by Kate Ristau
Dark.
Áine pushed her hair out of her face. They knew. She just had to get them to tell her. “What is happening to me?”
You’re shadow, and you’re fey.
All things at once.
But you abandoned the light.
Which we cannot understand.
We choose the light.
We thrive in the light.
We grow strong.
Their voices were everywhere, flowing at her from every direction. She tried to focus in on one.
“Where do the shadows come from?”
Inside you.
“I know that. I want to know—” She stopped, her mind spinning. What? What did she want to know?
She wanted to know why they were there. And how to get rid of them. Forever.
But a terrible part of her, the part that she would never share—that part loved the feeling growing inside her, the cold weight of it. The power, the possibility. She wanted to know how to use it.
But the last time she drew out the shadows, she lost Hennessy.
Still, maybe she could use that power to get her back.
A pussy willow bent toward her, and she pushed it away. She didn’t need their whispers. She wanted more than they could give her. Much more.
You’re selfish.
Mean.
“Yes.” She wouldn’t deny it. She was. And they were useless. Whispering plants. Lost in the light. She would never find out what she needed to know from them.
You hurt him.
Ratrael.
Áine stopped, her breath stuck.
How quickly you forget.
He was your friend.
Almost more.
He walked the willows with you.
And you blazed out of control.
You burned his body.
Broke his mind.
And then you left him.
“He left me!” Áine snapped. But she knew it wasn’t true. “Where is he?” she asked.
Building his own army.
He is not mad at you.
He is much more.
He will destroy you.
“Where is he?” Áine asked again.
You hurt him.
You hurt him.
You will hurt all of them in the end.
She would. She knew that. She didn’t need a bunch of grass to tell her.
She watched Ciaran step out of the pussy willows. He treaded gently past the bulrushes, and they stayed asleep. Keva trailed behind him, splashing color and light in her wake. Even the bulrushes swayed toward her. She was so full of the Eta, she shone.
They didn’t need Áine.
She would fail them, in the end. It would all go wrong.
Just like Ratrael. Just like Hennessy. They would disappear into the darkness.
They didn’t need her help. She didn’t need to save them from themselves. In fact, the more she tried, the more she hurt them.
Ratrael’s hand had burned—disappeared—in the fire she created.
And she had killed Creed. He was a monster—but he was still Ciaran’s father. Now Ciaran was alone again, headed back to the only place he knew—back to Eri. And Keva was full of the light. They didn’t need her. But Hennessy did. Her father did. The Barrows children did. And she owed something to Ratrael that she could never repay.
Áine wished she could fade away, wander off into the Cedar Forest. Let Keva and Ciaran take the path alone—they would find what they needed, and she could fade out of memory, into regret.
Yes.
That is right.
You could take the Cedar Crossing.
None go that way.
You would make it to the other side of memory.
For her.
Áine’s breath caught. “There’s a crossing in the Cedar Forest?”
The wind suddenly changed, blowing the pussy willows away from her. Their whispering faded.
We have seen it.
Long ago.
Memory never truly dies.
Still, you will not use it.
You will take a different path.
“I’ll take whatever path I choose,” she said, stepping out of the pussy willows. “And I’m choosing the one that leads to her.”
“Quiet,” Ciaran whispered. “You’ll wake the bulrushes.”
They snapped gently at her feet in their sleep. She walked softly, her feet sinking into the marsh.
Ciaran waited for her on the other side. Keva wandered away, light still trailing behind her. Then suddenly, she turned, pointed behind Áine, laughed, and then skipped ahead again. Áine spun around to see what she saw.
“Cra,” Áine said. The bulrushes snapped awake, and Áine ran to catch up with Keva and Ciaran, the deep gray fog already sliding around her feet.
Five
A memory, then.
Nana, sitting on the bed. Smoothing her hair. Warm down. Soft breath. Whispering into the night.
“…and that’s all that ever was and ever will be.”
Hennessy raised her head, pulling up from the edge of sleep. “Tell another, Nana.”
Nana nudged her back toward the pillow. “Go to sleep, gariníon.”
“Just one more. I can’t sleep. It’s dark. It’s loud.” The thunder broke, rumbling over the thatched roof. Hennessy grabbed a hold of Nana’s robe.
“It’s just the rain,” Nana said, tucking the blanket back around her shoulders.
“Le do thoil?” Hennessy asked. A flash of lightning lit up the room. The rain pounded against the thin roof, and she tensed beneath the blankets, waiting for the next crack in the sky.
“Fine,” Nana whispered, patting her head softly. “Last one. That’s it. No words but mine.”
Hennessy snuggled deeper under the covers, finding the cool part of the pillow and pulling it closer so she still felt the warmth of Nana beside her.
“In a time that was and a time that wasn’t, there lived a beautiful Irish girl. She was strong and smart and lovely—more like you than not—but she was naive, like a filly just stretching her legs in the spring. Her mother knew it would get her into trouble one day, but there is only so much a mother can do. She raised her right with the old ways. She held her close until she could hold her no more. Then, she let her be and hoped her hopes, as all mothers do.
