by CJ Brightley
“Let him see. If they’re to help us, they should know, Niall.” Owen spoke in English, and he looked down to meet Bartok’s eyes. “We are not your enemy. Remember that, though we’re different.”
Bartok nodded, looking a little confused. “Agreed.”
Niall reluctantly sat back on his heels. Bartok pulled the bloody fabric away from the wound and examined the injury without touching it. “I need to wash my hands. This isn’t sanitary.”
“There’s no need,” Owen said.
Bartok glanced up at him. “You’ll need stitches. It’s pretty deep. You shouldn’t have been walking on it. What happened?”
“I was slow.”
“Evrial, would you get the first aid kit? And water?”
“There’s no need,” Owen repeated. “Just look at it.”
“I have.”
Niall motioned to Owen hopefully, and Owen studied him for a long moment and then nodded. Niall closed his eyes, one hand on Owen’s knee.
Spring in the forest. Fresh, pale leaves rustled silently in the breeze, dropping their dew. The smell of loam rose, rich and dark. Niall sprinted through the leaves, soundless and light as a deer, laughing. There was music in the leaves, in the sunlight dancing through the waving branches. Silent music.
“That’s enough, Niall.”
Bartok sucked in his breath, then leaned forward to pull the fabric aside and peer at the unmarked skin from inches away.
Niall leaned his head against Owen’s knee. Owen murmured something to him, and he smiled.
Eli brought a paper bag.
Owen studied Bartok and Evrial in turn, and finally said, “You don’t have to watch. But I’m hungry, and it’s been a long day already.”
Bartok stared at him. “Did you do that, or did he?”
“Niall did.” Owen reached out to tousle the boy’s hair affectionately.
He stared at Owen’s leg. “Impossible.”
“Improbable. Not impossible.”
“But you could have done that too? You’re the same kind as he is?” Bartok glanced between them.
“Yes.”
“And you limped all the way back here on it because… why?”
“You and the others needed to see.”
Niall wrote Did you discover something? You seem pleased.
“Yes. I tested the sensors as I ran. I found another facility. It was concealed, and I was unaware of it before. It appeared to have only mundane sensors, perhaps for fear that we can sense the other ones.” Owen spread the plastic and cut the pig’s heart with quick, efficient strokes. Bartok and Evrial looked on with ill-concealed disgust, but Gabriel had his eyes fixed on Owen’s face.
Owen continued, “If we could strike at both within hours, they may not be able to upgrade the sensors in time. I assume the concealment means there is something there they don’t want us to find. Perhaps,” he hesitated on the phrase, “test subjects. Perhaps something else entirely.”
Gabriel stared at him. “That’s risky.”
With blood on his lips and blue eyes blazing, Owen’s smile looked feral. “Yes. It is. Are you afraid, Gabriel?”
Gabriel rubbed his jaw and sat back. He stared at the ceiling and tapped his hands together, and finally said, “You want more men?”
“Twenty-five. Total.”
“Why so many?”
“The test subjects will require assistance to flee.” Owen’s gaze did not leave Gabriel’s face.
After a long moment, Gabriel nodded. “Agreed.”
Owen smiled again, eyes bright and hard.
Chapter Eight
Everyone studied the map as Owen drew on it with a stubby grease pencil to outline his plan. It was an old tourism map, thoroughly creased and worn, with tiny holes at the corners of the folds. Gabriel had covered it in clear packing tape to protect it since maps were hard to come by.
“We’ll do this facility on H Street at 10:00 PM. I’ll go in first and see what I find. I’ll call for Jonah’s squad if necessary. Evrial and Geoffrey’s squads, Gabriel, Aria, and Niall will provide cover fire from here, here, and here. Dominic and Benjamin’s squads should be resting for the mission at Eastborn. I believe, though I cannot be sure, that there are no test subjects held captive here. Other facilities that hold test subjects have non-standard security measures. As far as I know, this facility has only mundane sensors that I can bypass or disable. We will regroup here afterwards and immediately depart for Eastborn.
“The mission at Eastborn will likely be more challenging. It is an extraction effort, not an attempt to destroy the facility. We don’t want to kill anyone if we can help it. Most of them are probably brainwashed. But don’t let mercy get you in trouble. Niall and Dominic’s squad will provide cover fire from here and here. I will enter first, over the wall here. I will radio back the best way in. Jonah, Benjamin, and Evrial will follow with their squads two minutes later. Geoffrey’s squad will be split. Two will create some type of diversion here, and the other three will provide cover fire for the rear wall in case the front gate is too heavily guarded. The plan is to go out the front gate, but Geoffrey’s squad will have ropes ready in case we need to go over the back wall. Dominic’s squad and Niall will move as needed to provide cover as we escape.
“There are sensors here.” He marked multiple places on the map, all around the perimeter and several within the complex itself. “They are all mundane. Most of them scan only for trackers, and if you don’t have a tracker, you can pass without notice. Some of them are motion sensors. These scan for bodies and will alarm at non-standard body temperature. I can raise my temperature, but not indefinitely, and not without compromising my ability to free the captives. I can also scramble the sensor output, but again, it would compromise my strength too much. I think it best to rely on speed instead.”
