by Anthea Sharp
But he did, and things started to make all kinds of sense.
Thomas watched him with a weary gaze as Aran paced the leaf-green rug. Thomas—who was Thomas Rimer, the former lead developer for Feyland. Until he died.
“Am I dead?” Aran asked. “Is this some crazy version of the afterlife?”
“No. You are a living, breathing creature, here within the realm.”
“Are you?”
“My physical body is gone,” Thomas said. “My life essence, or spirit as some might call it, is here, bound to the service of the Dark Queen.”
Aran’s throat went dry. “Did she kill you? Like some kind of vampire thing?”
“I made the choice freely,” Thomas said. “Just as you made the choice to enter the Dark Realm.”
“Yeah, well maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.” Aran rubbed his arms, warding off the sudden chill.
“Too late. You must accept the consequences of your choices.”
“I’m sick of having to deal with the consequences when I’m misled about what I’m stepping into.” Bitterness rose in the back of his throat.
He’d been naïve, and way too trusting of his older brother, when Setch had asked him to hand-deliver a package. Sure, he knew his brother was up to his neck in something shady, but he hadn’t thought it would affect him.
Until he landed in jail, confused and too innocent, and conveniently underage enough to avoid the biggest penalties for transporting narcotics.
Seemed like the Realm of Faerie was similar to juvie, in terms of having its own, dangerous rules that he had to figure out—and fast.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Creatures who do not belong in your world appear through a glowing sphere, asking you to come with them. What, pray tell, is misleading about the fact that you ended up in a magical otherworld?”
“Fine.” Aran crossed his arms. Maybe this one was a little more his fault. “So how do I start hacking—”
“Hold.” Thomas rose smoothly to his feet and turned to face the door flap. “Someone approaches.”
Aran stepped back, glancing around for something he could use as a weapon. He saw nothing useful, just a lot of musical instruments. If things got bad, he supposed he could smash a guitar over his attacker’s head.
The door twitched open and a small figure bounded into the room. His hair was a wild tangle festooned with feathers and he wore a costume of leaves and tatters. Bright, merry eyes shone in a sharp-featured face.
“Greetings!” he cried. “I see you have collected another mortal, Bard Thomas.”
“Well met, Puck,” Thomas said, his voice warm. He gestured to Aran. “This is my guest, BlackWing.”
“Is he?” Puck asked.
He leaped into the air and kept going, as though ascending a solid, invisible staircase. He halted inches from Aran’s nose and, hands on his hips, scrutinized Aran.
“Hey,” Aran said, standing his ground. “You’re in my space, little guy.”
“Little I may be, but I am no guy. I am a sprite. And you, mortal, are in our space far more fully at present than we may venture into yours.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Aran thought he knew what Puck was saying, despite his weird, roundabout faerie-speak. “And your goblin pals didn’t seem to have a problem traipsing into my world.”
Thomas winced. “There was more sacrifice involved in opening that portal than you might guess.”
“Aye.” Puck reached one long-fingered hand and grabbed a handful of Aran’s hair, then gave it a quick, painful tug.
“Ow!”
Aran swiped at the creature, but Puck, grinning widely, had already somersaulted back down his invisible staircase.
“I know not why she should risk so much, for your sake,” the sprite said.
“Who? The queen?”
Puck gave an impatient snort, then turned to Thomas. “One of the Feyguard comes. Summoned, no doubt, for this mortal.”
“Aid her as you may.” Thomas shot Aran an unreadable look. “I’ve no doubt she will be successful in her task.”
“I shall assist, be assured of it.” Puck cocked his head. “I do not think I can bring her to the queen’s doorstep undetected. Meet us in the hour before midnight, in the borderlands nearest the realm.”
“What are you guys even talking about?” Aran asked. “And what does it have to do with me?”
“Everything,” Puck said. “And now, I must away.”
He waved his hand and glittering dust swirled around him. When the air cleared, the sprite was gone.
