The Deepest Black

by Rainy Kaye

  I sit up and, with shaking hands, hurriedly pour the sage oil in one palm. I recap the bottle between my knees and rub the oil on my hands like it's lotion. The earthy scent of sage wafts up to my nostrils. I hope they don't detect it before I can get it on them.

  With trembling fingers, I return the bottle to my pocket, then lay out on the bed, on my back, just as they had left me. I need them to get close. Close enough I can slap oil on them and run. And hope there's no other fae slinking around this warehouse, or I'm pixie dust.

  The door clicks as it is unlocked from the outside and creaks open. The red-haired man steps in, then halts. His gaze darts around the room, then lands on me, and his lip pulls into a sneer.

  My heart kicks up speed. He can smell the sage oil. My plan is ruined. He's not going to get close enough to me to put the oil on him, and he's probably going to punish me for trying to escape.

  Trying. I haven't even tried yet. This really is my only chance, because they're already onto the plan. I can tell by how he waits in the doorway, contemplating, uncertain, but unwilling to risk moving.

  I launch from the bed, arms outstretched, and lunge at him. His expression mirrors my own surprise. He puts his hands up to block. I duck under his attempt, pop up right in front of him, face-to-face—and slam my palms onto either of his cheeks. He rears back, growling, but I hold tight. It's like the beginning of an ugly kiss.

  His face distorts, jaw elongating and forehead forming ridges. Long, sharp teeth jut from his thickening lips. He gnashes at me. I pull back without letting go, even as his skin texture turns thick and sticky.

  He wedges his hand between us and shoves against my chest. I stumble away, my grip sliding off him. He raises his hand and strikes at me. I grab his wrist, making contact with his flesh. Just as his other hand—twisting into a claw—comes at me, ready to gut me, I shove my free palm against his ugly snout.

  He crumbles into ash.

  That took way more effort than I anticipated.

  Another pair of footsteps pound down the hallway. Panama Hat heard the ruckus, no doubt.

  I pull the bottle back out of my pocket to reapply for the next attack. My fingers slip, and the bottle shatters on the floor.

  I gasp, dropping to my knees next to the pile of ashes, and grind my hands in the oil, glass and all. The shards tear up my palms, and blood tints the ground, but I don't care. This was my only hope. And now it's gone.

  Choking down despair, I scramble across the room to the bed, remove my baton and swing it open, and take a stance. Panama Hat barrels through the door, sending up puffs of ashes of his companion. Gross.

  “What the fuck?” He halts, briefly surveying the room. Then he charges after me.

  I pull back and swing. He attempts to veer away. The baton catches him in the side of the head, right under the hat. He stumbles to the left, then forward. He blinks a few times. It's not quite like having sage oil, but this will have to do. I lean in, bringing the baton down right in the middle of his skull.

  His lips pull up so far, his full gums are revealed. Then his face starts stretching and changing like putty. Somehow, his hat stays in place, which makes his transformation even stranger. His lips fade into nothing, exposing cheek bones. His eyes widen, his brow ridge thickening. I take a step back, afraid to run as he keeps his gaze locked on me. The second I make a move to escape, he's going to tear my limbs from their sockets.

  His shoulders hunch, and his fingers jut out and twist. The sounds of cracking and popping ricochets around the room; it's his bones reshaping.

  My stomach clenches. I can't see or hear any more of this—it's almost like watching a body rapidly decompose while still alive. Running is a bad idea, but staying is no longer an option. So I close the baton and take off. He lunges for me. I duck under his gnarled arms.

  Out the door, I turn down the hallway and keep going. His footsteps thud right behind me, but I'm unwilling to look back. I zigzag through corridors, bouncing off walls, throwing open doors, looking for some escape.

  His fingers snatch my hair, jerking back my head. I yelp, both from surprise and the sharp pain. I try to twist around to counter him, as futile as that might be, but can barely move.

  In the end, I was killed by fairies.

  Anger rushes through my veins, fear morphing into rage. I never wanted to hunt them. Didn't even know they existed until one of them, some young guy with spiked up hair, tried to rob a convenience store I was at. Everything I've done to them has been in defense.

