Dreams and Shadows (6 page)

 

CHAPTER NINE

T
HE
B
OY
E
WAN
P
REPARES THE
H
UNT

T
he nearly seven years since Ewan Thatcher had been abducted were not particularly kind to him. The ward of Dithers the Bendith Y Mamau, he was not what anyone in their right mind would consider
cared for
. Thin, gaunt, and covered head to toe in boyish dirt, he was slightly malnourished, rarely cleaned, and relegated to a cot of hay on a cold, chalky stone floor at night.

Despite this, Ewan—still as quiet and complaint free as ever—managed to find something worthwhile in everything about his life. Today, for example, was the day that Dithers was taking him along on a hunt. It would be a great day—Ewan knew it in his heart. There was no breeze to give away his scent and it was still early enough in the season that the Texas sun had yet to choke the air with hundred-degree heat. Ewan crouched silently in tall grass, crawling on all fours, so close to the ground that his deerskin tunic was the only thing separating flesh from soil.

Dithers's head poked through the grass behind him—the Bendith clearly much better at hiding than Ewan. He sniffed the air. Crawling up beside Ewan, he gestured deliberately. Two bunny-eared fingers atop his head. A hopping fist. A finger across the mouth. Two fingers to the eyes. A point to a nearby tree.
Rabbit
.

Ewan nodded.

BANG!

A sound clattered over the hill, echoing through the woods. Ewan looked up.

Bang! Sputtersputtersputtercough.

They listened intently, hoping the wind would carry a sound or two. Dithers perked up.
Crushed gravel and a few mechanical ticks.
A devilish smile crept slowly across his lips, revealing a twisted row of teeth overgrown with yellow plaque and specks of rotting animal flesh. Ewan's eyes grew wide with excitement. The sound was unmistakable now.

“Campers?” Ewan asked excitedly.

Dithers nodded, bringing a stiff, shushing finger to his mouth. “Campers,” he whispered. He paused for a second, trying to plan through his unbridled exhilaration.
Think, think, think. What to do? Who to tell?
“Quick!” he said. “Get on my back.”

Ewan sprang to his feet, bolting to Dithers, who in turn threw his arm around Ewan's waist, slinging him over his back like a sack. Wrapping his arms tightly around the Bendith's thick, burly neck, Ewan held on for dear life. The Bendith lunged forward like a firing rocket, bounding off rocks and fallen logs, staying airborne as long as possible. His clawed hands grasped branches, swinging them ever higher, racing upward, until the two soared limb to limb some twenty-five feet above the ground.

There it was, along an old, abandoned back road in the distance: an ancient, avocado green Volkswagen Thing. This boxy, angular, postwar convertible monstrosity puttered along with its top down, a pair of scantily dressed, tattooed twenty-somethings arching their backs over the folded-down canvas roof, sunning themselves as their male companions sat smoking up front. The car overflowed with camping gear and there was no doubt where they were headed. Campers called it Devil's Whisper Rock. The local fae had another name for it.

The Great Stage.

This was the Hill Country, thick with trees, dense with brush. It was still a mostly untamed wild yet to see any real development. The land was almost virginal, rich with energy. Much of that energy settled and flowed through a valley between two large hills, collecting into something of an ephemeral river—a bubbling stream of magic pooling at a rocky outcropping where the veil was thin. On moon-soaked nights, appearing before mortals was easier there than any other place in the region. Stories, passed down from person to person, evolved over time into modern legend about the things you could see and hear at Devil's Whisper Rock—sometimes in the hushed tones of someone afraid to be taken as crazy, other times in the boisterous drunken chorus of someone shouting, “You'll never believe what I saw once!”

It was a night much like tonight . . .
most of those stories began. More often than not, the stories were just fragments of dreams the teller would swear were real. But then, there were the other times.

Times like tonight. Dithers would see to that.

His smile grew wide enough to swallow Ewan whole. He came to an abrupt stop atop a hulking branch that looked out over the valley. “You smell that, boy?”

Ewan sniffed the air, smelling nothing but Dithers's sweltering, rotten breath. He shook his head, despite being out of Dithers's line of sight. “No.”

