Roadside Magic

by Lilith Saintcrow

  The dog shook out its paws, as if walking on glass, and avoided the iron to either side. It stepped, high and dainty, its tail beginning to droop, then wagging just a little. Jeremiah’s head rolled along the ground, and he looked up.

  Seen from this angle, the steeple with its Celtic cross was straight out of a horror movie or a surrealist’s nightmare. The steps leading to the church door hung askew, like a cartoon staircase.

  Daisy had loved cartoons. He’d never told her he could remember when they didn’t exist, a time before the glowing television screens in even the poorest of houses. So many things he didn’t tell her.

  “Stone and Throne,” Robin whispered. Clicking and shifting as she stepped over the gravel, as mincingly as the hound. Come to think of it, the dog almost moved like she did—a quick hop, a distrustful glance, a slight shake of its proud head. “Here, Gallow. Can you stand?”

  He found his arms and legs would obey him, but only just. “Church.” He managed to sound only breathless. “Nice.”

  “I didn’t think . . .” Maddeningly, she stopped there. Continued guiding him up the steps. The dog stayed at the foot, its low whine rattling through Gallow’s bones. “Yes, stay there. Just a moment.”

  The door reared above them. How strange, it looked just like the entry to the Great Hall in Summerhome. “Good dog,” he said. “Can’t come up the steps, though. Right?”

  “Hush.” She propped him against the right-hand door, bent to the left one. Whispered at its keyhole, and he watched as her curls bounced and settled, how the black velvet cloaked her, the flawless-pale slice of one cheek. “Here. Go in, lock the door. Find a place to hide.”

  “You think the lock will deter another Half?” Stay with me. The words stuck in his throat.

  “I’ll lead him away. You simply stay there, and I’ll return.”

  “What if you don’t?”

  The left-hand hinges creaked as she pushed at the door. “Nobody has caught me yet, and it’s daylight. If Crenn comes, we shall see.”

  “He’s tricky. Don’t believe him.”

  A faint smile, warming her eyes just a touch. “Oh, Gallow. I believe no man.”

  It stung, but only briefly. “Can I know what your plan is?”

  “No. Concentrate on surviving until dusk.”

  “Fine.” I’m a coward. Hiding in a church while a woman guards me. “If I wasn’t poisoned—”

  “You’d find some other way to be annoying, Gallow. Go, rest. Under the altar’s best, even another Half can’t drag you from there.”

  “Come in with me.” He couldn’t help himself.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The dog made a low grinding sound. A full-sidhe beast stepping onto holy ground would be uncomfortable, to put it mildly. If the dog was Seelie, it could stand the discomfort for a few moments; free sidhe, not so long.

  Unwinter, of course, couldn’t stand it at all.

  “Robin.” He leaned on the door, so she couldn’t pull it shut. “I want to tell you something.”

  “Save it for tonight, Gallow.” But she leaned forward, and her lips met his stubbled cheek. The touch burned through him, a soft vital fire, much different from the sick fever-heat of poison. “Now go, and hide.”

  SOME WAY THROUGH

  35

  Pepperbuckle slouched, his shoulders moving with sleek grace, and leapt. A crunch, pigeons scattered, but one hung from his jaws, flapping furiously until he shook his head with a snap. He settled down, hunkering behind the waist-high half-wall bordering this particular flat roof.

  “Good boy,” Robin said, though the mess he made of the birds turned her stomach. He could no doubt catch rats, too—and perhaps even housecats, if the mood took him. She’d worried for nothing. Instinct prompted survival, even in the heart of such a new-made beast, so she followed her own share of intuition and moved at a lazy pace, alert for any whisper of sidhe or pursuit.

  Sunlight poured over this city, rich golden springshine. The rain had retreated, and under the reek of exhaust and warming pavements came a thread of cut grass, the mineral tang of warming earth. Well past noon, with Pepperbuckle clearly very capable of feeding himself, and her hands trembling just a little when she thought of what she intended to do. She moved just enough, from one quarter of the town to the next to make her difficult to track, but not enough to tire her overmuch. She even stole a pint of heavy cream and drank it settled on the roof of a library, watching a storm threaten to the northwest before it evaporated under the assault of sunshine.

