by Kate Ristau
“I already know how.” She nudged him with a fist. “I’m like a regular punchy-box awesome sports reference person.”
“Really?” He gave her that look—eyebrows raised, lips pursed. She looked away, but he didn’t. He had seen her bruises.
“Really,” she mumbled.
“Then let’s practice, Hennessy. Because the thing is, it’s not all about knowing how to attack. A fight is actually about the second punch. Sure, you or the other guy can surprise with the first hit, but what matters is the second.”
She pulled her hair back into a spiky ponytail and slipped on a rubber band. “What if I don’t want a second punch?”
“Then you better throw a hell of a first.”
“And then what?”
“Then, if they get back up, you run. I know you can do that.” He raised his hands. “Now come on, put your hands back up.”
She stopped, holding the phone out in front of her face. The football player faltered for a moment. The light! It was working! Maybe she could—
Nope. The baller recovered and moved forward even faster, resolving into the form of a man—no, a creature with scaly black skin. And sharp claws. And what the hell was that on its head?
Its eyes shone red on the edge of the light.
She dug in her heels and bent her knees. She put her phone in her left hand so she could hit with her right. She would throw one hell of a first punch, just like Ryan had said, and then she would run as hard and as fast as she could through the darkness. She could run. Nana always said she could run.
“Oh gariníon, you are so fast,” Nana had said. Her soft words warmed Hennessy, pushing at the dread and the pain in her ankle.
The demon was coming for her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
It lurched forward, opening its mouth, its lips stretching wider, bigger, farther than even seemed possible, revealing rows and rows of sharp, pointed teeth.
“Meat,” it growled, lunging for her throat.
Twelve
The water lily seized around Áine’s neck, then climbed up her face. Over her chin, past her lips, it latched onto her cheeks and slid into her nose.
Áine clutched its roots, the shadow slipping from her fingers. The lily covered her mouth and nose and then sucked the air from her chest. She tried to rip it out, but it wouldn’t let go. It snaked in deeper.
She grabbed at the shadow as the pain gathered, building, pushing inside her. She opened her mouth, and then, with a pop, the air pushed back into her chest.
Clean. Fresh. New. It tasted like grass and mint, cool and soft. She exhaled, bubbles gliding through the water lily. She paused a moment, then took in a breath. No pop this time—the air flowed in, smoothly and easily. The lily was working.
“This way,” Ondine sang, waving her forward.
“Wait,” Áine said. “How are you—”
She was talking. They both were.
Ondine reached toward her. “Sorry about the ankle.”
“You literally dragged me into the deeps.”
“You’re welcome,” Ondine said with a smile. “You should say thank you. Ratrael always thanked me.”
Áine swallowed and looked down at the blood running through the water from the cuts on her leg. Ondine’s scales had scraped her skin. Red swirled around her.
Ondine grabbed a piece of floating kelp, swam over, and wrapped it around Áine’s ankle. “Didn’t mean to bring up old wounds. You’ll be fine. It’s not deep. We just need to stop the blood. To keep the sharks away.”
“There are sharks?” Áine squeaked.
Ondine smiled, her razor-sharp teeth glinting in the last of the light. “Among other things.”
“Wahoo!” Ciaran yelled from the deeps, light trailing behind him and Keva.
Áine caught Ondine’s eye. “Thank you,” she said, and they swam forward, following the sparkling trail that disappeared into the darkness.
While they swam down deeper, Áine ran a hand through the light, and it exploded away from her, soaring back to the surface.
It was the Eta, flowing off of Keva, shooting toward the sky. The Eta were headed back above the water.
Áine wanted to sing, just like Ondine. Free. She was free. Far enough underwater, the Eta couldn’t follow.
She pulled the shadow toward her. It slithered against her fingers, soft as silk, but full of a power that she did not understand.
“Why did you call up the darkness?” Ondine asked.
Áine whipped up her head, and the shadow slipped from her fingertips. She watched it slither away. “You told me to use my power.”
