“I know not what this 'sucks' means.”
“It doesn't matter,” I muttered morosely. “I don't know what to do next. I've got no idea how to win this war.”
“It is true, that without the Red Caps, you are facing failure. If they do not come to your side, the war is lost.”
“Can you tell me if they're thinking about joining us?”
“No.”
I inhaled sharply, working over things at a million miles an hour, trying to figure out a way of getting a straight answer. “Why have the visions stopped?”
“The Fae magic is the cause.”
“I need the visions. They're the only thing that lets us know what's happening,” I waved one arm listlessly, “out there.”
When Nememiah spoke again, he sounded exasperated. “Of course you do not need the visions – you are Nememiah's Child. My child. You have abilities beyond what was originally intended, and yet, you lie here, bemoaning, and crying your fate. Use your gifts, Child of Nememiah. Use your gifts and bring this war to an end.”
My mouth dropped open, then shut again, and I suspected I resembled a goldfish, out of water and sucking in air. I'd done everything I could to help these people with what I'd been given, but it wasn't enough. The ominous silence confirmed Nememiah was gone, and I lay on the bed for a minute or two longer, trying to figure out what he meant. He was being unfair; I was using my gifts.
“But are you using them to the best of your ability?” Mom questioned quietly.
I rolled over onto my stomach, rolling my eyes. “I don't suppose you're going to give me any idea of what this is about, are you?”
I knew the answer, even before I heard it. “We can't.”
≈†◊◊†◊◊†◊◊†≈
I dreamed.
I was sitting by the lake, watching ducks floating across the smooth water, their reflections nearly perfect on the water. Along the edge of the lake, the grasses were dying back, the trees dropping their leaves in preparation for winter, and even now, a flurry of snowflakes fell. I tilted my head upwards, sticking my tongue out, playing an age-old game of trying to catch a snowflake.
“Charlotte.”
I turned towards the voice, recognizing it instantly. It was my maternal grandmother. She'd been the voice I'd heard most often before I'd embraced this strange gift, and it was a surprise to hear her now. During the long months of this war, I'd barely had contact with Gran, her voice drowned under the wellspring of new voices attempting to gain my attention.
She was exactly as I remembered her: short, her figure rounded, her grey hair neatly trimmed around her heart-shaped features. I hadn't seen her since her death when I was twelve years old, and seeing her now brought memories of baking cookies, drinking hot chocolate, laughing at the table with her and Mom as we shared dinner together on cold winter evenings. The smell of her open fire reached my nostrils, the smoky warmth reminding me of happy times before her death.
“Gran?” I questioned. “What are you doing here?”
She walked across to join me, grumbling a little when she lowered herself onto the grass. “You'll catch your death out here, honey,” she said, neatly crossing her legs at the ankles. She was wearing her favorite apron, a yellow one with bunches of pink and blue hydrangeas printed on the material, and a butterfly in shades of brilliant blue and orange had settled on the material, as though the insect believed the flowers were real. Gran lowered her index finger to the butterfly and waited patiently while it considered her for a long moment, before delicately stepping onto her skin. She raised her finger to eye level, watching the butterfly flap his wings slowly as she spoke. “Can't a Gran come and visit with her granddaughter in her dreams?”
“I am sleeping – aren't I?” I questioned. The scene seemed so real, the scents and sights all around me more tangible than they should be. Even as the thought crossed my mind, a breeze blew, sending my hair blowing around my face and the butterfly got caught in the downwind, leaving Gran's finger and fluttering unsteadily away from us.
“Yes, honey. You're sleeping. You need to catch up on some sleep, the past few months have been tough on you. Maybe you'll begin to figure out what needs to happen next when you wake up,” she suggested, surveying the lake and watching as one duck took flight, flapping frantically as it lifted off from the water and gained altitude, droplets of water splashing into the lake below from its flippered feet.
“I don't have a clue what to do,” I admitted sadly.
“You have to figure it out honey,” was Gran's only response.
“I don't think I can.”
