by C. L. Roman
"Of course I'm your friend. I always will be. But — you know I don't live here, right?"
"Yeah, you told me you live in Aelfholm, wherever that is," he said.
"Right." She lifted a necklace free of her shirt and held the pendant out to him. "See this? It's a gatestone. You can't see Aelfholm on a human map 'cause it isn't a human city. It's a Fomorian city. The gatestone lets me come here. But yesterday my mom found out I've been using it, and she said I can't come here anymore."
"What? Why?" Jack leaned forward on his knees. "Is she worried about you? My mom worries all the time, but I can take care of myself. I'll take care of you too. Just tell your mom that, and it'll be OK."
Maeve shook her head, tears falling in earnest now. "I tried to tell her. She won't listen. I had to be super sneaky just to get here this time. I don't think I'll be able to do it again."
"But —" Jack reached for her hand.
"Exactly right, young lady. And you shouldn't have come here today." The voice was deep, and male, without a trace of humor or kindness anywhere in its cold depths.
Both children whirled around, lurching to their feet.
A tall, thin man leveled a midnight stare at them. He wore a long black cloak and high leather boots. A silver diadem with a gleaming emerald at its center sat above his pointed ears, holding back lank, gray hair.
Jack stepped between the stranger and Maeve. "You better leave her alone," he said, his hand tightening into fists.
"I will not. I've been sent to take her home, and so I shall." Cold amusement danced in his eyes. "What will you do about it?"
Jack brought his fists up, boxer-style. "I'll thrash you is what."
Maeve grabbed his arm. "Jack, that's Balor."
"I don't care who he is. He ain't taking you anywhere you don't want to go."
Balor threw his head back, laughter crackling from his throat like a rusted saw across metal. "You? Don't be stupid. Come along, Maeve. Your mother is waiting, and she is not pleased."
He grabbed Maeve's arm just above the elbow, and a high, dense wall of fog rose around them. Looking through it, Jackson saw the forest change. It grew taller, older, darker than the one he knew. Leaping to his feet, he chased after Balor and Maeve, calling her name as he ran.
Balor turned, his eyes widening. "What are you, boy?"
"Don't hurt him, please," Maeve gasped.
"He can walk between worlds. That cannot be allowed." Balor lifted his hand, a mass of green light circling in his palm.
Maeve jerked free and knocked his hand aside. The light lifted and faded as it lost contact with him. With a scowl, Balor slapped Maeve, forcing a yelp of pain from her lips as she fell to the ground. Gripping her arm, he hoisted her to her feet, ignoring her protests.
"You leave her alone!" Jackson shouted, and threw himself at the man, fists, and feet flying.
Dropping Maeve, Balor knocked Jackson aside with a negligent flick of his wrist. His eyes smoldered with rage. "Insolent little whelp. Do not even think that you can attack me without consequences." He touched two fingers to the diadem, and green light gathered in the stone.
"No!" Maeve launched herself at the warrior, her entire body glowing with purple luminescence. She flew at him, hands extended like claws. Startled, Balor flinched just as emerald lightning shot from the diadem. The bolt of all but missed its target. A sliver of malign power grazed Jackson, tearing a strip of flesh from his shoulder and knocking him to the ground.
Maeve crashed into Balor. Her nails raked down his face, and he wailed a high, wide screech of agony. Where her fingers touched, smoke rose in thin streams, leaving four streaks of blood behind them from his forehead to his chin.
Balor slammed his fist into her midsection, tossing her aside like a rag doll. Through a smoky haze, the boy saw Balor grab Maeve's arm and drag her away. Jackson tried to help her, but he couldn't move. A flash of light forced him to close his eyes. When he could open them again, Maeve was gone, and the forest was familiar once more.
A moment later, darkness closed over him.
***
A pair of snapping fingers brought him back to the present.
"I'd almost forgotten," Jackson said as the memory faded and he faced his grandmother. "I never knew how long it took for Dad to find me. I just remember waking up in the hospital."