“Where’d he go?” Aran asked, facing Thomas. “And what’s going on?”
Thomas walked past him to the table, where the ever present teapot was always hot and the plate of cakes never emptied.
“You will know, soon enough,” the bard said. “Tea?”
Aran was tired of conversations that didn’t go anywhere, of secrets and half truths. And he still couldn’t entirely accept that he was hanging out in a magical land with a dead programmer.
“What happened to the other human?” he asked. “The kid who was here.”
“Ah.” Thomas set down the teapot, his cup only half full. “He has returned home.”
Relief rippled through Aran. “So, he’s not dead? Glad to hear the faeries don’t go in for human sacrifice.”
“Oh, they do.” Thomas’s tone was grim.
Aran swallowed, hard. He’d had enough answers for now.
“Right. I’m going to bed.”
“Rest well, BlackWing.”
As if he could. Aran pushed open the curtain to his room, glad for some privacy. He sat on the bed and picked up the plastic dragon figurine from the table, where he’d left it beside his tablet.
He turned the knobby plastic between his fingers, then ran his thumb over the seam along the figurine’s back. It felt good to have that connection to the mortal world. A plastic dragon and his tablet. Sad, really.
Knowing it wouldn’t work, he reached over and pressed the tablet’s power button. Nothing. With a sigh, Aran put the dragon back on the table. It teetered for a moment, then fell over onto the blank screen.
Light flickered across the tablet face, and Aran blinked. He picked the dragon up, and the tablet went dark again. Slowly, he set the plastic figure on the screen and the surface immediately brightened. The tablet powered on—but only when the plastic dragon touched it.
Freaky. But then, this whole place was beyond strange.
Aran pinned the dragon against the screen with his thumb and moved the tablet onto his lap. Could he actually connect back to the real world?
He opened his messager to find a blinking note from Bix.
:That was a lame-ass goodbye. You better send postcards. And message me now and then. Gotta live vicariously through your adventures.:
For a stabbing second, Aran regretted his decision to go with the goblins. He wished he really could send Bix a postcard from some nice, normal tourist destination.
There were no postcard racks in the Dark Court. If, in some freaky alternate universe, there were, he could just imagine what they’d look like. A close-up of the trapped fairies screaming, their tiny hands pressed against the lantern glass. The eerie figure of the horned hunter silhouetted against the unearthly stars. A candid shot of the Dark Queen reclining on her throne, with “wish you were here” emblazoned across the front.
So wrong, though amusing in a sick way. Even though postcards were out, maybe he could send a message.
:Sorry to leave so abruptly. Having quite the time, here. Catch you later.:
He had no idea if the message would get through, but he liked to imagine it would.
The net connection worked, too. Aran scrolled through the entertainment news until he got to a piece about Spark’s tour. Actually, it covered the whole FullD launch, but he skimmed the boring stuff.
There was a picture of Spark, unhappily sandwiched between those other two gamers, the Terabins. Some kind of rivalry going on there.
She hadn’t looked very happy when she left the lunch panel stage at SimCon—though seeing him seemed to brighten her up.
As if. Spark Jaxley hadn’t given him another moment’s thought after she’d left. He’d been a diversion to her. One that hadn’t ended up being all that pleasant, once her goons got hold of his records. Their connection was over before it had even begun.
Aran tapped his fingers over the screen. Enough with the past; he had to sort out the future. How to open the gate, escape the queen, and leave the realm with a nice profit in his pocket.
What if opening the gate isn’t such a good idea? Worry pinged the back of his brain, and he stuffed it back down. Thomas hadn’t gotten too tweaked over the idea, so it couldn’t be that bad—especially if the Realm of Faerie would die without that connection. Sure, the place was creepy, but it was magic, too. It didn’t deserve to be destroyed.
And after all, didn’t the human world need a little more enchantment?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Spark strode through the dim forest, the scent of cedar and loam filling her nose. In the half light every branch resembled a reaching arm, every bush a crouching creature ready to spring.