Gran dropped her hands into her lap, her left hand neatly over her right, and I saw the rings my grandfather had placed on her finger many years ago. I'd never had contact with him, but I suspected it was because like my stepfather, my grandfather hadn't been a nice man. Gran turned her attention to me, offering a warm smile. “Do you remember your favorite cake; the one I used to make for your birthdays?”
The sudden change of topic confused me and my eyes flashed up to meet hers. “The lemon one?”
“Yes, honey, the lemon cake with fresh raspberries and pistachios. Do you remember how each year, you and your Momma would always come to my house for a special birthday dinner? I'd ask you what type of cake you wanted a few weeks before – and you always, always asked for the lemon cake with the raspberries and the pistachios.”
I smiled, the flavor of the delicious cake coating the back of my tongue for a fleeting moment, making me remember happier times. “I loved that cake,” I announced wistfully.
“And after I passed, you and your Momma tried making that recipe, every single year, didn't you?”
That memory brought on a frown. Although we had Gran's recipe, written in her own spidery handwriting, we'd never managed to duplicate her results, and each year the cake had turned out with a sunken center. It didn't matter how many times we'd repeated the baking, we couldn't get it the same as Gran had for so many years. Sure, it still tasted good, but it wasn't the result we'd hoped for. “We weren't nearly as good at it as you were,” I admitted with a smile.
Gran shook her head, a tiny smile lifting her rosy lips. “No, honey. That's not it. The reason you couldn't get it to work right, was because years before, I'd made that cake, and had the same problem. It kept sinking in the middle, every time. That annoyed me, so I spoke to some of my friends, and questioned them about it. Because if the cake sunk in the middle, that meant something needed to be changed in the recipe.” She looked up at me, her eyes twinkling. “I discovered that there was half a cup too much granulated sugar in the recipe. By adjusting the amount, I fixed the problem.” She smiled. “I just never got around to changing the recipe, because I knew, in my head what needed to be done. And that's something you need to do. You see… if you keep doing something in the same way, over and over again… you'll end up with the same results. You mark my words honey, you need to do different things, try different things, go at the problem of the sinking cake from another angle.” And with that, she carefully got to her feet, and started to stroll away.
I watched her, still trying to figure out the meaning of the strange conversation. “Gran, wait. I don't understand.”
She didn't respond, merely lifted one hand to wave, not even turning back to look at me. As I watched, she seemed to fade away.
And then I woke up.
≈†◊◊†◊◊†◊◊†≈
I was certain Gran's words held some meaning, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it might be. When I woke, I was stunned to learn darkness had fallen outside, and I hurried down to the gates to see how things were progressing. Epi met me as I rounded a corner, and he smiled. “Ah, Child. I heard rumor you were sleeping. Do you feel refreshed?”
I nodded. In fact, I felt better than I had in days, after sleeping for nearly eight hours. While I didn't like the idea of not having the visions to pinpoint what was happening with Archangelo, Aethelwine and the Drâghici, I'd despera
tely needed rest which wasn't interrupted by horrific nightmares of Archangelo's abuses. “I was coming to help with the Fae.”
Epi shook one hand in rejection. “No need, they are already in the city.”
I stopped walking and stared at him. Patrick stirred and stretched, smacking at my chest with his fist. “All of them?”
“We have a great many people who can operate the Hjördis now. Once we were organized and the Fae were grouped in orderly fashions, the Hjördis wielders made quick work of marking them. The last one entered the gates about fifteen minutes ago, and they are being issued with accommodations by a group of our human women, who have shown a particular aptitude for that type of organization.”
“Where are we putting them all?” I asked worriedly.
Epi surveyed the darkened street, where the lamps created bright spots of light every few feet. “I forget how much you are unaware of since your return. During the months that you were away, we discovered that Zaen can increase in size when required. I've already determined that today's new arrivals have seen our streets increase from twelve, to fifteen. The additional houses seem to come without anyone noticing, and they always appear in the outer expanses of the city, meaning that each time a further row is added, we receive an extra percentage. While this circle may contain forty cottages, for instance, the next one will have forty-four.”
