Trailer Park Fae

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “On the green hill,” the Fatherless finally breathed. “Behind the sculpted gate.”

  Jeremiah blinked. Other side of downtown—Amberline Park. Of course, that’s Seelie, and Summer’s touch will make it difficult for Unwinter to set foot there without invitation. I don’t think Robin will invite him.

  She might be alive.

  It was just possible, he supposed.

  Puck beckoned, the entire tree rustled, and they both dropped from the oak, landing lightly. Jeremiah waited as Puck tucked his pipes away, taking deep, cautious sniffs.

  Yes, the Unseelie had definitely passed them by. They were drawing away toward the south, perhaps thinking he’d run for the river and its dubious bar to their passage on a night with no moon.

  The Fatherless grinned again, his teeth pearly in the mellifluous shadows. “A good night’s work, that. They’ll be chasing fog and shadow ’til morning. More I cannot grant you.”

  That’s more than enough. “Amberline Park. Probably where Robin ran.”

  “Of a certainty. List carefully, Armormaster, for it pleases me to give one more gift this most diverting of nights.”

  Now it comes. “You have already done so much.”

  “Aye, and not for thee. Your mortal lover, did you know her family?”

  Now, suddenly, everyone wanted to tell him about Daisy and Robin. A popular subject, indeed. He’d thought he’d been so crafty.

  Jeremiah forced himself to breathe, staring to the south as if he was still thinking of Unwinter’s pursuit. The weight against his chest was cold, and throbbed a little. Was it blackening the flesh underneath? “Summer told me.”

  “An unlikely tale indeed. I marvel you did not know. Poor Robin; her mortal shadow earned all the affection, with barely a scrap left over. Did you know I brought the Ragged to Summer?”

  Now, there was a new twist. Was it the truth? Who cared? “A most auspicious day that must have been.” It didn’t sound precisely snide or ungracious, but it was probably not the response Puck wanted.

  What, precisely, did he want? The free sidhe was going to some trouble tonight, and for no profit Jeremiah could see. Which was enough to make him very nervous indeed.

  “Oh, aye. She rose from a pond like a nymph, and I saw the sidhe in her, so fair it threatened to blind the gaze. I asked Robin if she would not remain free, but she would hie herself to Summer, and so I brought her thence. But I wished to tell you, Gallow Queensglass, that Robin and her sister met the day her sister met with mortal fate as well.”

  Where was she going the night she died? And who did she meet there?

  So Goodfellow and Summer both wanted him to believe… what? That Robin had done Daisy some ill?

  “Family is as family does,” he said carefully. “Is there a destination to these wendings, Goodfellow?”

  A shrug, a smile, and the boy finished tying his pipes to his belt. “Simply making conversation while the air clears from the reek of Unseelie. Let us hie hence to our fair Robin’s aid.”

  I don’t remember inviting you along. Jeremiah simply nodded. “Lead on, Puck.” Again.

  “With good heart.” A capering sideways step, another broad, sharp grin, and Goodfellow scarpered for the fence.

  What else could Gallow do? He followed.

  Flitting from shadow to shadow, Puck flickering through the Veil and back, Jeremiah stepping in his wake and feeling his stomach flutter high up under his breastbone each time the free sidhe pulled them both through another fold between here and there. They paralleled Robin’s course, in case scavengers or other unpleasantness rode in Unwinter’s wake, and Jer caught glimpses of the chaos reverberating in the mortal world. Fender-benders, angry mortals turning on each other, sirens blaring, the dapples of red and blue lights as the mortal authorities descended to make some sense out of the sudden eruption of pandemonium.

  How long had it been since an elfhorse had been ridden openly through the heart of a mortal city? Unwinter had left his country, too, and led his vassals in hunt. The medallion, a cicatrice of frost against Jeremy’s chest, twitched slightly as the Veil shivered around him and Goodfellow.

  Now was a fine time to wonder whether he should trust the free sidhe, and follow him so blindly. Especially when the path took them up the side of a skyscraper and out into empty air, the lurching of falling in his stomach before concrete jolted under his feet and Puck brought them out on another rooftop, a cold stinging wind turning their breath to twin dragon-clouds, and quickly sideways as an Unseelie hound’s muzzle lifted, the flat glitter of its eyes scorching through several layers of the Veil behind them.

