by M. A. Grant
“He offered his help. I told him he could visit if he can make it. Things at Court are a little rocky right now.” Like, civil-war rocky, but my folks don’t need to know that. Just like they don’t need to know about my magickal reality until I find the right words to explain it.
“Oh. That was nice of him.”
“He may not make it,” I say, praying she hasn’t already started planning a new and improved menu.
“I understand. But it would be so nice to meet him.” She rises and, out of years’ worth of training, Dad and I stand, too. “I’m just going to go work on my shopping list. Lunch is in the fridge if I’m not back in time.”
Dismissed, my father and I trudge outside. He waits patiently while I tug on my boots and hat. We’re nearly to the barn when he says without warning, “You’re using condoms, right?”
“What the hell, Dad?”
He cuffs the back of my head lightly. “Watch your language.”
“You use worse when you work on the tractor.”
He lifts the brim of his hat and resettles it more comfortably. “That’s because I’m your father and can do what I want. Now, answer the damn question, Phineas.”
“Dad—Ouch! Stop!” I try to dodge the next swing of his hat, but it catches me across the ear anyway. “We aren’t doing...that. I swear!”
He frowns. “Is that normal? I mean, you’re both guys—”
“Oh my God, why are you asking me this?” I moan, wishing there was some kind of escape.
He humphs, but the hat returns to his head. “Well, whenever it happens, make sure you use protection. Safety first, that’s what all the sites say.”
“You haven’t been researching this, have you?”
“I guess I should tell you how relieved I am to know you aren’t going to be bringing home any little surprises anytime soon.” He raises his eyes toward the sky. “All those high school years spent worrying for no reason. Years off my life, Phineas.”
“Dad, I’m begging you. Please stop talking.”
“Fine, fine,” he says, holding up his hands. “Guess we should get started anyway.”
“What’s the plan?”
He points at the backup tractor. Well, what’s left of it, since its innards have been ripped out. Different parts are spread over an old canvas drop cloth on the ground and an ancient repair manual is held open with a box of spark plugs.
I stare at the disaster. “Wow, Dad, that’s... Wow.”
He stands back to watch while I wander the crime scene and tap the toe of my boot against different pieces. If we’re lucky, we might be able to get it back together today.
“Why are you doing this yourself?” I ask when I peer inside the empty cavity for a better idea of the problem. “Was Griff’s shop too busy to fit you in?”
My dad grunts, which I take as a yes. I frown when I notice the transmission box open and begin to poke around. “Want me to give Scotty a call? I bet if Mom promises to bake him some cookies he’d even come out here instead of making us haul this in to him.”
No response.
“Dad?” When it’s still silent, I straighten and glance behind me. “What’s going on?”
He glares at the ground while a frustrated scowl twists his mouth. I haven’t seen him this pissed since the Huskers buried the Hawkeyes. Before I can ask again, he rips the hat from his head in an abrupt motion and drags a hand through his hair. “We need to do the work ourselves.”
“Is this some kind of father-son bonding bullshit?” I joke, but he doesn’t smile.
Instead, he taps his hat against his thigh and replies, “Nah, Phineas. It’s some kind of we don’t have the money to get it fixed bullshit.”
“Oh,” I mumble, ashamed I made him admit it out loud.
He sighs, a deep, weary sound that scrapes on its way out, and gives me a wry smile. “Probably should have told you sooner, but your mom didn’t want to make you worry before the end of term. Once this harvest is done, we’ll be okay.”
“Dad—”
“School’s the most important thing for you,” he reminds me with a pointed finger. “If you want, once you graduate from that fancy college, you can get a nice job to support us in our old age.” He cackles a little at the idea and I try to laugh along with him, but guilt settles in my gut like lead. I can’t keep lying about this.
“Hey, Dad, about that—”
We have the same eyes and he’s as bad as I am about hiding what he’s feeling. Faced with his affection and amusement, I choke on my confession. “Will you and Mom be able to come to graduation?”
A few minutes later, Dad’s sharing their plans for making it out to Mathers for the ceremony, while simultaneously explaining what it’ll take to get the tractor running. I do my best to nod and hum my agreement at the appropriate moments, but I don’t hear a damn word he says. I’m already planning what Roark and I can do to fix this. Maybe I’ll call him and see what spells he thinks we should use so I can start practicing.
Dad taps my arm. “You good, Phineas?”
I nod and force a smile, hating how it pulls at my cheeks. “Yeah, Dad. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
Roark
The poor bastard on the rack has screamed so much that the crack of the flail against his raw back only draws a wheeze this time.
Mother makes a face. “A little higher this time, Grimwort.”
The redcap nods and aims toward the unbroken flesh. I cover my tea with my hand, protecting it from the drops of pale violet blood spattering near us.
“Now,” my mother murmurs as she moves back into her prisoner’s line of sight, “are you willing to tell me what you know about my son?”
I roll my eyes when he starts shaking. There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity and clearly this one doesn’t understand that concept. After an hour of my attention, Mother came down and got involved. We’ve teased out most of the story.
