13 Curses

by Michelle Harrison

  “You, girl,” he addressed Red. “When you are ready to return, simply put the bracelet on. You will be brought back here and, if you have found all thirteen charms, we will remain true to our part of the bargain. If you fail, the two of you will become our prisoners. And you will never see your brother again.”

  “What about me?” Stitch asked.

  The Seelie woman’s lips curved beneath the peacock mask.

  “Your part in the task is to remain here,” she said.

  “What? Why?” Stitch stammered.

  “Let’s just call it insurance,” said the horned man. “We want to make sure the girl comes back.”

  “Why wouldn’t I come back?” Red asked. “You think I’d leave my brother here?”

  The fairy man shrugged.

  “Just in case you… change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” Red said firmly. “I’m coming back for him—and for you, Stitch.”

  The horned man laughed.

  “So be it. The task is set and no other will be given. If you do not accept, you fail. If you attempt to employ the help of any fairy, you fail. Do you accept?”

  Red knelt and picked up the bracelet.

  “I accept.”

  The Unseelie man smiled.

  “Now leave us.” He turned and lifted a goblet to his side of the court. “The time of the Unseelie is almost upon us! Let us feast!”

  It was a swift dismissal that left them scrabbling to collect their belongings. Red had barely shoved the last of her items in her bag and closed it when a guard’s hand clamped around her arm, pulling her roughly to the stairs and escorting her to the top in a relentless march. She twisted around in the guard’s grip to see Stitch being led away by two more guards, his face a mask of disbelief.

  “I’ll come back for you!” she yelled. “I’ll do it! I’ll find them all!”

  Cool air rushed in as the grass above the hill rolled back to reveal the gateway, and then a hard push sent her sprawling to the damp ground outside. By the time she had gotten to her feet, the entrance had hidden itself once more, leaving no sign of what was concealed beneath.

  She stood there, her breath clouding the air. It tasted different: metallic and dirty. An ancient building loomed above, the ruin of a church that had not been there when they had climbed the Tor earlier that night. She walked to the edge of the hill, joining Raven and Gredin, who were standing there quietly. Together they stared down in silence at the well-lit towns surrounding it. In the distance, the headlights of tiny cars traveled along the streets, confirming to them all that they were no longer in the fairy realm.

  They had come out on the other side—in the human world.

  The house on Chalice Road had been derelict for some time. It was a three-story townhouse in a part of London where people kept their heads down and turned a blind eye to the comings and goings of the neighborhood.

  Rowan wasn’t the first to get in through one of the boarded-up windows. Other people stayed there at night as well as her, mainly teenagers but occasionally older homeless people too. None of the twelve rooms was exclusive; nightly accommodation was generally on a first-come, first-served basis among the comers of a similar age. When the older, or meaner, ones came, however, all that went out the window. If trouble looked likely, those younger or newer to street life soon learned to make themselves scarce or put up a good fight for their corner.

  The best room was the only one with furniture, an old sofa bed with broken springs and a cracked mirror on the built-in cupboard door. Generally, Rowan didn’t stay there long after waking up. Today she’d remained until there was enough light streaming through the missing board at the window to see clearly, for the electricity had been cut long ago. Standing in front of the mirror, she tied her hair back and peered over her shoulder to look at her back.

  Ten weeks had passed since the night James had disappeared. She had told no one of the burn between her shoulder blades during the time between James’s abduction and running away, the same day her plaster cast was removed. At first, the choice was simply because she could not think of a way to explain the winged brand that was seared into her skin. As time went on, she thought of another good reason for keeping it to herself: the mark was something that could easily identify her. And now that Rowan had made up her mind to disappear, being identified was the last thing she wanted.

  The burn had blistered and wept during the first couple of weeks following the attack. Now it had healed to a red outline detailing the winged pattern of Snatcher’s ring. Rowan traced it with her fingers, then rearranged her clothing to cover it. She was realistic enough to know that the scarring would never fade completely. She was marked for life.

  Collecting her bag, she squeezed out the window and left the house without a second glance. She wouldn’t be going back. Places to stay were only good for a short while before word got out and too many people came. It was time to move on.

  Breakfast was the usual: a couple of pieces of fruit swiped from a market vendor on her way to the library, washed down with water from a public fountain. She had become thinner at first, but now that her thieving skills had improved, the weight was gradually going back on.

  In the library, she headed for the folklore section and pulled a few books off the shelf. Once settled in a corner, she flicked to the pages she had marked out the day before and continued to read from where she had left off, absorbing the information from the pages. Over the past two months, Rowan had crammed a vast amount of knowledge into her mind: things about the fairy courts, changelings, and methods of protection. Never give them your name, she read, not if you can avoid it, for they’ll be sure never to give you theirs. Names are powerful.

  Everything she filed in her mind had a bitter edge, for she knew it was too little, too late. The truth was, she had no idea how to get her brother back or where to start looking.

  She had the first inkling that she was being watched about an hour later. Looking up, she saw a scruffy boy of about the same age sitting across from her on another chair. He was reading a local paper, and one of his knees was bouncing up and down as he read, making the paper crackle. Every now and then he glanced her way, then went back to reading the paper.

