Dreams and Shadows (23 page)

“I know,” he said, nodding.

“A year.”

“Yes.”

“One. Year,” said Ewan with a single pointed finger.

“I get it,” said Colby, beginning to feel frustrated.

“You know what we need to do now?”

“What?”

“We need to get you a girl.”

Colby laughed. “Does Nora have a friend?”

Ewan looked on, staring off in thought. “You know . . . I don't know.”

E
WAN AWOKE WITH
a start from a knock at the door that sat him up straight in bed. He'd been dreaming of small men again, which always made him uneasy the following morning. It took a moment to ascertain where he was. It was light out and he was in his bedroom. Everything else must have been a dream.

Staggering out of bed and into the living room, eyes bleary, hair a jungle of bed head, he looked to the couch, expecting to find a sprawled Colby, still passed out from the night before. In his place rested a neatly folded blanket with a pillow placed squarely on top. Atop that was a note.

Thanks for the couch. You can have it back now. —C.

Another knock.

“All right, all right. I'm coming.”

The door was barely open before something sprang through. It leapt upon him without warning, its legs wrapping firmly around his waist, its arms wrapping tightly about his neck. “Ewan!” it exclaimed. Confused and faltering back, Ewan tried to adjust to the weight clinging to his center of gravity. As his eyes focused, he found himself staring into a pair of big, tawny brown eyes.

Nora smiled, and then kissed him square on the mouth.

“I told you I'd find you.”

Ewan put both of his hands firmly on her tiny waist, and then set her down gently.

“How did you . . . ?” he began.

“Sssshhhhh,” she said, putting a single, delicate finger over his lips. “I have a secret to tell you.”

“What?”

She looked both ways, pretending someone might be listening. Then she leaned in close, kicking the door shut behind her with a light shove, and whispered like a schoolgirl. “I'm magic.”

“You're magic, huh?” he whispered back.

She nodded.

“And what kind of magic can you do?”

“Apart from finding the boy I like?”

“Yeah, apart from that.”

“I can convince that boy to carry me into the bedroom and make love to me without saying anything else.” She cocked a curious brow and let his hormones do the rest. He reeled for only a moment before scooping her tightly into his arms, kissing her, and walking her into the bedroom without their lips separating once.

E
WAN'S BED WAS
a frameless mattress atop a box spring on the floor, pushed into the farthest corner of the room to get the most out of the available space. He sat upright in it, his back against the wall, a worn-out old sketchbook a few pages shy of retirement in his lap. His pencil worked furiously, once again drawing the young girl.

Beside him, Nora stirred in bed, stretching out into an adorable catlike yawn that gently knocked the covers off her body. She rolled onto her side, propped her head atop her hand, and watched silently as Ewan drew. His eyes were unwavering.

“You're drawing her again?”

“Yeah,” he said without looking up. “I guess I am. I wasn't thinking about it really. Just letting my hands go at it.”

“Where do they come from? The images, I mean.”

“Dreams, mostly. I get these faint glimmers, almost like memories. And then they're gone. I draw them to hold on, to try to capture the feeling of those dreams, those glimmers.”

“Who is she?”

“I don't know, someone from the dreams.”

“Someone special?” she asked.

Ewan thought deeply for a moment, hesitating before answering. “I don't remember her. But she feels special. There's this hole in my heart every time I draw her; you know, a sick sort of feeling. Like she's someone I lost.”

“Like the girl of your dreams?”

Ewan narrowed his eyes and scowled a mock frown. “She looks like she's nine.”

“Love knows no bounds,” she said in all seriousness. “Neither time nor space can keep two people's energies apart.”

“You don't really believe that, do you?” asked Ewan, laughing a bit at the thought.

“Without question,” Nora said sternly. “Love is the most primal force in the universe. It inspires us, pulling us over otherwise insurmountable obstacles. Art is created to exalt it, children are born of it, and entire lives are devoted to seeking it out in the most unlikely places.” She smiled—the joy within her at the thought of it all overflowing from her upturned lips and wide, radiant eyes. “Do I believe that an emotion like love can transcend something as irrelevant as time? Yes.”

“But time is a real thing. You can measure it. You can't measure love.”

“That's what makes it more powerful.”

Ewan laughed. “You really are into this whole idea of love, aren't you?”

“My whole life is about love.”

