The Deepest Black

by Rainy Kaye

  Inside the portal, lizards rest on the walls and dart back and forth on the floor. I tiptoe over them as I cross the narrow room to the door on the other side. I know I shouldn't leave the farm, but I also can't stay.

  Taking a deep breath, I push open the door. Wind laced with ice hits me in the face. I hunch over, pulling in my arms, trying to ward off the sudden freezing welcome as I step through and blink rapidly against the shift in lighting.

  The world is dark, except for a few stray lights that bounce off the ground. My gaze lowers as I take a step that crunches and slightly sinks. The ground looks like white sand. I take another step and then halt.

  It's snow.

  My teeth chatter as I turn, looking for any signs of where I am. The street stretches on before me, lifeless. Short telephone poles and stoplights are frozen over and decorated with icicles. I take another step forward. Wind howls in my ears and tries to freeze them off in the same instance.

  I press one hand to the side of my face, hoping to warm it, but my fingers are like ice. I tuck my hands under my arms and keep walking, part of me wanting to call out and the other part of me afraid that, if I do, no one will reply and I will know for certain that I am alone.

  Up ahead, something triangular pokes out of the ground. I hurry over to it, feeling as if someone is right at my back, though no matter how many times I glance behind me, no one is there. As I approach the structure, it seems to be another hut. I creep closer, shrinking as the cold reaches my midriff, and peer harder.

  It's familiar, but I can't place it. I've seen it before, but never like this. I reach forward and touch it, a clump of snow falling to the ground, revealing pink shingles.

  It's the top of the brothel. The rest of the building—I turn in a slow circle; the rest of the city—is stacked with snow. In the distance stands the dark roofs and second stories of other buried structures.

  This is a desert. Or was. No one is prepared for being snowed in, and I doubt the weather station picked up a magical storm on their radars. Who knows what the meteorological symbol for that would look like.

  No one knew this was coming. Not the brothel, not the Pink Boutique. . .not my mother.

  I drop to my knees and start digging. I don't know what I plan to achieve. I just know I have to be able to get the people out. If I can't get to the windows or doors of this place, I won't be able to get to it at my apartment. I won't be able to save my mom and Cassia.

  My fingers grow increasingly numb, and my knees ache deep in their joints from the cold pressed through my pants. My arms and shoulders are already tired from digging.

  I can't waste all of my energy here, give all of my body heat to saving the brothel. I might only get one. Besides, I live on the third floor. There is still time to get to my family.

  I take off on a run, trying to orientate myself without stopping. The street signs point me in the direction of home, because I can no longer recognize my own neighborhoods. My lungs seem to gather icicles of their own that stab at my ribcage, and I'm forced to slow to a trot.

  A puff of cold wind, underlined with a growl, hits the back of my head. I take another step, then play that back.

  A growl?

  I stop short, don't move.

  Behind me, soft padding that wouldn't be noticeable if the world wasn't dead silent. I swallow hard, find I have no spit left, and cringe as I look behind me.

  It stands on all fours, built a bit like a female lion, but has a smooth head that resembles that of a bald man. The neck is thick to accommodate its strange anatomy. Its front legs look more than a human crawling, but end with thick padded claws.

  I cock my head as I isolate which parts of it belong to which species. Then I realize its real, and it's puffing cold air at me with each low growl.

  I blink away the bits of snow on my lashes and try to steady my gaze on its face, make eye contact. Show it I'm not new to being face-to-face with things that can, and probably will try to, eat me.

  I also kind of want to pee myself.

  It takes one step forward.

  I dare to speak: “Who are you?”

  Its face makes me expect it will reply in a language I can identify, but its mouth just pulls back in a long smile that wraps its face and reveals lion teeth. Its tail whips at its back, sending glimmers of ice to the ground behind it.

  I don't know what my move is. The adage is to fight fire with fire, so should I fight ice with ice? How does that even work?