Unlike the first game level, this one didn’t open out into a meadow. Instead, she glimpsed a small clearing ahead. As she got closer, a dilapidated hut at the edge of the trees came into view; just the type of place one would find a wicked crone lying in wait to eat passing children.
The windows were dark, and cobwebs hung from the corners of the eaves, but a thin line of smoke trailed from the crooked chimney. Somebody was home.
“Hello?” Spark called, stepping into the clearing. “Anybody there?”
A night bird screeched nearby, making her jump, but there was no other reply. Still, she hadn’t just stumbled onto this place by accident. Feyland had its own weird logic, and she’d do best to follow it.
Holding her breath, as if that would make her presence quieter, she stepped onto the sagging porch. The boards creaked loudly under her feet.
The weathered door had a metal knocker in the center, depicting the head of a woman with long flowing hair. The brass was cold under her fingers as Spark lifted the knocker, then let it fall with a thud that echoed through the hut.
Should she knock again? She started to lower her hand, and the knocker’s hair came to life, slithering around her wrist and binding her fast.
“Hey! Let go,” Spark cried as her hand was pulled back toward the woman’s face.
The metal eyes opened, blank and pupil-less, and the knocker smiled. Its teeth looked very sharp.
“There is a price for admittance,” it said, in a high, whispery voice.
Spark tugged at her hand, but the strands of metal held tight. Great. She was the captive of a freaky door knocker.
“What kind of price?” she asked.
A sharp pain shot through her palm. With a yelp, Spark ripped her hand free. Blood trickled from a wound at the base of her thumb.
“You bit me.” She couldn’t quite believe it, despite the evidence. Despite the things Tam and Jennet had told her about how Feyland worked.
“Consider your admission paid.” The knocker closed its eyes, its hair coming to rest again in still metal curves.
Slowly, quietly, the door swung open.
The hut was much bigger inside than it appeared. A vast marble hallway stretched away from the door, lined with columns and the glow of ornate lamp sconces. In a niche at the far end of the hall something shone silver—something round, with a stem at the top.
A silver apple.
There was a theme here. Get the apple, gain the next level of Feyland. Somehow, Spark didn’t think it would be as easy as sauntering down the hall and grabbing the fruit.
She set one booted foot on the marble floor, then quickly drew it back. Sure enough, she’d activated the first defense system. Sharp blades flashed up from the floor, rising and falling in an unsynchronized rhythm. Each sword was three feet long, and wickedly honed. The air filled with the sound of steel snicking against steel.
Spark watched and counted, but couldn’t see an obvious pattern. If she stepped out there without a plan, she’d be sliced like lunchmeat. The only upside was that the floor of blades ended halfway down the hall. No doubt other traps awaited. She’d deal with those when she got to them.
Okay, how did she solve this predicament? Trying to ignore the metallic clashing, she looked through her inventory. Bow and arrows, boot dagger, cloak. Not helpful. Copper apple. Maybe?
She selected it from her inventory, and the apple appeared in her hand. Holding it up, she inspected it closely; something she hadn’t had a chance to do while evading the crows and briars earlier.
A seam ran horizontally around the apple, as if it could split in half. What did it hold, and how could she get it open? She tried sticking her thumbnail in the hairline crack, and then the blade of her dagger, but the fruit remained stubbornly closed.
Maybe it was like a genie in a bottle. Which meant she had three wishes, right? Spark glanced at the flashing swords. It wouldn’t be enough just to wish them gone, since something even worse would appear in their place. Magical games were tricky that way.
No, she had to think of a solution for crossing over that expanse of slicing swords. Over…
Spark rubbed the rounded top of the apple with her thumb.
“A DeFacto 442-Z grav board, please,” she said.
The apple trembled in her hand and—just as she’d guessed—split neatly in half. Glittering dust swirled out, accompanied by a flash of light. The apple snapped closed again before she could glimpse its inner workings.
