by Joe Ducie
I claimed a seat at the bar between a gorgeous woman in a pleated green skirt and white blouse, her lips as red as rose petals, and a scruffy blue-skinned kid wearing big round glasses and a pair of rainbow suspenders. Meadow Gate—home to all sorts.
The bartender, I recognized. The gargantuan man, Ace, had saved my life, carried me out of the burning inn while I was unconscious and blind, and he was Tia’s partner on the city watch when they weren’t tending bar. If he was there, odds were, so was Tia.
“You and the little one here for the music?” Ace asked, his voice gruff but kind. He’d barely acknowledged me last time I’d been here. Not without good reason, as all said and done I’d nearly gotten Tia and Annie killed not six feet from where I was now sitting.
“We sure are,” I said, keeping the angle on the kid’s bottle at a steady decline. He seemed happy enough sucking at the nipple and slurping up the formula.
“Something for yourself?”
“Could I just get a water?” I asked. “Waiting on some friends.”
Ace nodded, clearly not too interested in who I was beneath my hood. I guessed the baby might have taken some of my mysterious, dangerous, devil-may-care aura away from me. He placed a tall glass of icy water on the mahogany bar. “Your friends best hurry. She’s going on in two minutes.”
“Thanks. I’m sure they’ll be along soon.”
“You enjoy your night.” Ace moved off to tend to his other patrons.
The bar was busier than I’d ever seen it. In truth, I’d only seen it closed, but a steady stream of people—jovial, happy people—let themselves in and greeted one another like one big extended family. The atmosphere was warm, inviting, and not too loud. Just the right levels for conversation over a crackling fireplace. The smell of good food wafted in from the kitchen, too, adding a homely touch to the whole affair. I was of a mind that The Reminiscence was a bar I could quite comfortably grow old in.
And then I saw her emerge from the kitchen and knew for sure.
Tia Moreau, all five feet and a dime of her, stepped up onto the small stage in front of the fireplace to a round of raucous cheers and wild applause. She carried an acoustic guitar strung over her shoulder. Her bare shoulders, below raven-black hair, revealed soft curves and unblemished olive skin. A white dress, splashed with a pattern of blue roses like spilt ink and the risqué hemline just an inch short of proper, hugged her tiny form.
She was beaming from ear to ear. Her smile was infectious, and I caught myself mirroring it, hidden within the folds of my hood.
Tia’s emerald-green eyes seemed too kind and full of life for someone who had traveled the Void and survived. She had commanded the Cascade Fleet before me, and it was only at the Fall of Voraskel—when we lost her and King Morrow—that I had been given command. Such command had ruined me inside of a year. Even now, over half a decade later, I was still shattered.
Then again, apart from a brief foray back to True Earth to stop Scion a few months ago, Tia had been happily presumed dead for that same half decade. I’d never let the Tome Wars go, and even exiled, I’d wallowed in scotch and misery, drinking to days that were and days that had never come.
“Oh, broken quill,” I cursed. “She’s happy…” And better off not knowing me anymore. Or my son. The damage our family name could do to a place as innocent as Meadow Gate…
The only mark on Tia that hinted at the travesties in her past was the long, thin line of scar tissue that slashed diagonally down from her eyebrow, along the bridge of her nose, and into her cheek. A souvenir from the Void. The vain and the selfish would say such a scar turned her pretty face into something less—something flawed that marred her beauty. To me and to all who mattered, such a ‘flaw’ made her one of the most beautiful women we’d ever had the pleasure to know.
“Do you like it here?” I whispered to the baby. He’d finished about half the bottle. Make sure he finishes all of this, young man… “Big open countryside. Friendly folk, for the most part. Clean air and healthy living.”
“Good evening,” Tia said into the microphone. Her voice echoed nicely through the bar, over the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses empty and full and all levels in between.
“Sing us a song, Tia!” someone called from the back.
