± A single image flickered in her mind¡¯s eye on repeat -- the cloaked hunter, dagger raised, poised to slit her throat. She forced it away. ¡°I can use it like a flashlight, or to search for more magic that isn¡¯t my own, or to make it into a weapon.¡±

    There came a lull in the conversation; it was filled by the rushing of wind through branches, which clicked, and creaked, and groaned.

    ¡°All of that has to take a toll,¡± Liam guessed aloud, once he had finished thinking.

    ¡°It does. If I use too much, too fast, then it tires out and disappears.¡±

    ¡°And the trainers? They must have gotten around that, right? Did they find some way to use it as much as they wanted?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think that would be a good idea. So, I don¡¯t know...¡± Ainsel found herself trailing off as another memory floated into view -- a story she¡¯d once heard. ¡°There was this one time, though...¡±

    Liam shifted closer until his sleeve touched hers. There were no sparks and no shivering feelings, their arms protected by cloth. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    ¡°What happened? Did someone... do something bad?¡±

    ¡°No... no, it wasn¡¯t bad. See, there are levels of Soil¨¦ireacht users, and the highest is Grandmaster. I don¡¯t know the rest.¡± She let her voice drop to softer, yet harder tones; it fed urgency and insistence and wonder into her words. ¡°Now, this grandmaster, about two centuries ago, stole a ship from the British Navy. He had a friend in their ranks, a traitor. And as a whole fleet fired cannonballs at them, he used his magic as a shield. After that... they fled to the Realm and were never seen again.¡±

    Ainsel could describe Liam¡¯s expression only as baffled.

    He blinked and went for another drink, only to find the mug empty.

    ¡°A shield against cannonfire?¡± he repeated. ¡°The British Navy? Why?¡±

    And once more, Ainsel had to marvel at at Liam¡¯s ignorance -- had he ever been curious at all about the recent parts of faerie history?

    ¡°Because the British were still at war with our greatest ally.¡±

    ¡°The Irish,¡± he murmured, staring into his mug.

    ¡°Mhm. We were allies then, at least.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    Ainsel shook her head and finished the last of her tea. ¡°Humans can be just as fickle as us. One day, they loved us like gods. The next, they blamed us for all their misfortunes. Then they went back to blaming England, and we were fine again. Until they or the Realm picked another fight.¡±

    Liam combed his fingers through loose hair, visibly processing. ¡°Did our wars have something to do with Clarity dying out?¡±

    That was another subject Ainsel didn¡¯t quite understand -- whether the link really existed or was just a rumor. ¡°Maybe. Maybe not.¡±

    ¡°Is it what¡¯s been making the air feel weird between us? Clarity, I mean?¡±

    She raised a brow, watching him sideways. ¡°You¡¯ve picked up on it, then. I should have expected that... you are in tune with our energies. Somehow.¡±

    ¡°Yeah... somehow.¡± He breathed a sigh, elbows resting on the rail, gaze wandering to the autumn-bare forest. ¡°This Soil¨¦ireacht explains a lot, though.¡±

    His pronunciation was perfection -- crisp and clean as though he spoke the language natively. Ainsel did not let herself dwell on that, lest her moment of admiration be obvious.

    ¡°What does it explain?¡±

    ¡°You. How you got here. How you¡¯ve been getting into my stuff so quietly. How you understand me before I even understand myself. I mean, it¡¯s magic.¡±

    How you got here. One more piece of an overwhelming puzzle fell into place.

    She slid Liam¡¯s empty mug from his hand and picked up her own. He let her, seeming too entranced with his own thoughts to notice the strands of light holding the back door open. As she crossed the threshold, she looked over her shoulder, and the last words she said to Liam that afternoon were, ¡°I guess it solves one more mystery about me.¡±

    ???

    The night was filled with rustling and an owl¡¯s hollow cooing. Ainsel had returned to the deck, where scores more questions occupied her mind and her eyes were locked on the forest ahead. In the dark, the trees were a swath of varied brown and black and stone-grey; if she could see them, she supposed, her thoughts would look the same.

    This couldn¡¯t last. She couldn¡¯t stay with Liam forever. He¡¯d had his own life long before she¡¯d appeared, and it would continue long after she was gone -- even if every warning tale and every legend told nothing of the fae but monstrosity. They were old tales anyway; Earth and humanity had moved on. There was no more room for latching onto people¡¯s very souls and tearing them apart -- and if there were, she still couldn¡¯t have hurt him. Each day brought another rationality-defying kindness, and it was this idea on which she focused.

    But beneath it all, she began to realize, there lay some deeper sensation which, to her, had no name. It lacked the fire of terror, and the trembling of anxiety, but it lurked at the edge of perception, telling her that something was off. It wasn¡¯t quite wrong, for of course it had to be difficult to place. She scanned the yard, and seeing nothing, stretched one arm at a time in hopes that movement would shake the feeling off. She must have listened to too many stories. Ainsel let herself drift back into more reasonable worrying.

    Out of nowhere, something snapped her to attention. She peered into the whispering forest and again saw nothing. Goosebumps prickled across her skin. Was that just the owl flitting through the trees? Were those bushes supposed to move that way?

    Instinct took over. Ainsel turned, ran, and locked the door behind her. She pulled the blinds shut and rushed to the kitchen, where Liam had left the light on. Not knowing why, she switched it off and stood in shadow-cloaked silence. The soft hum from the refrigerator grounded her in reality. Her own imagination had spooked her -- she could find no reason to doubt it. Gradually, she calmed, and when she was certain that she wouldn¡¯t scare herself again, Ainsel retreated to her room.

    There still came no adrenaline flare and no frantic pull from her magic, but sleep was out of reach. Much as she tried, she could not keep her eyes closed for more than seconds at a time; warnings of nightmares poked and prodded her dormant fear, trying to stir it into a frenzy. And among them rose another possibility: that something could happen to Liam.

    She tossed off her blankets and, taking the usual route around creaking patches of floor, crept across the hall. The door, to Ainsel¡¯s relief, was ajar; she pried it open just enough to peer inside. At first, she thought that the curtains were fluttering from wind. Her heartbeat spiked, then slowed. The window was closed -- it was only the ceiling fan. Liam had found peaceful sleep, huddled in bed beneath its breeze.

    But, asleep, he wouldn¡¯t be able to protect himself. While she couldn¡¯t say exactly what might happen, she could not ignore the sinking sickness in her gut. It was the same feeling she¡¯d had in the yard. If it had been quick as rain then, it now became a flood, rushing through gates that did nothing to contain it. Frantic, she scanned the room for some way, some tool, to keep threats -- just anxieties or not -- outside, where they belonged.

    In three hurried strides, she was at his desk, and she pulled open its drawer. Pens and jars and trinkets rattled around inside. Liam remained asleep She rooted though its contents, her movements too jolting and her fingers too shaking to reach Clarity. Ainsel wasn¡¯t even certain what she was really looking for -- until she felt something grainy, like sand. Heat lanced across her palm. She yanked her hand out and squinted at what she¡¯d touched: salt spilled across the bottom drawer. The shaker rolled lightly back and forth. That was it. That was what she needed. Ainsel tugged her sleeve down to be a makeshift glove, grabbed the shaker, and emptied it in a glittering line along the windowsill.

    For a moment, she stood there, winded, staring. Then, she snatched up his office scissors from atop a notepad. With no nail to hang them above his bed, she tossed them onto the nightstand. There were other things in his desk, too, stronger things than scissors and salt. But her skin was searing, the pain burning a back-and-forth pattern of pinpricks and scratches. She hadn¡¯t the time to find gloves and a face mask to shield from heavy poisons.

    Liam let out a sleeping mumble. She jumped and fled; the door slammed behind her as she rushed to the bathroom. When she flipped the light switch, her eyes stung, making her wince. Ainsel¡¯s vision blurred, then cleared, as she leaned over the sink, inspecting her palm. Blisters had appeared in patches, some raised, some flat and white.

    ¡°Stupid!¡± she hissed. If she¡¯d tried harder to use Clarity, this wouldn¡¯t have happened. ¡°Damn it; I¡¯m stupid!¡±

    Wanting to slap herself, she turned the faucet to cold. The wounds blazed before icy cool brushed across them; she sighed and let her elbows rest on the granite countertop. There was no cure for salt blisters. Instead, she would have to wait for her skin to heal nd that hadn¡¯t even been the pure sort -- he¡¯d probably purchased it for fifty pence at the corner store. Rubbing her eyes, she wondered how late it was.

    There came a series of creaks from the hall, followed by a knock.

    ¡°Ainsel?¡± Liam¡¯s voice rasped; his words slurred. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±

    She shut off the faucet, then knelt, where she dug through the under-sink supply bag for gauze. Her knees ached in protest.

    ¡°Nothing, Liam. Go back to sleep.¡±

    The floorboards creaked again, twice, as if he¡¯d shifted from foot to foot.

    ¡°Now!¡± she snapped.

    Ainsel heard him retreat, and only then did she relax. Had she not spilled the salt, she might have crafted an excuse to stay in his room that night. With another wince, she wrapped the gauze around her wrist and hand. She stole a glance through the bathroom window; a rectangle of light stretched across the yard and disappeared into darkness.

