by Lynn S.
“I am truly sorry, Neil, that we were not that vigilant. We thought the Dark Heralds of Fae had left your bloodline alone. Sometimes they let their deals slip through, especially if they had not come to fruition within one generation. We thought they had collected on their dues with your father’s sacrifice.”
“What do you mean?” Curiosity worked within Neil. Along with each question, a new piece of a puzzle fell in place, but he had to rule out his own conclusions and start listening to what Bastian had to say. As much as he yearned to hear the man, to learn from him, Neil had the creeping feeling that he’d just confirm what he knew already. O’Reilly had felt it in his wife’s kisses that as of late felt more like a prelude to a trap than a loving touch. He knew exactly who he slept with—he clearly remembered waking up in the middle of the night, just to turn around and see green, gleaming eyes fixed on him. He dreaded to touch her, because the creature she carried in her womb just sprung to life as they embraced, skin to skin. It drained him.
“How much do you know about fairies?” Bastian inquired.
Neil managed to respond, “I am afraid whatever I think I know won’t help at all.”
Salgado took a book off the pile on top of the table. It was The Forgotten: A Conglomerate of Fantastic Creatures Lost to Time. The dark-haired man turned several pages until he reached a chapter on the hierarchies of the Fae.
“Fairies,” Bastian commenced, “are one of those paranormal beings that successfully travel between our universe and an alternate reality ruled by their kind. They live with us, and in certain stories are identified as originating in the human realm, but whatever once made them commune in harmony with human kind…their soul, if you want to identify with a familiar concept, has long been lost.” The man made the customary air quotes as if to stress.
“Contrary to the many kinds of vampires, lycanthropes, and even wraiths, who still keep traces, be it physical or cognitive, of humanity, the Fae have no such link. They are, however, wonderful mimickers, finding a way to extend their parasitic existence with more ease than any other night breed. They might seem frail when compared to other creatures. They lack remarkable claws or fangs, but the key to their existence is the capacity to work at the edge of perception. They are the most active of supernatural beings, however, not many seem to recall an encounter. Most of them are neutral to favorable toward humanity. They exist in the spectrum of the benign to the mischievous, drawing energy from unsuspecting human beings. The most perceptible track they leave behind is a sensation of fatigue and a bit of unrest that usually affects people during spring. I can assure you, my friend, that certain allergies have only one cure, and it is not antihistamines.”
As he spoke, Bastian placed the iron amulet on Neil’s hand, allowing the man to better appreciate the element that had broken him from the spell he was under.
“Why iron?” Neil wanted to make sense of it all, and Bastian obliged.
“The supernatural world is quite complicated. It is divided in several planes. Creatures seen and unseen, Emissaries of Light, Acolytes of Shadow…it would be a universe ready to collapse if not sustained by infinite rules and regulations. Millennia ago, each one of these creatures received an order of balance, to keep immortals in check, a fatal flaw that might put an end to their long lives in our plane. No one really lives forever, not on this earth. The fairies tried to outsmart the universe of law and swore they would concede their grasp on this realm once human beings stopped believing in magic. For centuries, they manipulated humanity, instilling wars among human clans, favoring some, leaving others to terrible fates as they designed. Back then, when all we had was sticks and stones, the intervention of magical beings was feared, but sorely needed. Until one day, humanity decided that they shall rule their destiny, shedding blood through the sword. Iron weaponry was forged and it turned the course of the history you know…and the one you don’t. When we could collectively draw blood and win by means other than magic patronage, our might silenced the prayers and stopped the offerings. The Fae’s fate was sealed in a single blow and the manner of their death came to be at last.”
Bastian then took a piece of chalk and started drawing lines on a nearby board.
“It was then that the Fae ran for cover into parallel dimensions. They still, however, kept access gates in different parts of the globe. It is easy to open a door when the right electromagnetic field disturbance is present. The biggest portal in our world is—”
“Ireland, no doubt,” Neil added, showing he had caught up, connecting known folklore with this new information.
“Good. You are getting this. There are big ones in the borders between Spain and France as well, and throughout South America where myth abounds. Now, what we really need to focus on is the dangerous elements that are refusing to be bound by these rules. As I said, most of the Fae accepted their lot: when traveling to this realm, they’d do so for a limited time, otherwise they might risk being reduced to be something close to a semi-spiritual entity, unable to control their own forms and eventually diluting themselves. However, the Dark Heralds of Fae have managed to manipulate flesh into more than just a temporary disguise. They have a permanent semblance of humanity, a perfect disguise of flesh, blood, and bone, given that they keep a source of nourishment near…someone bonded to them, by trickery if needed, by love, even better. The stronger the emotion, the deeper the bond, the more real the façade. They don’t operate on offerings of milk and honey…that is just what the tales made us believe. Their motives are profoundly sinister and their price is blood.”
Neil was stunned, defeated. He felt stupid, inadequate, the butt of a joke.
“I can’t believe I am discussing this,” O’Reilly blurted, combing his fingers through his hair. “This afternoon, my greatest concern was the possible collapse of a dozen national banks.”
