Taken

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “What I saw. It’s a possibility, not a certainty.”

  He made it a statement, but the words echoed with a lilt that suggested he needed confirmation. Reassurance. I stared at him, studying the flutter of his pulse beneath the skin of his throat, the bulge in the veins at his temples. He straightened his already-straight tie. I blinked. My stoic FBI partner was fidgeting.

  What did that vision show him?

  “There are many choices between now and what you saw,” Andrea said gently. “Any one of them could lead to a different path.”

  Andy ran a hand over his jacket pockets, passing his palm over where his gun lay in its holster on his hip. “Can you tell me how to avoid it?”

  “What did you see?” Concern and unease rolled over me, pulling me a step closer to Andy. “What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t answer me, didn’t even look at me. In fact, he stared at Andrea as if she were the only solid thing in the world. “Can you tell me how to avoid it?” he repeated.

  “I could tell you how to avoid what you saw,” Andrea said calmly. “But it would do you no good. Just as the many choices between now and then could lead to a different path, so too could many paths lead you to the same choice.” Her features softened, showing not quite pity, but understanding. “A frightening vision is more frightening out of context. It might well be that when the time comes, you will feel differently.”

  Andy had gone two shades paler, and he’d balled his fists at his sides. I hadn’t known him long, but I’d known him long enough that seeing him react like this scared me. He’d seen something bad. Really bad.

  Andrea touched his shoulder. “If what you saw comes to pass, remember this. You cannot lose a true friend. You can only hide from them.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” He pulled away from her and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  She sighed, a sad exhalation that echoed with a thousand similar sighs before it. “It will.”

  Chapter 3

  “I could figure out a million prophecies!”

  “Oh, what a lie!”

  Peasblossom waved a tiny pink fist in the air as she clung to Andy’s rearview mirror like a deranged ornament. The light in the skull’s eye sockets narrowed to a pinprick of searing green light, and Echo drew an audible breath for another volley.

  I held the skull farther away from Peasblossom, as if more physical distance would do anything to impede their argument. Frustration pulled my skin taut, and if the two oldest beings in the car didn’t shut up so I could ask Andy about his vision, then I was going to start throwing spells, enclosed space or no enclosed space. “Final warning. I am trying to have a conversation, and you’re behaving like children.”

  “I’m over three hundred years old!” Echo protested. “I am no child.”

  “I’m older than that!” Peasblossom insisted. Her brow pinched. “I think I’m older. We don’t know. Hard to tell time in an enchanted house, and Mother Hazel didn’t exactly hang a calendar.”

  “Like you could read a calendar,” Echo muttered. “What pixie plans anything in advance?”

  I took a breath to intervene, but before I could speak, the car jerked over the white line. I clutched the edge of my seat with my free hand, trying not to crush the ceramic skull in the other.

  Despite the wild turn of the wheel, Andy’s face remained composed. Only the tightness around his mouth betrayed his anger as he maneuvered the large SUV to the side of the road. He threw the vehicle into park, turned off the engine, ripped the keys out, and fixed Peasblossom a stern expression.

  “There are children missing.” His voice was hard, but quiet in a way that promised to get louder if things didn’t go well. He stared at the skull. “They’ve been missing for a year.”

  Peasblossom curled tighter around the rearview mirror. The eye lights on the skull dimmed.

  “I, for one, would like to find them alive. I know that sounds unlikely. They’ve been missing a long time with no support system that we know of. But with all the insane things I’ve learned about this past month, I have hope. I have hope that there’s some crazy Otherworld component to this case that means I’ll find them alive. That this will be different from the ninety-nine percent of missing-persons cases that aren’t solved after a year has passed.”

  He pushed his sunglasses up higher on his nose. “Now, Shade and I are going to discuss this case. And you two will be silent. If you get the urge to bicker again, you will remember those children. You will remember what is important. Is that understood?”