    Whatever was out there, if anything, she suddenly didn¡¯t feel like trekking to bed. In fact, she didn¡¯t feel like sleeping at all. Ainsel sank down onto the rug and slouched against the wall, half-conscious from exhaustion. There, she watched but did not register the sky¡¯s gentle phasing from indigo to slate to morning blue.

 Twenty-Five

    London, England, 12:37

    Pre-dawn fog had shifted into a day of mottled sun and clouds over London. From the second floor window of a downtown Starbucks, Don had a high enough vantage point to people-watch without being spotted. Nothing he saw grabbed his full  attention away from his work. He had claimed a corner booth, legs stretched out across the bench and papers blanketing the table. One earbud in, the other hanging to his shoulder, he sat with his back to the wall so that passersby would not glimpse his laptop. As he tabbed between surveillance feeds, the chatroom, and the news, he slurped a mocha frappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Marty had yet to log into chat, and he wasn¡¯t finding anything odd online, either. He idly stirred his frappe, wondering if he¡¯d chosen the wrong city.

    To his right, teenagers filtered toward and from the counter in crowds. Their voices blended into a crush of noise which he tuned out with ease -- until, through them, cut another, female and graced with the quintessential London accent.

    ¡°Don Wheeler? Is that you?¡±

    Startled, he tabbed to the news page, despite that the two agents approaching him could not see his screen anyways. The one who had spoken flicked scrappy blonde bangs from her face; most of her hair, cropped short as a man¡¯s, sprung in multiple directions, save for that which a pair of sunglasses held down. A navy blazer and slacks, typical of juniors when they emerged from their basement workstations, balanced the look. One hand held a cup in a knitted cozy; the other rested on the strap of a black backpack hanging from her shoulder.

    Just a step behind her, the other kept a more polished appearance -- a brushed-smooth brown ponytail, sepia eyeshadow, and shades tucked into the lapel pocket of an identical blazer. Her expression was decidedly more dour and only focused on him for seconds at a time. Instead, she scanned the caf¨¦ and looked to be scanning for threats.

    Don had a vague sense of recognizing them from somewhere, but could not say when or where they would have met.

    He set his drink down and asked, ¡°Sorry, do we all know each other?¡±

    The blonde agent offered her hand to shake; he did, and was surprised at the firmness of her grasp.

    ¡°Kipper Hill,¡± she said, then with a gesture to her partner, ¡°and Mary Harding.

    From that transfer seminar when you first joined COURT. We were panel members.¡±

    Her reminder clicked -- he¡¯d been almost asleep from boredom in an auditorium occupied by a small group of transfers, most of them just as bored as he was. Agent Hill had cracked some joke that had lightened the air, but that he¡¯d never recalled.

    ¡°Oh, right,¡± he acknowledged. ¡°Feels like forever ago, don¡¯t it?¡±

    Hill, unlike Marty, did not correct his grammar. ¡°A lot happens in a year and a half. What brings you here?¡±

    He shrugged and took another drink of his frappe. ¡°Our senior sent us on a little vacation. Glad to have a break for once.¡±

    Harding, after a sip of coffee, commented, ¡°That doesn¡¯t look like vacation to me.¡±

    She said so with a nod to his paperwork. Don stood and leaned on the table, his hands behind him and curled around the edge. He covered growing jitters by relaxing his shoulders; had they seen any of it? The Ballycastle and Manchester case files were right there -- open for the agents to read before he had blocked their view.

    If Hill did notice, she gave nothing away, asking, ¡°Where¡¯s Agent O¡¯Flannigan?¡±

    ¡°Ah, we had a bit of a disagreement over where to go. I wanted London, she wanted Edinburgh, and... you know how she is. She does what she wants.¡± Don smiled and gathered his papers into a stack, all face down, as though making room. ¡°You wanna sit?¡±

    The two exchanged a glance, and Hill joined him at the table; Harding stayed by the side of the booth, scrolling on her phone to hide that she was standing guard.

    Don couldn¡¯t blame her.

    ¡°So,¡± he said to Hill. ¡°How¡¯s stuff going down here?¡±

    It was then that something about their casual conversation faltered. He wasn¡¯t sure of precisely what, and it only lasted an instant. But when she returned his smile, it looked so natural that Don questioned if perhaps he¡¯d imagined the change. Regardless, he could think of no reason for imagining it to begin with.

    ¡°It¡¯s average, I¡¯d say,¡± she answered. ¡°We¡¯ve had the typical sorts of cases you see around the city.¡±

    ¡°Yeah? I wish I were you. Things have been real busy up in Glasgow.¡±

    ¡°I hear Glasgow gets strange ¡®round this time of year. It isn¡¯t too bad, is it?¡±

    ¡°Hey, it could be worse.¡± He put on a half-smirk to feign ease. ¡°We could all be stuck in Galway -- most haunted and fae-touched city in all the Isles.¡±

    That drew a hint of a laugh even from Harding.

    ¡°The first of it¡¯s a mystery, but the worst of it¡¯s from Ireland,¡± Hill quipped, quoting a common saying throughout COURT.

    No one was sure when or how the fae had found this world, but Ireland had a reputation for being infested. For all its charm, all its lushness, it was miserable on the cusp of Samhain. Don guessed that the agents there had created the line themselves. Moreover, it gave him an idea for a different approach.

    He let his smirk turn to a ghost-story grin and leaned forward. ¡°You ever seen anything super creepy here? Ghosties and beasties and whatnot?¡±

    Hill laughed again, but this time, it was a nervous sound and broke into silence. She stared at her cup while Harding eyed them without a word. The switch in mood was like the shift from autumn to winter condensed into a single moment: brittle. Cold.

    ¡°Wheeler, you cannot repeat this to anyone,¡± she said -- in fluent Irish.

    Don blinked, his mind stumbling in confusion. Every COURT agent was at least proficient, for the faeries did share the language, albeit with all the regional differences one would expect. But between humans in the capital of England, and given the context, this was in no way normal.

    As much as he fumbled the pronunciation, Don followed along. ¡°I can¡¯t repeat what?¡±

    Waiting for an answer and struggling to calm his nerves, he took another slurp of his drink.

    ¡°Early yesterday morning, we saw someone from the Dublin Command Center visiting London H.Q. -- we know he was from Dublin. He had the flag and the black mountain insignia on his sleeve.¡±

    Don almost coughed on whipped cream. He then caught himself before replying reflexively in English. ¡°Nobody comes from or goes to Dublin unless something is wrong.¡±

    ¡°We know,¡± Harding added. ¡°He might have been a courier. It makes sense.¡±

    He drummed his fingers on his stack of paperwork, deliberating. Should he tell them about Avery? Would it be a disaster? Would it help?

    Instead, he asked, ¡°Did anything else happen?¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± Hill began. She paused, fidgeting with the cup cozy. ¡°Our senior instructed us to only monitor. The order was to not hunt.¡±

    ¡°What the hell?¡± Don hissed, his voice low. ¡°Why would they do that?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know! But we can¡¯t investigate. It¡¯s against policy.¡±

    Even though the other patrons were still oblivious, Don whispered, ¡°To hell with policy. Marty and I are investigating. Our senior is hiding something. We worked an unusual case in Manchester, and days later, he told us not to go to England.¡±

    Hill¡¯s eyes widened; she sat quiet, listening.

    ¡°He said the Northern Irish branch was struggling, and he sent us there. But he lied. We have a Northern Irish agent investigating, too. These lies might not be allowed.¡±

    The longer he spoke, the more obvious the tension in Harding¡¯s posture became. She reached down and nudged Hill, who murmured something to Harding too low for Don to hear.

    And, as if everything was still as casual as before, Hill said, ¡°It¡¯s really nice to see you again -- but we do have to head out. Duty calls.¡±

    With twin smiles, Harding¡¯s slightly less convincing, they grabbed their cups and stalked out, off to wherever their mission would bring them.

    ???

    Edinburgh, Scotland, 13:05

    Certain amounts of rain could keep anybody indoors, and Marty was no exception. It poured down in sheets, too heavy for any hunting to be effective -- she didn¡¯t dare bring her equipment outside now. Instead, the cameras inside potted plants and between books in the bookshelf would have to do; each one pointed toward an entrance, be that the front door or back door or windows.

    With a glass of whiskey in one hand, and the other cradling a bowl of unshelled peanuts, Marty lounged in bed against pillows piled high. Her eyes were fixed on her laptop, which showed her a constant stream of surveillance feeds. They circled from Edinburgh to Glasgow, London to Manchester, even Ballycastle on occasion. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. She cracked open a peanut and, just in case, opened the chatroom -- only to be met with a flurry of messages from Don. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Her adrenaline spiked. She set her glass on the nightstand, more feeling for where she should put it down than looking.

    17881 at 12:50: Are u on?

    17881 at 12:51: we really need to talk, having a major wtf moment over here

    17881 at 12:52: just met two London team agents, was told something big, please answer

    22315 at 13:05: I¡¯m here now; what¡¯s going on?

    17881: do you know Kipper Hill and Mary Harding?

    Trying to concentrate, to remember, Marty hovered her fingers over the keys.

    22315: No, do you know them?

    17881: Yeah, they were at this transfer thing I went to. Can we get Sully on here before i say anything more?