  Yet they get to win. They get to kill me, get to take me away from Mom and Cassia.

  Fuck that.

  In a fluid motion, I pull the baton, shake it open, and ram it straight into his gut. He wheezes, doubling over and letting go of my hair. I crack the baton over his back. He collapses to his knees. His hat doesn't move. Without any sage oil left, I have no means of killing him, so I turn and flee. Tucking the baton against me, I search for a door leading outside.

  I turn the corner and find myself in another large chamber, windows along one wall. Without hesitating, I dart across the room and slam my baton into the pane. The glass rattles, and I hit it again. Cracks spread out from the point of impact.

  I halt to listen; Panama Hat hurries down the hallway toward this room. He sounds like he's made of two tons of metal and rage. My heart accelerates, and I step away from the window, pull back the baton, and swing hard. Glass shatters, leaving sharp points that I knock free before tossing the baton to the dark ground outside. I scramble over the window ledge, landing awkwardly and twisting my ankle. My fingers scrabble for the baton, and then I take off through the clearing.

  Something crunches behind me. Panama Hat, no doubt. I've really pissed off the fae.

  Clearly.

  If I make it out of this alive, I'm giving up the war—for good.

  I dart into the trees, ignoring the pang in my ankle. Twigs and branches scratch at me, and I shield my face with my arm. The baton catches on trunk after trunk, but I can't slow down long enough to holster it. I have no idea where I'm going, but far from here sounds like a pretty good idea.

  The trees go on long enough I worry I might be in an actual forest. A big one. With coyotes and bears and no path leading me back to civilization. I'm not sure how I would have wound up so far from home—I wasn't taken on that long of a drive—but anything feels possible right about now.

  Then the tree line breaks, and there's a dark road and sidewalk right in front of me. I pause only long enough to appreciate it and rest my weak ankle. Then I keep going. Panama Hat might not bother pursuing me out in public, since the fae like to keep their gross little faces hidden, but I'm not willing to bank on that.

  As I run, I try to grasp some clues about where they had taken me. I don't recognize the town, but I'm pretty certain I'm somewhere north of Phoenix. Getting home is going to be a problem, but having my neck cracked is a bigger issue. One thing at a time.

  I take deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves and figure out where to find safety. With a glance over my shoulder at the empty night behind me, I convince my legs to slow to a jog. It's not a difficult argument; my ankle is struggling not to collapse and my calves feel like they're about to tear open. Before long, I have to stop entirely, hunching over as my side throbs, my lungs gasp to catch up, and my heart bounces itself out of my chest, anyway.

  Somewhere to my left, a man shouts. Motorcycle engines rev up.

  This would be the time I should mind my own business, but at this point, strange bikers are better than the fae. I head toward the sound, passing through the parking lot of a closed convenience store, and rounding into the back. Down a slope, giving me a bird's-eye view, sits a small building. It's in desperate need for a new coat of paint, the shingles are torn up, and the single window is so dirty it might be more stable than the flimsy front door. Outside of the building sits a row of motorcycles. The noise of a few recent departures fades in the distance.

  These are all signs I should leave, qui
ckly and quietly.

  But a motorcycle is two wheels and an engine more than I have, and I'm not going to be able to walk home anytime this century, so I make my way down the slope.

  A bunch of bikers just can't be worse than shifting evil faeries that want to mangle me. I hope.

  At the bottom of the slope, facing the club house, I holster my baton and try to act casual and not like I have rabid monkeys in my stomach screeching for me to stop. Slipping past the line of motorcycles, I creep up to the door, take a deep breath, and creak it open.

  Inside is no less than two dozen men, mostly big guys with beards and jackets and everything that makes them a stereotype, crowded around a pool table with a small black case resting on top. All eyes turn to me. My heart drops, but I force my mouth open to speak.

  A guy from the back—younger, with a black leather jacket and a faux hawk—meets my gaze. Then he snatches the case, bounds onto the pool table, jumps off the other side, and heads straight for me. As he shoves me out of the way, he mutters, “Thanks,” and disappears into the night.