“Well, that little cailín was walking home late one Midsummer Night from a ceilidh. She had had a grand night, and her ma even let her stay on after she had gone along. The girl promised she would walk with a friend, but one thing led to another, and she found her feet walking home alone.
“The night was dark, like only a Midsummer Night can be, and the rain fell in sheets down her hair, soaking her deep down to her bones. She stumbled down the lane, tired and cold, until she came to the clearing before the bridge. The rain stopped all at once, as if it had never been and never would be again. She looked up toward the sky in wonder. When her eyes fell back down, standing before her was a man in a dark green cloak. His eyes shone gold against his pale skin.”
“Who was he?”
“Shh, child. Come, come. All in time. These things can’t be rushed, you know.” Nana’s warm hand ran over her hair again. “She was not afraid. She asked him right off: ‘Did you stop the rain?’
“He tilted his head, then smiled slowly. ‘I did not.’
“She took a cautious step toward him. His eyes were beautiful, and his cloak was fine—well-made, without a spot of water on it. ‘Why aren’t you wet?’
“His smile broadened. ‘You see much. More than most. But you are young. There are things you wouldn’t understand.’
“She shook her head, splashing water back onto her face. ‘Tell me, then,’ she said. ‘I want to know.’
“His eyes flickered in the darkness, the gold calling to her, pulling on her skin. ‘I cannot tell you—’ Her mouth opened in protest, but he held out his hand and whispered, ‘But I can show you.’
“She hesitated for only a moment before reaching
out and taking his hand—”
“No,” Hennessy said. “That’s stupid.”
“Is it?” Nana asked. “If the fey came calling for you, would you turn away?”
“That’s different. That guy sounds creepy.”
Nana patted her back. “Do not fear what you don’t understand.” She tucked the covers around Hennessy, then stood to go.
“Who was he?” Hennessy asked.
Nana paused, then continued toward the door.
Hennessy would have to wait. Another story. Another tale. All in time. Off to bed, little one. Sleep is ready for you now. The Otherworld awaits.
But Nana turned back before she closed the door, standing in the half light of the hallway.
“A Shadow King,” she said.
Six
Áine sprinted through the bulrushes. They snapped and tore at her dress until she broke free and nearly crashed into Ciaran.
“What?” Ciaran asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Tiddy,” Áine said.
“Yeah.” He kept walking.
“Yeah,” Áine repeated. “We need to watch him. With Keva. You know how he is.”
Ciaran glared at her but nodded. “I will. Don’t lose sight of Keva.”
Already, Keva was spinning ahead, hair floating behind her like a pixie or a spinning will-o’-the-wisp. “I will.”
The mist gathered around their feet as they hurried forward. Áine broke the silence. “You okay?”
“Nope.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“Maybe.”
“He was a bastard.”
“He was.”
“I can’t believe you never told me.”
“That’s selfish.”
“Why does everyone keep saying I’m selfish?”
“You’re always just—”
“I’m not anything. This isn’t a game anymore, Ciaran. We’re not little kids. We just fought a battle. My father died. Hennessy—they dragged her away. This is bigger than all of us. And it’s bigger than me.”
“I know, Áine. I know. But I just lost my father too. He’s never coming back. And my brother—”
The mist ahead shifted into fog, swirled toward them, then swam down and crawled slowly up Keva’s legs. She laughed as it spun around her.
“Knock it off, Tiddy Mun,” Áine yelled.
The fog darkened and pulled away from Keva, then coalesced in front of Áine’s face. She nearly fell into him but stopped short, his watery face inches from hers.
His laugh pulled through the air, and he puffed a spray of mist into her face. “We missed you,” he said. The drizzle that formed his face slipped between a grin and a scream.
“No, you didn’t,” Áine said, wiping the water from her face and stepping around him.
He slipped in front of her again. “Oh yes, we did. It’s your personality. So dark. So…commanding.” He dissipated and reappeared in front of Keva, reaching out toward her. “Who are you?”
“Don’t be rude,” Áine said. “And stop touching her.”
Tiddy’s hand dissolved into Keva’s face, leaving a sprinkling of water on her cheek. She laughed.
“We can’t help ourselves,” he said. “She’s lovely.”
“She’s my sister,” Áine said.
“He knows,” Keva said.
Tiddy’s eyes flashed. “We do. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Oberon,” Ciaran cursed and then walked straight through Tiddy. “Knock it off. You’re so creepy!” he yelled from the other side.
Áine grabbed Keva’s hand and splashed right through Tiddy too.
He gathered himself up and flew ahead of them, materializing along the side of the path. “Now, that was rude.”
“It was,” Áine said.
“But we don’t care,” Tiddy said, mist flooding across his face to form a smile. “We liked it.”
“Gross,” Áine said.
“Of course you did,” Ciaran yelled back at him.
“Let’s talk,” Tiddy said to Keva, and then he took her hand and pulled her down the path. She danced along with him, sliding through his mists and laughing as the spray melted against her cheeks. They dashed right by Ciaran, knocking him over in a splash of water.