    22315: You really want to drag him into this?

    17881: He¡¯s already been dragged in. if we ask for help, he¡¯ll give it.

    Now, she set her bowl aside as well, too on edge to eat.

    22315: Fine. Text him, tell him to download the app, and send him the link to this room.

    17881: Will do, hang on

    With every minute that the chatroom sat silent, the tension grew stronger and stronger. Just how close were they to the truth? Had Don been right to sneak away after all? She hooked her wireless headset around her arm and moved to the desk, where she continued to almost-tap the keyboard.

    At last, Agent Hughes¡¯ number appeared.

    66001: This the right place?

    17881: finally. we got stuff happening.

    66001: Haha, hello to you too, mate

    22315: Don, get to the point.

    Marty¡¯s impatience made her temper short.

    And Don dropped the proverbial bombshell.

    17881: Guys. juniors Mary Harding and Kipper Hill of London saw someone from Dublin at their HQ. Very early yesterday. All secretive. And then their senior told them NOT to hunt, only to monitor. We had to speak Irish to avoid people eavesdropping.

    66001: Whoa. The hell?

    22315: What?? They¡¯re certain? How do they know that person was from Dublin?

    17881: they said he had the mountain insignia on his sleeve

    Marty slumped forward, chin in her hands, head spinning. Only Dublin agents wore the sign of the black mountain -- the very translation of their city¡¯s name, Dubh Linn. And only for deeply important matters did they visit other nations¡¯ COURT headquarters.

    66001: Shite.

    17881: man, we really need you to tell us if you¡¯ve heard anything weird from Belfast. If Dublin CC is in on this, all the capitals might be.

    22315: Wait, Don, now you think Cardiff is involved too?

    17881: well, they could be, right?

    66001: Not sure. Seems the Welsh teams keep to themselves these days. Anyways, Belfast. They¡¯re closer with Dublin CC than pretty much anyone else is. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if they¡¯re working together on this whole thing.

    17881: so you don¡¯t know anything definitive yet?

    66001: I¡¯ll do my best to find out. Any word from your senior?

    Marty, as she¡¯d been about to reply, paused. They were already halfway through their holiday and Avery still hadn¡¯t contacted them, which in itself was odd. Though she tried to assure herself that he was simply busy, the worry stuck like a stubborn thorn. Don¡¯s message echoed her concerns.

    17881: none, and he tends to at least check in by now.

    66001: Hey, not to jump to conclusions, but he just might be up to something.

    At that, a buried scrap of information unearthed itself, a hymn among the din of her other thoughts.

    22315: This vacation wasn¡¯t listed on our calendar. It was out of the blue.

    17881: Almost like he wanted us out of the way again...

    22315: But what on earth for? And he killed the Manchester faerie, right??

    17881: Yknow, we never found out what he did with it. thing could¡¯ve cut a deal. He could¡¯ve released it back to the realm.

    22315: Don, what would that deal even be!?

    17881: i got no clue.

    Marty heaved a sigh; a dull ache had begun in her stomach, the precursor to nausea and eventual sickness. Each step they took into this mystery, the more wrong it became. She wasn¡¯t certain why she wondered at the fate of their twenty-third target -- perhaps because he had set the entire mess in motion.

    17881: hey Sully, you there?

    66001: Partially, sorry. My senior was asking what I¡¯m typing. Told her it¡¯s notes.

    22315: Log off, then, it¡¯s safer. We¡¯ll talk later.

    66001: That¡¯d be best, yeah. Listen, I¡¯m with you both. Things aren¡¯t supposed to be this grim. I don¡¯t know when I¡¯ll be on again, so good luck.

    The third number vanished, and seconds later, Don sent one more message: I¡¯m gonna go poke around. might see if there are pagan groups or other new agers who¡¯d know something useful. You good for now?

    22315: I¡¯m good.

    It was the only thing she could say -- she refused to let Don see how shaken their impromptu discussion had left her. She slowly closed her laptop, alone with the rain and the wind howling over the hills.

    Bigger problems in England, she remembered. Every path lead back to England. And London was at the end of them all.

    ???

    Dublin, Ireland, 20:13

    The orange-tinged reflection of city lights on fog set the Dublin sky aglow. Dark did not quiet these streets, for though the night was new, they shone starfire bright against the surrounding hills -- to locals, the Pale. Even midnight¡¯s descent would be swallowed in the rush: from an undercurrent of vehicular noise, there rose the thrum of parties, and laughter in peals, and screams to cheers to blaring horns. A harsher cold than any plaguing western London was no deterrent to joining in the nightlife. While the outskirts seldom saw such a bustle, it was more unusual here for things to be quiet, and thus, the Irish capital was an unrivaled home for COURT¡¯s Command Center.

    It towered from the steel and concrete spread of the largest business district, from whence many a government agency gave their orders.  In many regards, it appeared ordinary: the car park was partway full, and revolving doors guided people inside, and within its walls, meetings were still being conducted.

    In one room on the west-facing side, from which the window gave a shadow cloaked view of slopes, crags, and the sea beyond them, an agent and an officer sat face to face across a desk. Lamplight cast their expressions in yellow hues; they did not once look at each other. Behind the desk, one was silhouetted against the tricolor of Ireland. In the lines between her brows and around her lips, and in a missing left earlobe, cut clean off and long since healed, it would seem that her work had aged her. But beneath her blazer, she was fit, her shoulders broad, her posture upright. Four scars marked her jawline, the strength of which lent her a military severity, offset a hint by humidity-ruffled curls peeking from beneath her cap. It was ultimately her gaze that matched Avery¡¯s in intensity, sharp as glass and just as clear.

    A black trenchcoat hung from the back of his chair, and by his feet he had placed his briefcase. With Agent Leary¡¯s focus locked on him, he pored over the Supreme Minister¡¯s letter. Beside it, his notepad was open to a page full of scrawled phrases.

    We¡¯ve reason to believe the motive was political, the letter read.

    Incomplete truth, Avery wrote. Minister already knew motive was political.

    Perhaps retaliation for the implementation of our Democracy.

    Shaking his head, he added, Would not guess that if he didn¡¯t already have info.

    Aloud, he sighed and said, ¡°The prick is lying. He¡¯s acting like he doesn¡¯t know what¡¯s happening right under his nose.¡±

    Leary half-scoffed and half-laughed. ¡°And that comes as news to you?¡±

    ¡°Of course not. See here.¡± He pointed his pen to what he had written, then flicked it to the corresponding lines in the letter. ¡°If the Minister thinks the Taking was retaliation for his new rule, then he was aware of the problem to begin with. It¡¯s not a matter of ¡®perhaps¡¯.¡±

    Leary leaned in for a closer look. Both she and Avery kept their hands well away from each other.

    ¡°Hmm,¡± was all she said at first. Then, after a long pause, ¡°You¡¯re right. Rebels don¡¯t go quietly, no matter how much time passes. Let alone only thirty years. Pretending to just now have thought of that is a lie by omission.¡±

    ¡°Yes. As for what kind of rebels, are you thinking what I am thinking?¡±

    ¡°That faerie monarchists did this?¡±

    To hear the theory spoken sent a chill racing up his spine; he almost wanted to check and be sure that the window was closed.

    ¡°Yes,¡± he repeated, hushed. ¡°During the monarchy, there were dissenters, sure. But why would they go against those who ousted the king and queen?¡±

    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°And their methods -- who else would do something so...?¡±

    ¡°So traditional, in the nastiest sense of the word? No one. No one but secret Seelie and Unseelie factions would take changelings.¡±

    Avery then flipped to a fresh page and began again to write.

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Monarchist rebels best possibility </li>

    </ul>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Changeling was Seelie </li>

    </ul>

    ¡°And, Leary... a life-aligned child was stolen. At least according to what he¡¯s said in our following letters. That¡¯s a Seelie child, even if the Minister won¡¯t admit it outright.¡±

    ¡°Hmm.¡± She grabbed her own pen, clicked it several times, and skimmed his notes.

    ¡°The culprit was Unseelie,¡± he said. ¡°They fled to... where?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Avery.¡±

    ¡°Where did they even get the replacement human child?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know that, either!¡± she snapped.

    Avery took his notepad back and clutched it. The ever-familiar energy of hunting coursed through his veins, and his inhibitions -- against pushing protocol, against testing his superior -- switched off.

    ¡°I propose something radical,¡± he began.

    Leary crossed her arms, waiting.

    ¡°My juniors will have no part in this. Instead... we will. Let us partner.¡±

    Her eyes flashed blade-quick danger. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Hear me out, please --¡±

    ¡°No! No, you cannot walk with my circle!¡±

    ¡°Because I¡¯m not Irish?¡± He regretted this in an instant, yet could not cave.

    ¡°None of that!¡± Leary practically hissed at him, hunching over her work to glare flame and knives. ¡°You don¡¯t have what it takes. I am saying that to protect you. It¡¯s got nothing to do with you being English or Irish or a goddamned Martian! If the culprit is in England, as you were told, then you are best staying out of its way. Stay in Scotland.¡±

    ¡°So I¡¯m not strong enough? Not skilled enough? Or is this about us?¡±

    If he¡¯d regretted his previous comment, then this one unleashed a torrent of both guilt and fear -- swirling together as mud and water would in a flood. Leary, to no surprise of his, looked as though she wanted to slap him.