“You'll catch wind of it soon enough. It's strong stuff. Pungent.” Dithers sniffed at the subtle wafts of smoke on the breeze.

“What is it?” asked Ewan.

“It's the smell of a weak mind. Slow. Lethargic. Easy to spook. It makes it easier to see us.”

“Why would we want them to see us? I thought we were supposed to stay hiding. Me more than anyone else.”

“Normally, yes. You more than anyone else. But not tonight. Tonight we hunt.” Dithers paused, thinking for a moment. “Here's what I want you to do. I want you to run along and collect a few of my friends. Do you think you can do that?”

“Uh-huh!” Ewan spat out eagerly.

Dithers slid down the trunk slowly.

“Okay,” said Dithers over his shoulder, the poetry of his words becoming melody and the melody of his words becoming magic. “Four friends I task you to bring to me, and four friends you shall find. Tarry not, speak not a word, and every order you must mind. First race on through the meadow, then over the limestone hills, to fetch for me my closest friend, the Buber, Nibbling Nils. Tell to him the details, then quickly on your way, for three more friends you are sure to fetch before the end of day. Then on down the foothill, and over through the yard, and fetch for me my other friend, Aufhocker Eberhard. Then on to Dragana, that dancing girl you like, and tell to her that her favorite song she shall dance again tonight. But not all my friends you've found just yet, for there is one last still, find for me the elusive one, the Shadow we call Bill. And once all four you've told at last what we shall do tonight, the six of us will have our fun and hunt by the moonlight.” Dithers smiled and nodded, looking back at Ewan. The magic was clearly seeping in; he could tell by the look in Ewan's eyes. “Now, who are you gonna bring me?”

Ewan gazed upward, searching for the names. “Nibbling Nils, Bill the Shadow, Dragana, and Eberhard.”

“And if you see anyone else?”

“Keep running.”

“Right. And if anyone asks you a question, what do you tell them?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. Now, go get 'em, boy.”

Ewan hopped off Dithers's back, tearing off on his quest. He knew the way; he'd been to the haunts of all four so many times he could run it blindfolded. Dithers hadn't a single doubt in his mind about Ewan getting back in time. He was a good kid, hungry to prove himself. But now it was Dithers's time to shine; he needed to stalk this new prey, keeping any other fairies away until nightfall. Tonight he was going to prove his worth to his friends; tonight would be a fine hunt.
Tonight
.

T
ONIGHT THEY WERE
hunting campers!
And Dithers trusted him enough for a special mission all his own.
This was the most exciting thing ever to happen to Ewan. He wasn't going to screw it up. Not one bit.

Well-worn animal trails honeycombed the forest, all of which he knew like a good cabbie knows side streets. The problem wasn't how to get to the four haunts he was assigned—it was how to get there without crossing the haunts of others. Some were frightening, others charming. A few were even fairly tricksy. The one he was most afraid of running across, however, was the Old Man. The Old Man was ancient; the Old Man was wise; and worst of all, the Old Man loved humiliating others. There was nothing the Old Man would love more than to ruin the hunt. Ewan could not let that happen. So he could not go anywhere near the Old Man's hunting grounds.

Stupid Old Man
.
He was going to ruin everything
.

Okay, stop thinking about him,
Ewan thought. He knew better than to focus his thoughts on a spirit as powerful as that. Some spirits can be summoned just by saying their names aloud, others just by thinking about them. He huffed and puffed his way up the hill, rounding the top, almost running smack into someone.
OH CRAP!
The Old Man!
Ewan was cooked. He just knew it.

The Old Man smiled down at him, a mischievous expression on his wrinkled face. His skin was a coppery brown; his hair was long, knotted, and jet black, streaked with stray grays; and despite his apparent age, his muscles were firm and taut. He wore a deerskin tunic much like the one Ewan was wearing—only adorned with more fur and soiled from years of outdoor living. “Hello, Ewan. Don't worry, I'm not going to give away your secret.”

“What secret?”