  Puck whistled, skipped sideways; the lightfoot bloomed in Jeremy’s boots and he followed. Had the other sidhe tried to shake him off? Perhaps.

  The sideways-skipping ended with a great gripping stitch in Jeremiah’s side and his stomach cramping, and he almost retched as the Veil flexed and popped, the park gates thocking into place just behind him. Puck half-spun, his irises a flash of yellow, and every muscle in Jer’s body tightened. He stepped aside, the lance prickling and the medallion turning scorch-cold again, quelling the nausea and muscle tremors while he scanned for Unseelie.

  Branches rustled uneasily, most of them starred with new growth. The evergreens whispered, conspirators, and for those who knew how to look, Summer could be seen, a ghost rubbing through the mortal world, sharp and hungry.

  Puck’s hand fell away from the hilt at his side, and his grin was a gleam in the gloaming. “Well?”

  Gallow inhaled, sipping at the faint breeze. Apple-blossom, mortal night masked by exhaust and almost-spring, new-mown hay, a breath of the baking-bread scent elfhorses carried…

  … and a thread of spiced cherries, a flash-impression of redgold curls and much-mended, fluttering blue silk. When had her scent become so instantly recognizable?

  When had he started almost longing to fill his lungs with it?

  “She made it,” he whispered.

  “Indeed,” Puck replied. But his tone was grave. “I smell pain, Gallow Queensglass. And blood. Let us search.”

  SIMPLE BETRAYAL

  39

  Blackness, for a long while.

  Cold. And damp. Agony all through her—her head, her left arm, her right shoulder.

  There was motion close by. Chiming little voices. Pixies, maybe. A branch snapped, there was a grunt.

  Her eyes opened slowly. Crusted blood in her lashes, sticking; she tried to blink it away and took stock. Her head pounded, and she was thirsty. Wet all over—rain pattered between branches carrying only the nubbins of leaves. Against her hip a boulder reared; she was lucky the mare hadn’t thrown her onto it. Half were durable creatures indeed, but healing from such a thing would be… painful. She might even end up Twisted. Unable to sing.

  She might have even wished for as much, if it wouldn’t leave her defenseless. Just like any sidhe-gift—you couldn’t ever truly win.

  But I might. If I can just survive.

  Her legs obeyed her, but slowly. Still, she could lift both feet, though she’d lost a shoe. Must find it, she thought, the words a soupy haze. Her left arm obeyed, too, and she rubbed at her eyes, gently, with her left hand. The thirst mounted another few notches.

  Of course, she had spilled much claret, feeding an elfhorse on such a wild ride.

  “Christ.” A man’s voice. “A shoe… there. Jesus Christ.”

  “Must you utter that ugliness?” Another man, a light tenor, very familiar. She couldn’t think. Her hair was wet strings, and she felt at her skull. Still whole, the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Her right shoulder burned, a deep drilling pain intensifying every moment she gained more of her wits. Her right hand twitched, and she bit back a whimper.

  “Robin!” The first voice, closer now.

  “She came far, and fast.” A low, cruel laugh. “Riding like Unwinter himself.”

  “Robin!” Calling. Who would call her, especially in such a tone? Almost as if he feared for—

>   More movement in the bushes. “You’re loud enough to break a trollkin’s winter dream, Gallow. Let me hold her shoe, and—”

  “No.” Short, abrupt. Very close now, and Robin struggled to think.

  The next moment, a dark shape loomed above her, and she made a small desperate noise as her body refused to obey, and she didn’t have the breath to loose the song.

  “Shhhh, it’s me.” Gallow’s green eyes a gleam in the dark, he slid an arm under her. He was warm and real, whole and alive, and she shook against him. He had her missing shoe and bent to slide it onto her dirty foot, brushed the crusted blood from her forehead and eyes, peering at her face. “It’s me,” he repeated. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head, not trusting this sudden concern. Her side ached when she tried to breathe, and she flinched when he touched her shoulder, his fingers oddly gentle. Tried to push his hand away, but her arm wouldn’t work.

  Behind him was a slim shape, yellowgreen irises burning fiercely. Puck watched Gallow minister to her, and she could not see the free sidhe’s expression.