    He could see her fighting to level her temper with one deep breath, then two.

    ¡°Avery,¡± she said at last, her tone forced even. ¡°The past is the past. The branches of COURT agree to that, regarding their histories, and so can we, regarding ours. If you continue to act unprofessional, then you will no longer be on this case. You know I have sway with the chief commander. I¡¯ll have my courier send word to her.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. It will not happen again.¡±

    He could not decide what stung more: being labeled unprofessional, or suffering Leary¡¯s anger to such a degree. His uncertainty must have made his apology genuine, as Leary gave a nod of relent.

    ¡°Fine,¡± she murmured, and in a clearer voice, after another moment of quiet, said, ¡°Your capture of Target Manchester Twenty-three was invaluable to the Taking investigation. From Glasgow, you will assist us in locating the culprit. This faerie is far too dangerous for anybody besides the elites to take on, and must be tried as a criminal, not killed.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡± His own words came soft, though he did not purposely make them so. ¡°The Minister can kill the creature if he sees fit.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, Avery.¡±

    That was his queue to leave. He tugged on his coat and slid the notepad into his briefcase; as Avery crossed the threshold into the hall, he looked back on simple impulse.

    Leary¡¯s smile was fleeting as a ghost, but real. The game was indeed on.

 Twenty-Six

    William awoke to a headache that pulsed in tune with his heartbeat -- and vague scraps of last night clamoring for attention. Whatever had happened, it had been so late that he held nothing more than noises in his room, then at his desk, and footfalls, and a slam. He didn¡¯t remember following Ainsel, but there he¡¯d been, knocking on the washroom door as the faucet rushed. Nor did he remember what she¡¯d said.

    With a groan and a sigh, he sat upright. At least the sunlight hadn¡¯t woken him; it was obscured under swaths of clouds. With any luck, it would rain and he wouldn¡¯t need to water the garden. Hopefully, the cloud cover was dark enough to promise such. He shuffled from bed and raised his hands to open the curtains  -- but stopped.

    That on the windowsill could not be what he thought it was. Squinting, he leaned down to look. It was salt after all, and followed an uneven line as though poured in a hurry. In his momentary confusion, he assumed that he had put it there and forgotten. But he would not have left the shaker on the floor. William nudged it with his foot; empty, it rolled beneath his nightstand. Again he glanced to the trail of salt, like it would give him an answer. Sense then clicked into place.

    He pulled on his slippers and raced to Ainsel¡¯s room. His nervous energy flared: the bed was unmade and unoccupied. Within seconds, he reached the end of the hall.

    ¡°Ainsel?¡± he called, not knowing what else to do.

    A half-sleeping grumble came from the couch. William¡¯s burst of fear fizzled into relief, which then gave way to caution. Each step he took toward her made him hesitate. His imagination ran rife with things from sour to sickening -- something was wrong. She was angry with him. Something was wrong with her.

    He reached down and touched her hair as it spilled toward the ground; his fingertips were feather-light against raven silk, and beneath them, she shifted. Her eyes fluttered and locked on him -- there with his hand beside her cheek, dumbly frozen as she watched.

    ¡°Sorry,¡± he said.

    His voice fell flat and the silence that followed broke when she snapped.

    ¡°I feel rotten, Liam. Go away.¡±

    It left a bitter taste in his mouth and an acid fear in his mind to hear that. Rotten, indeed. To listen, to leave, would quell the chances of her lashing out, and if he did, then he quelled also his chances of helping. William saw her exhaustion in dark circles and hunched shoulders, in her arm tucked beneath herself and the blanket fallen to the ground.

    He offered the only thing that he could.

    ¡°Do you want some tea?¡±

    Ainsel huffed and hid her face against the cushion. Though he couldn¡¯t be sure, he thought he had seen her wince.

    ¡°Chamomile?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± she muttered. ¡°Why aren¡¯t you going away?¡±

    And at that, he had to answer honestly. ¡°I¡¯m worried. What happened last night?¡±

    She lay quiet and drew her arm in closer. Her sleeve slipped; he glimpsed white. Inhibitions abandoned, he pulled her up by the waist, gripping the loose folds of the jumper he had bought her. She stared back, wide-eyed -- he could just imagine what she must think of him right now. Insolent, maybe, for grabbing her. And an idiot. Definitely an idiot.

    Regardless, he asked with her bandaged hand in his, ¡°What is this?¡±

    She pried it free; her stare shifted to a scowl. ¡°It¡¯s not important. You should leave alone things that don¡¯t concern you.¡±

    Had he just met Ainsel, and had he still feared her, William would have obeyed without question. But instead, he pushed.

    ¡°On the contrary, I find this very concerning.¡±

    Ainsel let out another scoff; the shivering sense that he recognized as Clarity registered where his body met hers. It fell like rain between them: cool at first, then showering, and he wasn¡¯t certain if it was hot or cold. He could have whispered it -- Soil¨¦ireacht -- and savored it, spell-charmed and honey-sweet, were Ainsel not injured again.

    ¡°Let me see,¡± he urged, caution in his tone, lest he anger her. She gave no protest and made no move to stop him.

    When William peeled the bandage away, he remembered her near death not in images, but in fractured feelings: confusion, anxiety, grief, illness, then focus shattering them all. He knew that he had already linked the right pieces: the salt, the noises, and now this. Still, he had to be certain.

    ¡°Tell me what this is from and I¡¯ll fix it.¡±

    Her gaze lowered, perhaps in shame, perhaps in embarrassment.

    ¡°Salt. I touched salt.¡±

    It was just as he had worried, and worry was less than fear, for the salt in his desk was much less than pure. In the pocket of his fleece pajama pants, he reached for what he hoped would be there; relief dawned once he found it. William withdrew the triskele rune, and in the gentlest grasp he could, he cradled her hand.

    From his deepest subconscious, as though practiced and perfected at every moment of every day, flowed the incantation that he needed.

    ¡°Leis an cr¨¦af¨®g.¡±

    By the land.

    ¡°Leis ¨ª gr¨¢sta.¡±

    By her grace.

    ¡°Leis an solas sna r¨¦alta¨ª.¡±

    By the light in the stars.

    There was no instantaneous healing -- instead, the redness of the blisters lessened, and she breathed a sigh soft as autumn¡¯s breeze. William wrapped the wound once more, knowing that next the gauze was unraveled, her skin would be clear.

    She turned from him and kicked her feet up on the coffee table: a small message, but one that William read easily. I¡¯m fine. I don¡¯t need help.

    And yet, he was not done pushing. ¡°Why would you pour salt on my windowsill?¡±

    ¡°I think you should stop provoking the dangerous faerie.¡±

    ¡°I think you¡¯re only dangerous if you want to be.¡±

    At that, Ainsel fired another glare over her shoulder. ¡°It doesn¡¯t work like that.¡±

    ¡°Aren¡¯t we past the point of how things are supposed to work?¡±

    He hadn¡¯t meant it to be funny, yet it drew from her that ghost of a smile -- and from him, a flicker of hope. At least he had taken her pain. And he did not mean this, either, but he recalled holding her: Clarity was far from uncomfortable. Looking upon her, he wondered at what she felt. Did such calm really tell him that she, on some level, yearned for its effects, or was he projecting? He had to be, he told himself. Besides, if he admitted to finding it pleasant, she could make assumptions that had no business being in either of their heads.

    The thought of her mind reading reappeared. Maybe that was his own neurosis, and still, it would fade if he focused on something else. He took hurried strides to his room, where he retrieved his laptop and draped the charger over his bent elbow. Upon his return, he froze again: Ainsel¡¯s glare had resumed, her eyes black ice. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    ¡°I thought you¡¯d just left,¡± she said.

    ¡°Wait, you want me here?¡± It slipped out before he could stop it.

    ¡°We were having a conversation!¡±

    Beneath every manner in which he should react -- yielding to a faerie¡¯s wishes, for one -- annoyance flickered.

    ¡°No, we weren¡¯t. I asked a question; you evaded it.¡± If William¡¯s mind had been elsewhere, he would have marveled at how unafraid of her he¡¯d become. Instead, he sat beside her and opened his laptop, but kept his attention on Ainsel. ¡°So, why the salt?¡±

    ¡°Fine! You weren¡¯t protected enough. That¡¯s why.¡±

    ¡°Protected from what?¡±

    She laughed -- actually laughed at him -- and shook her head in clear disbelief.

    ¡°Tell me you aren¡¯t serious. Don¡¯t you know what¡¯s out there?¡± She held up her fingers as she listed each name. ¡°Redcaps, pookas, the Dullahan --¡±

    ¡°Ainsel. Stop.¡±

    She did, a baffled, exasperated grin lingering on her lips.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have goblins, shapeshifters, or headless horsemen in my backyard.¡±

    ¡°But you had me.¡±

    He hoped that his tone didn¡¯t betray the further drop in his mood¡°That was different. And don¡¯t think that I¡¯m ignorant regarding the Unseelie. You can have mercy and repay debts just like the Seelie --¡±

    ¡°Alright, Liam, you stop.¡±

    His obedience could not have been hastier if Ainsel had used his real name to quiet him.