The man’s frustration was mounting once again. As he went to turn another page, Neil noticed his arm had started bleeding once more. The cut he suffered a couple of months before, the one he recalled happening when crashing his fist through glass, was once again fresh. This time, though, it consisted of three distinctive half-moon-shaped cuts that exuded a greenish substance mixed with blood.
“This is your wife.” Bastian regarded the open wounds with care. “It’s her way of saying you’re needed at her side. She is trying to pull you back in. In other circumstances, you wouldn’t remember this ever happening, and the blood, even if staining your clothes, would disappear under a powerful illusion. She can’t touch you here, nor can she know where you are, but you must return, Neil. A fairy summoning is a powerful weapon. Go home and don’t let her think twice about the reason for your absence tonight. Keep this, don’t let her see it. It has enough magic to protect you without affecting the women.”
Bastian gave the iron amulet to Neil. As the man closed his fist around it, the wound burned and cauterized, cleansing from the inside. O’Reilly kept the piece in his pocket and Bastian escorted him out.
“We’ll see each other again, Mr. O’Reilly. There are quite a few things that you need to learn, and a sensitive decision to make. Something that will require your utmost commitment.”
“Are you talking about the child?”
Neil’s voice trembled, realizing Bastian would soon make him face his worst. The creature was not his. It might not be human.
Salgado nodded solemnly, but then simply told him they were to meet at The Cloisters once again before agreeing on another place. They went their separate ways without saying goodbye.
Back at his desk, and once O’Reilly had gone, Bastian dialed a number. The person who answered didn’t bother to ask who called. It was Bastian’s report call, after all.
“Happy to know you made it alive,” a feminine voice greeted on the other end of the line.
“Come on, it is a simple desk job,” the Portuguese man answered. “How’s everything in Jersey?”
Silence served as an answer. Now it was a matter of detail. The woman spoke
after the pause. “It didn’t go as expected. Also, Nico has gone back home.”
The phrase identified a casualty. It was not the first time Bastian had received notice of a death in the order, but this time, it was someone he knew quite well. No wonder the woman had sounded relieved to hear he was alive. Their numbers had dwindled through the years. Paranormal manifestations were forcing them out into the field, and after years of research, most of them lost the ability to distinguish between the sense of security of a library and the evident danger of a live confrontation.
“Also Heralds?” The Fae had been rearing their heads in unlikely places. Bastian needed to know.
“No. He went for a drink with bohemians.” That was the code for undead, the vampyr branch.
“And what about them? Have they given up the night rounds?” He needed to know if the nest had been eradicated.
The woman sighed deeply. “No. They went on vacation, but they did leave someone in charge of the bar.” This meant the nest had been warned of imminent danger and they had all dispersed. Vampyrs were creatures of habit; if given the opportunity, they would go back to their usual haunts, especially if they had been nesting under the protection of a willing human community. The lookout, whomever was left behind, must be a malleable, easily adaptable creature with the capacity to blend in and wait for the danger to pass before calling the kin back to the fold.
“Where?” Bastian inquired.
“It is not your job.” The timbre of the woman’s voice denoted worry. Bastian was not so easy to persuade.
“Yes, it is, as you have no idea. The bohemians might be able to help us with our Irish friend.”
O’Reilly didn’t even know half of it yet, and Bastian had sensed he might soon choose to forget what he had learned. He needed something to quicken the man’s resolve, and these vampyrs might provide a sort of quick remedy. But the woman on the phone thought it was not a wise course of action.
“I’m…worried about you. Bohemians can be quite charming when they want to and I’m afraid you might find yourself in no position to refuse an invitation.”
Bastian took a deep breath. Her suggestion had been offensive. He limited himself to answer, “I’m well aware I don’t have a lot of time. And as for offers, I’ll never take one that keeps me half in the shadows. You know I love the sun.”
“Then it is settled,” the woman proceeded. “Pay a visit to Astoria, 30th Avenue, at the end of the N Line.”
“Consider it done.”
Bastian hung up and stood from his desk. He walked through the piles of books, picking a couple of titles to take home. He wanted to read something that might work as effectively as an anesthetic, something to keep his mind off the medications he had to take in order to outlive twenty-four hours of paced agony. He couldn’t complain. His illness was in an early stage and had not yet revealed itself, had not taken away his looks or sense of humor. After all, living aware of death was nothing special. It was something all knew, just didn’t bother thinking about. Sebastian was running out of time, and there was no better way to make up for it than by solving a couple of problems at once. From now on, he’d set a meeting place in Astoria. He’d save a man’s life and take care of the vampyr of 30th Avenue.
Chapter XI
Changelings And Halflings
In a secret library, hidden away among a substantial amount of medieval collections, there were books resting in an array of polished wood shelves. Bound in fine leather and separated from the common strife of a city by thick stone walls, there were volumes of stories about creatures that existed, yet in our minds, never were. Some of them had been eradicated, others forgotten, the better part thinly disguised as myth to benefit our collective sanity. All compiled in something as simple as an index.
The book on the days of the peoples of the Fae now rested in one of the lateral shelves. It was no longer considered important. Though almost thirty years ago, its pages bled red with the notations of an obsessive reader, given to save the life of a target who would eventually become his only friend. Those, and telltale round and brownish imprints of a carelessly set coffee cup in a page here and there were the only testimony to his efforts.