His rank was stripped when it was learned he was dealing moonweed from Queen Titania’s personal garden for enough cash to cover a quick succubus fix. He is familiar with the dealings and backdoor pacts of the Seelie Court, although he hasn’t spoken much about Sláine. Something about my brother’s situation terrifies him enough he’s willing to suffer to keep his mouth shut.
Even now, he doesn’t tell us what we want. Instead, he pleads, “Please, Your Majesty, I don’t know.”
“Tell me how Sláine fares in your mistress’s Court.”
He stammers some weak excuse, one that sends the temperature in the room plummeting with the queen’s bad humor. I take another sip. They always have the best Darjeeling here in the sídhe.
It takes a moment to register that my phone is ringing. Mother gives me a look of long-suffering as I hurry from the room, mouthing silent apologies on my way. I close the door behind me, confused to see an unknown number. “Who is this?”
“Roark?”
The dusty, shriveled excuse I have for a heart spasms at the sound of Smith’s voice. “Smith? Why are you calling me?” I step out of the way of a hob carrying fresh towels and move toward a small alcove for some privacy. “What do you want?”
A muffled scream pierces the halls. Mother must have found a new method to push our guest with.
“You’re still planning on coming back, right?”
I dig in my pocket and check my watch. It’s Saturday outside the sídhe. Shit. This interrogation is taking longer than I expected. But I still have time. He doesn’t leave for Mathers until Monday; I can make it to him before he leaves.
I grimace when the scream changes pitch, crossing into that high keening that means someone’s at the end of his rope. On the other end, Smith falls silent, too. We both remember when he made that noise. And I will ice the world over before I hear Smith sound like that again.
“Guess your mother’s hard at work. Are you helping, or sitting back and watching still?”
I suck in a breath, shocked by the unexpected display of bitterness.
“I... It’s not... I didn’t know you were...”
Smith swears and the weight of my past negligence crushes me. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He clears his throat. “Lyne, how much longer do you think you’ll be there?”
Focus, Roark. “I’m not sure. Things here are...delicate.”
“Well, things here are complicated. Do you think you can meet me soon? I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important—”
Squelching from the hallway. I pop my head around the edge of the alcove and wave at the redcap. “Here,” I call.
From the phone, “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes. Hold on—”
“Your Highness,” the redcap says, “Her Majesty is waiting for you. The prisoner has news about your brother.”
“Smith, I need to go.”
“Roark, please. Help me this time.”
I’m back in that damn room, eye to eye with him. The chains suspend his arms above his head. His chest is a slick of blood, delicate knife work that could only be from my mother’s hand. But it’s his face, Smith’s perfect, untouched face, that’s burned in my memory. Agonized. Desperate. Worst of all is the hope in his eyes when he sees me.
Haunted by that mistake, I scrub at my hair. “I’ll get there when I can. I said I’d make it back in time to help you and I will—”
The line goes dead. Surprised, I check the screen. No, the call wasn’t dropped. He hung up on me. Smith hung up on me.
“Sir,” the redcap says nervously, “Her Majesty awaits.” He scampers off, leaving me alone in an empty hallway.
I should go. Should be there at my mother’s side, her perfect prince, especially as I’m the only child she can count on. But I can’t tear my eyes away from the phone.
Help me this time.
Something about the way he said it. The despair...
The echo of footsteps makes me glance up. Apparently, I took too long. My mother, dress pristine as ever despite the gore dripping off her hands, smiles triumphantly. “We know where Sláine is. It’s time to go hunting.”
“Then let’s finish this quickly.” I click the watch shut and return it to my pocket, along with my phone. I promised him I’d get there. I have no intention of breaking my vow.
Phineas
He isn’t coming.
I force that fear from my head as I do one last check of the tractor’s oil. When I called Roark this afternoon, he was distracted. Makes sense. Torturing innocent people must take a lot out of a person.
Fuck. I can still hear those screams hours after the call ended. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the metal. It doesn’t stop the memories from crawling out of the dark corners of my mind. For a terrifying moment, the heavy scent of cold, damp stone covers the comforting sharpness of cut vegetation and grease.
Don’t go there. I lift my head and get back to work. I’m not there. I’m not trapped in the Unseelie sídhe. I’m not at Mab’s mercy. I’m home, whole, and safe. Roark is busy fulfilling royal obligations, but he’ll be here.
Just like he was there when Mab was carving into you?
Stop. Stop thinking about it.
I shouldn’t have hung up on him. Shouldn’t have made a snap judgment about his motives again. I should have talked to him. At the very least, I could have asked him for advice of what to do in case he can’t make it. The thought of using the ley line on my own, in a controlled, deliberate way, is enough to make my palms sweat.
He promised he’d come. I trust him. He’ll make it.
“Looking good?” my dad asks.
“Yeah.” I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead and pat the tractor. “It looks good.”
“The forecast’s warning that it’s going to start heating up on Monday. I already called Vick and he’s going to come over to help tomorrow. I know we’ll be starting a little earlier than you and I had discussed, but I don’t want to lose the moisture from that last rainfall. Do you mind helping me get the bins put out in the morning before he gets here?”
My gut pitches, but I hide my expression from him by turning and checking that the oil plug is firmly in place. “Sure.”
