by Cecy Robson
His brow knits tight. “I still am, Olivia.”
With a whip-like crack, and in a blaze of azure, Ryker rockets up and into the starry night, the translucent bodies of Fae shooting after him.
“This is messed up,” Frankie says. He grabs my arm and leads me out of the alley. I follow robotically after him, torn between screaming and crying.
Frankie digs into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulls out a cell phone. “I’m near Second and 53rd. I have Olivia, she’s . . . all right. I think.” He gives me the once over, his bloodshot and strained brown eyes seeing more than just my injuries. “Bring me some wheels and a talisman from one of the fallen.”
He disconnects and reaches into the other pocket for pack of cigarettes. He told Dahlia he was going to quit. I don’t remind him. I can’t.
Frankie lights a cigarette with a puff of flame he spouts from his mouth. With a shaking hand, he raises the cigarette to his lips. “He called to me. Just now,” he says, motioning to where Ryker had stood. “I heard him in my head, ordering me to come to him. I ignored his voice, thinking I was losing my mind, until the pull became too much. When I saw him, I thought he’d come for me.” He takes a long drag. “In a way, I wish he had.”
A beamer squeals to a halt along the curb. The dragon bouncer who was gutted, slips out, shock riddling his youthful features. “Shit,” he says.
Yes. That pretty much sums up my night.
He walks to us slowly. A thick bandage shows through his tight white T-shirt and his dark skin carries a healthier tone. He’s healing. As long as he wears his talisman, Death won’t find him.
He’s almost to us when he doubles back and wrenches open the passenger door. He rustles through the glove compartment and returns with a talisman. It’s a plain gold circle with a small diamond at its base. He points to where the broken links were welded. “It’s not much, but the veil will hold. It was Arnie’s.” He swallows hard. “He didn’t make it.”
Arnie was one of the bouncers who tried to protect me. My throat constricts as I struggle to speak. “How many dragons lost their lives?”
“Their lives? Or their souls?” Frankie asks bitterly. He tosses his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and mashes it with his foot. With a sigh, he reaches for the spare talisman and places it around my neck. “Three. We lost three.”
Tears blur my vision. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t call Death, Livvie. And you sure as hell didn’t break those talismans.” Frankie lights another cigarette and blows out a long puff of smoke. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”
I’m not so sure. Those dragons who died stayed and fought for me. I purse my lips, fighting back my tears.
Frankie’s friend shakes his head. “The rest of us only made it because of you,” he insists. “I―we saw what you did. How did you do it? Take on Death like that? You burned them like I would paper, except with no fire. I thought you were that pixie without magic.”
I shudder from the cold and from his words. “I thought I was, too.”
Frankie flicks his cigarette on the sidewalk and slips the blanket from his shoulders around me. He leads me to the Beamer, keeping his voice rough. “Olivia didn’t know she had any magic, let alone the power to hurt Death. If she did . . .”
She wouldn’t have let Dahlia die. I can’t read thoughts. But I read his just fine. They mirror mine and poke at my heart.
Frankie’s friend walks us to the car. “Keys are in the car,” he says. “Mr. Sebastian says to keep it as long as you want.”
My ribs burn as I lower myself into the cold leather seat. The dragon notices me struggle and reaches for my seatbelt. “Here. Lemme help,” he offers.
I can wiggle the fingers of my right hand, but each movement sends jolts of pain through my fractured arm. “Thank you,” I gasp.
He grips the door frame to shut it but doesn’t quite make it. “Olivia . . . what are you, exactly?”
He waits for me to tell him something no-doubt extraordinary. It’s not what he gets. “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.
Frankie starts the car. “I’ll tell you what she is,” he says. “She’s our hero.”
Funny thing is, I don’t feel like one.
Chapter Eight
Frankie peels the BMW away from the curb, making his way around the fire trucks, police cruisers, ambulances, and news vans swarming the area. New York earned its nickname as “the city that never sleeps” for a reason. Even in the predawn hours, large crowds gather for a peek of the action and for a chance to make it on national news.
The smoke billowing from the Glen stretches into the night. Firefighters won’t discover bodies buried in the ashes and police offers won’t find club patrons to interview. Fae have a way of disappearing. We stay quiet and keep our secrets. We learn to hide in the open and not be found. Many of our kind even possess the power to alter memories.