The pages were roughened, disrupting the neat appearance of the heavy volume. If someone were ever to reach for that book, it would open, as if of its own volition, to the section Bastian Salgado read to Neil O’Reilly over and over, to convince him of a truth.
Changelings are the offspring the Dark Heralds of Fae, which in time develop characteristics that allow them to acquire a semblance of humanity. They are otherworldly creatures conceived through treachery. The Heralds, a branch of the Leanan Sidhe, are one of the rare fairy clans that can actually breed with mortals. They offer their offspring to the will of Fae to strengthen the bond with the mortal plane. In exchange for this foothold on our soil, the rulers of Aval are willing to pardon a certain number of the Heralds’ indiscretions.
The Heralds are, without doubt, the most sinister faction of all Fae. They are vicious creatures, given to unorthodox habits, and most of the time are judged as a pariah among their kind. Other versions of the story, though, insist that the rulers of Aval abide their presence because they have a growing interest in reacquiring the privileged position they once held as ruler of both Fae, the Earthly domain, and all supernatural beings in their extent.
Changelings are parasitical by nature, and in order to be born they must feed from the womb itself. At the moment of conception, they are always twins, one more prone to human nature and another completely sealed with magic. The one who receives the blessing of the Sidhe will soon gain control of his twin, wasting it away as a source of nourishment. Eventually, the weaker, more human child will succumb. Drying up, it is either stillborn or, if ever seeing the light of day, will surely die within hours.
When the mother of a changeling happens to be a Herald, her mortal mate becomes also a source of sustenance for the needs of mother and child. The father unknowingly sacrifices a portion of his soul to allow the creature to be born. It is the vital force of the father that allows the mother to conjure powerful magic, providing for an abomination with all signs of evil engraved under its skin, to attain that sorely needed guise of human disposition and appearance.
In time, Bastian forgot these lines and worried over creatures closer to him, which deserved equal attention…
***
Innisfree, Present Day
It was her third day at the house on the hill and Marissa was relieved the sun had finally broken through. The air rushing through the window had the smell of fresh grass and blooming flowers, and outside the grounds were shrouded in a green so neat it looked almost emerald. The clouds marched by, light and white, leaving a dark yet welcomed impression upon the ground.
Marissa rose, and while making the bed she noticed her eyes could not only see the vibrancy of color, but could grasp deeper patterns. She could make out the strands of cotton that, woven together, made the fabric. She blinked twice, overwhelmed by this new way of seeing things. With each flutter of her eyelid, if anything, it all became sharper. The walls closed in on her as she could not only appreciate the shades, but also the texture, even the faint smell of coated paint over the years.
She had heard about this, experienced it through someone else’s stories. Panic set in. Marissa ran to the small bathroom adjacent to the bedroom and looked in the mirror. Her pupils were dilated and the dark centers were filled with patterns of spotted gray, like storm clouds in formation. The irises had also shifted, now brownish with hazel sparks. Marissa raised a trembling finger and scratched the surface of her eye with enough force to do damage. She might have known, but it was imperative to verify. Indeed, the surface of her eye responded by coating itself in a hardened substance that kept her from blinking but protected her heightened sight no matter what. There was no pain, no feeling at all.
“Santo Deus!” Whenever Marissa was truly disturbed or beyond angry, she usually conjured up a word or p
hrase from her parents’ native languages. It was Portuguese this time. She was too hurt to speak Romanian. It would only remind her of Adriana.
Her first impulse was to break that glass into a thousand shards, denying her reflection. But she well knew that any outburst of violence would only bring out a little more of her newly acquired, visible, savage nature.
“What have you done to me, Mother?” she demanded of the mirror. Marissa knew the answer. Adriana had taken a road of no return. For every vampyr in her family there must always be a dhampyr to protect it. Her mother swore never to burden her with such responsibility. She had promised to strike down the Popescu curse and allow Marissa to live a simple human life. And now, for some reason, being morning, her mother must be slumbering somewhere following the call of a sleep that was as definite as death while Marissa, unprepared and far from home, among strangers who would never conceive nor understand, was about to go through changes of her own.
A soft knock on the bedroom door let her know she would not even have half an hour to settle.
“Marissa, dear, are you awake? I heard your footsteps, and since Isabel wanted to start off early today, I wanted to invite you…”
It was Carla. Marissa could smell her perfume and hear the flutter of her heart, a little too energetic for someone her age. She wondered how many slight anomalies she would now find since her senses had been greatly enhanced. As she got ready to answer, Marissa heard a voice that whispered in her ear. It came from the inside, not necessarily her thoughts, but a manifestation of a will that now inhabited her body.
Adriana used to talk about something called the instinct, an inseparable companion that lived through her altered blood. “Run,” it told her. “You don’t want to stay in this place and test which parts of your dreams are fake and which are true. That little farmer has seen more in a minute than you have in days. It is a shame the iron was not altogether pure. The silver mixed in that hex mark has turned you against me. That is not a wise course…”