Ondine cut between Áine and the fleeing shadow. “Can you only feel the dark and the light? Your mother held more power than that.”
“What power did she hold?” Áine asked, swimming down, following the bubbles and the light—Keva and Ciaran’s trail.
“The waters,” Ondine said. “Always, the waters.” She burst forward, then spun around. “Should I call the kelpie back to carry you? You move through the river like a rock.”
“And you move through the river like a snake.”
“Thank you,” Ondine sang.
They swam further away from the air and the light, and the last of the Eta floated behind her. “How deep is the river?”
“As deep as it needs to be,” Ondine said, bubbles streaming from her lips. “Right now, it’s deep enough to get you away from them.”
“Thank you for that. And for helping.”
“Believe me, the pleasure is entirely mine. I wondered when you would finally come under. Your mother used to swim with us every morning.”
“You really knew her?”
“For a time. Before the Brightening, we swam the Fairer Shores. The water was warm and clear. The sand, a soft bed. We lay on the rocks in the emerald breeze.” Ondine kicked her tail hard against the water. “That all changed when she left. So we came here. It’s better here, below the surface.”
“You said that before. Something about the light. What happened?”
“The Eta. They’re crawling all over the Fairerlands. It is not as it should be. There is no place to rest.”
“But you told me the Eta don’t come below. They are falling away from Keva like dirt from a grogoch. They cannot survive underwater. Why does it matter to you that they’re on the land?”
Ondine spun back to Áine’s side. “I don’t think you understand. You lack…imagination. You’ve always been that way.”
Áine held her comeback, focusing on sliding her arms through the water. She needed Ondine to speak—she needed to know. She couldn’t take the bait, no matter how tempting it might be. “Tell me,” Áine said.
One last Eta shot toward the surface. Ondine spun water between her hands, creating a tiny cyclone. It sucked in the shimmering Eta. The whirlpool flashed in front of Ondine’s hands. “What happens to plants when the light shines too brightly or you burn them with flames?”
“They wither,” Áine said slowly.
Ondine whirled the shimmering circle in front of Áine’s face, then slapped her hands together. The water jettisoned out with a spark of light. “They die,” Ondine emphasized.
She opened her hands, and the Eta was gone.
“How did you—”
Ondine flipped her tail. “The light kills the trees. The trees wither. They die.”
“Yes. They die. And you swim on.”
“Not there. Not in those waters. Not anymore.”
“But you’re here,” Áine said, pushing the water-lily root out of her face. “The trees are above. Why does it matter what happens to them?”
“Your thinking is so black-and-white. Swim back. Think bigger. The trees hold the soil. If there are no trees, the soil washes into the sea. The waters turn brown. The current slows. And nothing swims there anymore.”
“That’s terrible,” Áine said.
The Fairerlands. Dying. It seemed impossible.
Áine swam silently d
ownward, the weight of the water pressing in on her.
“It doesn’t make any sense. Why would the Eta let them die?”
“Those little monsters?” Ondine asked. “Who knows what they think? ‘The Eta weaves as it will.’ Isn’t that what you always say?”
“Not me. Not since the Crossing. I’m starting to think—”
“You’re not starting to think,” Ondine said. “You already know.”
A sea of fish swam toward them, and they turned to avoid the onslaught. The water-lily roots whipped into her face, and she tucked them back. The fish swam away.
Everyone was always running away. It made her want to scream. No one ever did anything. The worlds could fall apart, and everyone would just stand there, holding their pieces, repeating that it wasn’t their fault. There was always someone else who could have helped, who could have stopped the madness. No one ever stood their ground. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you stop it?”
“I told Eri,” Ondine sang. “Your lovely aunt knows. But she thinks the Eta are majestic, and the shadows are so very evil. She thinks shadows are made that way—born of darkness and death. Eri told me the Eta are different—they’re only evil because the queene makes them that way. Eri protects the Eta, dragging the shadows and the darkness from you, and taking a bit of your life away too.”
