by Tanya Huff
A fairy bun.
Technically, it was a leftover brown’n’serve from supper, but in a pinch it’d have to do. As an Anglican minister, his granddad had fought a continual battle against the superstitions that rose up in isolated communities and had told him how even in the sixties many of the more traditional men would carry fairy buns into the woods to protect them from being led astray by the small spirits. Dean had never thought to ask what exactly his granddad had meant by small spirits but reasoned that anything that could make it up the steps to the door had to count.
He wrapped the bun in a paper towel and carefully squashed it down into the front right-hand pocket of his jeans. Turning to go, a movement in the parking lot caught his eye.
His truck was the only vehicle out there. If some of the older kids were about to do any damage, it would have to be to his truck.
Over his dead body. That truck had brought him from Newfoundland to Kingston in February and, in one of the worst winters on record, had gone through everything he’d asked it to. And one thing he hadn’t asked it to, but the gas pumps hadn’t actually exploded and the police had determined that the large patch of black ice had been at fault rather than his driving, so technically it had been an uneventful trip. Anyway, he loved that truck.
Moving quietly to the window, he pushed aside enough of the vertical blinds to allow him to scout the enemy; no point in rushing out like an idiot if his truck was safe.
The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen looked in at him, smiled, and gracefully beckoned him closer.
Dean swallowed, hard. He could feel his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a buoy on high seas.
Her smile sharpened.
Moving from space to space between the vertical slats so that he wouldn’t have to take his eyes off her, Dean shuffled toward the door.
“Dean?” Austin brushed up against his shins. “What are you looking at?”
His tongue felt thick. He had to force it to make words. “Irresistibly beautiful woman.”
“Out there? In the parking lot?”
“Needs me. Needs me to go to her.”
“Uh-huh. Look again.”
A sudden sharp pain in Dean’s calf jerked the world back into focus. Out in the parking lot, the beauty was no longer quite so irresistible. Her eyes held dark shadows, her teeth were far too white and there didn’t seem to be much in the way of boundary between where she ended and the night began. Feeling as though he were standing on the edge of a fog-shrouded cliff, Dean stuffed trembling fingers into his pocket and grabbed one end of the fairy bun.
Belief is everything when dealing with baked goods.
A misty figure, vaguely woman-shaped directed her burning gaze down toward the cat and hissed angrily.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Nice try, now get lost Come on,” he added as the spirit disappeared, “let’s get me a piece of that pork left from dinner, then get you back to the lobby before something else shows up.”
Conscious of the blood slowly soaking into his jeans, Dean fed and followed without an argument.
“Well?” Claire asked impatiently as they came out into the light.
“I was right He was in trouble. Judging from his reaction and the noise it made before it disappeared, I’m guessing it was a Lhiannan-Shee.”
“A fairy sweetheart?”
“Not a sweetheart,” Dean protested remembering its final appearance.
“We all have our bad days.” Claire grabbed him by the elbow and spun him around. “Are you all right?”
“Sure.” He felt a little light-headed and his skin prickled where the hair had risen all over his body, but he still had his soul, so the rest seemed too minor to mention.
“What happened to your leg?”
“Austin.”
“Hey, I had to get his attention, didn’t I?” Austin demanded as Claire turned a raised eyebrow in his direction.
“By attempting an amputation?”
Industriously washing a front paw, he ignored her.
“I know a man who die from a cat scratch,” Jacques announced rematerializing halfway up the stairs. “The scratch, it went…How do you say, septique?”
“Septic.”
“Oui. Had to cut it off and he dies.”
“Died.”
“Oui.” He smiled at Dean. “Should we cut off your leg now or later?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m insulted,” Austin snorted. “My claws are clean.”
“Maybe you’d better go wash your leg,” Claire suggested, nodding toward her suite. “Use my bathroom. There’s some antibiotic cream in the medicine chest.”
At the sight of the roughly circular stain, Dean sucked in air through his teeth. About three inches in diameter, it was an ugly red-brown, darker in the center of the top curve. “Oh, man. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To change. I don’t get these jeans into cold water soon, I’ll never get the blood out.”
“Don’t look out any windows!” Claire yelled as he ran for the basement “I don’t believe him,” she muttered over the sound of his work boots clumping down the stairs. “One minute he’s terrified, the next, a laundry problem drives the whole experience from his mind.”
“He is right about the bloodstain and cold water,” Jacques pointed out. “You see these?” He slapped his thighs. “Cover with blood when I fall in the lake and now, for eternity, clean.”
Claire helped herself to a chocolate bar. “Don’t you start.”
A few moments later. Dean reentered the lobby in jeans so clean the creases were a lighter shade of blue.
“Well?”
He smiled. “I’ve been hurt worse while still on the bench.”
“Next time I’ll dig a little deeper,” Austin muttered as another group of kids arrived.
For about half an hour, a steady procession of the neighborhood children climbed up the steps to claim their loot. Claire kept a wary eye on the wards while Dean stood in the open doorway, happily handing out the candy. By the time the crowd thinned and the stairs emptied, it was full dark.