He pats my shoulder. “Hurry up. Your mom’s got dinner on the table.”
“Be right there.”
I wait until he’s gone to pull out my cell and dial Roark’s number again. Directly to voicemail this time. “Hey, my dad just told me we’re starting the harvest early. Where are you? I really need you here.”
I hang up, already hating myself for the message. I pace beside the tractor, tugging at my hair, trying to figure out if there’s a way I can sound any less pathetic. I doubt it. Whatever. He’s probably sleeping. I’ll call again in the morning.
* * *
Nothing from him when I wake up. It goes straight to voicemail when I call, so I hang up instead of leaving a message. The doubt I’d rationalized away yesterday has resurfaced with a vengeance and I have no excuses left for his behavior.
Breakfast is on the table and Vick’s on his way over. From there, it’s the mad rush of getting the bins to the fields, helping my dad and Vick get the combines in position, and keeping up with the flurry of work that comes at the start of every harvest.
Lunch is the first break we get and the first time I get to check my phone again. Still nothing. I send a quick text, trying to wipe the chaff off the screen so I can see what I’m typing.
You coming?
I doubt he’ll take the time to respond. If he still intends to join me, he’ll be busy tying up his business in the sídhe right now. Tying up his business...whoever that may be.
I swallow hard and reach for another bottle of water, hoping small sips will combat my sudden nausea. It doesn’t make it go away, but I’ve pulled myself together by the time Dad wipes his hands and checks on me.
“Son, you ready?”
I nod and take a final swig before climbing up into the tractor. And then it starts again.
By the time the combines shut off, the blue light of dusk settles over the fields. Mom stayed up late to cook us a hot meal. She talks while Dad and I swallow the roasted chicken and mashed potatoes mechanically. It tastes amazing, but I’m exhausted. Returning to school will be a vacation.
I shower and lie on my bed, checking my phone while it charges. Nothing.
The house creaks as it settles in the cooling night air. I watch shadows play over the ceiling. They remind me of the dreams I’ve been having and forgetting. The bed is empty. A few days and he’s ruined my ability to sleep peacefully without curling up against his cold back.
Sometime around two, the fight is over. There won’t be any sleep tonight, not with the realities pinging around my head like shot from a spent shell, ricocheting and destroying what few things I thought I knew. I won’t wait for a man I can’t trust. I get up and get dressed again. I don’t bother to turn on my phone’s flashlight as I head downstairs. I know exactly where to step to avoid the creaks, how many stairs there are until I hit the landing, how many paces until there’s that tiny bump in the floor leading into the mudroom.
The air outside is cool. The dew darkens the leather of my boots and the bottom of my jeans, but I’m not worried about getting cold from the damp. Thanks to the ley line, I always run warm. I trudge my way back to the fields.
The acres we harvested are awkwardly bare, the residue spread evenly over the ground like the earth was too lazy to shave and decided to go with scruff. I walk beyond them to one of the untouched stretches. I don’t have siblings, but these fields are as close as I’ll ever get. I’ve walked every inch of them with my father, talking about crops and rotations and sowing practices. Years of harvests and laughter and swearing when machines break down. Recent years of whispered conversations in the kitchen between my parents when they think I can’t hear them.
They’ve been saying goodbye for a while now, and I was too naïve to realize that.
I gulp for air, forcing the tightness in my throat back.
This is hom
e. Generations of Smiths growing up here, living here, dying, and passing this place on to their children. There’s a comfort to that history. And a responsibility to it as well.
I sit in the quiet darkness, trying to untangle the web in my head. Eventually, the lightening of the sky warns that I don’t have any time left.
A final check of my phone. Nothing.
He should be here. The absence is an unexpected pain.
I close my eyes, letting the dirt crumble between my fingers. Something inside me is breaking, too, crumbling as a poisonous truth takes root.
Roark isn’t coming.
It doesn’t matter now. I have to focus on this moment. Empty my mind.
I stretch down for the ley line, but it shies from me. Please, I beg. Please help me.
Since he won’t.
The ley line doesn’t want to obey. We dance around each other as the sun creeps closer to the horizon, illuminating the clouds on its way.
It finally surfaces shallow enough that I can grab it. It squirms in my grasp and lashes out, clawing down my spine with a horrific, vibrating intensity it’s never had before. This isn’t control; this is a battle and I’m losing. The ley line continues to struggle with animalistic fury with every truth I force myself to accept. Dawn is on its way and I’m out of time. Roark’s not here even though he promised he would be. Roark said we were making a mistake and I knew he was right, even if I pushed forward in a haze of adoration.
I focus on the harvest spell I studied. It comes in fits and starts. The focus it requires keeps wandering away, replaced with breathless fears that I’m not enough, not smart enough or confident enough or capable of handling the ley line’s magickal backlash on my own.
That fear silences the ley line’s struggles, and I manage to hold on to enough power to try the spell one last time.
More, I whisper as I throw the magick toward the fields. Give us more.
A shiver. The magick dissipates over the crops like clouds of pollen. Bound together through that energy, the vastness of the land fills me. Every pod touched, every stalk infused. A silent promise waiting for the barest nudge to begin its work.