Woe for a Faerie

by Bokerah Brumley

I nodded but didn’t know what to add. I’d been jumpy since the rooftop… since the change, really, but with reason. The remembered sensation of a thin tongue on my cheek made me shiver. I ignored the spots that danced at the edge of my vision.

  Jason reached for the old bag and interrupted the mental replay of my attack. He dropped the bag over my shoulder again. “Which way feels better?” He removed it and then dropped it over me again. The strap was on one shoulder and the bag fell to the opposite hip.

  “Neither.” I peeled the bag off as a shudder squeezed my throat. “It’s like being tied up.” I tossed it back into the box.

  Jason nodded. “I might have something else you could use.”

  He gestured for me to follow him toward the front of the church. Walking this way, it always felt like the saints’ stained-glass eyes followed me. I shivered but fought the urge to stare back. At least the impending episode had abated.

  To the right of the altar, Jason strode toward an arched opening. Before he went through, he tossed me an encouraging smile over his shoulder. It was an odd time to be fatherly. I heard the pop of an old push-button light switch and a line of antique globes illuminated a narrow flight of stairs that stretched into the underneath of the church. The infamous basement. As an angel, I’d never seen the lower levels.

  On the top step, I grimaced. I figured it out.

  To Jason, my post-fall episodes plus claustrophobia equaled “Woe needed encouragement.”

  The bricked-in spiral staircase ahead of me was only a few feet wide. The old wooden steps creaked beneath Jason’s feet as he descended. Important objects shouldn’t be routinely kept in small spaces underground.

  Jason’s voice echoed through the space. “Coming?”

  I groaned and stepped down. Stairs never used to be a problem.

  The first step was the hardest. And then the next one. I took deep, purposefully slow breaths. Midway, spots swam in front of my eyes and my field of vision narrowed. Fingers squeezed around my heart. How I hated these post-fall episodes. But I made it to the bottom without fainting.

  Below, the stairwell opened into a windowless room lit by the same old electric globes. The low ceiling stretched only a foot or so above Jason’s head and two doorways had been carved out of the opposite wall. The word Office had been painted over the closed door to the right.

  Inside, I knew Jason did what little paperwork he had to do. It had been that way for years. But, lately, he’d also been sleeping in there on a donated couch since I slept in the apartment upstairs.

  Library was painted on the keystone over the open doorway on the left. Jason was whistling inside.

  To verify his location, I asked, “Library?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  I shuffled toward the sound. I hated this part of the church… even before. It was always dark down here, and it was where the priests kept creepy secrets hidden. As an angel, I’d never been farther than the office.

  The tune stopped. He poked his head out of the shadows to ask, “Coming?” He disappeared before I could answer. If he asked me that again…

  I eased over to the threshold of the library and stepped inside. A wrought-iron chandelier hung in the center of the room over a large, square, rustic table. At some point, the candle holders had been retrofitted with electric sockets that held old-fashioned Edison bulbs.

  Over-stuffed, floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the perimeter. Even the dust smelled old here. I’d only been down here once before to warn the church priest that his end was near. He’d rubbed his chest as I’d disappeared from his field of view. But, with nothing to do, I’d stayed, camouflaged, just inside the spiritual plane, to watch him. He wrote letter after letter and when he could no longer keep his eyes open, he’d wandered upstairs to the apartment and passed away in his sleep with wine in his belly and tears on his cheeks. I always wondered about the letters.

  Jason pulled three tomes from a shelf labeled 1940. Each of the shelves had a date carved into the top. He deposited the volumes on the wooden table and glanced at me.

  He winked and then, using his index finger, he snagged the spine of a book on the 1700s shelf. He pulled on the top of a worn copy of The Monk by Matthew Gregory Lewis until it leaned outward, balanced on the outer, lower corner. He counted down the row. When he reached ten, he hooked La Religieuse by Denis Diderot and pulled the top corner toward him until the position matched that of The Monk.

  With a rush of air, the bookcase moved into the wall and slipped behind another bookshelf, exposing a metal-riveted door with a fisheye glass porthole centered in the upper half. Beneath the window, a wheel had a single handle. It reminded me of a compartment door on a battleship.

  Jason stepped between the fire-scorched bookcases marked 1600 and 1800. He grasped the single handle and rotated the wheel until we heard the click of the mechanisms and the hiss of the seal giving way. With a grunt, Jason pressed his weight against the door. The hinges groaned as the door swung inward and clanged against the wall behind. He stepped over the knee-high threshold and inside where it was too dark to see.

  I stopped midway in the library and half-sat on the table. The room was too small again. Too close to me. The pain in my chest increased.

  From the other room, amid shuffling, Jason let out a disgruntled oof as he bumped into a piece of furniture that scraped against the floor. “Oh, here it is,” he mumbled.

  I asked, “Are we below street level?” The stones were two feet by three feet with tons of dirt and rock above us.

  “Hmmm? Oh, oh, yes, just below,” he answered from beyond. He struck a match and a glow lit the glass circle in the metal door. He blew out the match; his exhale sounded eerie in the dark. Jason appeared at the riveted door facing me, an oil lamp in hand. He lifted it above his head so he could see me without glare and asked, “You coming?”