  The men charge after him. I'm caught in the stampede. I throw my arms over my head, ducking down. I dart through the chaos and out of the way. The crowd disperses, covering the grounds, shouting, looking for the faux hawk guy who has disappeared.

  I stumble toward the line of motorcycles. No one has left their keys in the ignition, and the only skill I have is hitting things with my baton, so I don't even know where to start with hot wiring a bike. I'm still stuck, and now the bikers could be back any time. Who knows if I managed to piss them off, too.

  I scuttle outside, sitting on the ground to the side of the building, and turn my attention to the tender bruises forming along my upper arms and down my rib cage. I don't think anything is broken, but I'm definitely slowing down. If I don't find safety soon, my next run-in with the fae might be my last.

  Above me, something snaps. I look straight up at the roof of the building. Faux hawk guy is scampering across it, toward the front ledge. His gaze darts to me, and he freezes.

  A spark lights in my brain. I scramble to my feet, pointing. “It's you!”

  It's the guy from the convenience store. The one who started this whole mess.

  Wisps of black trail behind him.

  How did we wind up meeting again? No time for that. My only chance at answers to why the fae have been on my ass is darting off across the roof, away from me. He drops down to the ground on the other side. I race after him, rounding the corner as he takes the slope. I follow after, ankle and calves protesting the incline. He deftly reaches the top, doesn't even glance back at me as he makes his escape.

  One of the giant bikers appears in front of him. The biker grabs Faux Hawk by the front of his shirt, hefts him up, and actually throws him. Faux Hawk hits the ground, making an ugh sound, and slides across the leaves and broken branches. The biker stomps toward him.

  That's when I notice the biker has wisps of black behind him, too. I don't think they all did, but I bet he's not the only one.

  By trying to escape two fae, I managed to land in a nest of them. There should be a medal for that shit.

  The biker towers over him, and then reaches down. I scramble up the rest of the incline, grabbing my baton, and hit the biker right in the back of the head. He turns to me with a scowl. I hit him again...and again. His eyes roll back, and he hits the ground.

  Out cold.

  I grab Faux Hawk's arm, yanking him up, and together we run. Well, I hobble at a rapid pace. He reins in just enough to keep from leaving me in dust.

  “Where are we going?” he asks, acting like a dog that wants to run ahead and wishes everyone else would hurry up.

  “Phoenix,” I snap.

  I don't want this damn fae near me, but he's my only hope at understanding how to end this battle I accidentally got involved in. I'm willing to try to communicate with one of these beasts while they're lucid if that means I can make the crazy stop for good.

  Besides, if he becomes a problem, I'll just dump a bottle of sage oil on his head. When I have some again, anyway.

  “Um, Phoenix is a long ways. . .” He slows, then comes to a halt. “Wouldn't it just be better to grab one of the bikes?” He points back in the direction of the club house.

  I skid to a stop, wheeling on him, ready to argue. My mouth slams shut.

  “Well, yeah, of course it is,” I say, as if I had meant that the whole time.

  He stares at me a silent moment, then he bursts into a grin and scoffs. “Whatever.”

  We circle around to the other side of the clubhouse—me stomping to make sure he knows how unamused I am, until my ankle collapses, then I'm back to hobbling—and make our way down the opposite incline.

  The bikers still haven't returned, and the fact they left their bikes behind makes me even more uncomfortable. Why wouldn't they take them? Is there something else I don't know about the fae?

  Probably a lot.

  I follow Faux Hawk over to his bike—or one he has keys for, anyway—and then halt. Most of me wants to decline the invitation for a ride, but the sensible part of me says I have no choices. No good ones, anyway.

  Gritting my teeth, I straddle behind him. We take off, and in no time, we're on the road to Phoenix.

  My arms around his waist, I keep my head ducked low to shield it from the rush of wind...and bugs. Riding without a helmet might also be a stupid idea, but hanging around the fae infestation is more so. I'll take my brains splattered on the asphalt over whatever the fae had in store for me.

  The bike jerks to the right and accelerates. My head snaps up as bright lights wash over us. A vehicle comes up to our rear.

