The Renegade Son (Winter's Blight Book 2)

by K. C. Lannon

  “Nay, I thought I heard…” Alvey trailed off, then shook her head, settling back down. “’Twas nothing.”

  Leaning forward as she pushed the chair along, Deirdre asked, “So is that how you got all this way on your own? You used magic to tell where you are and where to go?”

  “I do not use it, but it does tell me where I am and what is around me, so nothing surprises me.”

  “Wow! Can all faeries do that?”

  “Like enough, but I am the best mixed blood I have met.”

  “Oh.” Deirdre frowned, considering all she’d just learned, then asked, “Since I’ve used magic in the past, accidentally destroying things and all that… that really means I’m not a mixed blood, doesn’t it?”

  “Aye, you are full-blooded,” Alvey said, followed with a light sniff.

  Deirdre nodded slowly. “So, you’re half elf… Do half elves not like humans? Is that why you were so hard on James?”

  “Nay. He is just…” Alvey sighed. “He is strange.”

  “That’s not—”

  “A nice thing to say?” Alvey finished, turning her face toward Deirdre, her Cheshire cat grin back.

  “Don’t be cheeky. Calling him strange is not kind, or fair! You don’t even know him!”

  Alvey huffed, turning away from her and folding her arms. “I am very observant, much more than you or many pure-blooded faeries. I know plenty of things about everyone! I could tell you were a faery, couldn’t I?”

  Alvey’s tone had gotten so prissy that Deirdre couldn’t help but ask, “How old are you?”

  “I am… fourteen. Why?”

  Deirdre just nodded, thinking that this explained some things. “Just curious. But if you think you know so much, then what is it about James that you don’t like?”

  “I do not like or dislike him. He is just strange. He is marked by binding magic and not the good kind.”

  Deirdre sucked in her breath. “What… what do you mean? Is he in danger?”

  “Not immediate danger. He was a thrall. But he is not one any longer.”

  “Wait, wait, wait—” Deirdre stopped pushing the chair, then walked to stand in front of Alvey.

  “I cannot see you there, you know,” Alvey drawled, pulling up one of her armrests, leaning an elbow on it, and then setting her chin in her hand, totally relaxed.

  Ignoring her comment, Deirdre asked, “The word ‘thrall’ means ‘slave,’ right?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, he’s not a slave. He grew up in Neo-London, with his family! Well, with his father and brother anyway. He was a normal, English city kid!”

  “Being a thrall does not have anything to do with where you are or who you’re living with,” Alvey said in a bored voice, though she was starting to smile, clearly enjoying being the one dispensing out knowledge.

  “Then what is it? Who marked him with magic? Why is he a thrall?”

  “A thrall is made when a human makes a deal with a faery. The human trades something for a favor, and often he trades himself as a thrall, especially if the favor is a big one.”

  Deirdre had been leaning over, listening intently, her hands on her knees, but at that she stood up straight. “That’s ridiculous! James never did anything like that, he wouldn’t have had a chance! I mean, his dad, his brother—no way! They wouldn’t let him!”

  “He was still a thrall though, at one point.”

  “Oh. Right, he’s not one anymore?”

  “Nay. Though he is still marked.” She raised her eyebrows, continuing in a mysterious voice, “Methinks he could be made one again easily.”

  Deirdre was silent for a moment, clenching and unclenching her fists. Then she found her voice again, leaning forward, asking, “Who is the faery? Who is he marked by?”

  “No one can tell that,” Alvey replied. “Not just by meeting James.”

  “I just don’t get it.” Deirdre began to pace, fists clenched. “How did this happen? James is… He wouldn’t have…”

  Alvey sighed again, starting to fiddle with her fingernails. “Well, ’tis possible a close family member made a deal and traded out James as part of it.”

  Deirdre halted. “What? A family member?”

  “Aye, a mother, father, an older sibling…”

  “No, no, no. Iain wouldn’t have, and James has fond memories of his mother… I mean, she’s the whole reason he’s out here, he’s searching for her!”