    ¡°There are no Seelie and Unseelie courts anymore. Did you not listen when I told you? We¡¯re called other things now. Death-aligned, life-aligned, unaligned. That is what the rebels did. That is why my people wanted to restore the monarchy. Nobody likes change.¡±

    ¡°They wanted their existence dictated by a king and a queen?¡± William¡¯s common sense failed him for the dozenth time; how someone could reject that change in particular was lost on him. ¡°Look at my country! Look what we did to everyone around us!¡±

    ¡°It was safer than some usurper who¡¯d come out of nowhere! England is not the same as the Realm, so don¡¯t act like it is.¡±

    William addressed Ainsel¡¯s home as she did: there was greater, darker power in its name than in those of human beings. ¡°The Realm should be free. All nations should.¡±

    ¡°Is this your naivety or your guilt over English history talking?¡±

    The jab sunk in and stung, leaking venom. For several seconds, he could not answer. Of all the insults and accusations, he hadn¡¯t expected that.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have guilt,¡± William said. He spoke both in words and in faltering pauses, barely daring to ask, ¡°What happened? We were getting on so well.¡±

    At that moment, Ainsel¡¯s anger disintegrated. There was no resolve left in her posture, no outrage in her expression. She hunched forward, clenching her jaw as though stifling tears; her hair fell in a curtain to shield her from view. Her silence lasted so long that he thought she might not respond at all, until she whispered.

    ¡°I¡¯m the one with guilt.¡±

    William wasn¡¯t sure he should say anything. But to make her feel ignored was a risk that  he couldn¡¯t afford -- and a hurt he couldn¡¯t inflict.

    ¡°Why might that be?¡±

    ¡°Because it¡¯s true. And I didn¡¯t do it alone.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t do the bad thing alone.¡± He repeated it less for her and more to sort through the mess of information. Little by little, he moved nearer until there were mere inches between them.

    She stayed right where she was. ¡°When... when I was thirteen, I followed this group. I guess we saw ourselves as rebels, too. They were older than me, but we were all...¡±

    ¡°Children,¡± he finished.

    ¡°Yes. There were these factions after the Minister took over. The courts remained, but smaller. In secret. And they still do. They have territories and everything, right under his radar. The Unseelie, my faction, wanted power again. I was the youngest, but they agreed when I...  when I came up with a plan.¡±

    As William listened, so close to Ainsel that he could smell the wool of her jumper, pieces of the mystery began to align. First, there were the courts. Then, rebellion. Revolution. Against that, a counterstrike. And Ainsel had been at its head.

    And with a single whisper, the world stood still.

    ¡°So we took a changeling from the Seelie court. He was only eight.¡±

    The barrier holding back torrents of emotions at once splintered. They crashed down upon him and shattered into thousands of shards -- despair, loss, confusion, the urge to break down and cry -- then those shards broke too, leaving questions in heaps.

    She had switched two lives and split two families.

    She had swayed others who should have known better.

    Somewhere on Earth was a faerie growing up in an alien place; in the Realm, a human lost among warped time and customs that weren¡¯t his and folk who might treat him terribly. And here beside William was someone who had suffered the poison of her secret for thirteen years. Every time he had ever lied to his parents or to Thomas paled. To hide for that long, and to hide something of such a scale, he could not begin to understand how it felt.

    He didn¡¯t trust himself to speak without his voice trembling. Rather, he reached forward; palms upon her cheeks, he nudged her chin up. Their contact burst with showers of Soil¨¦ireacht sparks. The way she looked at him -- no walls, no dishonesty, no hostility -- made his breath catch in his throat. He drew her in close; instead of resisting, she leaned into him, her head tucked against his neck. So many things could have surprised him then, and what did was her warmth. Perhaps, last he¡¯d embraced her, he hadn¡¯t noticed that she was warm as any person, even with her links to fall and winter. Why he noticed it now, he could not say, for the realization blinked out and another replaced it: Ainsel wasn¡¯t pulling away. He hadn¡¯t destroyed their connection.

    ¡°Ainsel,¡± he murmured. ¡°Remember what I said about you? Before we went shopping? You have this incredible sense of right and wrong. And despite all the torment you¡¯ve covered up, you keep trying day after day.¡±

    A muffled sound slipped from her, halfway between a groan and a whimper; he held her tighter, closer., and continued.

    ¡°You survived the hounds. You saved yourself just as much as I did. I admire that.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t hate me?¡±

    ¡°I could never hate you. First off, you were so young then. And second, the effects that a war must have on a teenager... It¡¯s no wonder something rash was done.¡±

    In sudden uncertainty, he winced -- would she think he had called her rash? -- but she grasped his shoulders, reassurance that she wasn¡¯t angry.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she mumbled.

    ¡°I know. And that¡¯s not all.¡± He hesitated, not certain he should say this. ¡°You¡¯re unlike anything I have ever dealt with. I don¡¯t make friends; I don¡¯t open up to people. No one but Tom understands me. Yet, in less than three weeks, you¡¯ve made your place here and I¡¯ve gotten so used to it. I want you here. I admit that. Do you believe me?¡±

    With her sleeve, she wiped her eyes and did not once try to disguise it.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± she said. Then, ¡°I believe you.¡±

    A great weight was lifted, and he hadn¡¯t realized it had been there until it was gone. Such was his relief that he did not consider his next admission.

    ¡°And you are beautiful a way I have never seen any human be. It¡¯s like magic.¡±

    ¡°Beautiful like magic?¡± she repeated, sitting up; her brows raised. ¡°Careful...¡±

    Only then did it register how he¡¯d sounded -- what he¡¯d said. Heat crept up his face.

    ¡°Ainsel?¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°You should sleep.¡± He swept the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around her to stave off any protest, but none came.

    She wore it like a cape, and as William took his laptop from the table, Ainsel curled against his side. Anxiety rose and fell in waves -- should he let her? Would it add meaning to his statement that shouldn¡¯t be there, or was that meaning there already? He thought again of a calming chamomile tea, but moving now would disturb her.

    And so, there he stayed, typing message upon message in his class chatroom as though nothing was any different.

    ???

    Under night¡¯s cloak, a neighborhood away, Thomas struggled to concentrate on his World of Warcraft quest through Arthur¡¯s barking. It was a heavy, deep sound with a growl at its center, cutting into the howl of spells and clashing of swords. Barking was not unusual in his house, even that which sounded like a threat. Thus, Thomas¡¯ focus held steady.

    Until, that is, the noise wouldn¡¯t stop. Thomas huffed, left his character up a tree to avoid enemies, and marched to the living room. There, the dog who preferred chewing shoes and startling rabbits to looking threatening paced. His ears were pricked, his tail high, as he watched something unseen from the window. Every several seconds, the rumbling core of his calls morphed into snarling.

    ¡°Arthur,¡± Thomas urged, his voice low. ¡°Hush.¡±

    Where normally commands were law, that was not the case now. His dog took a fleeting glance back, as if saying, Come look! Now! The whites of his eyes showed. That was fear -- and for Arthur, it was far from normal.

    Though he¡¯d never needed to use it, Thomas kept a baseball bat under the couch. He slid it out, gripped it tight, and crept to the window. Arthur pressed against his leg. Light poured out onto the lawn. Thomas should have at least seen signs that someone had been there, but instead, he saw nothing. And if someone were there, the motion alarm would be shrieking.

    He gave his companion a nudge and said, ¡°It¡¯s okay. Just an animal.¡±

    The barks and snarls turned to whining; Arthur¡¯s ears lowered, then his tail.

    ¡°It¡¯s almost one,¡± he pointed out, as if he¡¯d receive an answer. ¡°Let¡¯s get to bed.¡±

    Bat still in hand, Thomas made his way slowly toward his room; pausing on the threshold, he checked that Arthur was following -- but to no avail. The dog had settled on the couch, chin atop massive paws.

    He breathed a sigh, turned off his lamp, and climbed into bed. Minutes became hours. Arthur¡¯s pacing stretched long into the night; sleep never did come.

 Twenty-Seven

    Evening had descended on the Sea of Solstices in swaths of rose and amber and fire where the sun was setting. Glitter stars dusted the sky behind clouds, some soft as wisps and others cotton-ball puffs. They drifted ever so slowly past in the same winds that bobbed the ship back and forth as T¨¢rlach¡¯s magic held it on course. Since Fedelmid¡¯s visit, T¨¢rlach had put more and more distance between them; for that, Johnathan had to be grateful.

    He had left his coat in the captain¡¯s quarters and stood at the bow; elbows resting on the railing, breeze brushing his ruffled collar, he breathed the tang of salt. It smelled like freedom: this far out, if they didn¡¯t want to be found, then they wouldn¡¯t be. And the farther they were from the Minister¡¯s assistant, the fewer chances they¡¯d have to antagonize each other. She had been the catalyst to their latest fight, after all.

    The faerie, in typical fashion, appeared right behind him and plucked Johnathan¡¯s hat from his head. Johnathan turned, scowling.

    ¡°Give it here,¡± he said.

    T¨¢rlach shrugged, slid it on, and set it just crooked enough to mimic the roguish attractiveness of storybook pirates. He grinned a glimpse of jagged canines, as if to tease: Look at me! I¡¯m better than you!

    Johnathan didn¡¯t take the bait -- he never did.

