Dreams and Shadows (33 page)

“Hold this,” he said. He knelt down to the ground and picked up a small stick, holding it tightly in his good hand. Then he whistled to the two redcaps. “Dietrich, hold my hand and don't let go. Axel!” He motioned with his eyes to his wrist. “Do it now. Don't let me lose my nerve. And for fuck's sake, don't hit Dietrich.”

Dietrich grabbed Knocks's wounded hand, each gripping the other as if they were about to arm wrestle. The two locked gazes, Knocks speaking without looking away.

“Do it now,” he said, before placing the stick between his teeth, biting down firmly.

Axel picked up his pike, swinging it a full 180 degrees to sever Knocks's hand at the wrist. Knocks's scream was muffled slightly by the stick. Dietrich fell backward, the bloody hand refusing to let go. Blood spurted out of the stump.

Knocks lunged forward, jabbing his arm into the flame atop the torch.

He let out another anguished scream, the stick muffling it once more. The damp air filled with the stench of freshly broiled meat, redcaps salivating at their first whiff. Tears ran down Knocks's face, the pain just bearable enough for his anger to keep his stump in the fire. Knocks growled, fighting his better instincts to pull away. It had to cook through to stop the bleeding.

Rhiamon smiled, admiring the needless bravery. She could have healed the stump with a few words and a gob of spit, but
this
was far more entertaining. The years she'd gained worrying about the wound faded away, and she became ever younger the longer Knocks stood screaming before her.

Knocks pulled his arm out from the fire, collapsing on the ground, breathless, his stump steaming, barbecued to a charred, gruesome black. He looked up at Rhiamon.

“Like that?” he asked.

She nodded. “Something like that, yes.”

He laughed—almost maniacally—finding something inexplicably funny about it. “You know what?” he said. “It was worth it. I would go through that a hundred times to see what I just saw.”

“And what is it that you've seen?”

“The blade that delivered this wound run through the girl he loves.”

Rhiamon lost ten more years. “He slew the Leanan Sidhe?”

“He did.”

“By his own hand?”

“Both hands.”

“Oh, then there is no time to lose.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Are we moving up the plan?”

“The council has ruled,” Rhiamon said through seventeen-year-old lips. “You're allowed to kill him. They're raising a war party now.”

Knocks surged to his feet, forgetting the pain. “He's mine!”

“You can have him,” she said, “if you're the first to claim his head.”

“What the hell changed everyone's mind?”

The mood of the room dimmed, growing cold, grim. Dietrich rose to his feet, finally freeing the hand's grip from his own, wiping the blood off on his trousers. He took his cap off, held it respectfully in his hand. Axel joined him, removing his as well. Rhiamon motioned to the redcaps. “Tell him.”

“What's got you two so upset?”

One of them spoke up. “We're not sure we're the right ones to tell you.”

“Spit it out,” said Knocks.

They shook their heads. “You're not going to like it,” said the other.

“You know what?” said Knocks with a laugh. “After the night I've just had and what I've just seen, nothing could bring me down. Go ahead; tell me the genie escaped or that the boy wizard is outside looking for a fight. Nothing can kill my mood.”

The two redcaps looked at each other. Without hesitating they each threw out a match of evens-and-odds. The loser grumbled and scuffed his feet.

“Just say it already,” said Knocks, losing his patience.

“It's about your mothers,” began the redcap.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A
LL
H
ELL

C
olby walked solemnly toward Ewan, words failing him. The world was about to come down on their heads—he had to choose between standing beside his murderous friend or throwing him to the fairies to be torn apart before his eyes.

But seeing him now, all he felt was sadness.

Ewan hadn't moved since collapsing with Mallaidh. He held her, lifeless, in his arms, slowly rocking her back and forth, whispering softly as if to try to gently rouse her from a deep sleep. But she would not wake. Finally Ewan looked up at Colby, his eyes red and swollen.

“I didn't mean to,” Ewan whimpered. “They made me think . . . they made me . . .”

“I know,” said Colby.

“They're coming for me, aren't they?” he asked. “For what I've done?”

Colby nodded. “Yes.”

“How many?”

“Most of them.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Yes it is.”

“How many do you suppose we could kill before they get us?”

Colby's expression hardened, entertaining the thought. “Between you and me?” he asked. “I reckon we could take out a couple dozen. Maybe more.”

“I hope you're not just being optimistic.”

“I'm not,” said Colby.

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“I don't want to kill anyone who doesn't have it coming.”

“They all have it coming,” said Ewan.

“I don't think—”

“They took her from me, Colby.” Ewan looked him dead in the eye. “I never got . . . I never got to show her how much I loved her. This is my chance. I'm gonna kill 'em. I'm gonna kill 'em all. And I'm asking you, will you stand beside me when I do?”

Colby nodded. “I did try talking to them.”

“You did,” said Ewan.

“And they did pretty much tell me to go fuck myself.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means we're probably going to have to kill them.”

Ewan paused for a moment, gazing down at Mallaidh, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “You know what's happening to me, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“I'm becoming one of them, aren't I?”

“You always were,” said Colby. “We just didn't know it.”