“Uh, Boss? There’s a real evil-looking cow down on the street.”
“A cow?”
“Yeah. It’s got barbed horns and glowing red eyes.”
“Considering how the rest of the stuffs been manifesting, it’s probably a Guytrash.”
“What should I do?”
“Shut the door; it’ll go away.”
Brow creased, he did as he was told. “These things can’t hurt the kids, can they?”
“Have you ever heard of a kid being hurt by a cow on Halloween?”
“Well, no, but…”
“This kind of manifestation can’t hurt you if you don’t believe it can hurt you, and frankly, not many people believe in the traditional ghoulies anymore.” The wards blazed red and Claire reached for the door. “There’s probably enough race memory left to give them a bit of a scare, but isn’t that what tonight’s abo…oh, my.” She stared up at the very large man wearing what looked to be black plastic armor and shivered a little at the menace in the black plastic eyes.
“Truth or dare?” His voice was darker; deeper even, if that was possible.
It was essentially the same question. The trick was, never for an instant to show uncertainty. “Truth.”
“You think you can do it alone, but you can’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve had your truth.” She could hear amusement in the dark tone. “Now, it’s my turn.”
“Hey, Nicho! Look who it is!”
A pair of six- or seven-year-olds charged up the stairs and grabbed onto the trailing black cloak.
“You are so cool, man.”
“You’re our favorite.”
“It’s really you, isn’t it?”
He turned enough to look ominously down at them. “Yes. Really.”
“Cool.”
“Way cool.”
“Can we
have your autograph?”
“Will you come home with me and meet our mom?”
“No, no! Better! Come to school with us tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you could slice and dice those guys who won’t let us on the swings.”
“Slice and dice!”
The features of the mask were, of course, immobile, but Claire thought she could detect a faint hint of building panic as the question and comments continued at machine-gun speed.
“You looked a lot taller in the movie.”
“Where’d you get those cool boots?”
“We loved the way you iced that guy without even touching him.”
“You gonna be in the prequel?”
“I got the micro machine play set that looks just like you.”
“I drew a picture of you on the inside cover of my reader. It was pretty good, but I got in trouble.”
“Can I hold your light sa…”
“No.” He yanked his cape from their hands.
“Oh, come on, just once.”
“Me, too.”
“I said, no.”
“We wouldn’t break it”
“Yeah, don’t be such a jerk.”
Breathing labored, he rushed down the steps, strode out onto the sidewalk, and disappeared.
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Way cool.”
The taller of the two looked speculatively up at Claire. “You got any gummy bears?”
“I’m melting, I’m melting…”
Swinging the empty bucket, Claire closed the door on the dissolving manifestation. “At least she stuck to the script.”
“I always thought the CBC was overreacting about the effects of the American media,” Dean said thoughtfully, “but now I’m not so sure.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be out so late.”
The tiny girl watched the candy drop safely into her bag before answering. “My daddy just got home.”
The shadowy figure at the bottom of the stairs raised an arm in a sheepish wave.
“I see. Well, what are you supposed to be?”
She tossed her head, setting a pair of realistic looking paper horse ears waggling, and spun around so Claire could see the tail pinned to the back of her jacket. “I’m a pony.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“You’ve got a cat in the window,” she continued. “I want a cat, but my stepmom’s allergic. Can I come in and pet your cat? Just for a minute.” Head to one side, she smiled engagingly. “Please.”
“What about your father?”
She spun around again. “Daddy! Can I go pet the cat?”
The arm lifted in what could have been a wave of assent.
Like most cats, Austin was not fond of small children. Claire grinned and was about to step out of the way when she noticed the threshold seemed to be a darker color than the surrounding wood. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a paper packet of salt and, as the child’s eyes widened, ripped it in half and threw it in her face.
The glamour faded.
The runes blazed red.
The little girl stretched six, seven feet tall, costume vanishing although the horse ears remained, curved fangs protruding from her lower jaw, oversized hands scraping at the bricks on either side of the door.
Daddy breathed fire.
Claire and Dean together slammed the door.
“That was close,” Claire said with feeling as the latch finally caught.
Shoulders against the wood, Dean let out a breath he couldn’t remember taking. “Do you always keep salt in your pocket?”
“Strange question from a man carrying a brown’n’serve.”
“Aren’t you guys a little old to be out tonight?”
One of the three identical junior skinheads scowled, differentiating himself momentarily from the other two. “Aren’t you a little ugly to be passin’ judgment?”
“Yeah. Just give over the fuckin’ candy.”
The teenager in the middle elbowed them both hard in the ribs. “What we meant to say, ma’am, was trick or treat.”
Claire thought about it a moment as the boys postured. “Trick,” she said at last and closed the door.
The boy with his boot thrust in on the threshold got a nasty surprise. They could hear his shriek even through the heavy wood.
“I think the bitch broke my fuckin’ foot, man.”
“They were going to egg us anyway,” Claire explained. “I figured, why waste the candy.”