  Besides, it's just a saying. No one has any real advice for dealing with ice monsters. Not that I've checked.

  I lower my hand to my pocket and tap the outside, feeling the slight bulge of the small sage oil bottle. I could try dousing him with it, but if that doesn't stop him, I'm a dead duck.

  So I slink my hand back up to my chest, nestling it against my shirt for warmth, and force myself to look beyond the beast. Past the tops of the roofs are the second floors of taller buildings, not yet fully consumed by winter. If I can make it to one of them, I can try to bust out a window and crawl inside. From there, I can either hide, find a weapon, or die while slightly less cold. It's all better options than standing here.

  I turn and run. The beast launches after me, moving with feline-like strides. It's faster than me on a normal day, but I have fear to my advantage. It won't keep me ahead forever, but it just has to keep me ahead long enough to find safety. My legs burn with the sudden spurt, but my soles are steady. I've never been so thankful for a pair of shoes in my life. If I slipped right now, the battle would be over.

  White kicks up around me, so much that it takes a minute for me to realize that it has begun snowing again. As I pass under a streetlight, I fix my attention on the building ahead of me and pull in against the harsh wind pricking at my nose, lips, and cheeks. The promise of warmth adds a little fuel to my fire. I try not to think of the how close the beast is behind me.

  The gap between me and the first building closes, and I align myself with the large window. It's dark inside, but at least there is no snow.

  I angle my shoulder and duck my head. I hit the window, the wind knocked out of me as the pane rattles, and then bounce off.

  I stumble back, collect myself, and dodge at it, beating with my fist.

  “I'm stuck out here!” I scream, if there's anyone inside. Where else would they be? “Please, help!”

  The pane continues to shake, but no sounds come from inside indicating I've been heard. I stop beating at the window and try lifting it, but no go.

  A heavy thud behind me snags my attention. I look up in the dark window, catching the reflection of beast as it launches from the ground. I throw myself down, face first in the snow. The beast is only a few feet above me. It crashes into the window, shattering glass across my back.

  I sit up as banging issues from inside the building. The ice beast roars. Yelling and thumping issue from downstairs.

  “Stay back!” I screech, scrambling toward the sill.

  I led this damn thing into their house. The least I can do is not be a coward and run away, even though I still can't see anything inside.

  A cold snarl hits my face. The beastie steps forward, eye level with me. It's not entirely a lion, but it's not entirely human either, but some bizarre cross staring straight into me. I'm transfixed, not just at the creature, but by what it means: the beasties of the fae world are crossing over to here.

  A light behind the beastie flips on. I gasp, and the beastie turns to meet a shotgun in the face. The boom splits my ears in the empty night. The beastie rears back, shaking its head, blood splattering the walls and the front of my jacket. Then it drops to the ground and stays there.

  I force my gaze up to the man behind the shotgun.

  “What's your name?” he snaps, the barrel focusing onto me.

  “Ember,” I stutter, and not just from the cold. I peer up at him from under the snow dropping from the roof. “Can I come in, please?”

  13

  The guy with the shotgun helps
me in through the window into what used to be a bedroom, but is now a bedroom with a new paint job and a beastie fur rug. I step around the beastie and follow the man downstairs, where his wife and children—presumably—are huddled in a makeshift blanket fort in the living room, the front flap open. They have bright knitted afghans pulled to their chins.

  When I step forward, the woman throws back her afghan and brings up her pistol.

  “She was a straggler,” the man says, waving his hand for her to lower her weapon, and she does.

  The kids—two girls and a boy—don't even try to peel themselves off from her. The smallest girl, maybe four, buries her head in her mother's lap and breathes heavily.

  “You shouldn't be out unarmed,” the mother says to me, then looks up at her husband. “What was all the noise?”

  “Just. . .things.” He looks pointedly at the children, then mouths, monster.