“But now?”

“You're becoming a redcap.”

“I can't . . . I can't live like one of those things. I can't keep killing like this.”

“I know,” said Colby.

“You realize that this is probably the last chance we're going to have to talk like this, before . . .”

Colby nodded. “Yeah.”

Ewan looked up. “If you had it to do over again, I mean, if you could go back, knowing what you know now, would you still do it?”

“Save you? From them?”

“Yeah.”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Even if you knew it would come to all this?”

“Yes,” said Colby. “Even with all this.”

Ewan smiled. “I used to get pretty down about having only one good friend. I always looked around at the popular kids with dozens and thought something was wrong with me. Turns out something
was
wrong with me, but one friend was all I really needed.” He looked back down at Mallaidh. “What do we do? With her, I mean.”

“We send her back to where she belongs.”

“How do we do that?”

“Like this.” Slowly, Colby knelt beside the two, putting a hand on Mallaidh. He closed his eyes. Mallaidh exploded into a beautiful puff of orchid petals, the sweet smells of summer and a glimmer of sunlight accompanying the off-white remains to the ground.

Ewan's eyes grew wide. He hadn't expected her to be gone so soon.

“Gather together the petals and bury them,” said Colby.

“Do you think she would mind if I carried them around with me?” asked Ewan. “Just for tonight?”

“Mind? She spent her whole life looking for you. I think she'll take all the time with you she can get.”

“So what now?”

“Now,” said Colby, “we go downtown and see what sort of trouble we can get into.”

I
T WAS AN
hour before dawn when the two swaggered into downtown. All was silent, everything bathed in a soft, orange, halogen lamplight glow, the city long since dormant, its bars locked up hours before. On the horizon, a ridge of clouds obscured the western stars, creeping over the sky toward the center of town. There wasn't a soul about; even the angels had fled to their own private roosts, trying to hurry forth the dawn with a steady flow of wine. The two were alone, walking fearlessly toward their fate, neither with a word to say to the other.

Turning a corner they found themselves walking into a thick, knee-high fog. It swirled, thinning into a wispy mist, vanishing completely around their shoulders. From within the mist emerged a dark figure, his face obscured by a large-brimmed hat, under which he smoked a thin, hand-rolled cigarette. Bill the Shadow.

Ewan breathed deeply, his eyes wide, childhood memories nearly causing him to wet his pants. For years, Ewan had suffered nightmares about this man. Now that his memories had returned—Swiss-cheesed though they were—he recognized the lingering shadow for what it was. He'd thought the fighting would begin more dramatically than this, but so be it. Cautiously, he lowered his pike, ready to strike.

“Bill,” said Colby.

“Colby,” said Bill.

“Good to see you.”

“You too.”

“Odd night for a walk,” said Colby, looking around.

“Yep, I reckon it is. Heard there might be a ruckus. Haven't had me one of those in a while. Thought I might stick around and see what yours looked like.”

“You're more than welcome.” He motioned to Ewan. “You know Ewan.”

“Kid,” said Bill, tipping his hat to him.

“Bill,” said Ewan, nodding back, uncertain what to make of him.

Colby leaned in toward Bill, speaking softly, “Have you seen Yashar?”

Bill shook his head. “No. No one has.”

There came a stiff bark from the fog, accompanied by the dull clicking of claws on concrete. A golden retriever, his fur matted and ruffled, a small, snarling cluricaun straddling its back, appeared. It was Old Scraps. The wily cluricaun smiled, a small, homemade pike—nothing more than a long cast-iron piece of pipe with a butcher knife wedged into it—in his hand. He nodded politely, pledging his support.

“Thought I'd bring a friend,” said Bill.

“We could use friends,” said Ewan.

“That's the rumor. Way I hear it, Ruadhri's bringing every Sidhe on the plateau, and most of the unseelie court.”

“That's a lot, isn't it?” asked Ewan.

“Oh yeah,” said Colby, “that's a lot. Especially for the four of us.”

“I don't know about that,” said Bill. “It depends on how
bad
things are about to get.”

That phrase sounded familiar.
Bertrand.
Colby smiled wryly. “Am I on the right side of this?”

“If you weren't,” said Bill, “we wouldn't be here.”

“Well, then,” said Colby with a wry smile, “let's go get some pissed-off angels.”

Fat Charlie's Archangel Lounge was only a few blocks away and extraordinarily packed for this time of night. The four stood outside—none of them welcome within—staring into the windows, waiting. After a few moments, Bertrand leaned his head out, and saw them standing there. He nodded to them, then turned around, holding the door open. With a firm whistle, he twirled his fingers in the air, rousing his fellow angels from their stupors.

Out poured eleven drunken fallen angels, each dressed in battered white armor—soiled with age and dinged from a hundred different battles—every one of them carrying a brutal claymore in one hand and a bottle of stiff liquor in the other. Bertrand was the last out the door, a nearly drained bottle of fine Irish whiskey in his hand. “My friends and I heard you might be having something of a rough morning.”

Colby nodded. “It sure looks that way. You boys looking for a fight?”