The Old Man raised an arm and wryly pointed a stiff finger past the hill. “I believe you'll find Nils over in that direction.” He smiled shrewdly, then folded in upon himself, transforming into a coyote. A foot taller than the average coyote, its salt-and-pepper mane was thick, full, and glistened when struck by the sun. Trotting off, he disappeared behind a tree, never to emerge from the other side.

Ewan couldn't wait until he was old enough to learn that trick.

Nibbling Nils.
Ewan regained focus and once again took to the trails, eager to find himself the crotchety old Buber before the crotchety old Buber found him instead.

 

CHAPTER TEN

T
HE
Y
OUNG
C
HANGELING
K
NOCKS

N
ixie Knocks the Changeling was born in the rain under a starless black sky. The moment he opened his eyes he saw her.
His mother
.
Caitlin
. She was beautiful, her eyes big and brown, her hair henna red. The very first thing he could remember was the patter of raindrops on his face. The rain was cold but her tears were warm; that's how he could tell the difference. After three days of sobbing over her stillborn child, rocking and cradling him, praying for him to stir, he'd awakened. He looked up for the first time and saw her, his hunger hollow and angry, crying out for his mother to feed him. He loved her so much it hurt; he loved her so much he fought his way to the land of the living. And when she quickly bared her breast to suckle him, he bit down with all of his might.

She screamed. It was then that Caitlin knew exactly what he was. And she hated him; she hated him with every fiber of her being. Knocks knew hatred's flavor better than anyone. He could eat pain, he could live indefinitely on fear, but he couldn't eat hate. His stomach couldn't take it.

She threw him to the ground, screaming, “Aodhan!”

It was then that Knocks first met his father. Tall, muscular, handsome. He rushed to his wife's side, placing a caring hand on her delicate exposed shoulder. “What is it, my love?”

She pointed at Knocks, refusing to look at him. “Fetch the Bendith.”

“But, Caitlin . . .”

“Fetch him,” she demanded with a choked sob. “That is not your son.”

Knocks writhed on the ground, drinking his mother's pain. It was the only thing she would ever give him.

Dithers wasted no time. He took one look, nodded knowingly, and threw him over his shoulder. “What should I bring you?” he asked Caitlin.

“Bring me a son. One strong and noble and deserving. One worthy of Sidhe parents.”

Dithers nodded silently, carrying Knocks off into the night. But as he made his way to the edge of the forest, he found it blocked by a massive stone of a man: Meinrad the Limestone King, Green Man and Leshii of the Balcones Canyonlands.

Possessing no skin or flesh, he was head to toe tan and yellow limestone instead, beset with flecks of gray and clear quartz, sprouting green flowering bushes where a man's beard and hair might be. He stood seven feet tall, but walked with a crook in his back from years of his weathered stone settling in. His eyes and mouth were recesses in the rock, his nose a knobby pecan branch with green budding leaves growing into the bush of his beard. Meinrad shook his head, wagging a protesting finger. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To fetch Caitlin a new child,” said Dithers.

“That is not Caitlin's child. Her child was poisoned by its mother's vanity and died in her womb. This is a changeling. This child belongs to the court. It belongs to the Limestone Kingdom. And you know what must be done with it.”

Dithers shook his head. “I don't know, King.”

“It is time you did your duty for the court, as many Bendith have done before you. You must fetch us a child. A child we can raise as
one of our own
. Do you understand?”

Dithers nodded.

“You know what is being asked of you?”

“I do.”

“And you know what will happen if you fail?”

Dithers gulped silently. “Yes.”

“No one must know. No one.”

N
IXIES DON'T WRITE.
They've never had a need for it. So when the other fairies heard them speak of the changeling—
Nox,
meaning “night,” named for the night he first came to the nixies—they heard it as
Knocks
. The changeling, who knew not the difference, wouldn't protest until he was far older. Sometimes names just happen. Such was the case of Nixie Knocks the Changeling.

“Mama, I'm hungry,” said Knocks, all of four years old.

“I know, baby,” said Laila. “Mama's gonna get dinner for you.”

“But I'm hungry.”

“Mama knows. Stay here and don't let anyone see you.”