"It was almost nightfall, and you didn't wake up for three days. You had a six-inch gash along your left shoulder that took I don't know how many stitches to close."
He rubbed a hand over the space between his neck and his arm where an old cicatrice creased the skin. "My scar."
"The stitches kept you together, but what Balor did to you..." She shook her head. "It took a powerful wealth of magic to heal that. Three inches to the right and there would have been nothing I could do. Maeve saved your life."
"You all had me convinced that she was just a figment of my imagination. That most of what I remembered was nothing more than a bad dream brought on by the anesthetic they used while they stitched me up." Jackson's gaze sharpened on the tiny old woman. "You said it was a vagrant. That I was attacked by some crazy old bum."
"I never did. Your mother told you that, and she begged me not to tell you different."
"Even when I told you what happened and begged y'all to search for Maeve."
Tears welled in Gran's eyes, but she nodded. "Even then. It was dangerous, d'ya see? Balor thought you were dead. Still does, with any luck. If he found out different, he might come back to finish the job."
"So, you just let him kill her?" Disgust and rage rolled off him in waves, and Gran's face darkened with answering anger.
"She's not dead, ya wee stook," she snapped. "I made sure of that myself." His eyes widened, and she smoothed down her blouse before continuing in a softer tone. "Although, after what she did to him it was a near thing at that. But, you don't kill the king's niece over a few scars, even if she isn't a blood relative."
"The king's niece?"
"Oh aye. Didn't she tell you? Maeve is the step-daughter of Gwyneth, sister to Dinael, King of the Fomorians."
"Hey you two, enough chit-chat." Brenna appeared next to the blanket as if she'd risen straight out of the sand. "Jackson, you need to go help with that grill before Declan poisons us all. I'll stay here with Gran."
Gran grunted as she levered herself upright and trundled toward the dock with Brenna walking alongside. "Then you'll have to come with. I'm for a ride on Sonny's boat before it gets much later."
"A ride in Sonny's boat sounds..."
Their voices faded as they moved away from him, leaving Jackson standing speechless on the blanket. After a few moments, he wandered over to where Declan was manning the grill.
"What was that all about?" his brother asked.
Jackson shook his head. "I don't know for sure. But I plan to find out."
Chapter Six
The next morning, Gran called Jackson to her sitting room. "How did you sleep, Jackie?" she asked as he sat down.
"After our little trip down memory lane, not so well. I need to know what happened to Maeve."
Gran was quiet for several moments. "The sad truth is I don't know. I haven't been to Aelfholm in decades. But last I saw of her, she was safe. Not happy, but safe." She studied his tense features and then sighed. "You know, you can find out for yourself if you've a mind to."
"What are you talking about?"
"Remember, I told you that you are like me. You can see what isn't here. That's because you are déantóir cosáin."
"And what's that?"
She spread her hands, open palms up, in her lap. "It's a traveler as you might say. Some folks call it a pathwalker. Either way, it means you can cross the barrier between our world and hers. Balor realized you had the gift, and that's why he meant to kill you. It was only Maeve's attack as stopped him."
Jackson pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to wrap his head around this information. "How long?"
Gran blinked. "H
ow long what?"
"How long have I supposedly had this ability?"
"Since you were born, I'm guessing. It's inherited."
"And you never told me this before...why?"
She sat back, folding her hands primly in her lap. "It was your mother's wish that you have, as she said, as normal a life as possible." Jackson made to rise, and she laid her hand on his arm, holding him in place with surprising strength. "You can talk to her later. Right now, there are two things I mean to give you." She got up and creaked her way to the sideboy, muttering as she went. "Should have done this ages ago. Don't know what Brenna was thinking..."
She opened a drawer and drew out a leather-bound book and a rectangular jewel case. She held up the book. "This has been in my family for generations, passed down from the first male in my line. I had no brothers, so it came to me. Both items are precious to me, as they will be to you, in time. You will take care of them accordingly." She bent a stern eye upon him and held out the objects.
