Children of the Veil (Aisling Chronicles)

by Colleen Halverson

  “I don’t know,” I whispered.

  Next to my mother stood a dark figure with long black hair down to its feet, its face covered by dark, straggling strands. A series of sketched boxes floated around the figure, but they were only traced shapes, bereft of the detail of the other parts of the mural.

  “What are those?” I pointed to the boxes.

  Malachy shook his head. “She started that part before she disappeared.”

  I reached out and touched the faint traces of the cubes. I closed my eyes, feeling the texture of the brush strokes, the latent movements of her hand across the wall. The pain of her absence surged through me, and pressure built behind my eyelids. I felt her spirit in that space, but I couldn’t reach her, and my chest constricted with panic as my fingers pressed onto the vibrant colors of her mural. I opened my eyes and a hot tear escaped across my cheek. Wiping it away, I ducked beneath Finn’s strong arm and darted behind a pillar. I slumped to the ground, burying my head against my knees.

  “Ah, lass.” Finn crouched beside me and smoothed my hair away from my face. “There now.”

  I scrubbed my face with the back of my sleeve. “I’m sorry. It’s just a little too much right now. I—” I cut myself off, hating the sound of my squeaky voice. Grabbing the hem of my sleeves, I folded my arms around myself. “I feel so close to her. Like her ghost is here. Like she’s all around me.”

  Finn nodded and squeezed my hand. He slipped next to me and held me close. I curled up against his chest. After a few long minutes, Malachy’s footsteps echoed across the floor and out of the foyer.

  “Is this what immortality feels like,” I whispered. “Always surrounded by the past? Does it ever change? Do the ghosts ever fade?”

  Finn’s fingers traced the cable pattern on the sleeve of my sweater. “The ghosts live in our bones. They whisper to us. And when they do, they echo the ends of our own longings.”

  I snorted. “You’re such a poet.”

  He shrugged, his pectoral muscles rippling beneath my cheek. “I’m Irish.” He brushed a lock of hair behind my ear and spoke into it, sending shivers down my spine.

  He paused, the rhythm of our breathing rising and falling together. “What I mean to say is ghosts are a reflection of what we want, our deepest desires.”

  I clutched onto Finn’s shirt. “I want my mom back. I need her.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think my mother is dead? Do you think I’m…crazy?”

  Finn leaned back and spooned my jaw with his large hand, forcing me to look up at him.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” he said. “When Charlotte died, there were so many times I thought I felt her near, so many times I dreamed of her. I would wake up and swear that she had just been there. I could even smell her.” Finn released my cheek and pressed my body closer to him. “And then one day, I knew it was time to let go. Her spirit, it’s inside of me, imprinted on me and who I am, but…I am still alive. You are alive, and we are here. I will go to any lengths to help you find your mother, but know that regardless, we have no need for ghosts. Not as long as we are together.”

  I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him so tight I thought the pressure in my head would explode. My heart surged with love, and I longed to be alone with him again, to feel him within me, making me feel real, alive. Mindful of Eamonn and Malachy in the next room, I conceded to settling against him, the two of us staring off into the darkness, lost in our thoughts. Finn’s body felt warm in the cold damp of the train station, and I relaxed into him, my arms growing slack around his neck.

  Footsteps sounded across the marble floor, and the sound of Malachy clearing his throat snapped me to attention again.

  “I’m sorry to break up this tender scene,” the dearg-dubh said, “but we have work to do, my darlings.”

  I disentangled myself from Finn and brushed off my jeans. “What now?” I asked, twisting back my hair.

  “First of all, it’s important to look the part. Follow me.” He beckoned us to another room, where Eamonn already waited, leaning on a desk, his eyes wide.

  “What do you mean ‘look the part’?” Finn asked warily.

  Malachy smiled, rummaging through some old trunks. “The London Faerie mob has its own bizarre rituals. Since most of them came over after the Great Famine, well, you see…the styles haven’t changed very much since 1848.” Malachy opened up one trunk and clapped his hands, his eyes glittering.