“Wow.”
“You see, honey?” Gran's voice echoed softly in my ears. “You have to change the way you do things, to make the cake the right way.”
“Epi, can we talk?” I asked suddenly. “There's something I need to figure out and I need your help.”
Chapter 41: Bringing About Change
Collecting Conal along the way, we hurried to Epi's cottage.
“What's this all about, Sugar?” Conal asked. He'd been working out when we found him, and a towel was draped over his sweaty shoulders.
I glanced around the bustling street and shook my head. “Not here.”
Epi ushered us inside and I was amused to discover that he'd magicked up some creature comforts here, too. A wing-backed armchair, upholstered in wine-red velvet stood at one side of a brick fireplace, a cheery fire burning in the grate. The walls were lined with bookcases, filled with Epi's tomes. A wooden table had been pushed up against one wall, an impressive coffeemaker, all sparkling chrome and shiny black, sitting on it. There was an assortment of coffees sitting beside it. A shaggy brown rug lay on the floor, a pair of red plaid slippers beside it.
“Epi, isn't this a little bit… unfair?”
He sniffed disdainfully, dropping his clipboard on the table. “I've mentioned before, Child; I am fifteen hundred years old, I enjoy some creature comforts. And besides,” he shrugged, “we all play to our strengths.” He waved his fingers over the fancy coffee machine and I was amused when a cup of coffee prepared itself.
“You don't even have to make the coffee?” Conal smirked.
“I don't understand the infernal machine. I was trying for a 'Mr. Coffee', but this is what I ended up with.” Epi settled into the armchair, resting his booted feet on a matching ottoman. “Now tell us what this is about.”
Inhaling a steadying breath, I explained what I'd learned. When I finished, Epi sipped his coffee for a moment or two, before resting the cup carefully on the arm of the chair. “It does make sense, Charlotte. You have gone far beyond what any individual Nememiah's Child could do. While it is troubling to know Nememiah and your spirits won't provide the same level of warning, the upside is knowing you will retain these enhanced abilities introduced by the Fae magic.”
Conal pierced Epi with a sharp glare. “How the hell is that a good thing? Does that mean she's going to need those injections for the rest of her life?”
Epi shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Once again, Conal, you leap to conclusions. Since we've started to understand the effect of the Fae magic on Charlotte's abilities, and she has acclimatized to those changes, the need for the injections has lessened.” He held up a hand when I started to protest. “I am not saying the situation is perfect, but I do believe it is improving as time passes. You know yourself, child, there are times when you go over the four-hour limit, without the return to the psychosis you originally suffered under the drugs influence.”
I thought for a moment, and knew he was right. I tried to be punctual, but there were times when I didn't manage it. I hadn't gone off the deep end – temper, or anxiety wise – so perhaps I was adjusting. But still… “If Nememiah and the spirits aren't going to help, doesn't that mean we're being abandoned?”
Voicing the thought, a groundswell of voices erupted in my head, Lucas and Mom among them. It was apparent from their reactions that my fears were unfounded.
“Maybe we should call on a couple of the spirits to have a chat,” Conal suggested. He'd settled on a chair beside me and interlinked his fingers through mine. “And this is important, Sugar. We should call a meeting.”
I was adamant in refusing. “No. No meetings until I've got this figured out.” I wanted to nut things out with Epi and Conal, without the addition of other opinions. It went against my original tenet, but it felt right. When we'd first found out I was Nememiah's Child, when I'd only had Conal and Epi and the spirits to bounce ideas off, things had been simpler. My gut instinct was to return to that simplicity now. I drew some of the spirits to the fore, bringing them to life with us in Epi's living room.
Lucas gazed down at me, a warm smile lifting his lips. “Charlotte.” He turned his gaze to Conal and the smile morphed into an amused smirk. “Dog.”
This was the first time Conal and Lucas had been together in a very long time, I realized. While Lucas had been on the ground during past encounters, he and Conal rarely crossed paths. Even when they did, it was for the briefest of instances, barely enough time to acknowledge one another.