  The Markets had thrown them far away indeed. She was certain she was still in America, though, and the sun hung at its accustomed Midwest angle in the sky, but this was not a city Summer had entrances in. Unwinter could be reached from everywhere, but stepping over into Summer from here would require first finding some slice of the free sidhe’s lands under the surface of the mortal.

  She stayed well away from the parks and the vacant lots, the strange-tilted alleys or the triple or quintuple crossroads. Away from the mobile homes and the shabby edges of urban renewal, because the in-between places were where sidhe most often came through. In the sleepy time of afternoon, when traffic lulled and cats napped, she stole again—a quart of whipping cream from a large supermarket with a crammed parking lot—and began finding her way back to the church.

  Pepperbuckle whined as she slipped through the gates again. “No,” she whispered, pulling them closed behind her. “You can’t, little one. Go, hunt, hide.”

  He tried to snake his nose through, and pulled back with a smothered yelp as the iron brushed his whiskers. Sidhe enough for that, even if he could stand consecrated ground for a short while. Her own mortal blood probably provided some insurance. Would it wear off?

  She didn’t have time to find out.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, reaching through the bars and rubbing behind his ear, the way he liked. He stared at her reproachfully. “No. Go hide. Survive. If I see morning, I’ll find thee.”

  He whined and yipped as she walked up the gravel path again, stopping to sniff deeply every few steps, testing the air. The hound didn’t fall quiet until she bent to whisper to the lock on the main doors, again. Her chest ached, and her eyes were full of suspicious dampness.

  The further away the changeling-dog was from the danger Robin brought with her, the better.

  Her skin crawled a little as she stepped over the threshold, into dark, calm, incense-scented quiet. She slipped through the entryway, her heels hushed against hardwood, and into the main space, the walls soaring away and the windows on the west side glowing with late-afternoon light. “Gallow?” she whispered, and the word feather-brushed the dim quiet.

  “Here,” came the reply, and she hurried toward it, past the neat rows of age-polished pews. A ghost of snuffed candles, a faint astringency of cheap blessed wine, the cloying of dying flowers stacked on the altar. Hanging above its white-robed bulk was a gruesome sight—a wooden man nailed to rough splintered beams, his face a mask of suffering. She averted her gaze—the highborn talked about the Pale God and his followers, scorn and trepidation mingling in the words. Robin could have told them that the Protestants didn’t really believe in anything but money, and the Catholics were too busy being guilty, like Daddy Snowe always said, but why bother? The finer points of mortal religion were lost on Robin as well as the highborn sidhe, and neither felt the lack much.

  Still, it was . . . disconcerting, to see torture displayed so openly in what was supposed to be a holy place. Even Summer would not kill a changeling so unglamourously.

  Unwinter might, but he did not pretend to be sacred.

  Jeremiah was on the steps to the altar, sprawled like a knight in an illustration, his hair disarranged and the armor a blot of crimson. Just like Sevrilo in the Four Corners song, taking refuge against Braghn Moran’s fury—the very same dark-haired Braghn Moran who was now one of Summer’s favored knights. Had he survived Unwinter’s raid?

  Did Ilara Feathersalt,
the golden-haired fullblood Robin had spied leaving Summerhome one misty morning, care if he had?

  “I brought you cream.” She could no longer hear Pepperbuckle. Robin wiped at her eyes, as if the incense-smell bothered her. “Do these places often stand empty?”

  “Depends on the day of the week.” Eyes glittering, cheeks bright with fever, he was handsome as only a sidhe could be. Had Daisy ever seen him like this, with his pretense at being just another gray, sullen mortal man turned to ashes by the fever-glare? “The priest came in a little while ago. Didn’t see me.”

  “Good.” She perched on her knees next to him, helped him sit up. “Is it very bad?”

  “I’m just weak right now.” He watched her while she opened the carton and shook his head when she offered it. “You first.”

  Was he being chivalrous? She offered it again, folding his callused, too-warm fingers around the waxed cardboard. “I already did. Drink.”