  “Beasties,” I correct, ballsy enough to move forward into the living room and take a seat on the couch before I pass out. I feel it coming, and I would like to do it at least somewhere comfortable for c change.

  “You look pale,” the man says, confirming that I'm about to crumble in my seat. “I'll get you some water.”

  My throat is suddenly dry now that he mentions it.

  He props the shotgun in the corner, then disappears into the kitchen. Cabinet door thuds, water pours from a jug, and he returns with a Winnie the Pooh cup.

  “Everything else is dirty,” he says with an apologetic tone and smile, handing me the cup.

  I couldn't care less if it was someone's skull at this point. I take the cup and down the water without a breath, then look between him and his wife.

  “Do we have any communication with the outside?” I ask as I start to feel my fingers again.

  His answer will probably not be good, so I brace for impact.

  He shakes his head, sighing, and leans against the door frame. “We've been cut off completely since the snow hit. No warning. Water pipes busted. We barely have any—”

  “Honey!” his wife hisses.

  Her lips set into a deep frown that seems unnatural for her face.

  “Right.” He shakes his head, then turns back to me. “It's just been tough, that's all.”

  Tough is an understatement for being snowed in and having ice beasties running wild outside, but it's the least scariest way for the children. I scratch my forehead, staring down into nothing, trying to think.

  If I could get to Remy. . .The thought fizzles out. Remy can't do shit for me, or for anyone else. Not even himself.

  Not that I'm any more useful. The best I can do is splash sage oil on the dark fae. The rest of the creatures, I'm out. But when the snow stops, the dark fae are probably going to swarm, and I need to be prepared. I miss my baton. I doubt I can get a hold of one anytime soon, but perhaps something else would work.

  My gaze drops onto the boy at the woman's side. He's maybe nine, and he's making piano playing motions with his fingers, lost to the rest of the world.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning toward him. “Do you play Little League?”

  His parents bristle, as if they think I'm going lunge at him and swallow him whole. These days, it's not even too far-fetched.

  He glances up at me, but I'm not entirely sure he even sees anything in this room. Then he looks down again and goes back to miming Mozart.

  The wife gives me a questioning stare.

  “I need to be able to get sage oil onto. . .things. . .from a safe distance,” I say, trying to censor myself around the kiddos. “Something like a baseball bat would work.”

  “That's closer than I would want to get to any of them,” the man says, crossing the room to a Barcelona-style chair and settling into it.

  “Better than my hands.” I force a smile at him.

  “Gun seemed to work fine on the one upstairs,” he says. “It hasn't moved since.” He smiles back at me, but it's clearly as exhausted and uninspired as mine.

  “There are. . .other kinds. . .” I bite my lower lip, thinking.

  How can I explain this to them, when I don't even fully understand? The only part I really know is that I somehow caused this curse, and that is the last thing I want to tell these strangers. Chances are, they'll turn their weapons onto me, and I couldn't even blame them.

  Lately, everyone is so shady, I'm not sure I even trust myself.

  “Wouldn't long range work better?” he asks, weaving his fingers together.

  “I. . .Yes, I would suppose so,” I say. Why hadn't I thought of anything like that before? A bow and arrow, maybe? “Do you have a crossbow or something?”

  I picture myself heading out, loaded up like a modern-day Artemis, at last.

  He chuckles, leaning back and rubbing both hands over the top of his dark hair. “No, but there is something in the game room.”

  He stands up and nods for me to follow him out through the kitchen. I take long strides to keep up with him as he crosses the house into a back room. He reaches past the darkness and flips on a light.

  Inside is a shoddy pool table, a worn poker table, and—I home right in on it—a dart board. I'm not surprised as he makes his way over to it and collects the darts from the target board.

  “Wouldn't these work?” He returns to me with his hands full of darts and offers them up. “Dunk them in sage oil and let 'em fly?”

  I study the darts, making no move for them, and try to envision the scenario. Dark fae coming at me. Pre-dunked dart in my hand. Instead of having to move in, I can take several strides back and throw.