The atmosphere in the room tightened, the air flowing thick and cool over his arms, raising the hairs to attention. Suddenly the book and box were resting in his open palms with Gran's hands on top of them.
"In this moment and place,
The gift passes from my hands to yours.
Spirit be with this child.
Book, teach him.
Amulet, protect him.
Star, serve him.
As it is written, So it is done."
Light rose around the book, encompassing their joined hands and then rushing up his arms and over his body before fading away.
Trembling, Gran lowered herself into the chair and sat back, closing her eyes.
"Gran, what just —"
She held up her hand, stopping him. "Give me a moment. Spells tire me these days far more than they used to."
Jackson stared at the gifts. A series of embossed symbols, unfamiliar and arcane, marched down the center of the book's front cover. Nothing visual distinguished the box — flat black and featureless. But the air around it felt charged, somehow, as if it carried an electrical field of its own.
Gran tapped the book with her forefinger, startling him. "That is a grimoire, or book of shadows. Some folks these days call it a spellbook, but it's more than that. Your work now is to read it, understand it."
"Okaaay," Jackson said, resisting the impulse to drop the book.
"Well, open it, so that it knows you."
Biting back a huff of disbelieving laughter, Jackson opened the book, and a square of faded paper slipped free of the pages, fluttering to the floor. He picked it up and turned it over, revealing a picture of a young woman in a striped shirtwaist and long, dark skirt typical of the late 1800s.
A soft exclamation escaped Gran's lips. "Now how did that get in there?"
"Who is it?"
"That's me when I first got off the boat in New York. Couldn't have been more than a hundred and twenty there."
"A hundred and twenty? How old are you?" He flipped the picture over again and saw two faint numbers scrawled in the upper right corner. Ninety-two.
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't be breaking your shin on a stool that isn't in your way," she said and snapped the photo from his fingertips. She tapped the box. "Now this contains Solcruth. The life stone, as some have called it."
Setting the grimoire aside, Jackson opened the box. His fingers shook as he lifted the silver pendant free of its container. It spun on its chain, winking in the dim light, a delicate circle of Celtic knotwork holding a star sapphire in its center.
"I've given you a bit of power that you didn't have before, and it'll take you some time to learn to use it. Meantime, I've asked her to protect you from harm until you can protect yourself. And, once you've come to know her, she'll do a great deal more than that, if you wish," Gran said. She touched his cheek, bringing his startled gaze to hers. "Jackie, my sweet boy. I need you to wear Solcruth all the time now. Even in your sleep. Promise me."
"Gran, this..." He held up the amulet. "This is a woman's necklace. I can't wear this."
"Pfft. Woman's, man's, what's the difference? But if you're squeamish over it, here." She plucked the chain from his hand and balled it up in her fist. She muttered several words he didn't understand and then opened her fingers. In her palm lay a man's silver bracelet with the amulet centered between its two halves. The flat cuff was heavily engraved with Celtic interlace in an intricate pattern. She handed it back to him. "Close your mouth and put it on. You're to wear it always. Promise."
"Gran, you have to explain what's going on here. How did you do that?"
"I told you. Magick. Are not listening, boy? What do you think it was earlier when I turned the grimoire and Solcruth over to you? An electrical display?"
"I — I — don't know what I thought."
She chuckled. "Few of us do."
"You said before that..." He hesitated, stumbling over the word. "Spells tire you. But you seem fine now."
"Well, Solcruth did the work this time, didn't she? All I did was ask her. It's not so wearisome when you use another's power rather than your own."
He sat back, digesting that statement.
"Now put it on, like I told you." Impatience colored her tone, but Gran was smiling.
He slipped the cuff around his wrist, and she nodded.
"Good. Now, you'll not be taking it off. Promise."
"I... I promise," he said. "Why —"
"Thank you. Now for the grimoire. I want you to read it cover to cover. There is another way to tell you what you need to know, but it’s harder, and I’d rather not use it. So, read the book, Jackie. And then come back to visit me. And it must be soon. We've not much time left, you and I."