“How can your whole life be about love?” he asked. “How many men have you been with?” The question escaped his lips before he'd been properly able to vet it, though he regretted it instantly. He didn't want to know the answer. This girl was perfection, and he knew he was about to spoil that with the sweaty, pitiless truth.

“How many men?” she asked.

He hesitated. It was too late. “Yes,” he said, squinting tightly, as if that would somehow protect him from it.

“Have I been with?”

“Yes.”

“You,” she said.

“Yes, including me.”

“Just you.”

“No, how many men total?”

“Just one.
You
.”

“Wait, what? No,” he protested. “Seriously.”

Nora wheeled her legs around and sat up, crossing them Indian style before perching both of her elbows upon her knees, resting her head in her hands. She looked directly into Ewan's eyes and spoke very plainly. “Seriously.”

“That didn't feel like a first time.”

“Do you know how long I've waited to find
the guy
to do that to—to do that
with
? That wasn't experience, Ewan. That was
deeper
.”

“So that whole thing about having the power to make boys you like make love to you?”

“It only works on you.”

“Whoa,” he said, his mind blown. “So you're a virgin?”

“Not anymore.”

Ewan looked both excited and scared at the same time. “Why me?”

“When you find a soul as pure and honest as yours—when you find someone whose arms fit perfectly around you and who chases the rest of the world away when they do—you grab on with both hands and you don't let go. If you tell me you want me, Ewan, I'll be yours until the end of your days. And when those days are through, I'll cross time and space to find you again. Time and again. And we'll be together forever, time and space be damned.”

She climbed atop him, straddling him and casting aside his sketchpad. There she pressed her face to his—forehead to forehead, nose to nose, eyes locked, unblinking.

“Do you want me?” she asked.

Ewan nodded slightly, refusing to break his gaze. “Yes.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

“Then I'm yours.
Forever
.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T
HE
L
EANAN
S
IDHE

An excerpt by Dr. Thaddeus Ray
,
Ph.D.
,
from his book
A Chronicle of the Dreamfolk

Unlike the succubus (or incubus) for which it is often mistaken, the Leanan Sidhe is a monogamous creature. Also unlike its vampiric spiritual cousins, Leanan Sidhe are exclusively female. Whether finding their beginnings in the traveling tales of the succubus, or more likely, deviations of tales about mating with Sidhe, it is important to remember that this particularly nasty species of Irish fairy has survived the ages and found a fertile breeding ground in this era, with a counterculture cover masking its activities.

Incredibly territorial, once one has chosen a mate, she will allow no other woman near him. Patient predators and capable shape changers, these fae stalk their prey, learning everything there is to know about him to craft the perfect form with which to seduce him. While they are unafraid to be seen with the men they choose, they will not make a spectacle or show of themselves. They will be quiet and demure around others, outwardly becoming whatever it is their prey desires when alone.

Leanan Sidhe feed upon two things: the sexual energy of a man, and his creative spark. If the man accepts her advances and mates with her, she is his forever; she will love no other, not so much as casting her eye at another man. The man—chosen not only for his virility, but also upon aesthetic criteria pertaining to some form of artistic endeavor—will find himself divinely inspired. He will gush creatively.

The Leanan Sidhe acts as a form of muse, triggering the creative instincts of her prey and unleashing decades of talent into singularly devastating works of genius. She will make no attempt to interfere in his work, no attempt to guide it with her own tastes. If he chooses to sit up all night composing an opera, she will not complain, she will not make any attempt to draw his attention. It is only when he has completed his work that she will once again seduce him and feed off his blend of both physical and spiritual euphoria. A man in love with a Leanan Sidhe is never more productive in his life than when she is with him.

Such is the conundrum of properly classifying this creature. She means no harm to her victim, and she will not raise a finger to hurt him in any way. In fact, she believes that she loves him, though her love is destructive. Not only does she siphon off the dreamstuff of her victim, but the bond of love is so strong between the two that her absence inflicts incredible amounts of emotional suffering upon him. While he pines for her, he creates, but soon finds that the words do not flow so freely when she is away. Deprived of his muse, the victim turns to vice, often alcohol or drugs, but self-mutilation is not unheard of. This vice often acts as the perfect cover for the Leanan Sidhe, as her feeding ultimately leads to the eventual, and inevitable, death of her suitor.