  “Dislocated.” Gallow peered at her face, pushing aside strings of her wet, mud-grimed hair. She must look a sight, and the only reason she hadn’t given anything away was because she couldn’t move her right side and her throat was stoppered by the pain. “This is going to hurt.”

  She set her jaw and nodded.

  A crunch, a brief starry darkness, and she came back to herself, her left hand clutching at her skirt pocket and both Puck and Jeremiah holding her upright. She tried frantically to dislodge them, but the free sidhe’s fingers were like iron and Gallow appeared not to notice.

  “Lift her over… there. I’ll take her.”

  “What if I wish to?” But Puck surrendered her, with one last brutal squeeze of her left arm. She would bruise there, another blotch to add to the others no doubt blooming afresh all over her. “They will be pixie-led until dawn; more I cannot grant you. I suggest you hie over the border into Summer as soon as the sun rises.”

  Gallow shrugged. “We’ll see. You’ve grown charitable of late, Goodfellow.”

  “Oh, aye. Perhaps the Ragged interests me.” The boy stepped back. He watched Robin as she sagged against the Armormaster’s side, too weary to care much what happened as long as the Unseelie didn’t find her. “After all, hers is a marvelous voice. I would that she chose to use it as it should be used, and not simply a toy for Summer’s little games.”

  “I’d hardly call her games little.” Gallow sounded even more cautious. “Whither are you bound now? More mischief planned for tonight?”

  “Much more.” The V-shaped smile widened, and among the dripping, half-naked trees Puck looked more solid than ever. He looked, in fact, just as he had the first time she saw him in the trashwood, sharp-pointed ears pricked and his entire body a taut string, regarding her, nostrils flaring, as she rose out of the swimming hole.

  What beauty is this? he had said, his first words to her. And wouldn’t she like new clothes, a warm bed, and no more blows or serving?

  She coughed, spat to the side to clear her throat, uncaring of her manners. Puck was still staring.

  “Ragged.” Now he leaned forward on the balls of his feet. “I’ve led Unwinter a merry chase for you tonight. Remember it.”

  With that he was gone, a whistle fading at the edges of Robin’s hearing as the bracken and underbrush swallowed him.

  “Great,” Gallow muttered. “Okay. Nothing else broken, it seems. Can you walk?”

  I can. To prove it, she pushed him away and tried to. Her ankle turned, her leg buckling, and he caught her again. Still strangely gentle.

  “Let me help. Christ, woman, don’t ever do that again.”

  Do what? Lead you astray? Why do you care? Or you don’t. She was finally able to take a deep breath, and found her voice was a croak, torn just like her skin and dress. “Had to.”

  “Of course you think I’m just like every other man Summer casts her eyes upon.” He lifted her over a fallen log, steadied her as her feet slipped, and made a small sound of effort as she tried to lunge away and walk on her own. “Stop it, Robin. I told Summer I’d protect you, and I told her I don’t serve. Both are true.”

  You’re serving her now. “Thirsty,” Robin managed. “Hoarse. Thirsty.”

  “I know. I’ll take care of it, Robin. We’ll get you milk, then you can sleep. Come morning I’ll take you into Summer. I hope to hell you have what she wants.”

  She clutched at her left skirt pocket. Let her hand fall away. Winced inwardly at what she was about to do. “Must… hide… them.” Come now, betray me, and she’ll reward you handsomely.

  “Just be quiet.” He moved steadily, despite the brambles grasping both of them. Their thorn-bites were simply pinpricks, unheeded in the general agony. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

  It was no use. She went limp, and the last thing she heard was his muttered curse as he bent to pick her up. The music inside her head swallowed her whole, and she sank unresisting into its flow.

  A dark, painful time later she surfaced to find him dabbing at her forehead with something wet and cold. It smelled awful, and she tried to push it away, but he ignored her. She was weak as a kitten; the night-mare had taken a great deal of blood.

  It was warm, though, and she was clean. The material against her naked skin was mortal-woven, and it smelled powerfully of musky male and sidhe. She blinked several times, staring at the paneled wooden wall, and finally realized where she was.

  “We’re safe enough,” he said, without preamble. “Puck gave us until morning. He must favor you.”