Another round of cheers and applause seemed to agree with the sentiment. Tia blushed and inclined her head. She took a seat on the stool, one foot on the ledge and one on the hardwood stage. She swung the guitar up into her lap.
“She’s going to sing…” I muttered, with a soft grunt of disbelief. The Tia I remembered from the Academy, the Tia I knew from the Tome Wars, had been fierce but kind, loyal but vicious. She had been a soldier—a Knight Infernal, like all of us. We didn’t sing. We didn’t… live this kind of life.
It might have been a mistake coming here.
“Here’s a new one I’ve been working on,” Tia said, her amplified voice warm and confident. “I hope you like it.”
The bar fell into an appreciative silence as she strummed her instrument and started to hum, softly at first. The guitar was high pitched, like bell chimes tuned to match the upper range of a piano. I liked it—liked that the melody made me think of springtime on Lake Delgado, of late nights in Farvale with Tal, Clare, Sophie, and all my old friends, Aaron and even Marcus.
The amber bottle was far too open
The clear lens, long since broken
Maps that showed the way ahead
Were meant for those happier instead
And all I knew was a distant star…
Strung along the roads of gleaming hearts
We stood alone, but we stood for what was ours
Oh, quills did break, and night did fall…
Honey, we were better off apart
We surely were. But not just yet, not now. For now I sat at the bar, listening to Tia’s music, a lump in my throat and a scar on my heart. To keep the Everlasting apart…
My son—and I was not at all surprised to find that I did think of him as mine, beyond a doubt—gurgled softly around the bottle of milk. His eyes fell heavy above puffy cheeks unblemished by time or the ravages of growing up Infernal.
If my son was to have any kind of life—indeed, if he was to have any chance of seeing his first birthday—then he could not be my son. I could not be his father.
And if Emily was to be believed, then I would see her again. At some point in her past, which added a whole new way of looking at the world, didn’t it? I’d travelled back through time once before, after Atlantis, just in time to die. Was my ragged immortality bolstered by the knowledge that I wouldn’t die and stay dead until the boy in my arms was conceived?
“Oh, Emily…” Elder God Fair Astoria or no, she would always be Emily Grace to me.
Perhaps kind but worse in the long run
They tell me I wear happier better today
And we’re all fools just trying to have some fun
So I stand tall, I smile… but I’m a coward anyway
I’m sure this truth I’ve tried to deliver
Is not the pain, but all that I am
I could be honest, kinder, harder, a giver…
Oh, but truth is too familiar
“What do you think, kid?” I said. “Grow up here in Meadow Gate with Tia? She’d have you, I’m sure. In a heartbeat. Clean air and honeyberries? Learn to tend bar before you can walk… and then get shipped off to the Infernal Academy before your tenth birthday once they find out you’ve got the talent.”
If he could never be tied to me, then the Academy would actually be one of the safest places in existence for him—a place where he could learn how to use whatever skill in Will he developed, to protect himself.
My son blinked slowly, staring at me from around his bottle, as if everything in the world was shiny and new and couldn’t possibly hurt.
“Your mother and father were very selfish to have you,” I whispered. “Whichever side you choose, you’ll have enemies. Awful young f
or such nonsense.”
No easy answer to this seven-pound problem. He finished the bottle, and I slipped it into a deep pocket of my cloak. I lifted him up against my chest, his tiny head resting just on my shoulder, and supported his neck with my hand. Gently, I patted his back, looking for a burp. I knew little of babies, but I knew enough.
And all I knew was a distant star…
Strung along the roads of gleaming hearts
We stood alone, but we stood for what was ours
Oh, quills did break, and night did fall…
Honey, we were better off apart
And all I knew was a distant star…
Strung along the endless roads of gleaming hearts
We stood together, just a spark within the blaze
And if those damned quills didn’t break and harsh night didn’t fall…
Honey, sweet thing, could we go back to the start of it all?