  I can manage that.

  “Yes,” I say, taking a few of the darts and wedging them into my pockets, trying to angle the points in the least drastic way. Rather not stab myself mid-fight.

  He goes around me, back into the kitchen. I follow, leaving the light on because turning it off means darkness at my back—and I've had just about enough of that.

  In the living room, I return to my spot on the couch and lower carefully, checking for any pocketed darts gone astray. “You don't happen to have any more sage oil, do you?”

  “Fresh out,” he says placing the remaining darts on the coffee table. “I wish we had a bag to offer you.”

  “We do,” the wife speaks up, sudden and excited.

  She works her way from under the pile of kids and stands, wincing a little. She heads over to the front door where a shoe rack rests on the floor, a set of hooks hanging on the wall above it. She takes down a small purse and begins unloading the contents onto the shoe rack. Keys, wallet, lipstick. Tokens of a normal life. She turns to me, smiling, and hands me the bag.

  It's a small gray crossbody purse, about the size of a book. I raise up to take it, then pull the coffee table closer and start loading it up. When I finish, I hold up the bag.

  “It works.” Amazing how such a small feat feels like winning the lottery at the moment. “Thank you.”

  She nods, lips together in a suppressed smile, and settles back on the floor with the kids.

  I'm warmed by their generosity. They could have left me outside. They could have skipped the simple things like water and darts and a bag. But they didn't. They had given me everything they have to offer, which is better than what I had before I met them. Anything to get through another hour, another day. Keep going until this over. Even if I'm the one who has to do it.

  The bright warmth fades into night and brings the cold with it. They aren't just helping me to be good people. I showed up with more insight than they had, with a readiness to fight back. I'm their only hope.

  I'm supposed to save us all.

  The worst part is, I have no idea how.

  The Mozart-inspired child stops playing and looks up at his mother. “I need—”

  His request is cut off as the shrieking of what sounds like metal on metal erupts outside. It fills the upstairs and booms toward the living room.

  We all snap upright. The guy goes for his shotgun propped in the corner. The mother s
crabbles for her pistol. I'm on my feet, heart thudding in my chest. I wrap my arms around my body and stare in the direction of the stairwell, expecting another beastie to emerge.

  Just as the ringing fades out, another screech shakes the air. I want to hang back, want to dive into the blanket fort with the children and pull down the door flap.

  Instead, I head in the direction of the sound, back through the kitchen and up the stairs. The man is right behind me, shotgun over his shoulder. Thankfully. Sage oil only works on one particular type of bad guy. The rest, it seems, require a standard bullet to the face.

  As I turn into the bedroom, I brace for the sight of the ice beastie with the caved in skull lying across the floor, but he's mostly covered in snow overflowing through the broken window. I take to the short slope, knocking out fragments of the pane and then stooping to duck through the small opening not yet snowed in. My back scrapes the top of the window and the remaining glass, but my jacket takes the brunt of it. I step out onto the ground, snow piled to the second story window, and straighten up. My jaw slacks as I take in the sight: a giant ice pillar is standing in the near distance, so tall the top is lost in the sky and big enough around it would take three people to encircle it. Farther in the distance is another one.

  Something hisses to my right, and I turn to see steam billow up from the snow. A second later, water spurts toward the clouds, twisting like a cyclone. Then it freezes solid.

  I take a step toward it, hand outstretched, part of me not believing what just happened. Before I reach it, there's another hiss, and whirl around as the earth springs a leak again. Then the spout solidifies.

  No idea what the meteorological symbol for this would be, either.

  I keep moving forward, as if I could follow the trail of frozen water spouts to discover my next move, but they are at random. Are they shooting out of the earth from pressure, much like a volcano? Is that even possible? Or is this just another element in the Order of Ice's armageddon? Maybe it's a decorative flair in preparation for Santa.