  Peasblossom nodded, her long pink ponytail swaying forlornly in the air.

  “Yes,” Echo mumbled.

  Andy slid the key back into the ignition and started the car. He pulled into traffic without sparing the bickering pair another glance, and I smiled, unable to help it. He has a way with children. I wonder if he has nephews. I paused, realizing I didn’t even know if Andy had siblings. Shame on me for knowing so little about my partner. I made a mental note to ask him more questions unrelated to murder and kidnappings. Later.

  “Go on, Shade.”

  “All right.” I opened the file and laid it in my lap. “On April fourth, 2016, Sarah Devons, the program director for the children’s youth center, Constellation House, called the Cleveland Police Department to report three missing kids. Matthew, Lindsay, and Grayson were all involved in a special art program slash fundraiser at the shelter. They were supposed to show up for a walk through of the event, your basic ‘you come in at this time, you stand here, make small talk,’ etc. None of them showed up.”

  “You said art program fundraiser,” Andy said. “Some kids might chafe at having their work sold without all of the money going into their own pocket. Maybe they were intimidated by the attention.”

  I read the officer’s notes. “It says here they were all excited about it. Matthew had already sold his painting. ‘Some rich guy’—and that’s a direct quote from Officer Carris—was at the shelter for a political campaign photo shoot and noticed the painting. He bought it on the spot.”

  “Probably to get a story to go with the photos,” Andy muttered. “Everyone’s a philanthropist during an election.”

  “Most likely.”

  “Any suspects?”

  I flipped to the next page. “One. A lot of the kids in the art program mentioned a guy hanging around the center, asking questions and monitoring their works in progress. Ms. Devons said he was an art critic. She let him talk with the kids because she thought he might be able to get their fundraiser more visibility. He seemed nice, no creepy vibe, and he was respectful to the kids. She never left him alone with the kids, for safety reasons, but he observed some of the creative sessions.”

  “He have a name?”

  “Michael Keegan.”

  Andy arched an eyebrow. “That’s a very Irish name.”

  “There’s a note here that he had an Irish accent, too.” Something nagged at me, an idea trying to make itself known. Missing artists. Irish stranger. Frustration tightened my jaw as the thought remained out of reach. “They described him as tall,” I continued, “over six feet, maybe six foot four, with silver hair. He wore a long grey coat and black boots.” I snorted. “A few of the girls called him a stone fox.”

  Andy gave me a wary side-glance. “Stone fox?”

  “Handsome older man,” I explained.

  “I know what it means. I didn’t expect to hear it from that age group.” He stiffened. “Did anyone say he was inappropriate with them?”

  “No, everyone said he was friendly and ‘proper.’” The nagging at the back of my mind became stronger. Proper. Irish. Missing artists.

  “You’re making a face,” Andy said.

  “That’s her thinking face,” Peasblossom told him. “Try to ignore it.”

  “Can I talk now?” Echo asked.

  “No,” Peasblossom said.

  “She’s not my boss, is she?” Echo demanded.

 
Andy cleared his throat in warning. Peasblossom flinched, and the skull fell silent.

  “What about the kids?” he asked. “Do we have any details on them?”

  “Yes.” I put a finger to the page, following the detective’s neat writing. “Matthew, seventeen years old, five foot, seven inches tall, short brown hair and brown eyes, swimmer’s build. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at fourteen. He was receiving medication through a local clinic, and he seemed to react well to the meds.”

  “We need to talk to the clinic and find out if he or anyone picked up his meds.”

  I put the file down to retrieve a notebook from my waist pouch. By the time I found it, I had a pile of odds and ends on my lap, including a stick of deodorant, a candle, and a handful of Legos. I opened the notebook, then realized I didn’t have a pen. I reached into my pouch again, but something poked me in the shoulder. I glanced over to find Andy holding out a pen.

  “Use mine?”