Conal chuckled. “Bloodsucker.” He turned his attention to the other spirits I'd brought into being: Mom, Keenan, Phelan, and Lyell Tremaine. Conal got to his feet and wrapped his father in a bear hug, Lyell patting his son's back and murmuring in his ear. I watched Conal turn and offer Phelan a strong handshake, before drawing him into an affectionate hug as well. It was a bittersweet moment; a few seconds where I recalled that for the most part, I was the one who had most contact with Conal's loved ones; and what was normal for me, was a meeting etched in sadness and memories for my life mate.
“Please, everyone, take a seat.” Epi magicked up some extra chairs, and when we sat down, Conal wrapped a possessive arm over my shoulders.
Lucas watched Conal's actions and leaned back in his chair, crossing his right ankle over his left knee. “Still insecure, dog?” he questioned, and I couldn't mistake the amusement in his tone.
“Don't start,” I warned.
“Indeed,” Epi said. “We need to discuss the new constraints placed upon your ability to help Charlotte.”
Mom crossed her legs at the ankle, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. She'd settled on the floor beside me, her back against the arm of the couch. “It's true. The ways in which we can assist Charlotte have been amended, and our hands are tied.” She turned to offer me a doleful smile. “As much as it pains me to admit it.”
“How long has this been going on for?” I questioned. In hindsight, I could recall a few situations which had been different. Overwhelmed by everything else, I hadn't thought on it too hard.
Lyell rubbed his hand over his cheek. “Things changed once Bran gave you the medication.”
“And when you adapted so quickly to your abilities,” Keenan added.
“Great,” I muttered unhappily. “I have been hung out to dry.”
Mom shook her head, twisting onto her knees in front of me, clasping my hands. “No, not at all. But we're having to rethink, find new ways to support you and your friends. During an attack, you still have the same ability to call on us for help. And we can still fight by your side, fight the demons, the vampires, and the Fae. We're seeki
ng out new ways of helping, and you must listen carefully to any messages we do send, even if they seem obscure.”
“Unfortunately, the rules under which we can assist have become more difficult to circumvent,” Lucas agreed. “We have chosen to fly close to the wind regarding Nememiah's laws in the past, but now…” Lucas leaned forward, his eyes intense when he gazed at me, “… now we must be even more careful to avoid banishment.”
“But we will find ways,” Keenan added. “Such as the sketch, which you must have realized was designed to place important information into your subconscious—”
“Are you kidding me?” I muttered. I threw my hands in the air, turning to Lucas in disbelief. “It took us ages to figure that out! Could you try and make the clues a little less cryptic?” I demanded.
Lucas smiled indulgently. “Ah, my Charlotte…”
“Don't you mean my Charlotte?” Conal countered and a wash of warm energy bounced against my skin.
“Enough!” Nememiah's voice boomed, startling me, and I jumped when the spirits dissipated, waning like wafts of smoke from the fireplace.
“Lucas? Mom!” I called, concerned they'd been snuffed out by Nememiah's annoyance.
“We're here, Charlotte. Don't worry.” Mom's voice was reassuring and my shoulders slumped in relief. For a few tense moments, I'd been convinced Nememiah had banished them.
“We stepped over the line,” Lucas admitted. “Fortunately, not by too much. I believe Nememiah is as frustrated as we are by these new rules.”
“I said, enough!” Nememiah's voice thundered in my mind, and the spirits voices echoed in undertones, muttering to one another. Nememiah continued, his voice softer, but his words determined. “You have not been abandoned, Nememiah's Child. Have faith.”
≈†◊◊†◊◊†◊◊†≈
After sleeping for most of the day, I was struggling to settle later that night. Abandoning the idea, I kissed Conal's forehead and slipped from the bed. Bringing Phelan and Keenan into being to keep an eye on me, and asking Lucas and Lyell to keep watch over Conal and Patrick, I crept downstairs, wrote a note for Conal so he wouldn't worry if he should wake, and stepped outside.
Knowledge Protects Page 38