“Are there really that many shadows inside me?”
“No, no. The shadows find their way to you. You protect them—keep them safe. You don’t even know you’re doing it. They slip inside you when you sleep.”
“That’s disgusting,” Áine said.
“It really is. And honestly, it’s not very polite. But here, in the Aetherlands, they are desperate. They need somewhere to hide. Somewhere dark and deep.”
“Inside me. Like I’m some kind of…vessel.” Áine laughed, but the sound floated away in the water. “And then Eri pulls them out and spins them away.” The shadows had grabbed onto Hennessy’s leg. They had dragged her deeper, pulled her into the darkness. Áine pushed the memory away. “Eri takes the shadows, just like she sucks away the life of all those little fairies. But your shadows are poison to her. Pain.”
More fish whooshed behind them. Áine curved away, and the root curled into her eye. She batted it away. “Eri has lost her mind.”
“She has,” Ondine said. She looked over at Áine curiously. “You know, you belong down here, where none of this matters. The world up there is so complicated. It’s simple down here. Wonderful, really. May I?”
Her hand pointed to the water-lily root. Áine nodded, and Ondine took the edges of the lily and wove them in and through Áine’s hair, holding it back from her face.
“It’s easy here,” Ondine continued. “We don’t fight—”
Áine laughed. “You’re always fighting!”
Ondine raised her eyebrows, gesturing toward the surface. “The struggle is above the water. The fun is down below.”
Áine shook her head. They had almost reached the sandy bottom. “There’s no time for fun. And there’s no time for hiding. The world up there is falling apart. We need to get the kids and get to the Cedar Crossing. Save my father. He wears the mark of the beast.”
“And?” Ondine asked. “Come on. That’s not all.”
“I lost my friend,” Áine said. “I need to get her back.”
“Ah,” Ondine said. “I thought so. Your friend. That is why you can resist my siren’s call. Your ears are filled with water—going soft—along with your little Shadow heart.”
“It’s not like that—”
“Not yet. But soon it will be. Where did you lose her?”
“The Crossing. The shadows took her. And the Eta helped.”
Hennessy had screamed. She had kicked. Áine pushed the memory back, but it slammed at her again. Hennessy had jerked and tried to pull away from them. She had fought. But she wasn’t strong enough. They were everywhere. Her face had stretched and blackened. Tendrils like smoke covered her up, pulled her in. They dragged her back into the tunnel. And the Eta shoved Áine back into the light.
Ondine smiled sadly. She touched the sandy bottom and turned with the current. “The water always finds its way to the river. I am sure the shadows would love to have you join them too. But the Cedar Crossing has slipped beyond memory. None know if it still exists.”
“I have to try,” Áine said.
“Why fight the current? Why not take the bait, Shadowgirl? Face the fisher? Head straight for the World Tree? You can cross at Aetheria. You can meet your battles head-on. Challenge the queene. Get your girl back.” Áine opened her mouth, but Ondine went on. “Or you can slide through the Cedar Forest. Find your way to a crossing that might not even exist anymore.”
“I can’t go charging into Aetheria.”
“Then you won’t save your father. It’s either the World Tree or—”
A seahorse snapped at Áine’s side, and she kicked it away.
“Don’t terrorize the tangie,” Ondine said. “It’s far from home.”
“So am I,” Áine said. She squinted at the river bottom, then stretched out her hands and skimmed a rock. They swam on. “Where are we—”
Her words caught in her mouth. The sand beneath them dropped into a giant trench. In the deep water, she saw the twinkling of a thousand pale-green lights.
“You really should stay with us,” Ondine said, her voice on the edge of a song. “Let them fight their wars. Leave the Eta to Eri and the kids in the Barrows. Let your girl find her way back home. The water will keep flowing, and the world will move on.”