Whether this is deliberate murder has long been cause for discussion. It is entirely possible that the Leanan Sidhe has no inkling that it is her feedings that result in the death of her lover. Some argue that feelings of love and those of hunger are identical to the Leanan Sidhe, that they are indistinguishable from each other, making it impossible for her to even know which she is feeling. The act of lovemaking leaves them refreshed, invigorated and full of life. When their mates die, often midcoitus, they depart, heartbroken, and live in sadness, promising that the next man will be better, stronger, and a more capable lover, able to satisfy them without suffering an early death.

Are they seelie or unseelie? No one is sure. They could very well operate with full knowledge of their activities, entirely self-aware, outwardly expressing shock and dismay at the loss of their lover. They could just as easily be unwitting vampires, operating as muses, unaware that they cause even the slightest bit of harm. Firsthand accounts support the latter. However, considering their education, refinement, taste, and delicate, precise methodology, one has to wonder: how much of that is an act?

Conversely, if she does feel love and does not recognize hunger, then perhaps she really is a muse. After all, the men she loves leave behind some of humanity's greatest works of art: paintings, poetry, sculptures, plays. Perhaps these men contained the right spark to create these masterpieces, but needed a catalyst to bring so much of it out at once. And, as with burning several wicks in the same pot of oil, simply consumes everything he has in one, powerful, bright period of expression.

Locating and tracking Leanan Sidhe can be difficult. The first tales of them come from descriptions of the lovers of several young Irish poets. Irish poets are known for three things: their brilliance, their fondness for the drink, and the beautiful company they were said to keep. Some argue that the myth originated as a superstition surrounding the early deaths of so many of these men. Others claim that these are merely the first tales that were collected of the comings and goings of the Leanan Sidhe.

Today their presence is hard to spot. With media fixation and celebrity status often offered so early to talented artists, it is impossible to tell the fairy from your garden variety groupie. This has led to misidentifications and dead ends in a number of famous cases. During the sixties they were easily able to slip in and out of the scene, taking so many talented counterculture stars with them. Now they have to be more cunning to score a number of high-profile victims before they can slip away again. Comedians, musicians, and novelists often find themselves overdosing on heroin or mysteriously committing suicide, while the women with whom they are seen rarely turn up ever again. Once they're gone, they're gone; photographs and back stories are useless for tracking shape changers.

While Leanan Sidhe are extremely dangerous to their lovers, they are otherwise harmless. There is no known way to ward off a Leanan Sidhe short of refusing its advances or destroying it.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

L
OVERS IN THE
A
FTERNOON

P
lay that song again, Ewan.”

“Which one?”

“The one about your first love.”

“They're all about my first love.”

“You know which one I'm talking about.”

“But you're my first love.”

“So?”

“So are you really asking me to play a song I wrote about
you
?”

“Ewan.”

“Because you know how that sounds.”

“Ew-an.”

“
Play that song about me.
”

“Keep it up. I can go home at any time.”

“And?”

“And I'll be taking all of your favorite parts with me.”

“You do have a lot of my favorite parts.”

“And they'll be gone.”

“In fact, I'd argue that you have all of my favorite parts.”

“Play the fucking song, Ewan.”

“Which one?”

Nora leaned in close, brushing the tip of her nose against his, breathing softly and deliberately. She kissed him ever so slightly on the lips and whispered, “The one about your first love.”

“Oh, that one.” He smiled and strummed the guitar. “The one about the most beautiful girl in the world.”

Nora and Ewan nuzzled on the floor of his apartment, half dressed, passing a lit cigarette back and forth. It was raining, the air heavy with the damp chill of late winter; the sort of gray, cozy, dreary day lovers find romantic. Ewan played, the music effortlessly drifting out of him, lingering in the air. Perfect.

The song ended. Ewan cocked his head, the wheels turning inside. Nora wrinkled her nose.

“I know what's coming,” she said.

“What?”

“You're about to ask me questions again.”

“I was?”

“You were.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Quite certain.”

He shook his head. “How the hell do you do that?”

“See? Questions.” Nora stabbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, immediately lighting up another.

“You always seem to know what I'm thinking, even before I think it. How do you
do
that?”

“I don't know. I just know what you want. I can feel it. I think it's because we were made for each other.”

“You know, most men would freak out if you talked to them like that.”

“Many would, I suppose.”

“No, really. Everything is so permanent with you. Everything is timeless or immortal or forever or made for each other.”

Nora smiled, shaking her head. “No, just us.”

“See, I should be freaking out over talk like that.”