“Grungen!” Ciaran said, pushing his wet blond hair out of his face. He pulled himself up to his feet as Áine dashed by him.
“Get back here!” Áine yelled.
“So commanding,” Tiddy repeated. His voice was everywhere. “So angry.” Áine ran toward Keva, but Tiddy picked Keva up, pulling her into himself. Keva laughed as he covered her in a cloud of white.
“Stop it!” Áine yelled. “Leave her alone!”
“No.” His voice slid over her ears.
She grabbed for the swirl of white, but he was water. Mist. Air.
“Stop it!” Áine said again. Her heart beat hard in her chest, and her stomach turned. “Tiddy—”
He splashed her face with water, and she coughed.
Keva’s giggle faded into the mist. He was taking her. Where? Why? She had to stop him. But how?
She clenched her fists tightly. No. She didn’t need to stop him. She just needed to get Keva away from him.
“Keva!” Áine yelled. The fog spread around her, pushing against her arms and legs. “Get away from him!” The fog grew colder, deeper. The path disappeared. The ground faded into mist. “You can’t go with him. You can’t—”
She pushed her way into a wall of white.
“—trust him,” she whispered.
Seven
Hennessy awoke. She was dreaming. Nana. The Shadow King.
No. She was awake.
She opened and shut her eyes, but everything stayed the same. Black threads pulled tightly, slithering across her skin, pulling her forward. A nightmare, then. Wrapped in snakes. And darkness, always darkness, surrounding her. They covered her eyes. Did they cover her eyes?
She slowly reached up, and they bent and flexed around her. She wiped her hand across her face and over her eyes. Her fingers touched her own skin.
Just darkness. No shadows clung to her face. Only night. Total blackout.
“Shite,” she said.
It didn’t make her feel any better.
“Shite,” she said again. “Shite. Shite. Shite.”
She rubbed her hand across her face and tried to think of what came next.
The Hetherlands. She was obviously in the Hetherlands. That much was clear. Everything was dark, just like Áine had said. Dark, dark, dark. There were shadows everywhere—they were all over her, like flipping snakes or ants or—
“Ugh! Will you stop sliding and sucking? That’s so gross! It’s like little leaches.”
They didn’t listen to her. They kept moving over her skin and through her clothes.
She tried to calm her mind. Focus. She couldn’t see, but she could feel. What did she feel besides them? A gentle wind on her face—the air shifting around her.
A strap across her back. She ran her shaking fingers along the thin strip of fabric.
The heavysack. Okay. Okay. At least there was that.
They were still flying through the darkness. Over what? She didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to know.
But she needed to know.
She was being kidnapped by a bunch of black threads.
If she couldn’t stop them, she should probably find out where they were taking her.
She cleared her throat. “Where are we going?”
Her voice was scratchy, raw and tight. The question sounded dumb, and she laughed, a rough bark of sound. She was talking to the air.
But they paused in their slithering and sliding. Held her still, motionless. She caught her breath. They moved on again.
They had heard her.
“I know you don’t have a mouth,” she said slowly. “But I do. Trust me. Nana always said I had more words than a mating selkie. I could talk the bark off a tree. I could make the sun rain. So, if you
won’t tell me where we are going, I’ll, I’ll just—shite. I won’t do anything. You’re like a bunch of slippery smoke. Like little stretchy eels. Like a can of soda splashed on the ground and sliding through the floorboards. I can’t even think of anything I could do. But I would, if I could. I would—”
She stopped, her brain stuck, sliding around the thought of darkness, around shadows. They were real, just like Áine had said. Not like smoke at all. They had grabbed her ankle during the crossing, but she had been seeing them since the battle, when she used Áine’s father’s journal. When she whispered those words. Maybe that controlled them? Those words? Áine had called it Shadowmagic. Dark stuff. Terrible. Shouldn’t use it.
But it wasn’t as if things were going to get worse.
She tried to remember the words, but they slithered out of her mind. She could get out the journal, but it was way too dark to read. She pictured the book, the solid weight of it. Remembered the coarse paper, the thin sketches. They materialized in her mind, but then dissolved before she could grasp onto them.
Damn it. Why couldn’t she remember them? They were right on the edge of her mind, but then they drifted away like so much smoke.
There had to be another way. Áine had fought them. Not just with words—with something inside her. They had shrunk from her Eta and her screams. Maybe she could fight them like that too. Maybe she had something left inside of her. Something Áine had left behind.
She thought of the words Áine had said—how she had called and cried for the Eta. Those words had power and strength. They pulled on her tongue.
“Animiste,” she whispered.
The word was like a prayer, stronger than any she had said on a Sunday. She imagined the letters falling from her lips and floating upward. To what? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter anyway. As long as someone—or something—was listening.
“Animiste Eta.”
The words fell again from her mouth, lifting her up. But the world stayed dark. The shadows stretched on. Was she doing it wrong? Was she saying the right words?
After Áine had brought her back to life, she had felt the Eta, warm and full inside of her. Now that was gone. Now it was just empty. Nothing. A hole. A movie theater without the reel. Just popcorn on the floor and an empty wallet. Gone.