The days wore on, one after another, with little or no change in the girl’s manner. Her parents went about their business in a kind of trance, as though nothing had really changed since the days when the girl had gone missing.
If anything, it had been easier then. They had missed her of course, and grieved over their loss. But time had allowed them to forget their pain, bit by bit, until the loss became an abstraction, a kind of awareness of grief without immediate suffering. Now she was back, but as an oddity. An embodiment not of the girl they remembered, but of this diluted, abstracted version, a doll or curiosity made flesh. Because of this, and many other things, the mother began to have nightmares, sometimes in long stretches that made her unwilling to go to sleep. The father also had them, though he didn’t tell the mother, and tried to repress them by starting drinking again, a habit he took up when the girl first disappeared but later gave up when it became obvious it wouldn’t help bring her back home.
Instead of sleeping the mother often spent the night walking the halls, wandering listlessly from room to room. Many times she’d find her husband lying in a drunken sprawl in the recliner, facing a TV screen long since gone to static. She might drape a knitted throw across his lap as she made her nocturnal circuit of the room, or she might simply wander past him down the hall to the girl’s door. She’d stand there for a few minutes, maybe press her hand against the door’s surface, trace the square panels with her fingers. Something more than the late hour prevented her going inside. Not her imagination, for that had been emptied, depleted over the years by worry and useless speculation run dry. She didn’t recall ever sneaking around like this even when the girl was a baby. It was as she thought about these things that she heard a noise on the other side of the door.
At first it seemed less than a movement, barely a whisper. Bringing her ear closer to the wood, she quieted her mind, tried even to quiet the busy processes of her body. If her daughter were moving around in there, it was only as one does in half sleep; one leg crossing another under a cotton bedsheet, one arm moved like a frame above the tilted head, the hand loosely open. She sensed these things without seeing them, without knowing. The noise could have been a hundred different things.
Then she sensed other things without seeing them. Like the patterns of light and shadow that were neither light nor shadow morphing behind her eyelids when she closed them, images flitted half-formed at the edges of her awareness and understanding. It was as though something were attempting to reoccupy the empty shell her former existence had become. With the slowness of unlived time the patterns swam and then settled, blurred and then focused, became essences without true substance, or at least none that she could easily recognize. They seemed to call upon her to form some sort of connection she did not yet feel capable or willing to make, to mentally shape and work some strange new material. Calming her mind, she began to discern five dark blobs, five blobs only slightly less dark than the surrounding darkness, not moving, but pulsing minutely, like dim stars, or a human heart. And there was a kind of hum that went with the pulse, something that went beyond normal hearing, beyond sensual feeling; it was more like knowledge, conveyed directly from the brain, or from some other source entirely. They gave off a redness, like a feeling or mood, or an indication of heat. Gradually, by degrees of minutes or possibly hours, she began to detect patterns of lines in each grayish blob, curving and looping lines, sometimes with random gashes cutting across the swirls. They were almost like fingerprints, and the longer she studied them, the more she got the impression of fingertips, her daughter’s fingertips, pressing against the door from the other side.
She watched as the fingers to which the prints belonged seemed to take shape, on the other side of the door, just opposite of where the mother herself was touching it. But more than just watching, she seemed to be sucked along into the fingers, down the conductive nerves and spiraling tissues into the hand beyond, down the skinny arm, as the image of the girl slowly formed and became complete in the mother’s consciousness as she traveled. Could it be only her consciousness that passed through and nothing more? She felt so strange, as though it were a dream yet somehow real. The hazy darkness had burned away like a fog, as though she had somehow passed through the medium of the door, and the image of her daughter now began manifesting piecemeal in front of her. She focused straight ahead in a fascinated daze, unable to look away yet not understanding what she was seeing. The wrinkled folds of the girl’s nightdress took shape, seemingly woven out of the thin dry air of the bedroom. A trifle dismayed at finding her daughter standing there without a head, she nevertheless willed herself onward and forward, offering up the last of her energy or essence to see the assemblage through to completion. All that was left was the face and the eyes. But as the neck filled upwards toward the small dimpled chin like modeling clay, she seemed to know before it was finished that something was wrong. The head remained half formed, and virtually hairless, like a freshly boiled egg. Finally two depressions appeared where eyes should be, widening and deepening. The same appeared to be happening with the nose and mouth. She no longer wanted to watch, but seemed unable to look away, as though her own eyes had vanished and she was seeing through some new and unknown process. In place of the girl’s former blue-gray eyes, faintly shadowed, her small nose like porcelain, a mouth that once gave utterance to sweetness and innocence, dark holes were forming, opening onto an acrid black nothingness.