Soft applause greeted Tia throughout her small bar as she played the final chords, and I took that as my cue to leave before she or Ace recognized me under this hood—or by the familiar black cloud of woe and regret hovering above my head. She smiled at the crowd, her cheeks flushed and eyes alight with the music. The scents of the kitchen and the taste of good drink were on the air in an atmosphere of time spent well.
Tia Moreau. Perhaps the only person I knew who had found a way not to play the game and be happy. She was far better off without me in her life. I was pure antithesis to her redemption.
“Come on, kid,” I muttered. “We’ve got work to do.”
Another god to kill, the Knights to be appeased… And of course Shadowman—the Hyde to my Jekyll—to be destroyed. Same shit, different day.
First things first, though. I couldn’t take my son with me into any of those battles, any more than I could leave him with Tia and dissolve her happiness, so war via True Earth was my road. I needed to phone a friend.
3RD SALVO – I’M NOT ONE TO CRITIQUE A FUNERAL, BUT…
“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.”
—William Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well
Chapter Nineteen
Fractured Blackberries
“Declan,” Annie Brie said, holding my newborn son in her arms as if he were the most precious thing in all the worlds. “Are you sure about this?”
I nodded and pushed a canvas bag of diapers, bottles, canisters of powdered formula, and a whole bunch of other infant paraphernalia I’d picked up at the 24/7 Pharmacy in Joondalup not an hour ago across my coffee table at her. A stack of pages from my never-finished novel, strewn throughout the writing alcove in my shop, fell to the floor.
Annie held my son still nestled in his mother’s blue and bloodstained shawl. I’d bought him some clean blankets, warm and feather-soft, but I wasn’t quite ready to remove the shawl. Emily’s grace had kept him alive so far…
“There’s so much about this I don’t understand…” my young detective said in the half-light from the chandeliers overhead. The hour was just after midnight, and outside Riverwood Plaza was quiet. No oily shadows, no madmen with shotguns, just the night. “I never thought you and Emily were ever, you know, together.”
“It’s a long story,” I muttered. “One I’m not sure I understand myself.”
“You really don’t look well. I mean, I think you may need to go to a hospital.”
I was in need of a good long sleep and time to rest my bruised and battered body, but time was running out faster than top shelf booze in an open bar. I still had Shadowman to deal with.
Annie was right, though. I’d glimpsed myself in a mirror, and I looked like death warmed up. My eyes were bloodshot, and big, black suitcases hung under them as if I’d been punched twice. I had a sneaking suspicion—more than a suspicion—that using Myth to get back to True Earth had done that.
The Creation Knife was tainted, dangerous. Using it was killing me.
“I’m just a little frayed around the edges,” I told Annie. “Nothing a steak and some hibernation through the winter wouldn’t fix.”
“And Emily is dead?” she asked tentatively. “I’m sorry—I know you considered her a friend.”
I chuckled, as if the idea of Emily as a friend was funny. What the hell had we been? Lovers, apparently, although I’d be damned if I understood how that was supposed to work. “Well and truly. I barely escaped with the kid; Emily, I wanted to bury but couldn’t; and Oblivion has the Roseblade. You know that proverbial creek without a paddle? Yeah, the Everlasting now have enough firepower to blast that creek into the Void.”
“You’ll get it back,” she said, as if the solution to all my troubles were that obvious.
“Not with him hanging around, I won’t,” I said, meaning my son. “I can’t save the damned day again and worry that someone or something is going to use that kid against me. It would work, you know, in case you were wondering how I felt on the matter. If he were threatened, I’d do considerable… damage to prevent him harm.”
“Does he have a name, at least?” Annie asked. “Did Emily…?”
“She did not.” And I hadn’t even considered naming him yet. Declan Jr.? “And perhaps best if I don’t, either. He can’t stay here. That’s why I called you. You know that. Broken quill, better than most, you know that.”
“I do. I know the hazards of the life you lead.” She sighed. “But what if—”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Annie, you know he can’t stay with me. Take him to whatever government services will find him a home, get him adopted somewhere far from Perth—the farther, the better. Europe. Norway. Somewhere distant. Never tell me where.”