  The lights go brighter, bigger. The sound of a large engine swallows the air. I stiffly turn, trying not to let go of Faux Hawk and fall. I nearly piss myself, instead; a semi is coming right at us. It lurches forward and barrels faster.

  “Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” I say, but my words are eaten by the wind.

  I might have ingested a small insect, too, but I'm more concerned with the semi about to run me over. Priorities.

  The bike changes lanes again. The semi sways, trailer swinging wide, and it's like a mythical serpent about to strike. Faux Hawk maneuvers us all over the road, the semi right behind, and my arms lock around him so tight I'm not sure he can even breathe.

  We come up on traffic, and the bike shoots forward then weaves among the cars. The semi doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just keeps coming at us. It crashes into a small vehicle two cars behind us. Honking blares, tires squeal. The semi pushes forward, shoving the crushed car like it's a plow pushing snow.

  I have no words, no real thoughts. I don't trust Faux Hawk can get us out of this situation, but I know I can't.

  Turning back again, I squint and strain to see inside the cab of the semi. All I can make out is black wisps slithering out of the driver side window. Not like I'm surprised it's more fae.

  The bike slides across traffic and takes the next exit. With the sound of metal on metal, the semi follows after, swiping another vehicle in the process. It bee-lines toward us. The bike passes the guard rail, then goes off the side of the road, tires landing in dry leaves. I'm jarred around as we head off-road, into the nothingness and away from the minimal light of traffic.

  Before I can decide if this was a great idea or a terrible one—it's such a fine line these days—a crash erupts behind us. I swing around, freeing one arm to shield my eyes as the semi bounces off the side of the road. It grinds toward us. It's not having a good time of it, but neither is the bike.

  Faux Hawk leans forward and speeds up. I catch a glimpse of the embankment up ahead, and press into him, burying my head into his sweaty back and shoulder. He takes us over the edge—the semi simply can't follow—and for a moment, we're airborne. Then the ground rushes up. I'm free of the bike, of him, of everything.

  Blackness hits me in the face.

  I wake up. My mouth is full of dirt, my lips caked with mud, and I can't fee
l my left arm. After a moment, I realize it's twisted under me. A second later, I'm screaming at the hot pain shooting through my body.

  “Get up,” Faux Hawk whispers, and he's rubbing his fingers together on one hand. “Get up and be quiet.”

  Easier said than done. All of it. I grit my teeth against the agony, but little cries escape me as I try to stand. My knees hurt, my ankles feel weak, and my left wrist is already visibly swelling.

  “What were you thinking?” I practically hiss at him.

  He puts his finger up to his lips to signal me to shut up, and I stop long enough to listen: people are running around on the ground no more than twenty feet above us.

  That's what he was thinking. These fae had no intentions of giving up the chase.

  But Faux Hawk is also a fae, and yet. . .I shake my head to clear the thoughts until I have time to work out what is going on, but all I really manage to do is aggravate the stiff muscles in my neck. He heads for a thicket of trees, staying close to the edge of the drop. I follow after him, limping. As I start to veer away, I realize that leaves me more exposed to the people above. This ain't Faux Hawk's first rodeo.

  Once in the safety of the trees, we can move faster. Well, theoretically. Every step sends flashes of pain like sugar plums dancing in my vision. I want to hurry. I want to get out of this place and find a way to get back on the road toward home, but as annoying as it is, I'm forced to walk slow and light.

  Faux Hawk stays several feet ahead of me, and I find myself growing irritated with him. Clearly, I'm injured. He could at least have the common decency to walk with me instead of always staying slightly ahead.

  Then I remember we're about even on the who-saved-whose-ass score card. I calm down and use my less-injured right arm to brace myself on the trees as I hurry along at snail pace.

  One agonizing step at a time, Faux Hawk leads me out of the trees, long past the fae pursuing us, I assume, and to a road where cars zoom by. I'm just relieved to stop walking for a moment. He starts thumbing for a ride, and I inwardly groan. The last thing I want to do right now is hitch hike. Scratch that; it's the second last thing I want do. The first is run into any number of the fae that seem to have some hard feelings against me. Since I have no better ideas on how to get us out of this mess, I keep my protests to myself.