  “Those two lost their mother? How foolish.”

  Deirdre frowned at her. “They didn’t lose her, she just… Anyway, the point is, I don’t think she’d do that sort of thing.”

  “Then ’twas his father.”

  “No way! His father hates faeries!”

  Alvey shrugged. “If you wish to figure out which one did it, think: Which one is best off in the world? Who has the most renown, the most money? Those are the signs to look for.”

  Deirdre tried to speak, but her mouth was dry. His father is one of the two generals… He’s well-known, he supports Trinity Orphanage… Oh heavens, it must be him. But that’s crazy! But, if what Alvey says is all true…

  When Deirdre was silent for a while longer, Alvey asked, “If you are going to panic, how about doing it now and getting it over with?”

  Deirdre barely heard her, replying in a wooden voice, “Right. Right. No, I’m fine.”

  “…So?” Alvey turned her head expectantly, faint yellow eyebrows raised.

  “So what?”

  “Do you wish to tell that James that someone in his family sold him for some faery favor? Or should I?”

  Deirdre gaped down at the other girl, unsure if she was joking or not. “No. No, I think we should stay quiet on this. At least for now.”

  “You do not wish for him to know the truth?”

  Raising her arms helplessly, Deirdre cried, “Not when we know so little! We don’t know who the faery was, and… I-I just don’t think it’s a good time.”

  “If you say so.”

  Deirdre raised an eyebrow, asking uncertainly, “You’re… not going to tell him, are you?”

  She shook her head. “I have no intention of doing so. I am not really interested… It means little to me.”

  “That’s a poor attitude to have. It wouldn’t hurt to be a little more mindful of others. It’s good to care about people, even people you just met.”

  Alvey just shrugged.

  Deirdre sighed, walking behind her and pushing the chair along again. “Are all faeries like you?”

  “I am a half elf.”

  Rolling her eyes, Deirdre thought, Thank God James wasn’t here to hear all this. To think that his own father would… She shuddered, then her eyes widened. If their father could do such a thing… what about my own parents? No, they’d never be so selfish! Would they? No, Alan’s a monster. Other parents aren’t like him! …Are they?

  She bit her lip, trying to think of all the examples of fathers and mothers she’d read about or witnessed; not all of them were favorable.

  There’s nothing stopping my own parents from being like that, is there? She gulped, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach.

  Chapter Eight

  The shopkeeper was watching them. That was the first thing Iain noticed when he and James walked in the small culinary and spice shop that was located on a stretch of stores on the main cobbled street road—a nice place for tourists. But Iain was not about to let one suspicious look bother him today, and he forgot about it almost instantly when he strode through the shop and took a whiff of the air that smelled amazingly of cinnamon.

  He lost track of James instantly, seeing only the yellow flash of his scarf as he ducked around a display. It was difficult keeping an eye on James while he was trying to shop, but he had learned the hard way to always keep him in his sight because he had a tendency to pick up everything, even fragile items. It didn’t seem to matter how many times Iain, or Mum when James was little, told him not to do it.

  The shopkeeper cleared his throat, ey
eing them over the counter, and asked, “Just breezing through, are you?” It was an innocuous enough question, but the tone rubbed Iain the wrong way. He decided he was being paranoid and ignored it, going on with his browsing.

  “We’re traveling!” James replied enthusiastically, poking his head out from somewhere completely different from where Iain last saw him.

  Can he teleport? Iain wondered wryly. That would explain so much…

  The shopkeeper’s frown deepened further somehow. “Traveling’s fine, as long as you’re not with those Wayfaring Festival weirdos. They come through here lookin’ for items for their rituals or costumes.” He scoffed.

  “No, we’re not,” Iain said quickly. “We’re just passing through.”

  “I know what that is!” James piped up. “I’ve read about it—it’s like a festival with contests and live music and cultural events and faery cultists—”

  “It’s a bunch of weirdos and nutters.” The shopkeeper interrupted him sharply and with a tone that suggested his opinion was the only one allowed.