  “Jackpot!” he exclaimed and started pulling out all sorts of clothes, dumping them unceremoniously onto the floor. He turned around and pushed a mess of frothy black lace and dark green silk into my arms.

  “What the hell is this?” I held up the boning of a corset that had been buried under the miles of petticoats.

  Malachy shrugged. “It was your mother’s.”

  He chucked a vest at Finn and it fell to the floor. Finn touched it with his boot as if it were a dead rat.

  He produced a long velvet jacket and a top hat for Eamonn, who grabbed a hold of it gingerly.

  “I’m not sure…” the Druid fingered the edge of the faded hat with a frown.

  I stepped toward Malachy. “Seriously. Why are we dressing up as extras in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol?”

  The dearg-dubh let out an exasperated sigh. “Did you not hear what I said? The Faerie mob is stuck in the year 1852, the height of its power. Why do you mortals wear caps and robes at your graduation? It’s tradition.” Malachy threw off his plain suit jacket with a blue velvet frockcoat. He pulled a long scarf from the pile of clothes and knotted it around his neck, completing the absurd ensemble with a black top hat and a cane that had a large sapphire on the end.

  “Now get dressed, you three!” He twirled his cane like Fred Astaire. “We’re going to a party!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The boning of the corset dug into my sides, chafing the skin beneath my armpits. “This thing is killing me,” I hissed. My voice echoed through the crumbling stone tunnel.

  Finn glanced over his shoulder. “I told you not to wear it.”

  “When in Rome.” I glared at him through the dim light of the London sewers. “You got off easy.”

  Finn had begrudgingly agreed to a pair of black boots, a vest, and some ascot scarf-looking thing tied tight around his neck. He had that hot Mr. Darcy thing going on, and I wanted nothing more than to throw him into a puddle just to reenact the infamous lake scene.

  Stifling a giggle, I tugged on the top of the corset, trying to adjust it away from my ribs without my boobs popping out. The long silky green skirt trailed dangerously close to the slimy floor. It split at the side, revealing a generous line of leg covered in a pair of stockings blossoming with black lace flowers. Far above on my thigh, the pistol Morven had given me fit snug to my skin. I hadn’t told Finn about the weapon, and a small niggling feeling in my gut pulled at me that perhaps I should. But Morven wanted me to have it, and knowing Finn, we would probably get into a big argument about who should be packing heat in Torc’s court. If he got a sword, it only seemed fair I should get the magic pistol. Besides, he still had my spear, and even though I knew we had little time for martial arts training, it bugged me that he kept it from me somehow, out there in the magical ether. I needed some magical ether. Damn him.

  I tugged at the ribbons lining the corset, trying to loosen it a bit. “I’m serious. How do people breathe in these things?”

  “You look great, darling!” Malachy called from up ahead. “We’re almost there, don’t worry. You’ll have some cherry wine and forget all about your collapsing lungs.”

  “Very reassuring.” I jumped across a stack of ancient bricks, tugging my skirts up past my knees. “Although I don’t think it’s wise to get drunk around the mob boss of Faerie London.”

  “Oh, Torc will insist on it. He’s a great host.”

  “Do you think we can trust him?” Finn said.

  “Of course not.” Malachy chuckled as if Finn had asked the mo
st ridiculous question in the world. “But he’s the only way to Anny Black. Torc controls everything magical that happens amongst the London Fae. He offers her protection in exchange for a cut.”

  “Protection from whom?” I asked.

  “From the bad guys, of course,” Malachy said.

  “You mean the Fianna,” Finn muttered.

  Malachy turned and his translucent eyes flashed. “There are worse things in this world and the next than the Fianna, Finn O’Connell.”

  “What worse things?” I said in a small voice. I pulled my cloak around me, shivering beneath it. I thought I’d seen the worst the magical world had to offer, but it seemed there was no end to the darkness it contained.

  Malachy smiled, his white canines gleaming.

  “Up the airy mountain

  Down the rushy glen,

  We dare n’t go a-hunting,

  For fear of little men;

  Wee folk, good folk,

  Trooping all together;

  Green jacket, red cap,

  And white owl’s feather.”