  On the third occasion that their eyes met, Rowan held his gaze. She had already guessed that, like her, he was a runaway, for the look of the streets was all about him. His fingernails were rotten and his hair greasy. Under his seat he had tucked a huge backpack and a rolled-up sleeping bag.

  The boy nodded amiably at her, then to Rowan’s annoyance, got up and came over to the table and pulled up a seat.

  “What you reading?” he said, nodding to the stack of books in front of her. He had a northern accent, and one of his front teeth was chipped.

  “Mind your own business,” Rowan snapped, gathering the books and preparing to leave. “Just because I looked at you, it wasn’t an invitation.”

  The boy leaned back and held his hands up, his eyebrows disappearing into his shaggy hair.

  “Steady. I didn’t mean nothing, just thought I’d come and say hello. You don’t have to go. I was just being friendly, like. Being as we’re both tomorrow’s fish and chip paper.”

  Rowan planted herself back down on the chair, glaring. “What are you talking about?”

  The boy looked around before putting his newspaper on the table and turning to one of the pages in the end section. Twenty or so black-and-white faces stared out of the page, all under a heading of “MISSING—CAN YOU HELP?”

  “There’s me,” the lad said, pointing to one of the photos in the middle section. Rowan stared at the picture, taking in the boy’s distinctive chipped tooth. He covered his name with a cheeky smile before she had a chance to read it, and then pointed to the bottom of the page.

  “And there’s you, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Rowan stared at her picture, blood rushing to her cheeks. Self-consciously, she ducked her head. The boy smiled and flipped the paper shut.

 
“You’re pretty new to it then,” he said in a low voice. “Being on the streets, I mean. Says you disappeared back in March, and it’s what… May, now.”

  Rowan shrugged. “I’m getting used to it,” she muttered. “How about you?”

  “Six months.” The boy scratched his scalp through his dirty blond hair and gestured to their surroundings. “Good places, if you can get into them, libraries. Warm and quiet, and you can usually get away with staying for a few hours so long as you don’t nod off or smell too bad.” He chuckled. “Both a bit of a challenge.”

  Rowan said nothing.

  “So,” he persisted, craning his neck to look at her books once more. “Fairies, is it?”

  She scowled at him. “So what if it is?”

  “There you go again, all defensive, like,” he said. “I’m just curious.”

  “Well, don’t be. It’s nothing to do with you.”

  The boy leaned back, a knowing look in his eyes. “Maybe it is.”

  Rowan had had enough.

  “Just say what you came to say and go. I’m busy.”

  “All right,” said the boy. “I see them too.”

  Rowan stared at him. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “How should I know? I’ve known you for two minutes.”

  “Fair point.” The boy leaned down and picked up his bag. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

  “Forget it,” said Rowan. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  The boy dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of loose change. He counted it.

  “Come on, what’s the harm? There’s a cup of tea in it for you.”

  “Last time I had an offer like that I had all my money stolen,” Rowan answered. “So, no thanks.”

  “Look,” said the boy, exasperated. “I just wanted to talk to you, not to frighten you or rob you.” He counted out some coins and put them on the table next to her.

  “Think of this as goodwill,” he said. He pointed through the library window, past a park bench, to the street corner. “I’ll be in that café just over there, for about half an hour if you change your mind.” He paused. “Well, I say half an hour, but it depends on how long I can make a cuppa last before they sling me out.” He grinned his chipped grin again and got up, tucking his paper into his coat. “Call me Sparrow, by the way.”

  “Sparrow?” Rowan repeated.

  “That’s me. Common as muck and gets everywhere!”

  She watched as Sparrow sauntered out of the library, then got up and went to the window. He was as good as his word, straight into the café and up at the counter.

  She returned to the table and for five minutes stared at the money the boy had left. Eventually curiosity got the better of her. She slid the coins into her pocket and picked her bag up, returning the books to their shelves on the way out.

  Sparrow looked up from across his mug of tea as she bought her own drink from the counter and pushed the meager change toward him on the table and sat down.

  “Keep it,” he said.

  She didn’t need telling twice.

  “What should I call you, then?” he asked.

  Rowan rolled her eyes. “You already know my name if you recognized my picture in the paper,” she said in a low voice.

  “Don’t matter.” Sparrow drew his cuff across his mouth. “Never know who might be listening.” He flicked his eyes around the café. “Best to stick to good practice, if you know what I mean.”

  Rowan shrugged, wrapping her hands around her warm cup.

  “I don’t know. Call me whatever you like, except my real name.”

  Sparrow studied her, his eyes appraising.

  “Your hair stands out the most,” he said bluntly. “So… Red. Not too fussy and to the point. I think it suits you.” He grinned again, and for the first time, Rowan saw a dimple in his cheek when he smiled.

  “So what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked.

  “Fairies,” Sparrow said simply. “I wasn’t having you on before. About seeing them, I mean. It’s not something I go saying to just anyone.”