  “So what’s this plan of yours?” He tipped the cardboard carton to his mouth, taking long swallows, and she debated the wisdom of telling him. When he broke away from the carton, gasping, he gave her a sharp glance. “Let me guess. You wish to summon Unwinter.”

  How did you . . . She shook her head. “I hate being predictable.”

  “It makes sense. It’ll also help me. I can trade this for the poison taken off, and probably protection for you.” His free hand patted at his chest.

  “Trade what?” She restrained the urge to wipe at his mouth. He wasn’t a child.

  “You didn’t see that bit?” He took another long draft of cream, exhaled slightly. “God, that’s better. Almost forgot what cream does. I, ah, I stole Unwinter’s Horn.”

  She’d seen it dangling from its chain as she sought to draw the poison from his wound with new bread. “I know, I saw it. But why?” Why would anyone do such a thing?

  “Seemed like a good idea.” The fever-flush abated, and his gaze lost that dangerous glitter. “You think he’ll trade an antidote and the protection of one little sidhe girl for that?”

  “It’s more likely he’ll hang you on a gibbet and take it. And skin me slowly to boot, to put me on my own gibbet next to yours.”

  “At least we’ll be together.” Sweat stood out on his forehead, great clear drops, but he was no longer gasping, and his gaze took back its accustomed sharpness.

  It was easy to see why Daisy had liked him, now. “Why did you go to the markets?”

  “To get my armor. And to see if Medvedev would offer you shelter.”

  “You know him that well?”

  “He owes me.”

  “For what?” Too many questions. But if they kept him from speaking on other matters, it was a good thing. At least he wasn’t requiring similar answers from her—or at least, not to the same degree.

  “I was not always of Summer, Robin.” He finished the quart in a few more long swallows and exhaled a long, satisfied breath. “Thank you.”

  She took the carton back, avoiding his fingers now. Silence between them, as the windows on the west side dimmed. The obstruction in her throat was dangerous; she concentrated on breathing. Four in, four out. The song was her protection, and the discipline of breath helped steady her as well.

  He watched her while she set the empty container aside and smoothed her velvet sleeves over her hands. Some few of the holes and shiny patches were amenable to needle-chantment, and in a little while the robe would be no more tattered than any other piece of sidhe finery.

  She never would have dared to wear velvet at Court. “I hear Unwinter is a cheerless place,” she said, finally.

  “If it is, your presence will no doubt brighten it.”

  Where had the old Gallow, the Half who apparently hated anything sidhe, gone? This man seemed a little softer. “Should I trust you?”

  “Do you think you could?”

  “I’m not . . . my sister, Gallow. I never will be.”

  “I don’t want you to be.”

  Very well, then. She pushed herself upright, the carton dangling in her right hand. “There’s another door. I’ll make certain it’s clear.”

  “Robin.” He reached up, and she surprised herself, her left hand catching his. “Try to trust me. It will help us both survive.”

  “Will it?” She squeezed gingerly, surprising herself again. “We shall find some way through, then. I will do all I can for you, Jeremiah Gallow.” Whether it’s for Daisy’s sake, or for . . . other reasons.

  “And I will do anything for you, Robin Ragged.” He sagged back onto the steps, his fingers slackening and his eyes closing, and Robin closed her mouth with a snap. It was, perhaps, merely the fever talking. No sidhe would give such an open-ended promise, especially not to a Half known for running Summer’s errands.

  The windows darkened still more, and she shook herself. There was no time for indecision.

  Not when she planned to face Unwinter himself.

  BE WELCOME HERE

  36

  Dusk came with a cold wind, and he tried not to lean too hard on Robin’s slenderness. She was stronger than she looked, but it irked him nonetheless. Out a side door and down a flight of moss-cornered steps, Robin freezing as footsteps echoed. It was the priest, a corpulent blackbird with a reddened nose, swaying heavily down an indifferently paved path between laurel bushes. He heaved along, humming as his black shoes squeaked, and Robin looked up at Jeremiah. Her lips parted, just a little—was she thinking of unloosing that wall of noise on the mortal?

  He shook his head. Don’t.