  I accepted the writing instrument and cleaned up the mess in my lap with as much dignity as I could muster. I wrote “To Do” at the top and then “Speak to people at the clinic about Matthew and medication retrieval.” Then I lifted the file and continued reading.

  “Lindsay, seventeen years old, five foot, six inches tall, blonde hair, blue eyes, thin build. The file describes her as skittish, with severe trust issues due to childhood abuse, but said overall Lindsay is kind and was making strong progress. Her impression was Lindsay was starting to trust her. This art program helped get Lindsay around people, and she seemed to be opening up.”

  “We should track down the abusive family, make sure they have alibis. It’s more likely the same person took all three, circumstances being what they are, but I don’t want to discount any possibilities.”

  I made an appropriate note. “Grayson, eighteen years old, brown hair, brown eyes, six feet even, lean build. No documented mental issues; he’s described as friendly and reliable. Ms. Devons says he was always responsive if she asked him for help with other kids, and she thought he was a great role model.”

  Something fell out of the file, and I leaned over. Peasblossom leapt off the rearview mirror and careened to the floor like a pink fireball. She grabbed the booklet and hefted it in the air.

  “It’s a pamphlet,” she announced. She squinted at the pictures. “I think it’s from Constellation House. For the art show.”

  I took the pamphlet from her, pausing to let her climb onto my wrist before settling in my seat. “Seems to be part of the advertising campaign for the art program. Some background on Constellation House, a blurb about the auction.” I flipped the page. “And a spotlight on the artists. There’s a picture of the kids posing with their artwork.” I studied the picture of Lindsay, squinting at the painting she held up for the camera. “Small brick house, shutters over the windows, no sidewalk, no driveway.”

  “There’s a porch,” Peasblossom pointed out.

  “Good catch.” I studied the painting a moment longer, then tapped the aforementioned porch. “I think the director was right. She had trouble letting people in, but I think she was making progress.”

  “You can tell that from her painting?” Andy asked.

  I shrugged. “Art therapy. It’s not an exact science, but it’s helpful for gaining insight if the person isn’t available.”

  “Hmm. I didn’t know you had a background in psychology.”

  I covered Peasblossom’s mouth before she could brag for me. I’d spent the majority of my apprenticeship—the majority of my life—becoming an expert in “everything.” It was a common demand for witches to make on their apprentices. I had at least five PhDs by human standards.

  “Can you read the others’ art?” Andy asked.

  I studied the pamphlet. “Matthew has bipolar disorder, so I’d have to see several of his paintings to judge. His work is more abstract than Lindsay’s, and that makes any analysis more challenging. The best information I could offer about him would come from a comparison of his art, something he did from each point in his cycle of mania and depression.” I pointed to the picture, even though Andy couldn’t see it. “This one could be anxiety, the rectangle of white space with the erratic border of greenish black.”

  I found the picture of the third kid. “Grayson did a forest scene. Strong trunk, leaves on the limbs, healthy roots, bright sunlight. I’d agree with the director—he seems healthy, mentally speaking.”

  “Any red flags from the other artists?”

  “Well, I’m not an art critic, but as far as mental health goes, I see a lot of similar themes. Pretty much what you’d expect from kids who’ve had a hard life. Trust issues, family issues.”

  I squinted at the pamphlet. “Well, except this one. This kid’s gifted. That’s a near-perfect copy of van Gogh’s Starry Night.”

  “Good for him. Anything else there?”

  “There’s a few statements in here from other kids. Not too much information.” I reread the last paragraph. “Wait. One of the kids said Keegan wasn’t older at all, just had silver hair.” I froze, my attention zeroing in on a single detail. “Pointed ears.”

  “Pointed ears?”

  “Blood and bones,” Peasblossom said.

  “Blood and bones.” I studied Andy’s profile, the strong line of his jaw, the impeccably groomed hair. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t want to say them. He’s already seen the ugliness of the Otherworld, I reminded myself. Just say it. “I have good news, and I have bad news.”