The father, the husband, stirred in his chair, then woke with a start. He blinked for a moment at the TV across the room, silently buzzing with static. Where was he? He didn’t want to remember, he knew that much. Fallen asleep in his chair again, the smell of whiskey on his breath, none of it seemed to matter. Glancing down, he noticed the knitted throw across his legs. That would be the wife, looking out for him again, even after all they’d been through, were still going through. He felt a tiny spark of emotion somewhere deep inside him, a twinge of loving gratitude, glowing like a red ember but with little hope of igniting into the flame it had once been. Fumbling the throw off his lap, he got shakily to his feet. The room lurched and spun, and he gripped the arm of the chair until the sensation stopped, or at least slowed. He thought he should really try to make it to the bathroom. He stumbled along toward the hallway, then stopped. His wife and the girl were standing there, blocking the way, little more than shadows with the hall light glowing dimly behind them. Wasn’t it very late? Why wasn’t the girl in bed, or his wife for that matter? Neither of them would ever get well again if this kept up, nightmares or not. Maybe none of them would. He opened his mouth to say something, but found he couldn’t speak. His mouth continued to open however. For a very long time afterwards.
A kingdom must have the illusion of safety, even at the cost of truth. But when a king makes promises to assure illusion, they may cost him dearly . . .
THE DOG KING
HOLLY BLACK
Every winter, hunger drives the wolves out of the mountains of Arn and they sweep across the forests outlying the northern cities. They hunt in packs as large as armies and wash over the towns in their path like a great wave might crash down on hills of sand. Villagers may board up their windows and build up their fires, but the wolves are clever. Some say that they can rise up on two legs and speak as men, that nimble fingers can chip away at hinges, that their voices can call promises and pleas through keyholes, that they are not quite what they seem.
When whole towns are found empty in the spring, doors ajar, bed linens smeared with dirt and fur, cups and plates still on the tables, white bones piled in the hearth, people say these things and many other things besides.
But in the city of Dunbardain, behind the high walls and iron gates, ladies wear bejeweled wolf toes to show boldness and advertise fecundity. Men have statues of wolves commissioned to grace their parlors. And everyone cheers for wolves at the dog fights. City people like to feel far from the little towns and their empty, dirt-smeared beds.
Each year, wolves ar
e caught in traps or, very occasionally, a litter is discovered and they are brought to the city to die spectacularly. Arn wolves are striking, black and slim as demons, with the unsettling habit of watching the audience as they tear out the throats of their opponents. City dwellers are made to feel both uneasy and inviolable by the dog fights; the caged wolf might be terrible, but it is caged. And the dog fights are majestic tented affairs, with the best bred dogs from all parts of the world as challengers. Expensive and exotic foods perfume the air, lulling one into the sense that danger is just another alluring spice.
Not to be outdone by his subjects, the king of Dunbardain obtained his own wolf pup and has trained it to be his constant companion. He calls it Elienad. It is quite a coup to have one, not unlike making the son of a great foreign lord one’s slave. The wolf has very nice manners too. He rests beneath the king’s table, eats scraps of food daintily from the king’s hand, and lets the ladies of the court ruffle his thick, black fur.
The velvet drapes of the tablecloth hang like bedcurtains around the wolf who lolls there among the satin and bejeweled slippers of courtiers and foreign envoys.
Under the table of the king is a place of secrets. Letters are passed, touches are given or sometimes taken, silverware is stolen, and threats are made there, while above the table everyone toasts and grins. But the king has a secret too.
The wolf watches and his liquid eyes take it all in. This dark place is nothing to the magnificent glittering ballrooms or even the banquet hall itself with its intricate murals and gilt candelabras, but here is his domain. He knows the lore of under the table and could recite it back to anyone that asked, although only one person ever does.
A woman sitting beside Lord Borodin reaches her hand down. A fat ruby glistens as she holds out a tiny wing of quail. Grease slicks her fingers.
Once, Elienad took a bitter-tasting rasher of bacon from Lord Nikitin and was sick for a week. He knows he should learn from that encounter, but the smell of the food makes his mouth water and he takes the wing as gently as he can. The tiny bones crunch easily between his teeth, filling his mouth with the taste of salt and marrow. It wakes his appetite, makes his stomach hurt with the desire to tear, to rend. The woman allows him to lick her hand clean.
There is a boy who lives in the castle of Dunbardain, although no servant is quite sure in which room he sleeps. He dresses too shabbily to be a nobleman’s son; he does not wear the livery of a page nor has he the rags of a groom. His tutors are scholars who have been disgraced or discredited: drunks and lunatics who fall asleep during his lessons. His hair is too long and his breeches are too tight. No one has any idea who his mother is or why he is allowed to run wild in a palace.
When they start dying, it is the master of the dog fights who is first accused. After all, if he allowed one of the wolves to get free, he should have let the guard know. But he claims that all his wolves are chained in their cages and offers to show anyone who doesn’t believe him. Even as he stands over the body of the first child, with her guts torn out of her body and gobbets bitten out of her flesh, he argues that it can’t be one of his wolves.
