by Ramy Vance
So when my dream that night turned bad, I was kind of used to it.
The thing about nightmares is, they’re usually a distorted memory or some horrification of the future. Pepper in the incoherence usually associated with dreams and add a dash of heart-thumping certainty that it’s really happening and presto: a full-fledged nightmare.
But the dream I was having wasn’t a memory. At least, not mine. Nor did it portray some possible future. Rather, it was a vivid—what would you call it? A show, perhaps? Movie? I really don’t know—experience where I was an observer, watching everything unfold through someone else’s eyes.
It was like being in a video game.
If, that was, the video game involved the merciless slaughter of humans. And by humans, I don’t mean pixelated representations of humans on a screen.
I mean actual, red-blooded, air-breathing, opinion-spewing humans. I've been around enough dead bodies to know what death looks like, and this was the real deal.
And that’s where this strange nightmare started: Standing over six dead bodies, four soldiers dressed in armor appropriate to the era, a squire that couldn’t have been older than sixteen and a young woman who was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The bodies were mangled, and from the lacerations on their faces and the way their blood stained their clothing, they didn’t die well—or fast. This guy wasn’t just killing them … he was punishing them.
From the windows of his eyes, we stood on a moor with nothing in sight for miles. But then he turned around and I saw where we really were: outside an old castle, the surrounding area cleared so the guards could see enemies approaching from miles away.
A lot of good that did them. Judging by lack of shouting guards and ringing bells, it was clear that whomever lived in this castle had no idea an enemy was at their gate.
He examined the castle wall, giving me an opportunity to see it myself. From its stones and structure, I placed us somewhere in England, just after medieval times.
Without hesitation, he jumped on the wall and, using the tiny, uneven cavities and holes typical of old masonry work, he climbed the wall with the kind of speed I did not think possible for a vampire, and certainly not for a human.
Within seconds he had scaled the hundred-foot wall and climbed onto the curtain wall surrounding the castle. The two guards were taken completely by surprise, and had just enough time to let out squeals before blood-soaked hands that weren’t my own grabbed them and thrust their bodies against the stone wall. I heard several cracks followed by agonized screams.
This creature—this monster—threw them against the wall hard enough that they would never walk again, but not hard enough to actually kill them. This, I sensed, was intentional. The just shy of actually killing them method was this monster’s way of truly punishing these soldiers, because they would either get help and end up cripples the rest of their lives, or they would bleed out on the stone floor.
Either way, their next few hours would be agony. Not that the owner of these eyes cared; he simply moved on, running down the lookout tower toward the doorway leading into the castle.
Three guards with longswords came into the stone hallway, and as soon as they saw him, they charged. Stupid. His hands, empty of weapons, were out in front of him, and as the first guard swung his sword, the creature ducked before lunging forward and throwing him into the other two guards.
All three were prone on the ground. The creature grabbed the ankles of two of them and flung them over the wall, their screams following them to their deaths. The third guard tried to run, and this killing monster picked up one of the discarded longswords and threw it into the fleeing guard’s back, impaling him against the wall.
The creature walked past the trapped, dying man without so much as a second glance, leaving him to groan and cry as his life slowly drained away.
Whatever this creature’s mission was, he no longer cared if anyone knew he was here.
And they knew. Alarm bells rang as guards cried out, “We’re under attack! We’re under attack!”
I knew the drill. Now that the alarms were sounded, the guards on duty would man their posts, ready for battle, while the remaining soldiers who were sleeping or off-duty would run into the armory, where several squires would be readying their armor and weapons. In a well-trained castle, it would take a matter of minutes to arm and ready the entire garrison.
The last place any attacker would want to be was in the armory, and that’s exactly where this killer went. The creature had purpose in his step—he knew the layout of the castle—and when he reached the armory, it was already half-full of soldiers preparing for war.
He walked in, and everything stopped: the clanging weapons, the shouting, the clamoring of leather straps. The room went silent as he entered, a hundred eyes on him.
Not a word was spoken until a soldier who still hadn’t put on his armor grabbed a halberd and charged. The poor fool. He was dead before he took two steps.
The killer pulled in his newest victim and crushed his skull between his hands. Then he spoke in a calm voice with an accent I hadn’t heard in centuries. “I will bestow upon you a gift your king failed to provide to me and my family. I shall give you a single minute. You may use that time to prepare for battle or pray to your god. I do not care. But do use your minute wisely, for it will be your last.”
He walked into the center of the room and stood perfectly still. I couldn’t see what most of the soldiers were doing, but from what I could hear, many took this man’s advice, saying their prayers like they might on their deathbeds.
I don’t know if a full minute passed or not. But when he deemed the minute to be over, he started killing. There must have been fifty men in that room, maybe more. And even with their overwhelming numbers, they didn’t stand a chance.
Bones snapped and flesh tore as he made his way through them, killing one after another after another. All while they screamed.
And screamed.
And just when I thought the horror would never stop, I was awoken by screams not from the world of nightmares, but this one.
Deirdre was screaming my name. I could hear her calling me, needing me, and I tried to force myself awake.