  “What’s the good news?” Andy asked.

  “The good news is, I’m pretty certain the kids are still alive. At least, they weren’t taken with the intent to kill them.”

  Andy shifted in his seat, bracing himself. “What’s the bad news?”

  I reread the file, skimming for the pertinent details. The kid who had described Keegan had included a sketch. I stared down at the youthful face, free of wrinkles or blemishes, unmarked by time or imperfection. She’d captured the arrogance of his race. And the gentle slope of his pointed ears.

  “The bad news is, I believe they were Taken.”

  “Taken? You say it like it’s capitalized.”

  “It is,” Peasblossom whispered. Her wings drooped, and she clung to my finger as if she needed comfort.

  “Oh,” Echo breathed. “You think they were spirited away.”

  “Spirited away.” Peasblossom spat the words as if they tasted bad, but she didn’t straighten, didn’t quit hugging my finger. “Don’t romanticize it with pretty words. They kidnap people. They take slaves.”

  Andy’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  Echo spoke before I could think of the best way to explain it. “The fey, especially the high courts, value the arts as they should be valued.” Her tone turned wistful. “It’s said if they see a talented human, someone whose painting or poetry…or song impresses them so much that they can’t bear to see them lost to old age and death, that they will spirit that human away to live in the fairy mounds, forever a part of their merriment.”

  Tension sang from Peasblossom, and I held her against my chest. “Were you ever Taken?” I asked Echo.

  The eye lights dimmed, almost disappearing. “No.”

  Her tone made it clear the subject was closed. Curiosity burned inside me. Echo had been a bard. I wondered if she’d dreamed of being “spirited away” by a handsome fey, taken to a faerie court where everything was beautiful and perfect. A place where she would stay young forever, celebrating her gift with those who appreciated beauty and art over more mundane things like hard work. It wasn’t unheard of, an artist living happily ever after with their fey patron. But just as often, that dream became a nightmare. A never-ending nightmare.

  With some effort, I swallowed my questions and said to Andy, “She’s right. The fey appreciate artistic talent. In the past, it was common for them to steal away promising artists, so they could enjoy their gifts for
ever.” I frowned. “But that was ages ago. The Vanguard has since clarified that the practice is illegal.”

  “So whoever took these kids broke the law?” he asked. “Does that mean the Vanguard have an interest in rescuing them?”

  “Not…exactly. It’s illegal to kidnap them, but if the kids were willing, then the Vanguard doesn’t view that any differently than adoption—or marriage, for that matter.”

  “But they’re kids. They can’t enter into legal contracts.”

  “Grayson is eighteen,” I reminded him. “And the other two are seventeen.” I leaned against the seat, forcing myself to relax. This conversation wouldn’t get any prettier, and my muscles were already bunching into knots. “The fact of the matter is, even if they’d been younger, it wouldn’t matter. Humans have made it clear that there are situations in which kids under the age of eighteen can be considered adults.”

  “But—”

  “For instance, in criminal trials,” I said, gently but firmly.

  Andy pressed his lips together, the muscle in his jaw twitching. I let him compose himself, take his time coming to terms with the facts. Disagreeing with the Vanguard’s position wouldn’t do him any good, and on some level, Andy knew that. There was no way he’d risen in the ranks of the FBI without becoming acquainted with bureaucracy.

  He rolled his shoulders. “So you’re saying this…fey got the kids’ permission to take them with him?”

  I shared a look with Peasblossom.

  “Probably,” I said.

  “Shade…”

  I sighed. “You have to understand the fey. They are a race that never lie, but they get around that with expertly crafted half-truths and deliberately misleading tones and body language. Nothing is certain with a fey.” I rubbed my temples. One could study the fey for a lifetime and still not understand them. How was I supposed to explain it in the length of a car ride?

  “I think perhaps a short lesson in the fey is needed here,” I started.

  “You mean the two courts, the Seelie and Unseelie?”