  Not likely. Yet he’d done her a service and no mistake; consequently, she was hard-pressed to find any explanation for him extending himself so far. She shook her head, and Gallow slid an arm under her, propping her up and lifting a glass to her lips.

  It was whole milk, still holding a trace of chill from the refrigerator. Sweet and cool, it poured down her throat, and she drank greedily. When the glass was drained he wiped at her mouth, as if caring for a child. “There you go. I hung your dress up, figured I shouldn’t run it through the washer.”

  Did you go through the pockets? Or just one of them? She nodded, watching him. He settled her back on the thin pillows, cocked his dark head. His hair was plastered down, and he’d scrubbed himself with harsh mortal soap. Its scent was all over her, too, and the fire in her cheeks was mitigated only by the fact that she didn’t feel as if she had been… touched.

  Was he honorable? Did he only kindle for Daisy’s hand?

  Or Summer’s?

  “I’ll sleep on the couch.” He pulled the covers up. “You know, I should have guessed who you were. She… Daisy had a locket just like that. I… She was buried with it. I put her in hallowed ground under her maiden name, because… well, she always had trouble sleeping. I wanted her to be able to rest.”

  Of course, in a hallowed graveyard no sidhe would go digging and take bits of her to give Gallow grief. No Half would trace her through Gallow’s name, either. An unexpected kindness on both counts; now Robin felt foolish for thinking Daisy would have had a mere-mortal man. Bright and blithe, Daisy was the sun’s blossoming eye, and Robin, as ever, was the shadow. Almost a changeling, but not quite.

  It didn’t matter.

  She still watched him, a line between her eyebrows, trying to guess what he wanted.

  It occurred to her in stages. The milk coated her throat, a balm soothing fiery thirst. When she coughed, clearing the way, he didn’t flinch.

  “I’m not her,” she whispered.

  He looked away, at the two dressers standing side by side under the window. Of course Daisy had sewed the curtains; they were in the shade of peach she liked, and even though the stitching was by machine, they held her sister’s touch. The smaller dresser was ancient, and Robin recognized it, wondered if there was a lump of strawberry chewing-gum still stuck to the back of the third drawer down.

  The closet was h
alf open, and hanging next to what had to be Gallow’s clothes were dresses and two pink waitress uniforms; Daisy’s shoes—larger than Robin’s, just as Daisy was taller but Robin’s bust a little larger—were set neatly below, a pair of cheap navy heels with diamante buckles, thick-soled white shoes for work, a battered pair of blue and yellow trainers.

  How many years, and he still hadn’t taken down her dusty clothes? Did he think Robin could wear them?

  “I know you’re not her,” Gallow said finally. Maybe he even believed it. “But…”

  “I am not my sister.” She moved, fretfully, wishing she could get up. The sheets were all but marinated in his scent. “I never will be.”

  “No. She was mortal.” He rose, fluidly. Daisy must not have seen the sidhe in him. Maybe he hadn’t been grim, with her. Maybe he had been laughing and carefree as her baby sister.

  The familiar twin bite of love and envy, threaded through with stinging grief, darkened everything. Robin couldn’t even love her sister completely. Always a shadow, for all that she’d been born first, born incomplete, in-between, Half.

  It all added up to born lesser.

  It stung, of course, a familiar pain by now. Just as she was used to Summer’s many betrayals. The Armormaster might not have the stomach to kill her himself, perhaps in honor of Daisy’s mortal memory, but he would draw the pouch out of the left pocket of her skirt. Not the hidden, chantment-sealed one, but the one she had been telegraphing since she left the dwarves.

  All betrayals, in the end, were so simple. All you had to do was give anyone, mortal or sidhe, the chance, and they would inevitably use it. After all these years, Robin had finally learned.

  Daddy Snowe would be proud.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” Gallow repeated. “If the Unseelie draw near I’ll wake you, and we’ll chance the border at night. I have one or two who owe me favors; I should use them. One way or another, I’ll take you to Summer; they can’t follow us there.”

  Not without an invitation. Her skin crawled. Perhaps he meant to be kind, but all she heard was that he would be between her and the door, at least until he left to take Summer her prize. If Unwinter found her here, he could even have the benefit of Summer’s thorn-decked gratefulness without murdering Robin himself. Whichever way it ended, Gallow won.