  His voice drifted across the tunnel, echoing through the shadows extending all around us in monstrous shapes.

  “Enough, Malachy,” Finn said.

  The dearg-dubh giggled, turning around and leaning toward the wall, peering at the stone through squinted eyes. “I think this is it.”

  I looked over Malachy’s shoulder, barely making out a round stone face set into the tunnel, a faded rune carved into it.

  “We used this passageway in the Roman days,” Malachy said, twisting the stone to the right. “Can you believe it?”

  I shook my head in wonder as a tiny door opened to reveal a crawlspace.

  “The original tunnel is blocked off just down there,” Malachy called over his shoulder as he crouched down. “But we should be able to reach topside from here. Then we’ll flag down a taxi.”

  I bent down to crawl after Malachy. “A taxi?” I asked when we emerged on the other side. The sounds of the city echoed up above from beneath a manhole cover. “You mean we won’t be using flying unicorns to get to Torc’s court?”

  “Not tonight,” Malachy said wistfully.

  Eamonn and Finn met us, and Malachy pointed to the ceiling. “Time to climb.”

  We reached the surface, crawling up into an alleyway littered with garbage cans and slumbering homeless people wrapped in layers of tattered blankets. They paid us no mind as we took to the street, following Malachy’s pace as he raced to an old phone booth.

  “Does that thing even work?” I asked with one eyebrow raised.

  Malachy pulled two gold coins from his pocket and smiled. “Only if you know how to use it.”

  He squeezed into the booth and grabbed the receiver, slipping his coins inside the phone with a sharp clink. The line crackled as if the wires had been crossed, and then a thin, gruff voice growled something in a language I didn’t understand.

  “Yes, we need a pick up,” Malachy said slowly into the receiver.

  The voice on the other end garbled something.

  “We’re heading to the baths. Cheers.” Malachy hung up the phone and turned to us. “It should just be a minute.”

  It was actually more like fifteen seconds. A small car zoomed up to us, breaking through the eerie silence of the derelict street. The sides of the taxi consisted of tarnished brass, and a gas lamp swayed at the top, shining like a beacon. Malachy opened the door, and we piled inside the backseat of the car, settling grimly on the red velvet upholstery, worn and stained in places.

  I gracelessly gathered the yards of gauzy petticoats in my arm, and Finn pulled me onto his lap to make room for Eamonn and Malachy. His hand slid down the smooth boning of my corset, slipping across the black ribbons, sending a sudden shot of desire up through my core. Okay, yeah, that was hot. Cutting off air supply might be worth it. Maybe. He rested his hand on my waist as the car sped off.

  Malachy leaned up to the driver and grunted something in the same strange, gruff language I had heard earlier. The driver replied curtly, and I gasped as I caught a glimpse of the diminutive creature steering the taxi. I remembered seeing creatures like this in Bres’s army, their eyes black and beady, with long pointed noises, great hollowed out ears, and papery skin.

  “What is that?” I whispered to Malachy.

  “Goblin. They control the Faerie taxis in London.” Malachy shrugged and lowered his voice. “Union.”

  “So where is Torc holding court?” Eamonn asked, adjusting himself between Finn and Malachy.

  “The Ames Street Baths.” Malachy glanced out the window as London rushed by us. “It was built in the 1870s at the height of the Victorian hygiene obsession. It’s been closed for over a hundred years, and…well…certainly isn’t the center of cleanliness it once was.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” Malachy said simply.

  We sped off through the night, the cab whirring and sputtering, its gears clanking away as we emerged into a much older part of London. The houses grew increasingly more rundown and boarded up, until we reached a Gothic wasteland completely abandoned by all civilization. The cab screeched to a halt, and the goblin held out his long fingers trimmed with some fierce-looking talons and garbled out something in a harsh command.

  Malachy dropped a few coins into the goblin’s gnarled hand. “Keep the change, mate,” he said, jumping out of the taxi, his sapphire-topped cane hitting the pavement with a sharp snap. Eamonn stumbled out, tripping on the curb, his top hat tumbling across the sidewalk. In a rustle of silks, I climbed out of the taxi, with Finn right behind me. Behind a chain link fence, a large stone building stood dark and imposing, with gargoyles and Roman arches adorning its facade. No light came through the windows, and the place appeared completely deserted.