“Egg us?” Dean repeated.
She grabbed his arm, stopping his charge. “Don’t worry about it.”
“These guys won’t stop with eggs!”
“I think they will.” A few minutes later, watching out the window as the last of the thrown eggs paused inches from the hotel and swept back, like all the rest to smash on the now dripping and furious thrower, she sighed. “I guess I was wrong.”
The hunk of broken concrete followed the same path as the eggs.
“Tricky downdrafts. That had to hurt.”
Claire put herself bodily between Dean and the door as he tried to follow the will-o’-the-wisp dancing up and down the stairs. She allowed herself one small thought about the firm resilience of his stomach, then dug her shoulder in and shoved him far enough into the lobby to be able to close the door.
“That’s it,” she said when he was safely behind the counter. “It’s ten o’clock. There won’t be any more kids. I think we can blow out the candle and turn off the outside lights, honor intact.”
The pumpkin lid refused to lift and all the air blown in through the carved face wouldn’t put out the candle.
“Oh, nuts.”
Two of the remaining four chocolate bars acquired almonds. Two didn’t.
“Granddad?”
“No tricks, Dean, I promise. Come on out we have a lot to say to each other.”
“But you’re dead.”
“Never said I wasn’t, but this is the night the dead walk.”
“The restless dead.”
“You think I’m not restless after what you did? Think again!”
“But Aunt Carol loves the house.”
“I left it to you, you ungrateful whelp.”
“Granddad, let me explain.” One foot lifted to clear the threshold, Dean felt something crunch in his pocket and shoved a hand in to feel what it was.
The fairy bun.
The steps were empty.
“I thought I told you not to open that while I was gone.” Claire stepped out of her sitting room as he jerked back and closed the door. “What was out there?”
“The ghost of my granddad.”
“He’s dead? Sorry, stupid question.” She went out into the lobby and searched his face. “It wasn’t actually him, you know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“You don’t look so good. Maybe you should go to bed.”
“Will they keep coming?”
“Yes. Probably until dawn.”
He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “Then I’ll stay.”
“What was that?”
“Fachan. They’ve gone back to the classics.”
“That roast was for tomorrow’s supper.”
“Trust me, he wouldn’t have been happy with candy.”
Dawn seemed a long time coming.
“Any candy left?”
Claire tipped the bowl up on its side and tried to focus on the contents. Half a dozen empty wrappers fell out. “Looks like I’ve finished it.”
“What were those last two things again.”
“An ogre and a Duergar. Why?” She blew a weary bubble.
Dean pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Did you really spin straw into gold?”
“It was going around in a circle, so technically it was spinning.” The Duergar hadn’t been entirely happy, but since it had the treat, it couldn’t trick. The ogre, on the other hand, had ripped the railing out around the area and tossed it and the hotel sign out into the street. Treating a
n ogre meant feeding it dinner.
Ogres were man-eaters. The trick was knowing that.
Austin lifted his head off his paws and yawned. “Sun’s up. And the candle just went out.” He leaped off the windowsill as the pumpkin collapsed in on itself, smoking slightly.
Shoving his glasses back on approximately where they belonged, Dean stood and headed for the door. “I think I’ll get that stuff off the road before there’s an accident.”
Dragging herself up onto her feet Claire waited a moment until the world stopped spinning. “I think I’ll go throw up.”
THAT’S IT? YOU SCARED THEM A TIME OR TWO AND YOU DID A LITTLE DAMAGE AND YOU TIRED THEM OUT, BIG DEAL. THE KEEPER FIELDED EVERYTHING YOU THREW AT HER AND NEVER ONCE DREW POWER FROM LOWER THAN THE MIDDLE OF THE POSSIBILITIES.
SO LET’S SEE YOU DO BETTER. The rest of Hell sounded miffed.
BETTER?
OKAY. FINE. WORSE.
WAIT FOR IT….
Down on one knee, the police constable poked at the hole torn in the concrete setting and shook his head. “When exactly did this happen?”
“About four A.M.”
“Four-twelve,” Mrs. Abrams corrected. “I know because when I heard the noise, and it was a terrible noise, I looked at my alarm clock and even though I bought it before Mr. Abrams died, God bless the man, it still keeps perfect time.”
“Four-twelve,” the constable repeated. “Did you happen to see who did it?”
“Oh, no! I wasn’t going to expose myself to that kind of destructive hooliganism. That’s what the police are paid for and that’s why I called them.”
“I was actually asking Ms. Hansen.”
Since there’d been a chance of flying glass, Claire had stayed away from the window and so could truthfully answer, “Sorry, I didn’t see anything.”
“It was probably a gang of students from the university. They get a few too many drinks in them and go crazy.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Claire agreed as he stood. It wasn’t what had happened, but it sounded reasonable. Most of the vandalism in Kingston conveniently got blamed on wandering gangs of students from the university who’d had a few too many drinks. Occasionally they were spotted in the distance, but no one ever managed to identify individuals since, like other legendary creatures, they vanished when too closely approached.