    T¨¢rlach joined him in leaning on the railing and stargazing.  ¡°Given any more thought to their request?¡±

    ¡°Only thought I¡¯ve had,¡± Johnathan replied, ¡°is to go somewhere they will never find us. I¡¯ve had my fill of government corruption and Unseelie antics.¡±

    ¡°Corruption?¡± T¨¢rlach laughed, at once wry and genuinely amused. ¡°You don¡¯t often throw that one around, do you?¡±

    Johnatha¡¯s tone stayed serious as ever. ¡°No, I don¡¯t. Have you changed your mind about evading the Minister¡¯s people?¡±

    ¡°Of course not.¡±

    There came another pause, this one heavier than the last. Johnathan, suppressing a shiver from unease and not from cold, locked his gaze on his friend¡¯s.

    ¡°If we didn¡¯t need to evade them before, we sure need to now.¡±

    ¡°T¨¢rlach... what did you do?¡±

    In a tone of feigned calm, he said, ¡°Threatened her.¡±

    ¡°Threatened her?¡± Johnathan snatched his hat back, disbelieving. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°After how she insulted you, you think I wouldn¡¯t?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not my personal guard! Don¡¯t be stupid!¡±

    T¨¢rlach snorted in annoyance. ¡°I told her the same thing I told you -- I don¡¯t expect his rule to last. It¡¯s not democracy itself I¡¯m opposed to; it¡¯s the Minister. Someone should take him down a notch, and all of his little cronies with him.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re saying that should be us? Make up your mind.¡± Johnathan could not help how dry his voice sounded, nor did he want to.

    ¡°That is not what I¡¯m saying.¡±

    ¡°Then what are you saying?¡±

    The wind, by now, had picked up speed; it whipped the water into choppy waves and spread seafoam over the surface. T¨¢rlach stepped away from the rail and began to stalk in a circle. Johnathan tucked his hat on against the cold, watching.

    ¡°All I mean... is that someone, be they us or some rebel, should expose the Minister for what he is. A greedy, egotistical, fame-driven piece of shite. He blindsides the courts, then he ¡®frees¡¯¡± -- T¨¢rlach held his fingers up like quotation marks -- ¡°his country, and everybody loves him. Oh, he¡¯s so pretty! So bonnie and fair and wise! But peek beyond the flowing hair and fancy new uniforms, and you¡¯ll see the truth. He won¡¯t listen to what the citizens want, or so I¡¯ve heard. Don¡¯t you agree with me?¡±

    Johnathan, out of nowhere, found himself worn down by his friend¡¯s ranting.

    ¡°Yes. Yes, I do. Just listen a moment.¡±

    ¡°Fine...¡± T¨¢rlach¡¯s hands came to rest at his sides. ¡°Talk.¡±

    Before he spoke, Johnathan chose his words with great care. ¡°Going to war wasn¡¯t my choice. Almost being killed wasn¡¯t my choice. And being revived wasn¡¯t my choice, either. Now, I can choose. So, I¡¯m choosing peace and quiet over this failure of a situation.¡±

    A silence fell between them, filled by the steady rushing of the sea.

    ¡°Even though we have to run,¡± T¨¢rlach said at last, ¡°I really hate doing it.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± However much the Taking was not his fault, an apology felt right.

    ¡°I understand.¡± T¨¢rlach gave Johnathan a pat on the shoulder, an unspoken promise that all was forgiven. ¡°It¡¯s your turn to listen to me, alright?¡±

    ¡°Alright, if you¡¯re not going to be stupid again.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d assume this is smart enough. Johnny, after two hundred years, you know the Farraige just as well as I do.¡±

    ¡°Right, and don¡¯t call me Johnny.¡±

    ¡°Whatever. My point is, how about you choose where to go?¡±

    Johnathan, indignance forgotten and arms crossed, turned to face him. ¡°Are you so sure that won¡¯t end in disaster?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m positive. Clarity and I can handle whatever destination you decide.¡±

    The beginning of an idea flickered, just a candle flame in a storm, but there nonetheless. He guided T¨¢rlach down the stairs and into the captain¡¯s quarters; behind them, a single thread of light snaked out and swung the door shut. As his friend reclined in his velvet armchair, Johnathan pulled open the top drawer in his desk. It was packed to the brim with scrolls; they remained as crisp as they¡¯d been all that time ago, most bearing minor dents and frayed edges. All except for one. He tugged free the ribbon holding it and let it unfurl across the desk.

    ¡°Come here,¡± he instructed -- politely, of course -- as he picked up a pen and inkwell.

    T¨¢rlach approached, the glamour fading from his hair one shade at a time. Ginger locks deepened to forest green. Gazing down upon the map, he began to smile. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Their home was drawn in strokes crisp as Clarity, as though Johnathan himself had seen through the eyes of magic when he had charted by T¨¢rlach¡¯s guidance. To the left sat the Realm¡¯s mainland, a broad shape the top of which drifted apart, piece upon piece. Like a pointing finger, the lower half tapered, then curved, and cradled within was a grouping of islands. East stretched the Sea of Solstices, vaster than the sky, deeper than the mainland¡¯s oldest caves, and it reached to the torn landmasses of the west. War had not torn them so, but the power of the planet, heaving from the inside and shattering continents and melding them anew. And it was the west, not the east, not the barren north or ice-encrusted south, that sent chills pouring over Johnathan¡¯s skin. There, in the center of the right hemisphere, were the British Isles.

    But they weren¡¯t the British Isles.

    These were Y Tir Drych: the Mirror Lands of the neighboring Kingdom Annwn, from whence came fae to Wales of Earth. A great many tales were told as to why they looked the way they did. From creator gods¡¯ jokes to prophecies of doom, Johnathan did not believe them. But there was no Wales here -- not in Annwn, and not in the Realm, the name of which was written on the east and brought curses if spoken aloud: Tir na n¨®g. The Land of the Young.

    Even further west, the sailors couldn¡¯t chart. Unless, that is, they died. Beyond what they dubbed the Lifeline, a dotted path on Johnathan¡¯s map, lay an area of emptiness. Both knew, for T¨¢rlach¡¯s childhood stories had warned him, that within this void where nothing was drawn lay Tech Duinn: the House of the Dark Ones. The land of the Dead. Perhaps it was only a portal from Bitu, the Living Planet, and perhaps an island in its own right.

    Nowhere near Tech Duinn did Johnathan place his pen. Instead, he trailed it back to the middle of the Sea of Solstices.

    He motioned for his sextant, adorned with magnifiers and triangular besides a curved bottom, then his chronometer, mistaken often for a pocket watch. T¨¢rlach plucked both from the deskside bookshelf and handed them forward. From a lower drawer, Johnathan produced a black lacquer box of cleaning cloths. He wiped each part of the sextant, and he shined the chronometer, and he placed them aside.

    ¡°Those are for later,¡± he muttered. ¡°Now. Look.¡±

    His pen nib rested, dry, by a pair of numbers directly on the East-West Boundary. All that accompanied them was a dot, but in T¨¢rlach¡¯s eyes gleamed sudden intrigue. Eagerness to belittle the Minister became eagerness for risk.

    ¡°You want me to take us to Equinox Point?¡±

    T¨¢rlach spoke with a wondering whisper in his voice, and by it, Johnathan felt the pull in turn. If their minds were the keys and danger was the lock, then Equinox Point was the door. The island sat at the crux of the Realm¡¯s most perilous trans-hemisphere route. There, mountains rose, black and jagged, from waters as cloaked in secrecy as the real-life mythos of the fae. A glass-plane surface hid crevasses said to have swallowed a continent. Currents with the gravity of the Sun gulped ships that strayed too close. The tales told of the Mirror Lands were unsettling, but these -- these were nightmarish. And when Annwnic traders sailed east, they would first face the freezing south or the northern gales, all to avoid Equinox Point. The Supreme Minister¡¯s vessels were nothing compared to the trade fleets of Annwn: because they didn¡¯t dare try the Point, neither would he.

    In two words, Johnathan summarized. ¡°It¡¯s perfect.¡±

    T¨¢rlach dug his nails into dips in the desk varnish left by decades of picking.

    ¡°So why are we sitting around here?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s going to take a lot of magic,¡± Johnathan said. ¡°You know that.¡±

    With another laugh, the faerie clapped him on the back. ¡°But I¡¯ll have you right by my side, won¡¯t I?¡±

    ¡°Just as always,¡± he sighed. ¡°How long do you need to prepare?¡±

    ¡°Eh, give me two days.¡± T¨¢rlach opened the door to leave, admitting a rush of chilly air.

    Johnathan, as he lifted a half-empty bottle of rum from the shelf, said, ¡°Wait.¡±

    ¡°What now?¡±

    ¡°No matter how much I complain, this is how things are. And you might be enormously annoying, but --¡± Here, he hesitated. ¡°But, like hell I would ever change it.¡±

    T¨¢rlach, with a smirk and a wink, closed the door behind him. As night fell in earnest, the traitor and the traitor¡¯s savior awaited their chance to flee.

    ???

    Shadows and moonlight dappled the Minister¡¯s office. In silver-prism shards, it streaked down through glass and stretched across the room; the tree trunk table was the brightest, illuminated by a moon at its zenith. And without the sun, darkness danced in corners and around edges, against faces and after movements.