  “Stop asking me that. Of course I’m coming.” My throat constricted, and I tugged on my t-shirt collar. I pictured dirt pouring in like a rush of river. Not any deeper. I swallowed to wet my mouth and throat. “No, I’ll wait here.”

  “Very well.” His footsteps moved away with the warm lamplight. He started to hum―a different tune from the earlier whistling.

  I recognized it, and a memory came forward. I hated that hymn. It had been Hannah’s favorite. Until she died, it had been mine.

  Metal creaked against metal and then the sound of something heavy moved across the stone floor with a screech. “Jason?” His humming came closer. That hymn.

  I resisted the urge to spit.

  Jason appeared with a strip of leather hanging from his hand, similar to the purse strap. Around his neck, a key glinted on a chain. I hadn’t noticed that before. “This may work better.” He held on to one end, and then tossed the other end behind me. He caught it with the empty hand. He fitted the belt to my waist, over the baggy shirt and cardigan.

  I took a deep breath filled with the spicy assault of frankincense and myrrh. Jason always smelled so good. A sigh escaped between my lips, and I wished I could recall it.

  He stopped moving but didn’t look up. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” Staccato lies. I couldn’t breathe.

  He cinched the belt and stepped back to survey his work. “Is that better?” He tucked the key back inside his clothing.

  “I think so,” I said. The nerve endings beneath the strip of leather were hyper sensitive, bordering on pain, but the contraption held rather than ensnared me. There was a pocket on one side, two loops on the other. It might be useful.

  “Why do you keep the belts down here?” In the basement. Behind the library. In a hidden vault. It was a stupid place to keep belts, and I hoped he didn’t ask about the subject change. “Seems a long way from the clothes box.”

  “Oh, you’ll see… eventually.” Jason pressed his lips together, but the edges of his eyes crinkled as though he found humor in the question.

  Fabulous. He was a cryptic. “Where do I get a flashlight?”


  Jason chuckled. He pulled a large black mag-torch from his pocket. “It fits that belt.” He handed it to me. “Just promise to be careful when you hunt in the dark.”

  8

  Overlook

  Arún

  The phone in the high-rise rang, but I didn’t make a move to answer it.

  Five rings later, voicemail answered. I never checked voicemail, so the caller would reach a full inbox. I stayed, arms crossed, staring at the city lights, scattered like diamonds in the pavement of the Fae Realm. I never gave out the number, so telemarketers were the only ones that called. It was a part of the rent, part of the place. A package deal. I should probably chunk the handset down the garbage chute.

  Since Woe had arrived in the city, I’ve been considering a visit home. She was an unfinished question that set my insides on edge. It would be good to put distance between us, and, though I expected to, I hadn’t heard from Ishka since I’d handed Woe over to Jason. I’d like to see my sister.

  The phone rang again, but I left it. I never had a good experience when speaking to them. I crushed the last phone when I couldn’t get a word in edge-wise. Fae politeness had a distinct disadvantage sometimes. It cut off at the third ring.

  Two minutes ticked by, and then it started again.

  I crossed to the apparatus. Telemarketers weren’t that determined.

  Unknown showed in the caller ID screen.

  At the end of the third ring, I pressed the handset to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Arún, listen.”

  “Who is this?” I had a guess, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Who do you think?”

  I scowled, and it took me a moment to place the scratchy, female voice. “Victory? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s Vic,” she said. “Who else would call you three times in a row?” She sounded irritated that she had to take the time to confirm her identity.

  “I thought you were one of those infernal sales persons who won’t let me speak.”

  “Likely story,” she said, but her voice held a smile now.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Suspicious, much?”

  “Well?”

  “I’m Vic. That’s what I do.” She paused then, as though waiting for me to understand that that was enough of an answer.

  If she called, there had to be something she needed to tell me, and I didn’t want to take the time to parse out her methods.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Woe’s out, wandering the streets. She’s got some sort of weird idea that she needs a job, and I’m not sure she’s safe out there.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Does the priest know?”

  “Listen, after you came to meet us, I read some books on Fae bonds that the Librarian recommended. I put two and two together.” Vic knew, then, what was at stake. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

  “But why?”

  “Guess I’m a sucker for a hunky hero and a happily ever after.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  There was a click, and then the dial tone hummed in my ear.

  I dropped the handset back in the cradle. It was my first phone call with a person I actually knew. I still preferred mind-talk. It was faster and easier, and it didn’t sound like conversing through a tin can.

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Woe was an unfinished question in my soul. Seeing her would satisfy my need to know if she was going to be okay. I needed to know if she would thrive as a mortal.

  A prickly sensation danced along the bond stretched between us, and I shivered. The strength of it unbalanced me. I could feel her, stressing, worrying about something she probably couldn’t change.

  I had to see her. I jogged to the window and back to the phone.

  Bonding with Woe had risks, and I wasn’t sure how deep the bond went, but it was enough to keep me thinking about her. I took a lap around the apartment.

  I rolled my shoulders and smoothed my hand over the back of my neck.

  It didn’t matter what came next.

