by Ramy Vance
“It is now common knowledge.”
“Which part?”
“That an Other killed the librarian—and that you bore witness to his death.”
“Not exactly. The only thing I bore witness to was his dead body. I showed up after he had been killed. And there’s no evidence it was an Other who killed him. That’s just an assumption based on fear-driven stereotypes—bigotry.”
“I see, mila— … my friend.”
I thought that was it, but when I didn’t hear her move, I opened my eyes to see Deirdre slightly bent over, staring down at me.
“Is there something else, Deirdre?”
“Yes. There will be a candlelight vigil held in his honor. I wish to attend.”
“So attend,” I said.
“Will you attend with me?”
I thought about it. The Old Librarian was my friend—I think. I had only met him once, but I did like him. Attending would be appropriate. But after all that had happened, I figured it was best to never leave my dorm room again. I seemed to get in trouble when I did. Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t think so. I’m tired and—”
“In the UnSeelie Court, vigils lasted forty days and forty nights, with the warrior class standing guard over the body, our swords always at the ready.”
“What’s your point?”
“Here on Earth, I do not believe that they observe the same customs.”
“What gave you that clue?”
“This.” She pulled out a flyer from her pocket. The same one that Justin had handed me earlier. “The invitation.”
“It’s not an in—” I started, then thought better of it. “Sorry, you were saying?”
“The invitation speaks of candles and invites people to speak. It also has several religious symbols decorating its borders. The rituals of this vigil will be different than the ones I know.”
“Again, so …?”
“I require a human escort.”
“I’m hardly human,” I said.
“Then a being that understands human rituals,” she said, evidently not getting that I was joking. “I fear that if I go alone, I will only make a fool of myself.”
“So don’t go.”
She looked at me, as if hurt. “Vigils are a requirement for one such as I. It was our duty to attend all for whom an invitation had been issued.”
She thought she was specially invited. And because of that, she was obligated to attend. Oh, brother … she’d have been a Latter-day Saint’s dream come true before the GrandExodus.
I thought about explaining that flyers were just a thing humans did to disseminate information, but seeing the steel in her eyes, I knew she not only saw it as her duty to go—it was something she wanted to do.
“Attend,” I said. “But don’t take your sword.”
She gave me a longing look.
“No swords, Deirdre. And you don’t need an escort. Just do what everyone else does.”
She began to blink rapidly, and if I hadn’t seen this behavior before, I would have thought she was having a seizure. But rapid blinking was the fae’s equivalent of pleading. She was—in her way—on her knees, begging me to come.
“No,” I said.
More rapid blinks.
“I’m not going.”
Now the blinks were not only faster but out of sync, too. How the hell was she doing that?
“You’re not going to stop unless I agree, are you?”
She shook her head, maintaining her manic blinks.
“Fine, fine,” I said. “We’ll go. Satisfied?”
Deirdre stopped blinking and smiled.
“Good. Now if you don’t mind …” I said, and pulled my duvet over my head.
“If I do not mind what?”
“Please be quiet and let me nap, Deirdre!”
The room went silent. Thank the GoneGods.
Sticks and Stones Hurt Waaaay Less than Words
I woke up to Deirdre wearing my grass-green blouse, her hair tied back in a ponytail, with tiny lilacs in her hair and a laurel wreath on her head. She was watching the news on my iPad. I guess among her fae ethics, using my stuff without permission was nowhere in sight. I thought about reprimanding her, taking it away, but then I heard the Global News Montreal news anchor start his report with, “More mythical creatures being targeted in hate crimes.”
I got out of bed and asked Deirdre to turn it up. Together, we watched in horror as two satyrs being carted away on a stretcher, a flash of an angel bleeding light on the sidewalk as police interviewed her, and three pixies crying as they were taken away in the back of a police car. What wasn’t shown was the dead gargoyle—which kind of made sense. The police, like the kid in the Iron Man hoodie, would have mistaken him for a pile of rubble and not a body at a crime scene.
The anchor ended his report with, “Police theorize that these attacks are in response to the death of Dr. Dewey, who was brutally murdered by an unknown Other late last night,” signing off after that.
“Dr. Dewey?”
“The librarian,” Deirdre said. “Dewey was his surname.”
Hearing his name felt like a slap in the face. All this time, I knew him as the “Old Librarian,” and that put some distance between us. Now that I knew his name, much of that distance was lost.
I lifted my face to the ceiling, desperately trying to stop a tear from escaping. “What else is the news saying?”
Deirdre told me. It seemed that in the six hours or so that I had slept, there had been a half-dozen attacks on campus. All against Others. I guess the murder of the Old Librarian—uhh, Dr. Dewey—opened the floodgates of tension. Given how dangerous Others were supposed to be, there were a hell of a lot more Others being hurt at the hands of humans than humans being hurt by Others.
But isn’t that how fear works? It turns aggressors into the righteous and victims into demons.
“This is just one report,” Deirdre said. “There are other stories on other channels.” A tiny tear ran down her cheek and fell on the iPad’s screen.
“I know,” I said, my own tear escaping.
“What can we do about it?”
“Nothing.”
Deirdre sighed heavily.