    The day had ended with the palace¡¯s highest level being blocked off. Guards lined every possible passage, unquestioning; wonder as many might what was happening in the locked office, nobody asked. Only the Minister and Fedelmid were present, and neither spoke.

    Before him sat a tall stack of papers, and a short stack, and a blank scroll. He took a paper from the former, read it, and placed it atop the latter. After that, he wrote on his scroll, feather plume swishing as he did. Though his expression was hidden, tension grew in the air with every cycle. It was a sickly feeling, which needed no words; being near him was enough to prove that his mood balanced on the brink of a storm.

    ¡°Fedelmid, listen.¡±

    She straightened her posture, at attention. ¡°Sir?¡±

    The Minister cleared his throat, slid free the first paper he¡¯d seen, and read out loud.

    To our collaborators, the People¡¯s Supreme Ministry of the Realm:

    As promised in our last communication, we have gathered the information asked of us. After interrogation of Target Manchester Twenty-Three, we can tell You who is involved.

    The branches with current direct involvement are English, Irish, and Scottish.

    Our Northern Irish branch is likely to know but has not acted. They may act without prior instruction if Dublin Command Center is endangered.

    The Welsh branch is, for now, unaware. If the Taking culprit crosses the Welsh border, Dublin will order Cardiff into the investigation.

    Onto what we have gathered about the culprit.

    General location: England.

    Exact location: Unknown.

    Gender and approximate age: Unknown.

    Origin and species: Death-aligned faerie of the Realm.

    Probable affiliation: Unseelie Monarchist faction.

    Probable political motivation: Disrupt the Seelie Monarchist faction and unbalance the Realm¡¯s democratic party.

    Probable emotional motivation: Revenge.

    From Agent Avery and Officer Leary, we will be in touch.

    Fedelmid watched, wide-eyed, as her leader tossed the letter down; it landed on the table and fluttered in his wake when he began to pace.

    ¡°COURT is aware of rebels¡¯ dissent, sir?¡± she asked.

    ¡°I kept their knowledge from you for good reason.¡± He turned on his heel, clasped his hands together, and stared up at the unforgiving moon. ¡°It would have worried you. I couldn¡¯t have my assistant doubting me, could I?¡±

    Fedelmid scrambled to answer. ¡°No! No, sir. I would never doubt you. How dare these monarchist scum undermine our rule --¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡±

    Flinching, she fell silent.

    ¡°You are in no trouble for Johnathan¡¯s disobedience. That one has had problems with authority from the start.¡±

    Fedelmid had not told the Minister of the pair¡¯s threats; she didn¡¯t plan to.

    ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± she whispered. Then, ¡°Minister, sir?¡±

    ¡°Go on.¡±

    ¡°Johnathan is English. And the Taking monster fled there. How the fates align.¡±

    A faint, cool smile appeared on the Minister¡¯s lips. ¡°Morrigan blesses us. We will tell COURT to monitor the Welsh and Scottish borders. Regarding our lands, it¡¯s time we renew a search that has lain dormant for far too long.¡±

    ¡°What search? Sir?¡±

    His smile grew while his tone darkened. ¡°Twelve years have passed since we stopped looking. The human changeling hid well back then, and he will hide better now, but we will look closer. He may even remember who took him, which I plan to ask him. Under one condition, Fedelmid.¡±

    ¡°What is it?¡±

    ¡°That once we find him, our questioning does not resemble interrogation. We don¡¯t want our people knowing of rebel factions. No, we want to stay in their good graces, right? Off with you, now.¡±

    He motioned to the door; Fedelmid stood, curtsied low, and crept backwards toward it, so as not to turn away from him. On the other side, one guard opened it; three more guided her out. And before her, they swung it shut with a thud that rolled like thunder.

 Twenty-Eight

    In the grass, there was blood. Ainsel swallowed the taste of bile. The liquid trailed from where she stood -- at a red splatter across a scuff in the ground -- to the bushes lining the far end of Liam¡¯s property. She stared into them, waiting for any rustle, any twitch, beyond the brushing breeze. There came none. Whatever was among the leaves must be dead. But she had to be certain.

    Ainsel checked again that the gardening gloves she wore were fastened firmly to her sleeves. She had duct taped them in place to prevent any salt from touching her skin. The canister in her hand required more protection than a fifty-pence plastic shaker: this was the posh sort, and purer. Already, she¡¯d poured quarter-sized piles along the fence. Now, she held it at the ready, breath bated.

    Dried undergrowth crunched beneath her boots as she followed the blood path. Wind swept through the trees, making them groan. Ainsel jumped; Soil¨¦ireacht flared free and wound around her in circles. She started to reach with her hand to peel back the bush¡¯s branches, then grabbed a stick thick enough and used that instead.

    The smell was horrendous. It rolled forth in waves of rotting-meat stench, like the mound of flesh and cloth and bone at her feet had festered for weeks. She guessed that it was maybe the size of a fox. Right then and there, she wanted to be sick. Even her magic withdrew thread by thread. Ainsel braced herself before prodding the thing with her stick. Poking it made it squelch. She turned away and retched, but her mouth was dry and now she could taste the reek of death.

    Letting clean wind wash over her, Ainsel took a pause. Moments later, dread pulsing through her at every heartbeat, she knelt to inspect it. The head, though intact, was so covered in blood that she couldn¡¯t discern any features besides wads of matted hair. It might have been grey, judging by roots showing through their coating. Her eyes traveled further down the body; what she¡¯d first thought was cloth was actually clothing. If the tunic had been this torn before the creature died, she couldn¡¯t be sure. Its hat caught her attention anyways: long, pointed, and scarlet.

    She coughed hard enough to shake her shoulders and burn her throat. Liam had promised that such things were far from his home -- yet, here was a redcap crushed beyond immediate recognition.

    There were no bite marks, only fragmented shards of bone jabbing through the skin around its joints. Best as Ainsel could tell, it either had been hit by a car or fallen from a tree. Regardless, she would have to bury the thing. She¡¯d done enough without spreading some unknown disease to the fauna of Earth.

    Ready to vomit all the while, she scraped out a hole by hand -- thank the gods for gloves -- then pushed the broken body in. It landed with another shudder-inducing shlop and another wave of meat-smell. She gritted her teeth and swept dirt in to cover it.

    Even the woods were silent as she slowly stood.

    Ainsel grabbed the salt and sprinted at full speed toward the house. She reminded herself of a child running to their room after a horror movie -- but unlike the other night, her fright was more than justified. On the threshold, she emptied the canister before locking herself in safety.

    Her shivering calmed and the sense that more goblins were lurking outside relented. She sank onto the sofa, where she wrenched off the gloves, tape and all, and glanced about for something to do with them. Tossing them in the wash wouldn¡¯t do; a mixture of blood and dirt had congealed on the fabric. Instead, throwing them out would have to work.

    Ainsel made for the kitchen, where the window prism¡¯s reflections were absent, thanks to thickening clouds. She dumped the gloves in the trash bin, already forming a lie for when Laim saw them there. The redcap had just been roadkill on the pavement -- that was close enough. The thought gave her an odd twinge: by now, she and Liam should be telling each other the truth. But she¡¯d seen how his anxieties tugged at him. It was there in the way he¡¯d watch her when he knew she had a secret. And it lingered when he wasn¡¯t saying something that he needed to say. Ainsel could have told herself that she was irritated whenever he didn¡¯t communicate. Yet that, too, would be a lie. It wasn¡¯t annoyance: it was worry.

    She had too much of the latter to begin with. In her few weeks here, she had come tp link peace with chamomile tea. As such, she grabbed it from the cabinet, started the kettle, and lightly shook the flowers in their half-empty jar while waiting for a boil.

    Once the tea was made and the mug clasped in her hands, Ainsel slouched into a seat at the table. She kicked off her boots -- black leather, not dirtied suede -- to await Liam¡¯s return. Attempts to keep from thinking about what she¡¯d found outside failed.

    What did it mean that a redcap had been in the yard? Had it, like she wanted to believe, been injured elsewhere and dragged itself? Still, that raised the question of why. Why this yard in particular?

    Often, war brought the goblins. They flooded in droves to battle sites and contested borders -- Ainsel had heard, thirteen years prior, that the Anglo-Scottish line was notorious for them. A phrase flickered into memory: red ground. When a place saw violence to such degrees, the Unseelie believed that its ground would stain red.

    Liam¡¯s property was no such place.

    Unless...

    Ainsel sat straighter, gazing at nothing. Almost dying was sufficiently violent, wasn¡¯t it? Was it her fault that such a being had died here, too?

    A deeper, darker idea floated to the surface -- that it had been sent.

    Right away, she dismissed that fear. Redcaps were the same to her people as they were to Liam¡¯s: animals. Things to be eradicated. But beneath the fear lay paranoia: after all this time, had someone from the Realm located her?

    ¡°No way,¡± Ainsel murmured. She slurped her tea and didn¡¯t care that its heat stung.

    There was no way someone could know that she¡¯d grown sick of hiding in her own home and sought the Seelie Court¡¯s portal cairn. The cairns¡¯ use was not even mainstream nowadays, what with advancement of newer portal techniques.