I struggled to move as my consciousness swam against the currents of my nightmare before finally breaking through the veil of sleep.
I sat up in a jolt, my nightmare already fading away with unnatural speed. Not that I had time to think about that; what I had heard in my dreams was actually happening.
Deirdre was screaming.
I flung the sheets off and ran into her room where Oighrig End lay on her bed, dead.
End of Part 1
Part II
Prologue
Oighrig End has sufficiently primed the needy changeling.
It’s easy to bag an UnSeelie brat. Just talk about how evil their kind is, how their people were responsible for much of the evil that now exists in the mortal realm. Make them self-conscious, make them feel bad about themselves, and then swoop in with a smile and an “I understand,” or “They’re wrong,” and presto: panties on the floor, and Oighrig End heaving atop them like a lion on a cheese grater. Go me with my Lysistrata jokes.
And this particular changeling—Deirdre, was it?—is exceptionally beautiful, he thought as he pranced around his room, preparing for tonight’s festivities. A shave, a shower and some scent of lilac, the preferred fragrance of the fae. I might even have her more than once. After all, I am stuck in this place for three days. And my only alternatives are the human and the halfling.
The human was cute, but alas, humans lacked the vigorous pace he had grown accustomed to. Then there was the matter of the halfling. She was pretty, but she was also blind, and Oighrig End liked to look his mounts in the eyes when his, ahem … end drew near.
He had just picked up a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphosis—the book was a vital part of his seduction game—when his head started to spin. “Too much sipping of heavy desser
t wine,” he muttered to himself as he sat down on his bed. “Just a moment’s rest to recharge the batteries, then downstairs to the changeling’s room for further sips on her blissful teats.”
“You always had a way with words,” a voice said from the corner of the room.
Oighrig had thought he was alone, so when someone spoke, he leapt in fright. Literally. Onto his bed. “Who … who’s there?” he said, scanning the room and seeing no one.
“An old friend.”
Oighrig looked from side to side, desperate to see who it was.
“Come now. I know it has been a long, long time since we last met, but surely you haven’t forgotten my voice?”
“Or mine,” a second voice said.
“I … I don’t,” Oighrig said.
“Why not?” the first voice said. “What is it you used to say? ‘There is so much more than is known in this world, or any other.’ ”
“So much more,” echoed a third, deeper voice.
“I often thought you should have dedicated your life to figuring out why the gods left. After all, surely one of your revised myths must give a clue as to that mystery.”
But Oighrig End was too terrified to answer. Instead he just whimpered, “Mercy.”
“But then again,” the voice said, “perhaps some mysteries have no answer.”
“Mercy,” he repeated as the world continued to blur. He knew he was not sleepy because of the wine, but because of poison. “Mercy … please.”
“Some mysteries may never be solved, but that does not mean they cannot be avenged.”
“Mercy, please,” Oighrig said one last time as the world spun and darkness enveloped him.
“Mercy?” the voice said. “I’m afraid that died in me centuries ago.”
Accusations, Much?
Deirdre’s screams didn’t just draw me in. Within moments, Orange and Remi had appeared, both in nightgowns. The rest had yet to make their way to the room (with the exception of the abatwas—Snap, Crackle and Pop—who, for all I knew, stood in the room somewhere, camouflaged by the old Persian carpet and their tiny size).
“What happened, Deirdre?” I asked, trying to get her attention.
She didn’t look at me, her gaze fixed on Oighrig End. “I … I … don’t know. He asked if I was interested in a nightcap. I told him my hair did not need such sleep aids, and he laughed, saying he meant a drink so that we could continue our conversation. I agreed, and he said he would come to my room in an hour. I decided to use that time to shower and prepare my questions for our continued conversation. When I emerged from the bathroom, I saw him here. Dead.”
“A likely story,” Orange said, “changeling.” He spat that last word as if it were sour milk.
“Hold on a second,” I said, stepping between Orange and Deirdre. “She would never—”
“Never what?” Remi said. “Kill, maim, destroy? I don’t know how well-versed you are in the ways of the UnSeelie Court, but of all the gods’ creations, few are as vicious as changelings.”
“That’s nice, coming from a human soldier.” I turned on my heels to take that sanctimonious human head on. “I’m fairly sure if we took an honest look at capacities for destruction, your kind would take the proverbial, blood-soaked cake.”
“ ‘Your kind’?” Remi said, lifting an eyebrow.
“Soldiers, warriors … Canadian Armed Forces,” I growled. “Besides, how do we know it wasn’t you? You were quite aggressive in your questioning.”
“How dare you? Remi LaChance is one of the gentlest—”
“Thank you, Orange, but please. This is one fight I’m determined to have on my own,” Remi said, extending a placating hand to Orange. Then, looking down at me, he clenched his gloved hands. “Young lady, do not confuse curiosity with aggression. I would no more hurt Oighrig End than—”
“Pick up a gun? Fight in a war? Given that you are, by your own proclamation, a seasoned soldier, I find it hard to accept the ‘conscientious objector’ defense. Besides, why are you wearing gloves? Didn’t want to leave behind fingerprints?”
