by C. V. Larkin
"I always did like that perfect stretch of calm before the storm," he said. The sight of him was perfect. The obsidian torc of the Unseelie crown was imprinted low around his throat where it had appeared during the battle with the wizards, but he didn't need it. Sio looked like a king anyway.
A surge of unmitigated joy from the Goddess blended into her own, and the brush of a thousand wings electrified her synapses.
"Here I thought you were hoping for a 'Fairy Tale' ending," Tian said.
Sio grinned with unrestrained delight. Wild tendrils of steam arced away from his skin, reaching out to her.
"Show me."
Can't get enough of the Courting Shadows Chronicles?
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Chapter 1
Something Old and Something New
Eamon ran his tongue along the inner edge of his itching molars as he watched the Changeling King lay waste to a training bag with an unbroken rhythmic pummeling of fists the size of ham hocks.
"Explain to me again why you think I should give you my blood," Sio said. He landed a particularly violent jab that rained plaster onto the dark fabric of his shirt and kept going.
Eamon absorbed a frustrated sigh and made a placating gesture. The effect was diminished by the haphazard sloshing of the contents in the bottle he held. He paused, regarding the colorless swill before giving in to the urge to take a pull. The rot gut spirit sheered its way down his esophagus with the bitter kick of unrefined motor oil, bile, and human tampering. Its additional shortcoming was that it lacked the potency he would have preferred.
Sio put an end to his assault on the rapidly fraying hardware and gripped the chain that held the apparatus bolted into the ceiling. He leaned forward. "You were saying?"
"Your existence has been a grievous oversight. I would see dread suspicion broken or proved true." The words were barbed where they clawed at his gums. "I have made a most unforgivable miscalculation," Eamon continued, "that I would see corrected lest my already tarnished honor slide further to disgrace."
"It's killing you that you didn't know, isn't it?"
"I am displeased."
A gross understatement if ever there was one. Eamon took another casual swallow of bottled piss.
"That stuff doing anything?" Sio asked.
"I remain sober as a saint. Though after several bottles I no longer mind the lack of refinement or the grit in the distillation. Moonshine hasn't improved since prohibition."
"No one drinks Everclear for the taste."
"I take a perverse pleasure in doing so."
Sio nodded a few times as if processing more information than he'd been given. The hardness in his jaw eased in minute fractions. "Doesn't hurt that it has the added benefit of humanizing you."
Eamon stilled. A thread of fear spilled ammonia and new pennies into his salivary glands. A gift such as Sio's was dangerously close to omniscience.
"I'm not as omniscient as I need to be," Sio told him. "And you're not impassive, but you are powerful. Swear to me that you'll protect Tian if anything happens to me and I'll bleed for you."
"There are larger things at stake than your half-breed's well-being."
Sio smiled but the expression was hard. "Not to me."
Eamon sighed. He sampled the conviction in the King's statement and found it unwavering. "That you still draw breath means I am anathema. The surest way to protect your chosen is to solidify your power base. If you are lost, so are we. However, I will seek to protect us all physically and politically in so far as I am capable of doing so. I swear to it on what is left of my honor."
Sio drew himself to his full height. The dead queen Niceven's eyes haunted the seductive symmetry of his face as he held out a hand. Eamon removed a Slaugh bone dagger from its sheath and slid it along the skin of the King's outstretched palm. It came away edged by a gleaming crimson ribbon. Sio's flesh remained both dry and intact, save for a pale scar that marked the blade's passing. Such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.
Eamon pressed the dagger to his bottom lip. The crisp bite of frozen pine burned opiate laced metallic alchemy into his sinuses. The Changeling King's existence was a bitter and beautiful ambrosia. Images bled through illuminating the chaos of history and emotion. Blood had an eternal perspective, it did not forget, could not be falsified, was immutable. The atrocities it divulged were beyond imagining.
"Eamon."
A moon bright tang wrestled him from the precipice of madness. The nearly bifurcated mass of his own tongue streamed a torrent down his gullet. Eamon swallowed the liquid balm of his own demons and let it sooth the revulsion at his myopic arrogance. He took slow breaths, hindered by the swollen flesh in his rapidly healing mouth.
"I didn't figure you'd enjoy that," The Changeling King said. He stood with his arms folded.
Eamon hung his head and dropped to a knee on the blood slicked practice mats. He laced his fingers through his hair and yanked as if pulling could expel the images burrowing into his psyche, but they insinuated themselves further.
"I swore my life to the throne in the name of honor and ambition, only to see ego in the seeds of my own damnation. We are, all of us, betrayed. Betrayers through ignorance and complacency."
Blood dripped down his chin.
"You're not lost," Sio said.
Eamon shook his head. A million curses on her soul and another million on his own. "No," he said. "I yet have purpose."