  Iain wanted to end this conversation as quickly as possible, hoping to avoid any conflict. “Say,” he asked the shopkeeper brightly, “have you got a nice steel pot that’d be good for stewing?”

  The shopkeeper merely pointed to the wall where a few pots were hanging from hooks.

  The second thing Iain noticed when entering the establishment was the vast array of dried herbs that lined the walls and were waiting in containers, both ground and whole. The scents were overpowering in the best way, and Iain had to restrain himself from sticking his face in the containers.

  As he began filling the little plastic bags provided with paprika, cayenne pepper, dried mushrooms, garlic, curry spices, and dried hot chilies, he wondered what kind of cuisine the girls were used to. Did faeries like spicy foods? What had they served at the orphanage? He only knew of one type of food that faeries ate, and he was not about to go looking for that. He doubted a nice town like this would even sell it.

  Well, I know Deirdre likes mushrooms and fish for certain… and she’s not afraid of haggis, and that is made with warming spices like nutmeg. So… warming spices are fine. I should get thyme for mushrooms and lemon pepper for fish? Maybe we can snare a rabbit…

  As he grabbed some milder spices, just in case, he heard an odd rattling sound above him but saw nothing when he looked upward. He hoped the shop wasn’t infested with mice, lest the product be tainted.

  When Iain was debating over which size of iron skillet to purchase, he balked suddenly, a thought occurring to him. “James?” he called.

  “Huh?”

  Iain nearly jumped out of his skin as James spoke up from directly behind him. He turned to his brother, who was holding a glass mortar and pestle, and gingerly pried it out of his hands and set it down on a shelf. “I told you not to pick stuff up like that.”

  James rolled his eyes. “I was being careful.”

  “James,” Iain said seriously, lowering his voice so they would not be overheard, “can faeries eat food cooked in an iron skillet? It won’t hurt them or anything, will it?”

  To his surprise, James just laughed. “Not unless they eat the skillet or get cut with it or something.”

  “Great!” Iain was practically giddy, thinking of all the dishes he could make.

  James just stared at him, frowning, probably thinking he was much too excited about purchasing cookware. And he would be right.

  Iain grabbed a skillet off the wall and tested the weight of it in his hand. It was sturdy and well made—and it was marked down as well. Then he brought his purchases to the register, wanting to get traveling as quickly as possible.

  He was handing the iron skillet to the shopkeeper for him to scan when he heard it—glass shattering.

  The shopkeeper let out an impressive stream of expletives in true British fashion that made even Iain blush.

  Ah, damn. Don’t be expensive… don’t be expensive…

  Iain slowly turned around, gritting his teeth, only to see a confused-looking James with his hands held up. “It wasn’t me,” he claimed. “It must be a choxano or something!”

  There was a glass vial on the floor at James’s feet, but there were no vials on the shelves beside him. The only vials in the shop were held behind the counter. Iain doubted it was choxano, a vengeful or unrested spirit, that had tossed the vial, but he could not exactly dispute it when he could not see it.

  “Now just what kind of scam are you running—?” the shopkeeper, red in the face, began to bellow but was interrupted by a clear yet incredibly high-pitched voice that seemed to be everywhere in the shop at once.

  “Damned, cursed, marked! The boy is marked! May he flee from the premises at once! By my hat, get the cursed boy out of my shop!” the voice cried. “No servant of the Unseelies shall set foot in here, by my hat!”

  “What’s going on?” Iain asked, glancing around as he heard more scurrying above him.

  Marked? It’s talking about James.

  Iain felt like he’d been doused with icy water, and all he could do was stand there.

  “Ow!” Another vial flew from the shelf, seemingly on its own, and hit James in the shin but didn’t shatter. It made an awful hollow sound as it struck him, and James’s face contorted in pain.

  Then, to Iain’s confusion, James’s face split into a huge grin. “It’s a real Brownie!”