Laila was the eldest of four sisters. And while her younger siblings Annalise, Elke, and Rebekka had all agreed to adopt Knocks as a group, Laila was the only one he called Mama. To him they were all his mothers, but there was only one
Mama
. And Laila took that honor very seriously. So it was she who took charge of his feeding. While he wasn't hungry often, Knocks was a handful when he was. Downright dangerous even.

Nixies don't look like ordinary women. Their skin is a pallid green, smooth and scaly, their smiles lined with razor-sharp, needle teeth with which they feed upon fresh fish. Instead of legs they have large, powerful tails that pound them through the water at incredible speeds. And much like Knocks, they possess the ability to shroud themselves in glamour and walk amongst the city dwellers unnoticed.

Laila stepped away from the tall grass along the shore, putting a stiff finger against her lips to remind Knocks to keep quiet and hidden, then slipped silently into the water. Her skin grew pale, then rosy, her hair shimmering a golden blond; her breasts swelled, stiff nipples poking out through the thin pink fabric of her bathing suit. Her eyes grew large, her lashes long. She smiled big and bright, treading water in the lake just beside a biking trail, lying in wait.

Within moments a biker happened upon her. He was fit, tattooed, straddling an expensive, showy mountain bike. Skidding to a stop by the water, he looked out, giving her a flirty smile. “Swimming alone?”

“Unfortunately,” said Laila with a hint of disappointment.

“Boyfriend a no-show?”

“No,” she giggled. “I don't have one. My friends. They canceled.”

“That's a bummer. A pretty girl like you shouldn't have to swim alone. I'd join you, but I don't have a suit.”

Laila smiled. She reached back with a single hand, undoing the tie on her bikini top and flicking it off in one fluid motion. Without missing a beat, she shimmied out of her bottoms, tossing the wadded-up suit onto the shore with a wet
SLOP
. “There. Now neither do I.”

The biker managed a single kiss and a hand swept up the inside of her thigh before he found himself drowning beneath the waves. Knocks crouched on shore, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists, savoring the agony of each gasp for air. The man thrashed beneath the surface. He was strong and a good swimmer, but Laila was stronger.

The fear. The pain. The desperation. Knocks's hunger began to subside.

When the man had finally given up and the lake was allowed to claim him, Laila secured his body to the bottom with a tangle of lakeweed and swam back to shore. She stood over Knocks, dripping wet and smiling, stroking his cheek. “There, there. Is that better?”

Knocks nodded.

“Good. Now, let's get his wallet and go shopping. Mama wants a new dress.”

B
Y THE TIME
he turned six, the nixies realized that they could no longer keep their adopted son around the lake. Stories cropped up about a ghostly child lingering around the spots where people had drowned. Other tales whispered of an ethereal, disembodied giggle heard as grown men flailed for their lives. And while the authorities never took any of these claims seriously, the nixies had noticed an uptick in interlopers searching for the Ghost Child of Ladybird Lake; that was attention they could no longer ignore. So by a vote of three to one the nixies decided to leave Knocks in the Limestone Kingdom—which was where he now resided. Laila, the only sister to vote against abandoning him, followed him out to the court, raising him among the fae of the Hill Country.

And he hated it there.

The Limestone Kingdom was far from the hustle and bustle of the big city; far from the traffic snarls, the hulking stone buildings, the excess of weekend nights. There were no shootings, no stabbings, no drunken date rapes. No homeless lay suffering on the corner, no despondent teens slit their wrists over self-centered teenage crushes. No children were beaten, abused, or humiliated in any way. There was almost no one around at all. You could walk for miles before seeing a living, breathing human being—and even then all they wanted was to live quietly, as far away from the beautiful chaos of the big city as possible.

There wasn't a drop of delicious dread anywhere to be found. It was like living in a world without oxygen, and Knocks was desperate for a single breath of misery. He knew what drowning felt like; he knew better than almost anybody. And that's what this was. They were slowly drowning him in a lake of emptiness.