There was an extended stretch of silence before Sio spoke.
"Mab."
Eamon let go of his skull, planting his fists into the slick blue mats beneath him. He composed himself and raised his face. "The time is long due to forsake petty ambition and see that bitch to ruin."
****
Pixie took a compulsive swipe at bangs that were three days too long, and snuck a glance at the clock behind the counter. 2:30 and the line at The Daily Grind was out the door. It hadn't even been a minute since the last time she'd checked.
"Your stalker is here," Hannah said.
Pixie passed off a blueberry goat cheese scone to the customer in front of her and looked over. Will was sitting on the coffee crates outside like he wasn't sure if he was allowed in the building. She pulled a couple of rumpled dollar bills out of her jeans and put them in the till.
"He's not a stalker. Something just happened to him."
Hannah sighed and handed over the cup of house blend she'd just poured. "He's not you, P. You shouldn't encourage him. Crazy isn't safe."
"I guess he better watch out then," Pixie said, pantomiming a judo chop. Coffee sloshed over the side of the recycled paper cup and onto her skin. She shook her herself off. "You overfilled it."
Hannah snorted. "I also put too much sugar in. You're going to be a fly strip in about ten seconds."
"Mmmmm, no it's good." Pixie licked the web between her thumb and index fingers and made a b-line for the front of the shop.
"It's gross. You're welcome."
Will was hunched over, staring at his forearms by the time she got to him. He wasn't muttering to himself today, which made him seem kinda lucid.
"Hi Will."
He looked up at her with a wide eyed vulnerability that made her feel old, even though she couldn't legally drink yet, and he wasn't much younger than she was. Pixie took his right hand and wrapped it around the cup.
"Thank you." The surprise of his direct address nearly caused her to drop the tasty beverage into his lap. They'd had a routine and he'd just broken it.
"You're welcome," she said. She fidgeted. "You look better today."
"I showered. I know you, I think."
Pixie nodded. "It's the hair. Electric Blue Mambo is a pretty hard color to forget."
He scrunched his face and shook his head in a way that made him seem hella cogent. "It's not your hair."
"That was a joke, Will. You've been coming in every day during my shift for the last fe
w months."
"Oh..." He looked back at his forearms. "I've been having some trouble remembering things, but thank you for bringing me coffee. I'm sorry...I won't be coming in any more. I'm flying home to Duluth Saturday morning."
Pixie glanced back to check the line at the front counter. Suddenly dead. She shifted from one foot to the other, cursing the vast availability of cute, but uncomfortable discount shoes and then sat down to soften the total lack of manners she was about to display. "Can I ask you something?"
Will nodded without looking away from his arms.
"When you stare at yourself like that, what are you looking for?"
Will closed his eyes with a pained expression. When he furrowed his eyebrows he looked even younger than she'd thought.
"I'm sorry..."
He cut her off by shaking his head. "When the ink faded, it was like I lost something important. Something I had to have to feel okay in the world. What am I supposed to do if I can't ever get that back again?"
He was crying. The melancholy that had been circling her heart since the death of her parents settled around her. Pixie bit her lip.
"I don't know," she said. "I bake because my mom used to and I paint because it's the only time I don't feel a little desperate or lost."
Will reached out and gripped her hand. He was staring at her with an intensity that gave her pause. For the first time since Pixie had met him, she wondered if Hannah wasn't right, if she wasn't inviting her own trouble. His touch brought a deep weirdly shaped sense of foreboding.
"What do you paint?" he asked. The innocuous nature of the question made the air feel lighter. He let go of her hand and waited for her to answer.
"People...A person, now I kind of only paint one. That sounds pathetic, doesn't it?"
Will looked down and traced a vein on his forearm. He shook his head. "I would only paint one too, but I can't remember what she looks like. The one you paint, do you love them?"
His statement was sort of romantic and heartbreaking. There were too many odd thoughts like that one floating around in her head these days. Pixie flushed, given how she was about to answer. "I don't know him. He was just this guy I saw one night riding home on the BART." It sounded even dumber once it had come out of her mouth.
"Then why?"
"Because he was beautiful."
But that wasn't the whole truth, was it? It was a little folded origami corner of the real truth. Her bravado shield. It was her stock answer, the safe one, and when would she really get the chance to be this honest again. She leaned forward.
"Have you ever met the kind of person that you just know is special in a way that no one else is?"
Will's eyes got all fervent and he nodded his head. "Yes," he whispered.
"I do it because if I can make enough, or do enough then maybe I can find my own way to become like that. Like maybe I could earn it and that kind of special could see itself in me."
Will closed his eyes and nodded to himself. "I think that kind people are the rarest type of special."
"I think that employees that actually do work during their shifts are magical unicorns of rare specialness."
Pixie cringed and snuck a sheepish glance at her manager. "Sorry Lewis."
