“Why?” Jared asked one last time, his eyes full of fear. Then Hell itself reached out from the void and dragged the spirit into nothingness.
What have I done?
Colby’s lungs began to ache for air, the early stages of panic setting in. He needed to get to the surface; he needed to get to the surface now. Colby swam furiously, careless now of how much noise he made. Air. No matter how hard he thrashed, he just couldn’t move swiftly enough against the current. Need air. Without thinking, he grabbed the wall, pulling himself along, casting himself haphazardly through the caves.
He entered the dining room and scanned for the nixie who had spoken to him. She was nowhere to be found.
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!
He reached the threshold of the atrium, his lungs ready to burst. Then he heard them.
“Someone’s here!” said a voice.
“It’s just a turtle,” said another.
“No. It’s a man!”
Colby kicked up toward the surface, struggling to make his way to fresh air. He shot through the water like a rocket, breaking through with a loud splash. His lungs barked out stale air, and he wheezed desperately to replace it. Behind him, two small splashes.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” asked one of the sisters.
A clawed hand grasped his ankle, dragging him back beneath the water. He sank toward the bottom, flailing for the surface as it drifted slowly away. The nixie grappling with him climbed his body, embraced him face-to-face. She grinned, anxious to drown the intruder for his trespass.
“Now, just who do you think you . . . ,” she said, her voice stopping midsentence, trailing into worry. Her expression promptly changed. “Oh my . . . I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, horrified at the face before her. She kicked with her fin and launched them both upward, breaking the surface, throwing him off her as far as she could. Then she swam away, terrified, as if he bore the plague.
“What are you doing?” screamed one of her sisters.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Please don’t hurt us!” she pleaded.
“What are you going on about?” asked her other sister.
“Him. It’s the boy. The boy sorcerer.”
“Colby?” they asked together. They hadn’t recognized him at first, but they’d seen him around. Everyone knew who Colby was, whether he knew them or not. And they were terrified of him. Without hesitating, the two sisters abandoned the third to the surface, disappearing beneath the waves, leaving her to stare, agape, at Colby. Colby had no idea what to make of what was going on.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.
Colby shook his head. “Are you going to kill me?”
“No,” she said.
“Then let me swim to shore and you never have to see me again.”
She nodded and Colby splashed his way back to the embankment across the lake.
He pulled himself ashore, breathless, scared out of his wits, looking back out at the water. The nixies were gone, having vanished beneath the waves. He’d done it, but he wasn’t at all sure what it was. It was probably best not to think about it. With the favor done, the Wild Hunt should not hunt for Colby’s soul, and whoever Jared Thatcher was, he was least where he most likely belonged.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
ONE NIGHT ONLY
After a week of begging, pleading, and cajoling his slovenly potato of a boss into letting his band perform once more, Ewan got his chance. A local band had been hitting up the owner for more money, while Limestone Kingdom was willing to play for free. The owner came around. From then on, what time Ewan didn’t spend curled up with Nora he spent in his bassist’s garage, practicing their new songs.
Something was different about him. Color had returned to his skin—the pale, sickly white replaced by a fleshy, earthy pink. He smiled more. His eyes seethed with a fire, as if he’d been shown something incredible and couldn’t wait to tell the world about it. There was a spring in his step, an interminable energy to his every movement. He oozed confidence; one could almost smell his charisma on the air.
Ewan Bradford was a fucking rock star. And it was time the rest of the world finally got the chance to know it.
Plugging in his amp, the place felt meager and small, almost as if it were unworthy of what he was about to unleash. He smiled, shook that feeling off, reminding himself that the magic was in the crowd, not in the rat-trap fire hazard of a club. There was a certain poetry to playing this music here first—a final go fuck yourself before his band made it. Something had clicked, their music finally just right. It had balls, it was layered; for the first time in his life, Ewan felt as if he had something to say. The drummer’s sister stood offstage with a video camera, recording the show, the bassist’s buddy, a sound technician, laying it down on tape.