  “So why me?” said Rowan, her heart hammering.

  “The books, for one thing,” said Sparrow. “And because I’ve seen you around a couple of times now.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve watched you, watching them.”

  Rowan studied the boy’s face for any sign that he was pulling her leg, but his expression was deadly serious.

  “Prove it,” she said hoarsely.

  “That’s why I got you over here,” said Sparrow. He lifted his bag onto the table and pushed it at her. “Have a look in that side pocket. Discreet, like.”

  Suspicious, Rowan pulled the bag closer and unzipped the side compartment. As she lifted the pocket flap, a horrid smell drifted up. She glimpsed something small, crushed, and bloody, hair matted around two broken wings. Shoving the bag away with a cry, she knocked Sparrow’s tea over.

  A flicker of irritation came over Sparrow’s face—but it was nothing compared to the fury on Rowan’s. She leapt up, grabbing her bag, and ran from the café amid tables of curious customers. She was over the road and going through the park when footsteps pounded the path behind her.

  “What did you do that for?” Sparrow demanded. “I told you to be discreet! Wasted two drinks, that did. Plus they’ll probably kick me out next time I go in!”

  “Discreet?” Rowan whipped around to face him, her eyes blazing. “You’re the one carrying a dead fairy around in your bag, you lunatic!”

  “I was just trying to prove to you that—”

  “That what?” Rowan hissed. “That you’re sick?”

  “That I can see them!” he finished. “Look, I’m sorry. Probably not the best way to get your attention, but not exactly buzzing with them around here, is it?” He motioned to the gray buildings around them. “They’re a bit harder to come by here, you know? Couldn’t really afford to be picky.”

  Rowan calmed slightly.

  “Did you… kill it?” she asked, eyeing him distrustfully.

  “ ’Course I didn’t! What do you take me for? No, don’t answer that. It was in the gutter, near to where I been staying the last couple of nights. Must’ve been hit by a car.” He opened the compartment again and showed her. “See? Empty. I don’t make a habit of it. It was just to show you.”

  “All right,” said Rowan, her anger subsiding. “I believe you. So what do you want?” She started to walk through the park, keeping to the path.

  Sparrow wiped his cuff across his nose and followed.

  “I seen you reading those books in the library,” he said, somewhat apologetically. “For a few days now. Saw you marking the pages, so I had a nose after you left yesterday. It’s changelings, isn’t it?”

  Rowan felt the burn on her back twinge as her shoulders tensed. The skin there was still tender. Sparrow hurried on.

  “I’m not prying, like—”

  “Well, you are…”

  “All right, I am, but—” He broke off and pulled his hand through his hair. “Why are you reading that stuff ? Did something… happen?”

  Rowan stopped to face him, trying to assess what he might know.

  “Yes.”

  Sparrow nodded. “Thought as much. Took someone, did they? A kid?”

  “How do you know this? Did it happen to you?”

  “No, not me. I’ve met other people, though, who’ve known kids to be switched over.”

  “You have?”

  Sparrow nodded again, his hair bobbing. “Met one of them in this park, in fact. We got talking one day when it was obvious we were both watching the same fairy in a birdbath. I thought he had the second sight at first, but it turned out that he was fey, in disguise, like. His niece was taken by them, a couple of years ago.”

  Sparrow had Rowan’s full attention now.

  “When they took her, he refused to give up looking. And eventually, he got her back.”


  “How?” Red said urgently. “How did he get her back?”

  “Says he used the one that was left in her place—the impostor—as a bargaining chip. He’s got contacts—fairies on the other side who never wanted the switches in the first place—half of them are done out of spite or mischief. So they’re only too eager to get their own back, same as us.”

  Rowan’s head reeled.

  “So you mean it’s possible to switch the changeling back for the same child it was taken for?”

  “Sometimes,” Sparrow conceded. “But they don’t always want to give a human child back if it was taken as a replacement—like if the fairy was sick, for example. But most of the time a trade can be arranged.”

  “What if there’s no replacement to trade with?” Rowan interjected, stricken. “What if a child was taken and no replacement left? How would that work?”

  Sparrow whistled through his teeth.

  “Tricky. Don’t think I’ve ever heard of it being done that way. I suppose you’d have to find one—a fairy that’s been left in place of a human—and steal it somehow. So it’d be dangerous, because you can’t just go around stealing babies, can you? Or you could, but you’d get into a lot of trouble. And even then, if the switch was made, it would more than likely be for the kid that particular fairy was switched for in the first place, if you follow me.”

  “But it’s not impossible?” Rowan persisted. “And even if you got back a different child, not the one you wanted, but one that had been stolen anyway, it’d still be worth it, wouldn’t it? It’d still mean another child got returned to its family.”

  Sparrow shrugged.

  “I suppose so….”

  Suddenly Rowan found herself facing him, gripping the sleeves of his filthy coat in her fists.

  “This fey man,” she said urgently. “Who is he?”

  Sparrow looked down at her hands on his coat.

  “He’s a traveler. Works with a circus.”

  “I need you to take me to him. Right now.”