  A brownie? Why is he so excited about that? Wait…

  It took Iain a painfully long amount of time to realize that James was not talking about a dessert but a house faery. For a moment all he could imagine was a chocolaty treat throwing things, and he decided in that moment that he had never felt like more of an idiot.

  Just then a little figure appeared on the shelf behind the shopkeeper. Iain could only gape stupidly at the creature, which took the form of a tiny, almost goblin-looking man with a little hat on its head.

  “I forsake this shop!” the Brownie cried. “I bid you farewell! This Brownie shall not appear again in any shop that serves a boy marked with dark magic!” Just as suddenly as the Brownie had appeared, it vanished.

  An awkward silence followed.

  Iain began to pull the correct amount of currency from his wallet and place it on the counter. “I think we’ll be heading out now—”

  The shopkeeper turned to him, purple with rage. “I don’t want your money! I have the right to refuse service, and I’ll not take any money from you vagabonds who deal in dark magic! Get out! You’re not welcome here or anywhere else!”

  Iain set his jaw. “We just want to pay and leave.”

  The shopkeeper gaped at him. “You deaf? I’ll call the Iron Wardens on you if you don’t leave my shop right now. You’ve just cost me my house faery.”

  Iain felt his pulse quicken. He clenched his fists at his sides. “I—” He stopped himself before he protested, remembering that he wasn’t an Iron Warden any longer. “We just want what we came for, and then we’ll be gone. Our money is still good.”

  “Yeah!” James chimed in. “You can’t treat people like this!”

  “I told you to get out of my bleedin’ shop! Or do I have to defend myself from being robbed?”

  That snapped Iain out of it. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He grabbed his money from the counter, leaving the goods behind. “Let’s go, James.”

  But James didn’t budge just yet. Instead, he leaned in and pointed to one of the filled vials behind the counter “Is that Hawthorn bark?”

  “What if it is?” the man asked nastily. “I ain’t selling it to you.”

  “I’m just curious because it’s a rare find,” James said calmly, a small smile forming. “You see, it’s illegal to sell it, so you probably wouldn’t call anyone from the Iron Guard here.”

  The shopkeeper stared James down, but James remained unflinching. Finally the man pushed the items toward the boys and told them to get the hell out of his shop.

  Iain placed his money
on the counter, grabbed the items, and made his way to the door, pulling James along with him. Before they were out the door, James called back over his shoulder, “I’ve read that if you leave out a bowl of porridge with some butter, the Brownie might come back. You could try it—or you know, you could just pick up a broom and clean the shop yourself—”

  “Leave!”

  “All right.”

  James let out a whoop of laughter once they were walking again and on their way to find the girls, amazed that he had gotten them out of that situation. Additionally, he had done something that Iain couldn’t have done—hadn’t even thought of. And he’d gotten back at that impolite shopkeeper in the process.

  “I can’t believe that worked!” James said, grinning. “Did you see the look on his face?”

  But Iain didn’t look at all pleased. In fact, he looked stern. James deflated, wondering what his brother could possibly think he’d done wrong in that situation. He could never seem to do anything right.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, James.”

  “Why not?” James asked defensively. “He was a git. And you’ve got your precious spices now, so there’s no use complaining.”

  James continued, smiling faintly, his excitement not completely put out. “We didn’t force him to do anything, and he’s the one who threatened us with the Iron Wardens. We just called his bluff, is all.”

  “It wasn’t right,” Iain insisted. “And he could have called soldiers here, and they could have found Deirdre.”

  James scoffed. “I had a plan, and it worked perfectly. That’s what you’re sore about.”

  Iain just raised an eyebrow at him but left it at that.

  They finally reached the area of town where they’d last seen the girls and began to walk around and search for them.

  James produced a book from his backpack. “Something that Brownie said”—he pointed to the title, showing Iain—“about a servant to the Unseelies. This book is called Servants of the Winter Court. Maybe something in here will give us some answers.”

  “What’s it say about moorland creatures?” Iain asked.

  James flipped through. His eyes widened. “That’s odd.”