“But you aren't. You love it. In a universe where you feel altogether out of place, I'm the one thing that feels just right.”

“It should bother me that I'm as comfortable with this as I am.”

“But it doesn't,” she said, smiling. “Because we were made for each other.”

“Then why can't you tell me anything?”

“I've told you everything worth knowing.”

“You haven't told me anything.”

Nora shrugged. “That's the point, I guess.”

“I can't be the only interesting thing in your life.”

Nora rolled over and looked Ewan dead in the eye. “But you are. You're the only thing.”

“Who is your
best
friend?”

“You.”

“No, your best
friend
.”

“Ewan . . .”

“I'm serious. Before you met me, who is the person you talked to most?”

“I was never really the friend type. I mean, I spent time with people my own age, but I wasn't really close with any of them.”

“Why not?”

“We have . . . the people I live with, I mean . . . different . . . values.”

“What does that even
mean
?”

“It means we believe in different things. I live out in the sticks. Way out in the Hill Country. You know how folks out there can be. They put a different premium on people. Under the right circumstances some of them are very nice. Under the wrong ones they'd burn you to save their own skin. I can't live that way.”

“Where do you live now?”

“I still live out there. With my uncle.”

Ewan stroked Nora's hair, causing her to cuddle closer. “Not your parents?”

“No,” she said. “I never knew them. My dad died before I was born. My mom left me with my uncle shortly after. I don't remember her at all.”

“You don't remember your parents? At all?”

“Please, Ewan. Don't make fun of me. This is why I don't—”

“Who's making fun? You really don't remember your parents?”

“No.”

Ewan shook his head. “Neither do I.”

A small glimmer of a tear welled in the corner of Nora's eye. She smiled. “See,” she said. “I told you we were made for each other.” The two kissed.

“So you still live out there with your uncle?”

She nodded. The staccato of rain rapped loudly on the window. The storm was getting stronger.

“If this gets any worse, you'll have to spend the night.”

“There are worse fates I could imagine,” she said. “I have the best dreams when I sleep here.”

“What do you dream about?”

“You.”

“What do you dream about when you're not dreaming about me?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“The kind wondering what you dream about. What's ticking inside you, you know?”

“Well, what do you dream about?”

“It's weird.”

“
Weird?
”

“You know how most people dream about things like blue puppies or showing up for school in their underwear or going strange places with people they only know from work?”

“I guess.”

“Well, I don't dream about any of that. I dream about the woods. About running away from tiny men or holding hands with a little girl or monsters made out of rock. I dream about the same things over and over again. They never change. It's not like I dream about these little men chasing me through the city or the supermarket. It's always the woods. I always dream about the woods. And nothing else.”

“What do you think your dreams are trying to tell you?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe they're telling you that you need to leave.”

“Leave? No. I've been having them as long as I can remember.”

“Well, then. Maybe that's what I'm telling you.”

“That I should leave?”

“That maybe
we
should,” she said.

“There's a lot you're not telling me, isn't there?”

She nodded.

“And you don't trust me enough to tell me?”

“It's not that.”

“What is it then?”

“It's things you'd best not know.”

“About you?”

“About where I come from.”

“Why can't I know about it?”

“Because if there are things I'd rather forget, why on earth would I want someone else remembering them?”

“Sometimes weights are better carried by two.”

“You read that on a greeting card, didn't you?”

Ewan smirked, busted. “It might have been a comic strip.”

“You're adorable.”

“You're incredible.”

“Run away with me.”

“What?”

Nora sat up, taking Ewan's hands in hers, staring, unblinking, into his eyes. “Run away with me. We'll take your band to L.A. and go all the way. Let's just get out of here and never look back.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Losing all this.”

“No, why do you want to leave?”

“Because you're never going to be the man you want to be washing dishes in a bar. And I'm never going to be the girl you want me to be living here.”

“You're serious, aren't you?”

“Very.”

“Oh my God. I don't . . . I don't know what to say.”

“Tell me you love me.”

“Nora, I love you.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“Nora, I need you.”

“Tell me you're gonna be a rock star.”

“I'm gonna be a rock star.”

“Run away with me.”

“Okay. After our next show, if we tear the roof off the place, we'll talk to the boys.”

Nora bounced up and down, clapping her hands. “We're going to do this?”

“
If
the show goes well.”

“Then it better go well. I'll do whatever I can.”

“You really want to do this?”

“More than anything.”