"Hey, next time try flirting with the paying customers."
Pixie stood up and smoothed her apron with as much dignity as she could muster. "I wasn't flirting and the coffee was paid for."
Lewis rolled his eyes and checked one of the four watches he had strapped to his right wrist. He let his arm drop. "If you say so. Your penance is in the back room waiting to be taken out to the dumpster."
"I'm sorry," Pixie said, looking back at Will. He nodded and mumbled something about how he understood while he counted the individual granules of sugar left on the crate. "I'm having an art show on Thursday night," she blurted out. "It's my very first, but you could think of it as a going away party, too...if you wanted."
"Still with the not working," Lewis pointed out.
Will beamed at them both and whether the invite had been a good idea or not, the heartfelt expression it had generated was worth the little worm of unease lodged somewhere near her heart.
"I have to go," she said. Pixie glanced at Lewis. "The trash isn't going to take itself."
"Are you okay?" Lewis asked under his breath as he followed her behind the counter and into the back room.
"He's just a kid, not a serial killer." Pixie pushed her bangs back and realized her hands were shaking. She grabbed an extra trash bag from off of a shelf and rolled the squeltchy bag of coffee mulch next to the door into it. She stared at the bright red force flex handles against all of that black plastic. "He asked me how to survive losing the one thing that made him feel like he fit in the world." Her voice caught, "I tried to answer, but I don't know..."
"Oh...crap. You should, maybe uh, take the meds Dr. Dan prescribed you."
Pixie shuddered and thought about some of the monsters she'd seen skittering around the shadows outside her dorm window. "I don't like them. They make me hallucinate."
"Seriously? That's awesome. Do you have them on you? Cause I want one."
Lewis sucked at emotions. He sucked even worse at dealing with people who had them. He'd missed his calling as a counselor though. There was nothing like interaction with someone completely unaware of emotional distress to snap a person out of wallowing. She went over to the supply closet where they kept their personal items and started digging around in her tote. She got a grip on the plastic bottle and shoved it toward him. He wrapped his left hand around the front of her own and pushed it back in her direction.
"You too. First rule of tripping is you never do it alone."
"I don't... I should go see if Hannah needs some help at the counter."
"Come on. They've got to be good. He's your sister's boyfriend. He can't hate you that much."
"That's debatable."
Lewis rolled his eyes and made a face like he'd licked the underside of something sour.
"Okay, okay, fine," Pixie caved. She popped the top of the bottle and dry swallowed two of the pills.
Lewis cringed "Ugh, you don't want any water for that or anything?"
"You're a little late Lew. Here."
"Nah, I'm good."
"What?"
"Kidding, but I'm not a little heathen like yourself. I need water to help this medicine go down." Lewis took the bottle from her with one hand and used the other to nudge her closer to the garbage bag and the back door. "In the meantime the trash ain't gonna take itself," he said.
Pixie exhaled a little puff of air up into the bits of fringe from her bangs and wondered what the rabbit hole would be like this time. She grabbed the trash bag and tied it off because she needed something to do with her hands and because she hated getting scolded, which was exactly what was going to happen if Lewis came back and the trash hadn't gotten gone. She made it out back just fine, but a flimsy corner of the outer bag got stuck half way into the dumpster. It was always such a miserable pain getting the mush bags over the half rusted lip.
A cough sounded to her left and she balked. The bag back slid into her arms.
"I didn't realize anyone was out here," she said, trying to push the thing back up. It would have helped if she were more athletic.
"Someone is always everywhere."
She looked over at the huddled figure sitting against the wall in the mouth of the alleyway. The figure's hair was shoulder length and hung in limp oily strands at the bottom edges of a dingy neon green knitted hat. His clothes looked moderately clean though. There was a sign by his right foot that read "Don't be greedy, help the needy."
"Would you like something to eat? I think we have some day-old scones that we'll just be throwing away."
"A bleeding heart always tastes the sweetest."
Pixie took a big step back toward the door as the guy's head swiveled in her direction. His face looked normal, but the s
kin around his mouth distorted, fighting against the bone structure underneath. She swallowed around the dryness on her tongue. Dry mouth was the first sign that the pills were taking effect, wasn't it? She couldn't remember.
"Yeah, I can't say that we have any of those."
"Yours would do."
The guy started to laugh and Pixie took that creep-tacular new development as her cue to exit. She left the bag of trash to fend for itself in front of the dumpster.
About the Author
C.V. Larkin lives in an odd, well wintered, little corner of New England with her husband and their dog that is not a dog, and one that should have been a dragon. There, she drinks copious amounts...of tea, obsesses over imaginary worlds, listens to deafeningly loud music, renovates on a timetable that would put the Winchester Mansion to shame, and steals away to unexplored places whenever the opportunity presents itself.