“I had the same thought, milady,” Deirdre said. “Gloved hands hide guilty fingers.”
Remi lifted his gloved hands in a very self-conscious manner before regaining his scowl. “I have a condition, and am very self-conscious about my hands. My gloves are not an indication of guilt, but merely a sign of my shyness and further proof of my sensitive nature. And one more thing, my dear young lady. Where were you when—”
“What … what is going on?” a soft voice asked.
Although the voice was low, we all stopped arguing and turned. Sarah stood with her black guide dog at the bedroom door’s threshold. Her head was tilted so her left ear faced us, and she wore a confused, almost frightened look. Behind her stood Jarvis and Freol, both staring at Oighrig End’s body with silent, disbelieving eyes.
“It seems, my dear, that our guest of honor has met an untimely end,” Remi said in a cautious tone.
“By the hands of our changeling guest,” Orange added.
“I did no such thing.” Deirdre’s voice quavered as if trying to hold back tears.
“You arrogant Seelie Court, biased moron,” I turned to Orange. “We don’t go throwing around accusations based on racial profiling.”
“Why not?” Orange asked. I could tell the question was genuine; he really didn’t understand my objections, and from the way he waited for my response, I gathered that the Seelie Court did judge on the basis of where people came from, their particular subspecies, and all sorts of other racially motivated profiling.
“Because,” I said as an oh so witty comeback.
Remi sighed, and I thought he was going to renew his attack on Deirdre, but instead he said, “The young lady is right: we cannot assume that just because one has the capacity to kill, they have actually killed. We have, as of yet, no proof that the changeling is the murderer. That is not how things are done anymore. Not since the gods left, at least.”
Orange gave Remi a look that could have shattered glass, and Remi, by way of self-defense, shrugged.
“I do apologize,” Sarah said, “but I am at a visual disadvantage. Oighrig End is dead?”
I nodded, and then realized how ridiculous nodding was. “Yes.”
“How?” Sarah asked.
The question drove home, because in my desperation to defend Deirdre, I had never examined the body. I walked over to Oighrig End and, without touching him, took a closer look at his wounds.
“Oh please,” Orange said in a condescending tone, “what could you possibly be looking for? He was stabbed.”
“Yes,” I said, still examining the body. Deirdre and Remi did the same. “But there is much we can learn from a stab wound.”
Remi gave me a curious look.
“Forensics class. I’m thinking of training as a policeman. Well, woman.”
“I see.” Remi returned his gaze to the body.
The three of us took a closer look. Whoever killed Oighrig End did so in a fit of abject hate; he had been stabbed multiple times all over his chest, but the wounds had no pattern.
Usually when someone stabs their victim multiple times, they do so at a particular angle, and the radius of the wounds are closely bunched together, all penetrating the body from that angle. But Oighrig End’s wounds were all over his chest, and the angles made no sense, as if the killer had switched hands in the middle of the stabbing.
And there was one more unusual thing: the wounds varied in intensity. Some were light, barely scratches. Others were deep cuts, obviously inflicted by powerful hands.
Whoever killed Oighrig End must have done so in a fit of rage and doubt to inflict such a wide array of wounds. And from my best guess, that meant the killer both loved and hated the man. This was a tidbit I’d keep to myself, given how much Deirdre revered Oighrig End and how deeply she was hurt by his insults.
I looked up to see that Remi had concluded his investigation quite quickly, evidently ascertaini
ng everything he could with a cursory glance. Either he didn’t know enough about these types of wounds to really learn anything (which meant he was a lot less experienced than he claimed), or he had seen something that satisfied his curiosity.
Deirdre circled the body before leaning in close. Then she did that thing she always does when surprised or wanting to keep a secret: her eyes widened slightly and her nose flared. That girl should never play poker.
I quickly looked at Remi to see if he had noticed, but he was too busy lost in thought, presumably mulling over everything his investigation of the body revealed to him. Good, I thought, filing this away to ask her about later.
Whatever Deirdre saw was enough for her, and she backed away from the body toward the wall, where she stood erect and still, saying nothing. The changeling guard stance. It looked impassive, but given the way changelings were trained in combat, that stance meant she was ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
I knew that. So did the others.
Way to not admit guilt, Deirdre, I thought, and backed away from the body myself. “OK, I’m done.”
“And are you satisfied?” Orange asked.
“Not really. I still have no idea who did this. But at least I know more than I did before.”
“And what have you learned?” Sarah asked.
“No—not now, and not here. Besides, I want to know what Soldier Boy here knows, too. I suggest we head to the conference room where we can hurl accusations at one another while we wait for the authorities to show up.”
Orange shifted nervously at the mention of the police.
“What?” I asked the ugly elf. “Nervous to have real detectives searching for clues?”
“No, not at all,” he said with an uneven, nervous grin. “It’s just the storm. It’s killed all communications and, well—until the storm passes, I’m afraid we’re on our own.”
You Did It! No, You Did!