If anyone could find her way back, it was Hennessy. But even if she found a crossing, she would never make it to the other side. The wards were up, the crossings closed to Shadows. The veil had been drawn. Hennessy couldn’t cross on her own. She needed Áine’s help.
“I don’t think it will,” Áine said. “If none of us stand, all of us will fall.”
“That’s a grand idea, Áine. But tell me true: isn’t it really just about the girl?”
Even in the cold water, Áine could feel the blush rising across her face. “Part of it is. But it’s more than that too. We have to be better than this. The Eta are out of control, but so are the shadows. I will find Hennessy, and we’ll figure the rest of it out. Together.”
Anything could have happened to Hennessy. Time worked differently in the Hetherlands. Days, years, ages could have passed. She might not even be—
Áine pushed the thought away. Hennessy had to be okay. She had to be.
“You never came to me when I called,” Ondine said. Her voice was quiet—sad even—without a trace of her song. “Even when you had nothing else, you never joined me in the deeps. Why?”
“Ciaran.” His name slipped from Áine’s lips, soft and strange. She had fought that feeling for so many years. He was her light. They held each other together. “I would never have left him.”
“And now?”
They swam toward large gates, flanked by tridents and cast in bronze. Kelpies waited in the eerie green light. She could see Ciaran and Keva, laughing and joking. “I still wouldn’t. I don’t love him any less.”
“But you don’t love him any more.”
“Áine!” Ciaran yelled. He urged his kelpie toward her. It bristled, neighed, and promptly bucked him off. Luckily, they were in the water, so his landing was soft and easy.
“Stupid horse,” Ciaran said. It spun around, and he raised his hands. “Smart! Very smart. Brilliant. Surprisingly so.”
The kelpie snorted and swam toward Keva. She patted its head and ran her hand along its flank. The copper gates creaked open, and the kelpies swam through.
Ciaran kicked toward Áine, grabbed her hand, and squeezed it hard. “Keva told me you were coming, so I stopped freaking out. She said you were following behind us. She said she can feel you. She also said a lot of other stuff. It was really weird. She knows a lot.”
“She does,” Ondine said, then swam past Keva with
a flip of her tail. “But she understands little.”
“Okay,” Ciaran said.
Ondine swam ahead, and the waters grew cold. Áine followed behind through the swirl of bronze, watching the flash of Ondine’s tail. Keva swam beside them.
Ciaran bumped into her as they swam. “What happened up there?”
“Tiddy,” Áine said.
“When did he turn into such a grunion?”
“I don’t know. Maybe since he was a little baby puddle?”
Ciaran laughed, but Keva cut him off. “Why do you both hate him?”
“Seriously?” Ciaran asked. “He’s a creeper. Didn’t you notice?”
“I can’t believe you fireballed him,” Áine said. “He’s going to be so mad.”
Ciaran smiled. “He is.” His smile faded. “And I would do it again. I don’t want him hurting you.”
“He would not have hurt any of you,” Keva said.
Ondine sliced back around and between them, moving as fast as a shark. “You should have seen Áine,” she said, her voice on the edge of a deep melody. “She danced with the darkness. She can’t sing, but she can move those beautiful feet.” Ondine laughed, a twinkling of sound in the water.
“What happened?” Ciaran asked.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Áine said, swimming on.
“You two just love talking,” Ondine said. She kicked her tail and swam ahead again, leading them toward the pale-green lights.
Angry and silent. Alluring and rejecting. Naiads were impossible to understand. Ondine’s temper could flare with a flip of her fin.
As they got closer, Áine realized they weren’t just swimming toward green lights. The glow came from large pods, rooted to the ground by strings of bright-green kelp.
“This place is crazy,” Ciaran said. “Just mad as a box of frogs. What are we even doing here?”
A woman emerged from the top of a pod and swam by them in her long, white gown. Áine caught a glimpse of her face. Áine was about to smile, but the woman flashed a grin full of razor-sharp teeth and dripping blood. Áine swallowed. “We were escaping,” she said.