  The footsteps passed them, a slow, majestic treading. “Lord,” the man said, “have mercy. Have mercy on all of us.” A thick drawl, maybe Texan, slowed the words and gave them a rhythm.

  What would be the reaction, Gallow wondered, if one of them said amen? Causing a heart attack in one of the Pale God’s followers might be something the Unseelie would count as sport.

  “Especially all those in need of sanctuary.” The priest paused on the other side of the laurels. “May they be welcome here, O Lord, and should they need supper or a friendly ear, why, let them know the parsonage is just a few steps down this path, here. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”

  The crunching continued, and the priest’s head did not turn. He rocked past, patting at his well-cushioned belly, and disappeared between more rustling laurels.

  Robin’s blue, blue gaze met his again, and her lips were still slightly apart. She looked almost stunned, and if the scar on his side hadn’t chosen that moment to twitch again, sending a bolt of pain through his middle, he might have tucked his chin and bent down, and found out if her mouth was as soft as it looked. Maybe she would make the slight humming noise Daisy did when he kissed her, a satisfied little purr, or . . .

  Jesus, Jeremiah.

  Did she read it on his face? No way to tell, because she immediately glanced away, a worried frown aimed at the priest’s retreating back. “Can’t even chantment,” she whispered, and urged him forward.

  “Why would you?” he whispered back.

  “To ease his pains. He’s old.” She steadied him, his armor silent now, the marks on his arms and chest strangely quiescent.

  The graveyard was well maintained. Had the priest been walking among his less-active parishioners? How had the man known?

  He’d been careful, dammit. Or as careful as he could be hiding under pews and sniffing the dust of so many shuffling, sanctified feet. Headstones leaned into umbrous dusk, this way and that, dewed with mineral-smelling sprinkler water. His boots didn’t slip in the muddy wetness, neither did her heels sink in.

  At least the lightfoot hadn’t deserted him. Yet.

  He felt the edge of the consecration approaching, the ground sloping down to an empty lot. The scar heated up, a phantom blade digging in. “Where’s your dog?” The breathlessness was returning, too.

  “I told him to hide, and hunt. He’s safer away from me.”

  Of course you did. “Jesus, Robin. How did you
survive Court?”

  “Better than you, apparently.” She halted, which meant he was forced to. “Stay here. Do you hear me? Do not do what you did last time. I could have escaped Unwinter handily enough, but for your little display.”

  “Could you? Puck helped, you know.”

  Her shoulders tensed. “Did he?”

  “Yes.” His arm tightened as she tried to pull away. “What hold does he have on you, Robin?”

  “None.” She pulled away, and he had to let her. He swayed. Christ. I’ll have enough trouble keeping upright. “None, now. Gallow?”

  “For God’s sake, Robin. It’s Jer, to you.”

  “Is that what Daisy called you?”

  “Daisy’s dead.” It didn’t hurt to say it this time.

  She half-turned, looking over her velvet-draped shoulder at him. Black didn’t blend at night; it was too dark. A long pause, her tongue darting out to nervously wet her lips. “I wish I’d drawn all the poison out.”

  “You did all you could.” He searched for something else to say, something to ease her mind or keep her from this last desperate gamble.

  Another shake of her russet head, and she turned away, drawing the hood up as if to hide her hair. She walked, straight and slim and graceful as a ghilliedhu girl, toward the shifting border between graveyard and empty lot. The stone wall had been partly pulled down, maybe by age or maybe by coincidence, and a chainlink patch stretched from one edge of the hole to the other, to keep out kids and the curious, not to mention desecrators masquerading as thrillseekers. It was like looking through a different hole, maybe, into the days when the Folk ruled every place the churches didn’t rise, their green fields dangerous at night for every mortal outside the circle of firelight and iron.

  A pale flash was her right hand, her fingers closing around chainlink. The sun dipped fully below the rim of the earth, a subtle thrill running along every inch of Jeremiah’s sweating body, and the scar flamed again, almost driving him to his knees.

  “Unwinter,” she said clearly. “Lord of the Hunt, lord of the Unhallowed, Lord of Unseelie, I name thee. I am Robin Ragged, and I invoke thy presence. Lord Harne of Unwinter, a handmaiden calls.”