“Look at all these partial bites,” he says, pointing with a silver cane as he covers his nose with a scented handkerchief. “It didn’t know how to kill. You think one of my wolves would win if they hesitated like that?”
His assistant, who is still young enough to become attached to the dogs when they are pups and cries himself to sleep when one of them dies, walks three steps off to vomit behind a hedgerow.
With the second child, there are no hesitation marks, nor with the third or the fourth. Stories of dark, liquid shapes outside windows and whispers through locks spread through the city like a fever.
“Whosoever kills the beast,” the king proclaims, “he will rule after me.”
There are a group of knights there at the announcement, one of whom the king favors. The king knew Toran’s father and has watched over the boy as he grew into the fierce looking young man standing before him. Toran has killed wolves before, in the north. Everyone knows the king hopes it will be Toran who kills this wolf and takes the crown.
As the others are leaving, Toran walks toward the king. The king’s wolf bares his teeth and makes a sound, deep in his throat. The knight hesitates.
“Stop that, Elienad,” the king says, knocking his knee into the wolf ’s muzzle. Courtiers stare. Everyone thinks the same thought and the king knows it, flushes.
“He is always with you, is he not?” Toran asks. The king narrows his eyes, furious, until he realizes that Toran is giving him a chance to speak without a protestation seeming like a sign of guilt.
“Of course he is,” says the king. “With me or locked up.” This is not true, but he says it with such authority that it seems true. Besides, the courtiers will tell one another, later, when the king is gone. Besides, the king’s wolf would be seen slipping back into the palace. The king’s wolf would surely have killed a nearby child. The killer could not be the wolf they have fed and cosseted and stroked.
Elienad sits, chews on the fur around one paw like it itches. His gaze rests on the ground.
Toran nods, unsure about whether he should have spoken. The king nods too, once, with a slight smile.
“Walk with me,” the king says.
The two men walk together down one of the labyrinthine hallways with the wolf trotting close behind.
“It is time to send him away,” the king’s chamberlain said softly. He is old and always chilled; he sits close to the fire, rubbing his knuckles as though he is washing his hands over and over again. “Or fight him. He’d make a good fighter.”
“Elienad hasn’t killed anyone,” the king said. “And he’s useful. You can’t deny that.”
The chamberlain served the king’s father and used to give the king certain looks when he was being a particularly obstinate child. The chamberlain gives him one of those looks now.
The king is no longer a child. He pours himself more wine and waits.
“Only commoners have been killed, yet,” the chamberlain finally says with an exasperated sigh. “Were a noble to die and it to come to light just what it is you’ve been keeping—”
The king takes a long drink from his cup.
The old man looks at the fire. “You should never have kept him for so long. It is only grown harder to part with him.”
“Yes,” the king said softly. “He is nearly grown.”
“And those tutors. I have always said it was too great a risk. And for what? So he can write down the things he overhears?”
“A well-informed spy is a better spy. He understands what to listen for. Who to follow.” The king rubs his mouth. He’s tired. He wishes his chamberlain would leave.
“The story you told me, years back, when you brought him here. Tell me again that it was the truth. That you didn’t know what he was when you bought him. That you bought him.”
The king is silent.
He does not know that his wolf lies on the cold stone outside of the door, letting the chill seep up into his heart.
The boy’s room is hidden behind curtains and a bookcase that shifts to one side. Only a very few people know how to find it. Inside the room is a carved bed, a boy’s bed, and now Elienad has to bend his knees to fit his legs inside of it. There are no windows and no candles, but his liquid eyes see as well here as they do beneath the table or in the labyrinth of the castle.
When the king comes in, he opens the bookshelf and lets light flood the little room. “What did you learn?” he asks.
“The pretty woman with the curls. Her name starts with an A, I think and she likes to wear purple. She wants to poison her husband.” As he speaks, the boy carves a small block of wood. He has skill; the king can make out the beginning of a miniature crest.
“Who taught you how to do that?” the king demands, pointing to the knife.
Elienad shrugs slender shoulders. “No one.”
Which seems unlikely, but there i
s no reason for that to bother the king. Yet it does. The boy has recently turned thirteen and when the king thinks back on that age, he remembers telling many lies. Elienad’s jaw looks firmer than it did a year ago, his soft limbs turning into the lean, hard arms of an adult. Soon the king will know even less about what he does.
“Does she mean to do it?” he asks, “or is it just talk?”
“Amadine,” the boy says. “I remember her name now. She’s bought powder and honey to hide the taste. She says it will seem like he’s getting sick. Her friends are very proud of her. They say they are too frightened to kill their own husbands.”
The boy looks up at him, hesitating, and the king thinks that if Elienad were a human boy, it would be abominable to raise him as a spy with no companions save drunk scholars and the king himself.
“Go on,” the king says. “You have something else to tell me?”
The boy tilts his head to one side. His hair has gotten long. “Who was my mother?”
The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror Page 58