Niall waved to get Owen’s attention and gestured towards himself. Owen shook his head, but Niall slapped the table and glared at him.
“No, Niall.”
Niall wrote furiously in the notebook and turned it toward Owen. Owen straightened and stared at Niall, who glared back at him for a long moment before conceding with a scowl as he dropped his gaze. The humans stared at the map, uncomfortably aware of an argument unfolding that they didn’t understand.
Owen spoke again after a moment, his voice even. “The captives are our first priority. They must be freed. Niall will save his strength to ensure that everyone makes it out.”
Niall frowned stiffly at the map.
Owen pointed again. “I believe the cells are approximately here, underground. Only the cellblocks have ‘magic’ sensors and barriers. If we don’t find someone with keys on our way in, it may take some time for me to gain entrance. I will need cover in order to focus.”
“Could you open the barriers before you go in?” Evrial asked.
“Perhaps. But that will set off alarms as well, and the captives will need our protection as they escape.”
Gabriel stared across the table. “What exactly are your capabilities, Owen?”
“In what regard?”
“In general. You can disable the alarms from a distance? Could you cause the distraction yourself? Cause an explosion from a distance? Heal? Change memories?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you need us?”
“We can do many things, but there are costs. Consequences. Most often they are physical. Given time, I could do a great many things that would surprise you. But I won’t have time to rest in the middle of the mission. If I had thirty Fae and sufficient time, we could do almost all of the mission ourselves without leaving this hotel. But I don’t.” His voice was low and hard.
There was silence until Gabriel nodded.
Aria asked quietly, “What will I be doing?”
“You will stay behind.”
She frowned at him. “I think I could be useful. Apparently I’m a decent shot. And I want to help.”
Evrial nodded. “She is good, especially given her inexper
ience. I’m not sure I’d recommend including her, though. If it goes badly, we don’t want a rookie panicking.”
Aria glared at her as Evrial continued, “I mean no insult, but every squad works together as a team. Inserting someone new into a team right before a mission doesn’t typically go well.”
Gabriel and the others nodded. Owen studied Aria without expression for long enough that the silence drew out uncomfortably. Aria wanted to fidget, but forced herself to meet Owen’s cool blue eyes. Finally, he gave a slight nod. “Agreed. You come. You will stay with Niall and provide cover for the front gate.”
“When is the mission?”
“Four days. The first one at 10:00 PM, and the second around 1:00 AM, depending on security.”
That night, she found herself in the little room with nothing to do before dinner. She’d finished the book Gabriel had loaned her and felt fidgety and nervous. Owen lay on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His face looked as serene as if he were asleep, though his eyes were open.
“Will you tell me about your people?”
“What about us?” He turned to look at her. His blue eyes on hers made it hard to think straight. Did he know that?
“The Seelie Court and Unseelie Court, for example. I remember the words but I don’t remember the legend.”
Owen sat up to lean against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, and gave her a quirky little half-smile. “Those have more to do with human legends than with us. I believe they’re a corruption of something a Fae once told a human.”
“What is the truth, then?”
“Seelie comes from an Irish word meaning good, and it referred to fairies who meant no harm to humans. Friendly fairies, more or less. The others were dark fairies, malevolent toward humans. In reality, neither type has ever existed as any sort of formal court, or even organized factions. Most of us believe humans and Fae can live in peace.” He smiled a little, eyes distant. “Or we used to. As long as we kept to ourselves, the affairs of men had little effect on us. For generations, humans forgot we even existed. That was acceptable. But the technological changes in the last twenty years and the Empire’s interest in us have made isolation no longer a viable option.”
“What about changelings?”
“What about them?”
“Do they exist? Did you ever play pranks like that? Steal human children? Pay a blood tithe to the underworld? Drink blood like a vampire? There are so many legends! Are any of them true?”
Owen raised his eyebrows, and she read amusement in his sidelong glance. “Pranks have been played, yes. I am unaware of any stolen children.” His eyes hardened for an instant, and he clarified quietly, “Any stolen human children, I mean.”
He extended his hand to her, and she looked at it for several seconds before realizing he wanted her to give him the book. He held it a moment then tossed it in the air.
The book became a tiny brown sparrow that fluttered in a spiral, chirping madly, then perched precariously on the vertical edge of the cardboard box next to her ear. Its minuscule claws made scratching sounds as they dug into the cardboard, and it hopped closer. Aria didn’t move, barely breathed, as the little bird poked its beak into her hair, hopped onto her shoulder, then her knee, where it turned to face her. It cocked its head to one side, then the other, examining her face with disconcerting intensity.
Aria glanced at Owen, who was watching her with an odd look in his eyes. Her eyes went back to the bird. She couldn’t help smiling, and she reached one tentative finger out toward it. It hopped away, but only a few inches, and looked from her face to her finger and back again. She could feel the tiny movements of its feet through her pants. She smiled a little more when the bird let her touch its back with her finger, just brushing the dusty brown feathers.