All that Ewan needed now was to see Nora, to get one last playful glance from her before striking the chord that would mark the end of his old life and the beginning of the new. He glanced around, hoping she’d picked the same spot where he’d first seen her sitting, but she wasn’t there. People were still pouring in, eager not to hear Limestone Kingdom, but the band following them, a local favorite. The crowd wasn’t thick, but it was dense enough to make finding Nora tough. Frantically he scanned the room, looking for her.
And then he saw her. She stood at the back of the room, a foot propped up on the wall behind her, wearing exactly the same outfit as the night they’d met. She smiled and winked, noting that he’d finally found her. Then she blew him a kiss, nodding. He was ready.
BREEEEOOOOOWWWWW! The first chord resonated like a bolt of lightning striking the amp, its thunder rolling over the crowd. Everyone looked up. Everyone. Ewan paused before he touched his guitar again, letting that single, drifting note draw everyone in. An awkward anticipation hung in the air, as if the crowd had been awakened suddenly at their desks in class with no idea why everyone was staring at them.
And then he laid into his guitar like a ravenous dog on a piece of meat. There was nothing limp or mediocre about it. It was profound. It was like seeing the aurora borealis for the first time. Everything they were doing seemed wrong, but felt right. Discordant notes blended to form melodies and shockingly addictive chords. Hooks that felt as if they’d been in the audience’s heads for years played to their ears for the first time. Eyes and jaws stared wide, unblinking, at the stage.
There was no stage show. No lighting. No pageantry. But their essence was palpable. Three guys pouring their hearts into a song that everyone swore they’d heard somewhere before but could not place. Everyone present would describe their experience differently, but they would all speak of it reverently, as if it were somehow religious.
The band had left a dozen T-shirts behind the bar, the same dozen shirts they’d had printed months before and brought with them just to seem legitimate. Simple and black, they had a seemingly handwritten scrawl upon them that read: “Limestone Kingdom.” All twelve sold before the end of the second song.
Mallaidh, dressed as Nora, stood at the back of the crowd, beaming with pride. She knew the music well. They were fairy tunes she remembered from childhood, played originally by the master musician Dithers and duplicated with raw intensity by his ward and unknowing student. She rocked back and forth, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, nervously fidgeting with her rainbow-colored scarf, giddy as a schoolgirl.
“He’s beautiful,” said a woman standing next to her.
Mallaidh nodded with a love-bitten smile.
“You’ve chosen well.”
“Excuse me?” Mallaidh gave the stranger a sidelong glance. The woman beside her was lithe, graceful and only slightly taller. She looked as if she were in her late twenties, yet at the same time ageless, with a timeless style and tattoos that looked neither fresh nor faded. Her hair was short and black, her eyes sharp and dazzling. A faded rock T-shirt clun
g to her body, knotted above her belly button, leaving her tight, youthful midriff exposed. Below that, she wore a pair of faded, tattered jeans, too perfectly torn to be a mistake, too ragged to be prefabricated.
The woman was the very definition of rock style. And she was eyeing Mallaidh’s man.
“You’ve chosen very well for your first time out,” said the woman.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” said Mallaidh.
The woman smiled. “Your first love. You can always tell when a Leanan Sidhe is looking upon her first love. There’s a sort of magic to it. I wish I could go back and reexperience my first. It was incredible.”
Mallaidh winced. “What are you talking about?”
“Sweetie, you knew these were my stomping grounds. Right? You had to imagine that you’d meet your mother one day. Guess which day today is?”
Mallaidh’s jaw dropped and her heart with it. The thought had never crossed her mind. She’d never known her mother, never thought she’d meet her. And her pursuit of Ewan had been so single-minded that it didn’t matter where he ended up—she would have followed him there. He just happened to be in Austin. Now, standing before her, was the woman who had abandoned her decades ago, looking no more along in years than an older sister.