    Gravel crunching snapped her to the present. Images of last night played across her mind: his hand on her chin. Her leaning on him. Falling asleep on him. The fact that she¡¯d admitted her crime at all was dangerous. Not because of what she¡¯d done, but because he cared. Ainsel only hoped that he didn¡¯t care in the way she thought he might.

    The door swung open; she jumped, almost spilling her tea.

    ¡°Morning, Ainsel,¡± Liam said, his arms full of reusable grocery bags.

    She mumbled a greeting and reached for one. He set the rest on the table; they stayed side by side, unloading groceries in heaps. Ainsel inspected them, marveling occasionally at how strange they were -- plant collagen powder, brazil nut butter, kelp noodles, vegan cream cheese. She hadn¡¯t known that companies made vegan cream cheese, and seeing the sugar content, imagined it tasting like frosting. And why would anybody make noodles out of kelp? The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Liam handed her a cucumber that must have been as long as her arm.

    ¡°Could you get the plastic off of this?¡±

    Ainsel nodded once, peeled the wrapping away, and stepped to the rubbish bin. There,

    she froze. The lid had never closed, revealing the gloves. She flipped it shut, avoiding a crisis, and placed the cucumber by the fridge. Liam bundled the bags together and gave her a smile.

    It was such an ordinary scene that Ainsel found herself waiting for something to burst in and dismantle it -- either a horde of redcaps, or some revelation from Liam himself. The former would be far easier to handle.

    ¡°Liam?¡± she asked. ¡°Are there any shops around here that sell knives?¡±

    He looked up from stowing his totes under the sink. ¡°Like a pocket knife?¡±

    ¡°No. An iron one.¡±

    Liam paused, closed the cabinet door, and stared hard at her. ¡°Isn¡¯t iron...?¡±

    ¡°Deadly? Yes. But I know how to work with it.¡±

    ¡°Well...¡± He shrugged and rested against the counter, tapping the edge. ¡°I mean, I can ask Tom if he has one you can borrow... Why do you need an iron knife?¡±

    ¡°So I can defend myself.¡± And she added, ¡°Duh.¡±

    ¡°But you have your magic,¡± he countered.

    ¡°I can¡¯t always use that. What if I¡¯m in public? What if I¡¯ve run out, or I --¡±

    ¡°Alright. I understand; you need a weapon. What I don¡¯t understand is, why iron?¡±

    For a lightning split second, Ainsel wanted to shout at him to mind his business. Instead, she took a breath, maintaining calm.

    ¡°Why?¡± he said again, and now, jagged panic edged his voice. ¡°Ainsel? Do you have faeries after you?¡±

    The air seemed to leap with energy, bright and nervous. Her calm became forced.

    ¡°It is only a precaution. Don¡¯t jump to conclusions.¡±

    Liam was silent, his position that of deep thinking -- fingers clasped, shoulders hunched, elbows on the countertop. When he did speak, his eyes bored into hers.

    ¡°Jumping to conclusions is the last thing I¡¯m doing.¡±

    Ainsel knew, in that moment, what people meant when they said something evaded them. He was implying something; the closer she came to grasping it, the further away it slipped. The feeling trapped her between reason and wild theorizing. Again, Ainsel wished that he would say whatever it was.

    But he didn¡¯t grant her wish. Instead, he made his own tea without a word and retreated to his room rather than facing her. Ainsel would not stand for that. She marched after him; Clarity caught the door before the St. John¡¯s wort barrier was completed. Liam¡¯s look of defeat lasted an instant; he sat at his desk, quiet, and sipped from his mug.

    When she realized that she hadn¡¯t planned this far ahead, Ainsel had nothing. She perched on the edge of his bed, glanced about, and picked up a pink stress ball from the nightstand. It sank like foam beneath her touch, then sprung back to shape.

    Finally, she could bring herself to ask, ¡°What did you mean by that?¡±

    ¡°By what?¡± He slid his laptop from his desk drawer, opened it, and began typing.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have to specify. Tell me.¡±

    ¡°I just... I just don¡¯t want to assume anything about what you think of me.¡±

    Ainsel¡¯s immediate response was to scoff. Her heart climbed into her throat. ¡°What do you suspect I think of you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve got no bloody clue; that¡¯s the whole point.¡± Liam squinted at his laptop as if trying a bit too hard to appear focused.

    ¡°Fine.¡± She kept a casual, if rather offput, tone -- with any luck, it would sound that he¡¯d bothered her over something minor.

    ¡°Right,¡± he said, and their silence returned with a heavy helping of awkwardness.

    ¡°Liam?¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°How long do you want me here?¡±

    He looked up, one brow arched, autumn-sea eyes glinting. ¡°Haven¡¯t we been over this? You said that you¡¯d stay however long is safe for me, and nothing has changed. I¡¯m really as safe as I ever was.¡±

    ¡°Are you, though?¡±

    ¡°And what¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±

    Ainsel could not answer. She stared at the stress ball and gave it another squeeze.

    Liam must have thought that she wouldn¡¯t hear, for he muttered, ¡°Oh, Christ¡¯s sake.¡±

    He then set his laptop aside, stood, and shook his head. The entire time, he watched her, and though well aware, Ainsel kept her head low.

    ¡°All I want is to make things as close to normal as they can be. If you¡¯re going to stay from now on, then great! I¡¯ll make up whatever cover story Tom and my parents will believe!¡± Liam held up his finger, stopping her from interrupting. ¡°It¡¯s enough of a miracle that you haven¡¯t hurt me, and you wanting to be here -- you trusting me -- that is completely uncharted territory. I just need answers, Ainsel, please.¡±

    ¡°I have given you answers!¡±

    White light flared. Strands of Soil¨¦ireacht snaked from her hands. Liam paled and stepped back; they inched away before vanishing.

    It could have been seconds and could have been minutes before either of them moved. Ainsel bit her lip and swiped her sleeve across welling tears.

    ¡°I have given you answers,¡± she repeated, subdued.

    He shuffled forward, hesitated, and sat beside her. She couldn¡¯t quite decide whether it was Clarity or nervous energy that sent sparks bursting between them. Either way, she didn¡¯t budge a centimeter, lest they come any closer together.

    ¡°I need more.¡± His voice was gentle now, each word crafted from the same hush that the fog brought to the forest. ¡°I need to know why you¡¯re so adamant on staying. And what you think of me, though I don¡¯t expect you to be honest yet. Not about the last part.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s... it¡¯s so easy. Being here. It¡¯s like...¡± Her breaths began to tremble -- the second warning sign of crying, right after wet eyes, without fail. Nevertheless, she pressed on. ¡°Like I can do something good because I¡¯m in a good place. You don¡¯t want to see what the Realm is. Everything is ugly there. Even if it looks lovely, it¡¯s so ugly.¡±

    ¡°This is a good place to you?¡±

    The thread of surprise through his tone was something Ainsel had expected: she didn¡¯t belong here, and yet, felt as if she did.

    ¡°It¡¯s better than the botched revolution I ran from.¡±

    ¡°So you are running.¡±

    Ainsel could have slapped herself. ¡°It was a slip of the tongue!¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh. Sure it was. At least it explains one of my questions. You¡¯re staying because nothing has come after you, and I¡¯m alright with your company, so you can relax here. Now, the other one.¡±

    If Ainsel had been on edge before, then now, she was tumbling straight off of the cliff. She couldn¡¯t help herself: a grin spread across her face, and a laugh sputtered out, halfway stifled. Liam was visibly perturbed, which made her laugh more.

    ¡°This is ridiculous!¡± she managed among gasps and giggles. ¡°I¡¯m a criminal, and an enemy of the state -- not to mention, a faerie -- and we¡¯re acting like a pair of school children! ¡®Oh, what do you think of me, Ainsel? Why aren¡¯t you killing me in my sleep?¡¯ Grow up!¡±

    Only when Liam winced, breaking eye contact, did she realize how nasty she had gotten. Again, she swept away tears.

    ¡°Liam? I didn¡¯t mean...¡±

    He didn¡¯t ask permission. Instead, he tucked his arms around her waist, and his head against her shoulder, and stayed there, clutching the draping fabric of her jumper. In this moment, there was nothing -- no Clarity, no fear, no rationality to tell her that the idea she had was terrible. So, without the latter to guide her actions, she did just as he had: she placed her fingers under his chin and nudged him so he had to look at her. Before he could pull back, in she leaned until her forehead met his. The touch felt like rain; Ainsel knew full well what he expected her to do.

    That would be worlds too far.

    ¡°Let me help you with something,¡± she said. ¡°Anything at all. I¡¯m a lot of things, but I am no freeloader.¡±

    His response sent brushes of whispered air across her skin. ¡°Healing. You can assist me in healing. And gathering supplies from the woods. There¡¯s useful stuff out there, you know. Stuff that can be infused with magic --¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t ramble,¡± Ainsel whispered.

    He stopped, and his gaze trailed down toward her lips, and Ainsel¡¯s sense of rationality snapped awake. She almost tripped on the carpet as she retreated from the bed. Liam seemed dazed, perhaps struggling to process what had happened. Though she knew that she should have apologized, at least, Ainsel fled to her room.

    Luck willing, he¡¯d not find her sobbing the morning¡¯s frustration into a pile of pillows.