“Shit,” said Bertrand, “we're always looking for a fight. Especially against anything that pays the Devil's bill with innocent blood.” He turned to his flock. “Boys, drink up. We're gonna kill some fairies.” The angels leaned their heads back, raising bottles to their lips, drinking sloppily. Then, in unison, they pulled away their bottles, raising them into the air, sounding a boisterous yawp before smashing them on the pavement with a resounding shatter. Each angel flapped his wings, taking to the sky. Glass ricocheted off the sidewalk, whiskey splashing Rorschach patterns, feathers gently floating to the ground around them.

The night grew suddenly quiet.

Bill cocked his head, listening to the wind. “They're here.”

Angels lined the buildings along both sides of the street, perching upon the ledges, swords in hand. Bill took a deep breath before exhaling a thick, sticky fog that swept briskly over the streets, snaking its way into alleys, roiling like a sea just before the storm. He breathed and he breathed until he could breathe no more, coughing out enough dewy murk to obscure several city blocks.

Old Scraps trotted his pup next to Colby and stopped, looking up at him. Colby returned the look in kind. “I like you, kid,” said Scraps. “You've got bigger balls than anyone else in this town, that's for sure. I'm proud to have been your bartender.”

Colby laughed. “And I, your patron. You need something to drink before we do this?”

Old Scraps grinned. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “I've been drunk for hours. HIYAH!” He spurred his dog off, disappearing into the mist.

K
NOCKS MINDLESSLY FIDDLED
with the blood-soaked rag tied tightly around his stump, his mind ten minutes ahead of him, in the thick of battle. They had chosen to come up from the lake, traveling alongside the river, outrunning the storm at their heels by mere minutes. Two dozen Sidhe, a handful of redcaps, and a smattering of other creatures slid quietly through the early-morning darkness. Several minutes behind them, a second contingent—nearly twice as large—made their way around the city to outflank anyone who stood with Colby and Ewan.

Knocks hoped the second wave wouldn't need to fight.

They made their way up from the banks, fleetly shuffling from building to building, the air thick and hazy, growing thicker the farther into town they pressed.
Something wasn't right.
Ruadhri sniffed deeply, wetting a finger on his tongue, raising it above his head.

He looked at Knocks, shaking his head slowly. “There shouldn't be fog in this weather,” he whispered, “not before the storm.”

“Sorcery?” asked Knocks.

Ruadhri nodded. “An ambush.” He motioned to his Sidhe, each dressed in dark, loose-fitting clothing, bearing bows and quivers full of cursed arrows. “Fan out,” he ordered quietly, “and keep your eyes sharp.”

The Sidhe split up, several moving to the opposite side of the street. Two Sidhe moved to take point at the front of the group, walking slowly, soundlessly, straight up the middle along the dotted yellow median line. The fog had grown so thick that the air now buzzed with the humming of power lines overhead. There was no other sound.

There came a light whistling—like air passing through something at high speed—then a heavy thump. A shadow descended through the fog, slamming into one of the front-most Sidhe, picking him up, carrying him away into the mist.

The Sidhe let loose a volley of arrows into the sky.

Quietly they waited, listening as their arrows skittered off buildings or clacked against concrete.

Whistle; thump. The second of the front-most Sidhe vanished.

“Volley and fall back!” ordered Ruadhri. The Sidhe let loose their bowstrings again, this time retreating back toward the lake under the cover of fire.

Angels swooped in from behind, slamming into the Sidhe. Several Sidhe bounced off angelic shields, some knocked to the ground, others carried off, battered against buildings or dropped back onto the street from great heights.

Knocks and Ruadhri exchanged troubled looks.
Angels.

Ruadhri swung his arm forward, pointing deeper into the city. “Draw your swords,” he ordered, “and press on. Charge!”

The Sidhe surged forward, slinging bows over their shoulders, drawing longswords. The redcaps charged after them, vanishing into the morning.

Thunder rumbled overhead, the subtle hiss of rain a few hundred yards off. The storm was almost here; they were losing whatever advantage they had. It was time to abandon the plan and simply go all-out. Knocks reached into his pocket, pulled out his stained, dried cap. It offered him no strength, but it made a point he wanted very much to make.
Knocks belonged,
and if he died this morning, he died a part of something.

Knocks gritted his teeth—the pain in his stump far worse than he'd imagined it would be—letting his rage overtake him. He charged headlong into the city, screaming at the top of his lungs.

C
OLBY LISTENED INTENTLY,
scattered skirmishes erupting less than a block away. The fog was so thick, he couldn't single them out, but he could hear swords unsheathed from their scabbards, the clanking of armor landing, the battle moving from the skies to the streets. He and Ewan held the line, waiting for any fairies who broke through.

“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHH!” screamed a familiar voice, its sound growing ever closer by the second.

Colby and Ewan both steadied themselves.

Shapes swelled in the fog before Ewan, but the sound grew loudest near Colby. The two traded one last glance.

Two redcaps emerged from the fog, swinging pikes at Ewan.

Ewan raised his own pike, deflecting both blows, the sudden nature of the blitz forcing him to give ground, retreating back toward an alley, bracing himself for another charge.