  “Come along, my darlings.” Malachy pulled aside a limp metal fence, tearing through weeds and debris as he tramped across the broken concrete surrounding the baths. He gestured us to follow him through the narrow hole and then led us around the building to a large metal drainage tunnel.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Who goes there?” a low, growling voice called out from deep within the tunnel. I jumped, my hands tingling with power. Finn tensed beside me, his hand moving instinctively where his sword would have been, but it was safely tucked away in the magical Druid storage locker.

  “Hello, Balar.” Malachy plastered a dazzling smile on his face. “Long time no see.”

  Out of the shadows, a giant emerged, a Cyclops, his single brown eye darting back and forth, taking stock of us. I took a step back and swallowed a gasp, the powerful force of his gaze arresting me where I stood.

  “Malachy Moray?” Balar sniffed. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Well,” Malachy replied, “by mortal standards, I am technically dead.”

  Balar rose to his full height, all eight or nine feet, corded muscles bulging in his arms. Finn and I shared an uneasy glance. If this was the kind of security Torc kept around, we had to watch ourselves.

  “I don’t know what rock you crawled out from under,” Balar growled, “but you have a lot of nerve showing up here. You begged Torc to join your little army and then that bitch Niamh betrayed us to her little human boyfriend.” He spat, mucus landing in a steaming puddle right at Malachy’s feet.

  The dearg-dubh didn’t flinch.

  Balar leaned down, his giant eye nearly the size of Malachy’s head. He studied him, his pupils dilating with smoldering rage. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now and save Torc the trouble.”

  I shifted my feet and whispered in Finn’s ear, “This isn’t going well.” I didn’t know what Malachy had planned, but I certainly hoped it didn’t involve fighting our way through a giant Cyclops. That would have been a big fat nope.

  “Oh, Balar. You’re not going to kill me.” Malachy punched the Cyclops in the arm. Balar growled and flashed a set of yellowing incisors that could hav
e ripped the dearg-dubh to pieces.

  Balar sneered, edging closer. “You sure about that, bloodsucker?”

  “I have something Torc wants.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Hope.”

  Balar twisted his head to the side as if he hadn’t heard Malachy correctly. “Hope?”

  “In the form of this woman here.” Malachy gestured in my direction.

  I looked around, wondering who he was talking about, and then realized it was me. “Wait, what?”

  Balar lunged toward me and Finn moved between us with a low growl in his throat. The Cyclops paused, but his eye remained pinned on me.

  “Who’s this?” he said.

  Malachy sidled up behind me and grabbed my shoulders, giving me a little excited shake. “This is Princess Elizabeth, the aisling, the Liberator of the Seven Woods, the One to Unite the Tribes.”

  I raised my palms in the air. “Look, I’m not—”

  Malachy dug his fingers into my arm and hissed in my ear. “Just go with it!”

  I brightened, throwing my hair over my shoulder. “Yep, that’s me. The one. The girl who lived. Uniting the people. I mean, Faeries.”

  Balar made a low sound in the back of his throat and shifted his gaze toward Eamonn and Finn.

  “And who are these two?” he growled.

  “Her bodyguards, of course,” Malachy said. “Anyway, the revolution won’t be televised, son, and we’re running out of time. We’ve come to negotiate with Torc.”

  “Torc don’t negotiate with no one.” Balar frowned, and his eye rolled over to me for a moment before returning to Malachy. “But he might listen to what you have to say.” He shuffled away, muttering over his shoulder. “There’s no weapons allowed in the baths, so leave them here if you got ’em.”

  My spine stiffened, and my hand itched toward the pistol on my thigh. At the last moment, I thought better of it. No way would I walk into that “negotiation” without a weapon, not with the Fir Bolgs tracking me at every turn. I was the Faerie Princess of Tír na nÓg, and I refused to walk into some unknown place without protection, Torc’s rules be damned.