Spark blinked, half blinded by the brightness. When her vision cleared she let out a small whoop of triumph.
There, on the weathered boards of the porch, sat the world’s most high-end grav board. The shiny plas-metal and neon lettering looked glaringly out of place against the simple hut and wooded clearing. Out of place—and incredibly welcome.
“Thanks,” she said, giving the apple a kiss before tucking it back into her inventory.
Now for the tricky part. She grabbed the board and strode back into the clearing, giving herself a good fifteen feet of lead-in to the doorway.
She hoped the board worked, here in the magic-laden world of Feyland.
Scratch that—belief was a powerful force. She knew the board would work. Refusing doubt, she flicked the grav switch. With a hum, the board rose six inches into the air.
Oh, yeah. She was about to take the ride of her life. Good thing she’d played a ton of games that utilized grav board mechanics, as well as her real-world boarding experience. Surfing over and through a sea of swords was just another skill challenge.
Pushing away the knowledge that failure could be deadly, Spark hopped onto the board. She took a second to find her balance, then leaned forward, pointing the board at the illuminated doorway of the hut. The board kicked up speed—damn, it was even more powerful in-game than the actual model she owned—and the clearing blurred around her.
Speed, height, and maneuverability were the factors she had to juggle. She managed to cross over the first couple blades with inches to spare, but the next sword rose higher than she’d expected. She wasn’t going to make it.
Breath catching in her throat, she dropped into a crouch and heard the sing of metal as the blade swung just over her head. A strand of magenta hair fluttered down, quickly turned to pink dust by the razor-sharp swords. Spark gulped back her fear, trying not to imagine what would happen if she fell.
She banked hard to the right, aiming for an empty spot by one of the columns, and misjudged. The whole board shuddered as a blade hit it with a bone-jarring clang.
“Come on,” she said, under her breath. “Halfway there. You can do it.”
She didn’t know if she was talking to the grav-board or to herself.
The blades began to move faster, carving through the air in a series of deadly arcs. She only had a moment to catch her
breath beside the column. Every sense alert, she pointed the board back into the center of that lethal flurry.
Dodge. Lean. Crest and plummet. One blade left a neat slice in her sleeve, just missing her skin. She tasted blood, but it was because she was biting the inside of her cheek in concentration. Instinct guided her, and a knowledge of attack patterns gleaned over playing thousands of games. Pause. Now race forward.
A sword loomed before her. No time to avoid it. Spark shifted back on the board, wincing as the blade cut down hard into the plas-metal deck. The lifters shrieked a protest as the board dipped unsteadily.
She kicked the sword away, then, sensing motion in her peripheral vision, flung herself flat on the board’s rough surface. Two blades cut the air overhead, meeting with a crash that made the whole room vibrate. In the second of quiet that followed, Spark nudged the board over the last set of blades. It settled safely on the marble floor with a quiet whine and the smell of scorched electronics.
Slowly, she climbed to her feet. Her legs trembled and cold sweat dampened her face. That had been the most harrowing ride ever.
“Thanks,” she said, picking up the grav board.
She couldn’t tell if it was damaged beyond repair, but, regardless, she wasn’t going to leave it behind. There was plenty of room in her inventory. Giving the blade-nicked edge a last pat, she stowed the board away.
The swords still rose and fell between her and the doorway, though with much less vigor than before. That danger was behind her.
Now she only had to face whatever was ahead.
Spark scanned the marble hall. The silver apple shone temptingly from its niche, but she knew better than to just dash forward and try to grab it. Instead, she pulled her bow from her back and extended it in front of her.
With a whoosh, a thick plate of glass slid across the hall, nearly severing the tip of her bow. She yanked it back, then, when nothing else happened, used the end to tap on the glass. The weapon didn’t burst into flames or start dissolving, so she stepped up and touched her fingers to the glass.
It was cool and smooth, and her fingertips left smudges on the surface. Spark strode the length of the wall and felt along the seam where the glass met marble. No gap. The other side was the same.