A sliver of ice trailed up his spine, and Jackson shivered. "What are you talking about?"
She waved his question away with a flap of her hands. "Never you mind. Just read the book and come back again." Her eyes drooped, and she relaxed into the chair. "Hand me my afghan, will you, Jackie? I find I'm a bit wearied after all."
Jackson eyed her suspiciously, but her voice went weak and frail all at once, so he hurried to pick up the blanket from the sofa and lay it over her. By the time he'd tucked it around her, she was snoring softly.
The thought flitted through his brain that she was faking, but before he could test the theory, a voice called from downstairs.
A glance at his watch showed that it was already later than he'd planned on leaving. "I have to go, Gran," he said, trying not to speak loud enough to wake her if she was asleep. She made no response, so he turned toward the door.
"Don't forget the grimoire," she said.
Startled, he turned back, but her eyes were closed, and she snuffled gently. He picked up the book and backed from the room. His questions would have to wait.
Chapter Seven
The first half of the drive back to Mount Pilot was uneventful, though Jackson couldn't help stealing glances at the amulet around his wrist as he turned the wheel to follow the curving road.
The strangeness of wearing a bracelet when he'd never had much use for jewelry faded almost instantly, but there was something about the secret fire of the winking jewel that drew his attention over and over again.
Halfway home, he stopped to refill his gas tank and use the facilities.
Pushing his car door open, he looked around the station. A gigantic plaster and steel Stetson shaded the pumps from the South Carolina sun. Jackson shook his head. The owner must be a Texas transplant, he thought.
An RV blocked his view of the street, while on the store side a battered pickup stood empty, awaiting the return of its human cargo. The building was brick from the ground to about three feet up, with wide sheets of plate glass the rest of the way to the roof line.
Oddly, no one was pumping gas or passing to or from the store. The air tightened around him in a way that amped up his heart rate. Jackson took a slow, calming breath.
"Easy man. This ain't 'Nam. Ju
st a gas station in the good ol' U.S. of A. Cool your jets." The air stayed tight, but his heart slowed to a manageable rhythm. He checked his pocket for his wallet and approached the store entrance.
Solcruth warmed on his wrist, and he glanced down as it slipped over his hand. With an exclamation, he bent, twisting slightly to catch it before the jewel hit the ground. Above him, the window exploded with a boom and the crash of shattering glass. Shards rocketed over his head, and he felt something hot sting past his shoulder.
Dropping to his knees, Jackson crawled along the front of the building. From inside the store, someone shouted something unintelligible.
"There was a guy out there, " another voice, this one older and terrified, shouted. “I think you killed him!”
"Shut up and empty that register," the first voice squeaked. "Or you're gonna be next."
Jackson scooted past the front doors, rising to his feet only when he gained the corner and could no longer be seen from inside. He ran to the back of the store, relieved when his hunch turned out to be correct, and he found a back door there. Gripping the immovable doorknob, he cursed. Locked. He tried again, twisting with greater force, but the same result.
"Open, damn you," he muttered. The knob heated under his fingers and then turned easily. Jackson's mouth dropped open, but a crash sounded inside, and he didn't waste time trying to figure it out. He slipped through the door and found himself in a storage room. Refrigerator units on his left and shelving units on his right. At the end of the aisle was another door that he assumed led into the main store.
He could only hope that it wasn't in the robber's eye-line.
Crouching low, he pushed the door open just enough to slip through. Directly in front of him was a display shelf loaded with cupcakes and snack boxes.
"Hurry up, old man," the voice screeched.
Jackson rose slowly, peering over the top of the rack to see what he was up against. A skinny kid with an afro — under sixteen if Jackson had to guess — was holding a shaky gun on an older man behind the sales counter. On the floor at the boy’s feet was a threadbare bandana. The cash drawer was open, and the man was raking bills from it into a bag.