  I wanted to see her.

  Without bothering to put on a coat or shirt, I jogged to the sliding door and stepped out onto my balcony, leaping off of the edge. My wings beat against the cool air, lifting me toward the moon. The rush of cold air shocked the bare skin of my chest, but it did nothing to bank the fires that blazed.

  Finding Woe would be easy. The bond left no question about her location. She hunted for answers in the place I first found her.

  She wouldn’t even need to know I was there. I’d take a look and then leave.

  That was all.

  An image of her, bare skin kissed by moonlight flashed through my mind. Hunger burned in my belly and coursed through my veins. I grimaced then, realizing what had already happened.

  Fate hadn’t asked for permission. Whether I liked it or not, I had become the thirsty man in the desert, and Woe had become my water.

  9

  Gone Hunting

  Woe

  On and off. On and off. The contrast of light to dark made it harder to see, but boredom suppressed my good sense.

  The LED reflected in the glass store fronts, and the repetitive clicking of the switch garnered nasty looks from three men who passed me, carelessly bumping into me as they hurried ahead.

  I’d been wandering streets for hours. I’d gotten used to the belt but preferred the weight of the metallic Mag-Torch in my hand―a shield and a weapon, if I could only quit the clicking.

  A block away, a hunched figure emerged from the shadows to stop at the corner, and the three moved toward it. I stopped clicking the light and stepped into the shadow of a doorway to watch. They circled the figure.

  “What you got, Grandma?”

  “Come on, Grandma.”

  “Let us see your purse.”

  They slurred their words and tugged on her shoulder, spinning her around enough for me to see the bag hooked over her forearm. They’d been drinking.

  “Stop it. Stop it.” She batted at them, her hands twisted and gnarled.

  I’m not bound by rules anymore. I can help.

  They jostled her until she whimpered.

  Maybe I can best them with a bluff.

  “You holdin’ out on us, Grams?”

  “Be good boys. I don’t have anything. Just a few dollars. I wanted a cup of coffee.”

  At the sound of her raspy plea, my heart twisted, and I rushed out from my hiding place. “Leave her alone.”

  At my shrill yell, all three turned to face me.

  “Mighty brave for a little thing.”

  In the dark, I couldn’t tell which one said it, but I marched toward them anyway.

  I put my hands on my hips. “My old man is on his way down.”

  They scowled at each other and then at me.

  I glanced behind me. “Did you call the cops, Jason?” After, I tilted my head as though I listened for the answer. To them, I said, “He says they’re on their way.”

  The biggest one spat. “Liar.”

  I stopped beside the older woman. “Go home.”

  Her gaze shifted from me to the men and back again. “They’ll hurt you,” she whispered.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I know what I’m doing, and Jason’s on his way.”

  A lie, but I needed her to believe it.

  She grasped my hand. “Are you sure?”

  I leaned close. “Just call the police as soon as you get somewhere safe, okay? Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded, squeezed my hand, and started to shuffle away.

  The trio let her go without comment. At least that part of my plan had worked.

  A moment later, the biggest one took a swipe at my cheek.

  I stepped backward.

  His knuckles grazed my skin but didn’t do any damage. I swung the flashlight at his extended arm and made contact. He cursed, clutched his wrist, and moved away.

  One of the others rush
ed me.

  I jumped to the side.

  He overcompensated, tripped on his own feet, and tumbled to the ground.

  A siren warbled nearby, moving nearer.

  The big one let out a long string of expletives.

  “Help me up,” the guy on the ground said, grasping at the air. “I can’t go to jail again.”

  At that, the standing two helped the third off the ground, murmuring to each other.

  Without saying anything else to me, the group peeled away and stumbled toward the greasy diner farther down the block.

  Probably the same place the older woman had been headed. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen, in any direction. Maybe she had called the cops.

  I grinned then. I’d managed to help somebody stay safe. On my own.

  Maybe, if I kept walking, I’d come across Shiny Eyes and be able to tell him about it.

  A metal can clattered in the shadows to my right, and I turned the beam toward it. The light from the torch reflected on a locksmith’s window and swept across my face.

  God, that was dumb. At least nobody was around to see it.

  I freaking blinded myself. For several moments, all I could see were spots while my eyes tried to re-adjust to the darkness. I stood like that, blinking and berating myself, hoping the source of the noise wasn’t hungry, until shapes coalesced out of nothing.

  I pointed the beam toward the dead-end alley. Behind the dumpster, a small man ambled along the wall of a building. I squinted.

  A small man?

  A monkey.

  No, not in New Haven City. The light caught it.

  It looked like a cat. How strange.

  I couldn’t even operate a simple flashlight. A let down after running off the three would-be thieves. With a disgusted sigh, I slid the lamp back into its spot on the belt.

  Later, I crossed Reservoir Bridge, the railing smooth and cool beneath my fingertips. Being outside in the open always made me happy. Gleaming squares freckled the city skyline, and rectangles reflected as wavy lines on the water’s surface. I stopped to take a deep breath. I could live here. Maybe I should. Open enough to breathe, with only tree arms stretched out around me and a few stars beyond.