“Wait,” said the woman. “You had no idea?”
“Cassidy?” asked Mallaidh.
“Cassidy Crane.”
“Mo . . . ?” Mallaidh began.
“Call me Mom and you’re dead meat, kiddo.” Cassidy glared facetiously, smiling at the same time. Her daughter looked just like her. She could see through the glamour—all the tricks and wiles of the Leanan Sidhe—and noted that, despite the blond locks, she was her mother’s daughter. The nose, the chin, the eyes. All hers. The cheeks were her father’s though, something that made Cassidy’s heart swell a little as she thought back upon the days spent in his arms. Cassidy still loved that man, though were she honest with herself, most of those lingering feelings stemmed from what he’d left behind.
“I don’t understand,” said Mallaidh. “Where have you been?”
“Here. I’ve been here the whole time. Didn’t Meinrad explain any of this to you?”
Mallaidh shook her head, confused. There was a quiet bitterness rising in her gut, a feeling of rejection churning behind it. At the same time, she was joyous. She’d never met her mother and here she was, on what was the third most important night of her life, when it really mattered.
“He was supposed to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“What you are. What we are.”
“I’m a Sidhe,” said Mallaidh.
“A Leanan Sidhe,” said Cassidy. “We’re different.”
“Different how?”
“You really don’t know any of this?”
“I know that you left me with Meinrad because you thought he could care for me.”
“Yeah,” said Cassidy, “just as you’ll choose someone to leave your child with one day. We don’t raise our young. We can’t.”
“What?”
“We’re not cut out to be mothers, you and I. We’re lov-ers, not lov-ing.”
Mallaidh shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“That’s okay. It’ll come with time. You’ll understand. The first few are the hardest, but you get used to it. You grow accustomed. You never forget them and you’ll always love them, but it doesn’t hurt the same. This one will destroy you, though.” She pointed at Ewan. “He’s magnificent. I couldn’t have chosen better for you had I spent a year trying.” Cassidy put a firm hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You’ve got the knack. You certainly can pick ’em. You are your mother’s daughter.”
“Cassidy, what is this all about?” asked Mallaidh.
“This is about being time that you learned who you are. And what’s going to happen to the man onstage.”
“Ewan?” There was fear in her voice. “What’s going to happen to him?”
Cassidy looked both ways. “Look, I think I’ve said all I can in here.” She glanced at the door. “Follow me. I have something very important to tell you.”
Mallaidh looked at the stage then back at her mother.
“Come on, it will only take a few minutes. He’s got at least three encores with this crowd before he can get off the stage.” Cassidy walked toward the door, a lingering look over her shoulder telling Mallaidh she had no choice but to follow.
Outside the night air had a different sound to it, the music nothing but a dull bass line and drum thumping when passed through cinder-block walls and a solid metal door. The rest of the night was peaceful. They’d emerged from the atmosphere of earth into the cold, bleak space surrounding it. Cassidy walked farther still, turning a corner into the adjacent alley. She gave one last look over her shoulder before disappearing.
Mallaidh quickly followed, surprised by four hands emerging from the dark.
She was thrown up against the wall, grappled by two men half her size. Looking down upon the moist crimson sacks draped over their heads, she knew right away what was happening. Redcaps. Their clawed hands dug into her flesh as she struggled futilely against their overwhelming strength.
“You’re not my mother!” she screamed at the woman.
Cassidy looked devastated, her heart breaking before her daughter. A small tear formed in the corner of her eye. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances,” she said. “But I love too, you know.” She turned to the alley and spoke bitterly. “We had a deal. Where is he?”
A voice cut through the shadows. “You’ll find him unconscious in his car on the top floor of the parking garage two blocks north of here,” it said.
Cassidy looked back at her daughter, but still spoke to the shadows. “She doesn’t get hurt.”