“He’s so well behaved,” Annie said, cooing down at his tiny face. “Aren’t you? Aren’t you just? And he has your eyes, but…”
“Kinder?”
Annie smiled a touch sheepishly. “Well, yes.”
“And they need to stay that way for as long as we can help it.” I felt a surge of something akin to the lust and rage that clawed at me in battle or in war, but more… righteous. Every cord of my being wanted to protect my son—and would melt worlds, the Story Thread be damned, to guarantee that protection. “Which means he can’t have me as a father.”
She bit her lip and met my gaze. “Are you sure… Are you sure you’re not just taking the easy way out here, Declan? I’m sorry, but… how long have you known this little guy was yours? A day? Less? He could grow on you…”
I should’ve been angry at her words, at the implication I didn’t want the responsibility falling asleep in her arms, but what I wanted was far outweighed by what was best for the boy. “There’s more at work here than I understand yet, Annie. Emily gave me only glimpses of… of the truth. Enough to make me believe he’s my kid, even though we haven’t… Broken quill, I sense some fucked-up time travel in my future, and that alone means he shouldn’t be with me.”
“Can’t you run away from all of that? Buy a farm out in the country? Hide?” Annie stood carefully, moved around the coffee table and sat down next to me, close enough that our knees brushed. She smelled of cinnamon and rainfall. A familiar scent. “If he’s yours, Declan, couldn’t you do that for him?”
I looked down at my son and felt a genuine desire to run—to run and hide from all the Knights, the Renegades, the Everlasting, the Voidlings, the shadows, demons, monsters, and the lions and tigers and bears. To embrace my own final exile.
Kid needs a mother, I thought, and my mind put Annie in that picture—the three of us hidden away together, living and loving a normal life far away from here. Canada, perhaps, or the Swiss Alps. Somewhere with mountains, little rivers, lush forests, and snow in the winter.
I could do anything—be anything.
I could be a blackberry farmer.
I could worry about phone bills and nipping out to the corner shop for milk and bread of a morning.
Little Declan Jr. could learn to walk and talk with his real father, alive and well, and I could teach him ho
w to wear a waistcoat with just the right amount of tragic charm, take him to school in a few years, maybe make him a little sister to look out for, someone to keep him on his toes. He could play a sport—tennis, maybe, or football. I’d attend parent-teacher meetings and have after-work drinks with the neighbors, talking about how well so-and-so is doing, and why yes, Declan Jr. is learning to play the piano. Top of his class, you know—he has his mother’s grace…
I could see all of that, as clear in my mind as sunlight on fresh snow, and so much more.
Just living day to day. One morning we could have picnics, my family and I, next to blue glacial lakes. One afternoon my son would be old enough to meet a girl, get in a fight, need to shave. One evening his sister will need help with her homework, and he’ll complain, but he’ll help.
And then one day the Elder Gods would descend from a blood-red sky in chariots lashed together from bone and flame and take away all my blackberries.
“Everything I’ve ever loved, Annie,” I said slowly, carefully, making sure she heard me and heard me well. “Or even started to love… has been taken from me. My fault, most of the time, I know. It’s the Hale family curse. Everything, Annie. My father, Clare, Tal, Emily, and so many friends in the Tome Wars.” And you, sweet thing… although you don’t know it. “So I am begging you now, please stand, pick up that bag, and take my son away from me before he’s cursed.”
I covered my face with my hands, shoulders slumped, and rested my elbows on my knees. I stayed that way, a coward, for the long half-minute Annie didn’t move. Then I heard her stand, heard her pick up the bag of supplies, heard her heels grow fainter on the dusty wooden floors, and then I heard the bell above my door chime and the latch click shut behind her.
After she was gone, I reached down over the arm of the couch and retrieved a brown paper bag. The weight of the bag was comfortable, familiar. I unscrewed the cap on something amber and aged and knocked back two fingers’ worth in the quiet and the dark.