His only respite was his nightly swim with Laila. Together they lay there—floating in the middle of a spring-fed lake—staring up at a field of stars so vast it strained the eye. When those stars reflected off the lake's crystal sheen, it was like floating deep in the murky void of space—stars everywhere, swallowing them whole, an inky, airless vacuum with only Laila's comfort staving off suffocation. Only the thin ring of trees surrounding the horizon served in any way to dissolve the illusion.

“Mama, I saw them today,” he said one night.

“Saw who, sweetie?”

“Aodhan and Caitlin. My parents.”

“You can't be sure it was them.”

Knocks furrowed his brow, giving his mother a stern look, as if she should know better. “It was them.” She stroked his head, nodding, acknowledging her mistake. “I hate them. I hate them so much.”

“Oh, honey, you shouldn't hate them.”

“They threw me out like the trash and asked for
him
instead.”

“You know the rule. We don't talk about him.”

“But, Mama—”

“But nothing,” she said, squeezing him tight. “You are not
him
. You are Knocks. And if those self-centered prats hadn't tried to trade you in, I would never have gotten the son I always wanted.”

“I still hate him.”

“You have to control that, Knocks. We don't survive by letting our instincts take over. We only survive by being smart. He's not smart like you. He has his own cross to bear. You remember that. One day you'll look back and be thankful that you're not him.”

“Okay, Mama.”

“Don't
okay, Mama
me. You say
yes, ma'am.
”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“That's better. We should be heading in. The sun's coming up.”

The two swam to the edge of the lake, making their way to shore. In the breaking rays of the morning light he looked down, glimpsing his own reflection. Though it was clearly him, all he saw was a bent, broken picture of Ewan. His eyes were mismatched, one clearly larger than the other; one of them tilted forty-five degrees to the side. His hair grew out in patches, the same brown color as Ewan's, but shaggy and worn, split ends fraying over spots of scabby, balding skin. The front of his skull was larger, with a bulbous, elliptical tumor of flesh growing out of the side. Both ears were ragged and tattered, chewed up, gnawed down like a cat that had been in too many fights. Worst of all were his teeth—crooked, rotten, and worn—the incisors tilted at a forty-five-degree angle opposite his eyes, creating a discordant symmetry.

Perfect, special little Ewan.
With his perfect tangle of brown hair and his perfectly aligned eyes and his perfect, perfect, perfect smile.
Knocks simmered quietly, but Laila glowed, putting a loving hand on his shoulder.

“See what I mean? You're so handsome. You don't look anything like him.”

A
T FIRST HE
thought little about his appearance; after all, his mothers had always held him close, stroking his hair, telling him how beautiful he was. But the fairies of the court of the Limestone Kingdom were very different creatures. From far off, they offered a wave or a smile, shouting a stout, “Ho, Ewan,” before getting close enough to realize their mistake. For a moment Knocks would drink in their heady confusion, the stomach-turning angst generated by the changeling's visage. But as revulsion gave way to pity, his hatred for these creatures only grew.

He was nothing to pity; he was not a monster. And if only he had been born to Laila rather than the hollow, loveless womb of that stuck-up Sidhe, he would never know what any of this was like. Instead, he lived near a walking reflection of what his life could have,
should have,
been. Any other court in the world, and his life would have been different. But Laila wanted to be close to her sisters. And for that he almost detested her too.

T
HE SUN WAS
already high in the sky. It was perfect out, and no matter how many times his mother told him, he couldn't stay away. Knocks couldn't help himself. He skulked near the pair as they hunted rabbits out on the outer fringes of the kingdom. And when he heard them talk of the night's plans, he giggled silently, giddy at the prospect. Ewan would be given the chance to prove himself in front of a pack of watching adults. Knocks could not let an opening like that pass without incident.

It would be glorious. He would humiliate him, lay in wait for just the right moment to spring a trap that would prove once and for all that while Ewan was the prettier, Knocks was by far the craftier, the more dedicated, the most worthy of celebration. Ewan might be the shining star of the day, but the night belonged to Knocks. And as he thought about his chance, a familiar fire sparked, smoldered, and finally blazed within his belly. Tonight he would satisfy that blaze; tonight Knocks would feel the last of the lingering pity that belittled him in front of the others.
Tonight
.

There was only one way it could be any better.

Mallaidh.