“Were I to hurt her,” said the man, “I would find myself on the wrong side of this. As it is, I am entitled to collect the boy as payment for the deaths for which he is responsible.” The man stepped out of the dark, his face very much like Ewan’s, only twisted, scarred, and wrinkled—like a wax sculpture left in the sun to bake.
“Knocks?” asked Mallaidh. “What are you doing?”
“What should have been done years ago; I’m collecting on the Devil’s debt.”
LIMESTONE KINGDOM HAD run out of songs. The crowd was howling, their cigarette lighters held aloft in the air, but Ewan had nothing left to offer them. There was no chance they were going to play one of the old numbers, but the crowd wanted one more song. So the band did the one thing they could think to do—play the first song over again.
The crowd bought it. Instead of rolling their eyes they began to sing along. This was now less of an opening song and more of an anthem—so the second time around, they simply played it harder. The drummer pounded the devil out of his drums, the bassist played his fingers raw. Sweat poured down Ewan’s chest, his drenched shirt clinging tightly to him as his lungs heaved, gulping air between bellowing notes.
Then it was over. The final guitar note faded into the air and the crowd erupted with enthusiastic applause. They were a hit. In the back of the club, the next act bickered, arguing about whether to go on at all, unwilling to follow something so overwhelming. The owner shook his head, wondering why these three had performed so poorly so many times before.
Women in half shirts, tank tops, and skintight blue jeans began lining up just offstage, their eyes expectant, waiting for Ewan, but willing to settle for anyone in the band. Ewan unplugged, walking offstage, his eyes never meeting those of a single adoring fan. He cast his gaze wide, darting past each hopeful girl, anxious to find Nora. The club was fuller than before, and as he passed, men pounded him soundly on the back, giving him knowing hipster nods of approval.
A lanky blonde with alabaster skin, a loose-fitting sundress, and a petite, unobtrusive piercing in
her nose stepped in front of Ewan, nodding ever so slightly, tilting her head down, looking up at him suggestively, a slight pout to her lips. He nodded politely and tried to move past her, but she gracefully strayed farther into his path.
“Hi, Ewan,” she said, her voice drifting like jasmine on a summer evening. “I’m Molly.”
“Hey, Molly,” he said politely but without interest. “Have you seen my girlfriend?” He raised his eyebrows, expecting the blonde to shrink away.
“Oddly enough, I have.”
Ewan was skeptical. “Excuse me?”
The blonde smiled delicately, wrinkling her nose ever so slightly, as if to say I know more than you know. “Nora’s my cousin.”
“She never mentioned a cousin.”
“And how much about herself has she actually told you?” she asked. Ewan began to speak but stopped himself. The blonde continued, “Has she even told you where she lives?”
“Not exactly.”
“That’s our Nora; way too guarded.”
“Where is she?” asked Ewan.
“She’s outside, with a couple of my friends.” The girl stroked a stray patch of Ewan’s hair back over his ear, purring a little. “She was right,” she said. “You’re adorable.” Her fingers traced back over his ear, lingering on his lobe just a tad longer than could be mistaken as innocent. Then she reached down and took him by the hand. “Come on, let’s go get her.”
The two walked outside into the dead quiet of night, the open air instantly chilling his sweat-soaked T-shirt, hardening his nipples. He shivered slightly. Nora was nowhere in sight.
“Where is she?” asked Ewan with a hint of suspicion.
“Round here,” said the blonde, nodding to the alley. “Hey, Molly! What the hell, girl? I’ve got your man.”
There was no answer.
“Molly?” asked Ewan.
“I meant Nora,” she said with a blushing giggle hidden behind a maidenly hand. Then she clenched that hand into a fist, clocked Ewan with a right cross, staggering him backward, sending him stumbling into the dark alley. Waiting claws caught him, immediately throwing him into a nearby wall. His body slapped into the brick, his head whipping forward, cracking on the stone. He wobbled, ever so slightly, unable to keep his balance, toppling to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
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