“I’m sorry, Deirdre, but there’s nothing to do. We just have to wait until the anger subsides and pray that the world comes to its senses.”
“Pray? To whom?”
I didn’t answer. There was no one to pray to. Everyone knew that.
Deirdre handed me the iPad and stood up. “Perhaps tonight’s vigil will help heal some wounds. Perhaps—”
“You can’t go to the vigil, Deirdre! You’ll be in real danger there.”
She gave me a look like I was the crazy one to consider not going.
“Look,” I explained, “there will be a lot of angry people there. Angry humans. Humans who will want to take out their frustration on an Other just like you. There’s no way. I’m not going and neither are you.”
“But I was invited. As a fae warrior, I cannot—”
“You’re no longer a fae warrior. You are a mortal creature living in a world without gods.”
“But … but …” She bunched her hands together, holding them so tight that her fingers turned white with the effort. “I am fae.” Two more tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks. “Oberon and Titania may have abandoned us … the UnSeelie Court and Planes of Forever Green may no longer be … but that does not make me any less fae than I was. I am fae. I will always be fae.”
With those words, she dried her eyes and looked at the clock. “The hour is near,” she said. “I will attend the vigil—with or without my human guide.”
I’d been around the fae enough to know that once they made up their minds, nothing short of divine intervention could discourage them. And since we were all out of that, I sighed and pulled an old poncho out of my drawer. “OK—we’ll go. But you can’t dress like that.”
As we made our way down the hill to campus, I expected to see the streets fi
lled with people shouting anti-Other chants, some fights, the air thick with tension. Anger.
Hate.
But that wasn’t the case at all. Instead, Deirdre and I found dozens of students carrying cardboard signs that read various flowery stuff like:
Others deserve their place.
Love still matters.
We must welcome the mythical refugees into our homes.
And once we got into the vigil itself, I saw students crying, more signs, a picture of the Old Librarian surrounded by flowers and candles. The hate simply wasn’t here. Well, at least it felt like that …
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the calm before the storm.
We started to make our way through the crowds because, as Deirdre put it, it was our duty to light a candle in his honor. I thought it was enough we showed up, but who was I to argue with fae logic?
Whatever, I thought as we wove through the sea of bodies. As long as we make it there and back without drawing too much attention to our—
“Ms. Darling,” I heard a voice say. “It’s good to see you here.”
I turned to see Detective Sarah Wilcox standing behind me. And right next to her was a boy in a hoodie who looked like he’d much rather be in a million other places than on this field at this time.
“Detective Wilcox. Good to see you here, too,” I said. “And hi, Nate. How’s it going?”
Nate shrugged.
“OK,” I said, wondering what his problem was. “Is Justin here, too?”
Nate didn’t look up, simply pointing at the founder statue. “He’s setting up for his big speech.”
“I see that you’re already acquainted with my cousin,” Wilcox said.
“I am. Sort of. He mostly made fun of me. Something about Weird Girl and his friend Justin.”
“Is that true, dear cousin?” Wilcox said, pinching his cheeks in that exaggerated way you did to kids.
Nate withdrew in anger, slapping her hand away. “Bitch,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Detective Wilcox said, seriousness flooding her face.
“Not you—her,” Nate said.
Now it was my turn. “Excuse me?” Deirdre took a step forward, but I held out a hand. “I can handle this. Now, again, excuse me?”
Nate looked up, finally pulling his hoodie off his head. “You heard me. Bitch.” He took a step forward.
“What is your problem?”
He pointed at the Other Studies Library and whispered, “My cousin here says you’re not the killer, but I saw you with those hockey players.”
“I was defending that poor Other beggar. And besides, all I did was give them a bloody nose. I didn’t string them up or—”
That’s when Nate pushed me. And I don’t mean a gentle, get-out-of-my-way nudge. It was a full-on shove, and since I wasn’t expecting it, I landed hard on my ass.
Deirdre immediately got between us, and if I had waited a second longer, she might have shoved him back. Being shoved by a human might get you on the floor, but being shoved by a pissed-off changeling—that was likely to send you to the next block.
“Don’t, Deirdre. It’s not worth it.” Deirdre gave me a confused look as I clambered back to my feet, so I added—just for good measure, “Against human protocol to fight at a vigil. Nate here dishonors the Old Librarian—”
“Dr. Dewey,” Deirdre said.
“Yes, Dr. Dewey.” I gave Nate a cold, hard stare, then flashed the fakest smile I could muster. Turning to Detective Wilcox, I noticed she hadn’t moved. She must have been just as shocked as I was. “I don’t know what your problem is, Nate,” I said, “but I liked Dr. Dewey. And even if I didn’t, I would have never—”
That’s when Nate spit in my face.
I lunged at him, and if it hadn’t been for Deirdre taking my No fighting at vigils comment seriously, it would have been Nate knocked on his ass. That, and Wilcox stepping between us. From her expression, I could tell she didn’t know if she should hit me or reprimand Nate.
Pointing a threatening finger in Nate’s face, I said, “This isn’t over.”
I pulled Deirdre close and we made our way to the memorial. I glanced over my shoulder to see Nate and Wilcox watching me walk away. Wilcox still had a puzzled look on her face, but Nate …
Nate was smiling.