It flew to Owen and alighted on his finger. He blew at it, and suddenly he was holding her book, which he extended back to her.
She blinked at him incredulously. “Was the bird real, or an illusion?”
“It was real.”
“Where did the book go?”
“It was in the bird.” He smiled enigmatically.
“Then where did the bird go?”
“It’s there. In the book.” He smiled a little more, and she suspected his smile was more at her look of consternation than at his own magic.
“I gather that wasn’t as taxing as healing?”
“No.”
“Blood tithe?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Fool’s talk. What underworld do they mean? Hell? Tartaros? Mag Mell? What would the denizens want with a blood tithe, and what use is blood if it doesn’t come from those being taxed?”
“Is it strange to live so long?”
He blinked at her slowly, as if he found the question puzzling. “Strange to whom?”
She suddenly felt childish, but came up with another question. “Can you heal humans or only Fae?”
“Humans can be healed, but it is much more tiring. Your bodies flirt so closely with death, it is difficult to keep it at bay long enough to heal you.”
“Why did you want to wait four more days for the mission? I thought you’d be in a hurry.”
“I will need all my strength. I’m still tired.”
She studied his face in the lamplight. “Does it bother you to wait?”
He drew his swords out of their scabbards and laid them on the floor, then pulled a small, flat stone from his rucksack and began to sharpen the larger sword with long, deliberate strokes. It made a soft, rasping sound that somehow seemed primeval, at odds with the electric lantern.
He was silent for so long that she thought he might not answer, and when he did, his voice was soft. “Yes. But if I act before I am capable, it will gain them nothing, and may cost them much.”
She licked her lips and wished she knew how to be comforting. She’d never been good at it, and she didn’t know Owen well enough to offer reassurance. He continued sharpening the sword, his movements precise and methodical.
Aria offered another question, one she hoped would distract him from unpleasant thoughts. “What makes Fae blades so special?”
He nodded toward the shorter sword. “See if you can feel the difference.”
She wrapped her hand around the hilt and lifted carefully. It was heavier than she’d expected, but then she’d never held any other sword for comparison. The metal caught the light, and she ran her finger along one smooth side, avoiding the razor sharp edge. The hilt was forged metal, subtly textured by regular hammer strokes in a repeating pattern. She imagined that it might become slippery with sweat, but Fae didn’t seem to sweat as humans did. The guard was a practical crossbar, though it appeared etched or engraved with an ornate pattern on each side. She leaned down to study it; it might have been writing of some Fae dialect, or possibly only a complicated series of swirls and knots and spirals.
“I don’t know anything about swords,” she said finally. “But it’s beautiful.”
He glanced up at her as if surprised. “You think so?”
She nodded. “Is this writing? What does it say?”
He smiled slightly, looking back down at the blade in his hands. “It is an inscription of protection and honor. My great grandfather made it as a child. The blade is quite good, but he had not come into his own as a craftsman when he made it. My father was surprised when I chose it above the others he offered.”
Aria sighed and sat back. What would it be like to have history like that? Even now, with her memories back, she didn’t feel that sense of belonging. Her mother was a mass of disjointed memories, words, feelings. Baking cookies. An argument. The soft feel of her arms embracing Aria after a skinned knee. Her father, the memories more distant somehow. His laughter. His kindness.
Owen seemed grounded in a way she could only envy.
“You threatened to tell Petro that Dandra didn’t get the maps for you. Who is Petro?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t
want to know the answer to.”
“I do want to know.”
She stared at him, and he sighed again. “I am not permitted to lie. But you might prefer if I did. Retract your question.”
“No.” She held his eyes.
His jaw tightened. “Petro is dangerous. I have approached him for information when desperate, but it is a last resort. He does not like to be wrong. When I asked him, he told me that Dandra could get the maps. I doubt Petro lied; that means she didn’t tell me the truth. I didn’t tell him about her failure.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I was angry, but I am not that cruel. A human should not face Petro’s wrath.”
“Is he human?”
“No.”
“Fae?”
“No.”
“Then what is he?”
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You’ve told me that before.” She smiled at him, hoping for a smile in return, but he merely stared at her as if puzzled.
“Some things shouldn’t be questioned. Some answers should not be known.”
The days before the mission went slowly for Aria. Her stomach constantly churned with nerves. She practiced shooting under Bartok and Evrial’s instruction, but then stopped because Evrial said they needed to conserve ammunition. She didn’t know how she felt about shooting someone. Causing death. Bartok and Evrial were grim too, and she wondered whether they were as tense as she was.
Owen fought another vertril the morning of their mission, leading it on a long chase before he killed it. He slipped back into the hotel by the tunnel entrance, and Aria felt her shoulders relax when he said none of the blood that streaked his clothes was his.
They ate lunch in their room, and she asked him, “Why did the vertril injure you the first day, but sometimes you seem to have no problem with them?”
“It caught me in the hallway, pinned me against the wall. It’s much better to fight in an open space, where I can move and dodge. I was distracted and didn’t get into the open in time.”
She swallowed, trying not to imagine how terrifying it must have been. “Why were you distracted?”