We passed by students strumming guitars, singing hymns, reciting poetry, lighting candles—all paying homage to a man who virtually none of them knew. And yet I could sense that their misery was genuine. They truly felt the loss. Why? How could they lament the loss of someone they never knew? Was it fear that something happened so close to them? Fear that if it happened to him, it could happen to them?
Or maybe it was something else … a human thing. Humans crying for humans? I doubted that, too. I’d seen so many wars and random killing—hell, I’d committed many of those—and I’d never seen this kind of reaction.
No, there was something else going on. But what it was, I could not tell.
And then I saw Deirdre crying and knew that it wasn’t just humans who were being affected. Whatever they felt, Deirdre felt it, too.
Wrongful, violent death shakes us all, I thought.
Deirdre nodded in agreement.
OK—so we all felt his death. Very well, then … let me pay my respects. We got near the frozen image of him; looking into his kind blue eyes, I knelt down and picked up a candle that had gone out and lit it from the flame of another.
I stared at his image for a long moment, wondering how my life would be different here if he were alive and well—and my boss. I wondered if our friendship would have grown. I suspected it would. After all, we’d be spending a lot of time together, shelving books, categorizing the museum collection, taking care of the old building’s needs. That would have been a good thing—but now it was gone.
And soon, I’ll be gone, too, I thought, shaking my head and crying.
A hand touched my shoulder. I whirled to see Egya standing behind me.
“Why,” I said, “do you always show up when I least want you to? Which is to say, why do you show up at all?”
But Egya wasn’t paying attention to me. He was pointedly looking everywhere else but at me, his eyes shifting back and forth.
“What is it?” I said, whispering now and drawing closer.
“Look,” he said.
I turned to see that most of the people standing immediately around the memorial were looking at us, no longer speaking, just staring in silence. Their tears were turning into curled lips and clenched fists. But why would they direct their anger at me? Was it because I had been there at his death? How could they know who I was? As far as any of them knew, I was just another student paying her respects. I scanned the area around me for Deirdre. She was standing about ten feet away, under the canopy of the old oak tree. Her hood was still over her head and she was looking down, mournful and lost in her own grief.
“Sheesh,” I said. “What’s everyone’s problem?”
“Come,” Egya said softly. “Walk with me and watch their eyes.”
We walked over to Deirdre. As we did, everyone who was within ten yards of us looked up at our passing and stared, hate painting their faces. But that wasn’t the strangest thing about this. As people fell outside of the ten yards, they’d stop staring at us and continue their conversations as if they hadn’t been trying to bore holes in us with their eyes.
“A curse,” I whispered.
“Strange guess for someone who is just a human girl,” Egya said. Then he shook his head. “This is not a curse—there is too much emotion. This … is a hex.”
I swallowed, digesting what he’d just said.
A hex was serious business. Think of them as souped-up versions of curses, the difference being a curse was a general suggestion that things “go wrong” for its intended victim—bad luck, disease, poverty, lost love, even death—but because it was just a suggestion, a gentle nudge that things fall apart, it can take forever to happen, if it
happens at all. It is entirely possible the intended victim’s immunity (as in the case of disease) is strong enough to ward off the curse. Or perhaps the target is incredibly lucky or rich or in love, and thus the curse falls flat.
A hex was something else entirely. The right hex, with the right amount of time burnt for the proper amount of magic, not only causes bad luck, disease, poverty, lost love or even death—you can get really specific with its terms and conditions. Say you wanted the victim to die in a spectacular fashion, maybe get hit by a bus. No problem. The victim will find themselves wandering into a highway for no reason at all. Lost love? The intended victim will happily take photos of themselves with a sheep (in the, erm, biblical sense) and send it to their lover with the subject line I’ve found someone who fulfills me in ways you never could.
Hexes were the Terminators of curses.
I closed my eyes. Even when I couldn’t see the people glaring at us, I could still feel their rage. But to say they were merely angry at us would be wrong. The hatred they focused on us was palpable. You could literally feel it. And I don’t mean that as a euphemism or an exaggeration. I mean that making eye contact with them created a sense of tension that felt as if someone had wrapped a garroting thread around us and was pulling. Hard.
But I couldn’t let Egya know that I—someone who was just a girl—knew the difference between hexes and curses, so mustering all the acting skills I’d learned from daytime soaps, I widened my eyes. In a worried, trembling voice, I asked, “What’s the difference?”
He smirked at this question—evidently not believing my Days of Our Lives shock. “One is bad. One is terrible. But at least hexes have one thing to our advantage. They don’t last long. Too much burnt time is needed to keep them up.”
“Why us?” I whispered.
He cocked a thumb toward the library. “Not us … you.”
“Me? How do you know?”
“I’ve been following their eyes. Always trained on you. Not your changeling friend. Not me. You.”
I scanned the crowd as we reached Deirdre. Egya was right—all eyes were on me. I nodded. “OK, it’s me. But why?”
Egya shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious? You disrupted the killer’s ritual and he wants you to suffer for it. This killer of yours is a vengeful spirit.”