Frankie drives in silence, swiping his face to keep the tears reddening his eyes from falling. It’s only when we enter the Holland Tunnel that he finally speaks. “Mr. Sebastian is the Glen’s owner. He’s fixing it so it looks like the club caught fire as a result of bad wiring and a faulty sprinkler system.”
“The Fae who were there will go along with any excuse.”
Frankie keeps his focus ahead. “Yeah. The media will tell them exactly what they need to say if caught.” He wipes his face again. “I’m going after the gremlins. Dante, the other dragon, thinks he recognized one of them.”
I place my hand over my chest. It’s the first time I notice my blue dress is shredded. Torn strips of lace barely keep my breasts covered. It shocks me, despite knowing how rough Cathasach handled me. I tug the blanket closer. “What are you going to do to the gremlin if you find him?” I ask.
“Pound the fuck out of him until he tells me why our own has turned against us.” He punches the gas, passing a car on our right. “I need you to contact Bill. He needs to know what’s up. This isn’t good, Olivia. Whatever this is, it isn’t good.”
“All right,” I stammer.
Bill is respected and a widely known gargoyle. While Fae don’t have their own governing body, Bill is perceived as a leader among our kind. He helped Dahlia obtain her office manager job at the firm and, when I couldn’t find a decent job with an English degree, Dahlia convinced him to hire me as an administrative assistant and paralegal.
“Give Olivia a chance, Bill,” Dahlia begged him. “You’ll love her, darling.”
Dahlia always watched out for me. We met at the College of New Jersey when I was a sad little first year student and she was a junior and resident adviser. She recognized my loneliness and literally took me under her wings.
And now she’s gone.
I cry all the way to Hoboken. Frankie lets me. He doesn’t tell me to be strong or plead with me to stop. I’m grateful for it. Except he also doesn’t say everything will be all right. I gather it’s because it’s a lie. Nothing will ever be the same.
Frankie pulls the car in front of my apartment building, a trendy brick-front complex filled with young singles taking advantage of everything Hoboken offers.
He hastily wipes away the tears smearing his cheeks. “I loved her, too, Livvie,” he says. “Too bad I didn’t tell when it mattered.”
I glance at my dirty hands. There’s not just soot coating my nails. There’s blood. “She knew, Frankie. If there was any doubt, you shred it when you offered her your life.”
He looks at me. “But she didn’t take, Liv.”
I manage a small smile that doesn’t quite last. “Only because she loved you, too.”
He jerks his head away, cursing. There a times kindness hurts more. Frankie deserved the blow. He called me a hero. But he’s the one who offered Dahlia his talisman.
Dawn breaks over the horizon as Frankie walks me up to my apartment. I fumble with the key pad on my door, hitting several random numbers before I remember the right combination.
Frankie cups my shoulder whe
n I try to step inside. “We’re going to find out who did this to Dahlia, you hear me? And when we do, he’s going to pay.”
He kisses my head like a parent would a small child. I thank him. At least, I try.
Frankie doesn’t leave until I shut the door behind me. His heavy feet trod toward the elevator. It’s only when I hear the door to the rear stairwell open and close that I move into the apartment.
The familiarity of the cool honey wood floors and the sense of home should bring me comfort. I barely feel my soles slap against the slick wood and half-heartedly glance around the small living space. Cream comfy couches are set around a barnyard-style coffee table, while the pink throw pillows and lavender window treatments make a firm declaration that females occupy this space. Well, two had, anyway.
I sniff as I roll back the barnyard-style door leading to my small bedroom. Stark white linens and bright floral pillows cover my full-sized bed. Its softness and promise of rest lures me to it. I ignore its pull and strip out of my clothes, tossing them in the bright yellow wastebasket and pad into my private bath.
I spend an hour showering and scrubbing my body clean of Death’s impurities. Remnants of Cathasach’s laugh haunts me with each pass of my sponge, so do Dahlia’s screams. His pack tore her apart to eat her soul. If he took the largest piece of her, was she now caged within his gut, just like my mother?
Are my sisters there, too?
And my father? What of him?
I lean against the tile. Death. So much Death. Everyone I love is gone. My body shakes horribly when I step out from the shower, though the water was as hot as I could stand.
The wound on my head is sealed, my hip is better, but my ribs still ached. I pull on a nightie and wrap a thick cotton robe around me. Each task is torture. Somehow, I manage.
My hands still tremble when I phone Bill.
“Hello?” his sleepy voice answers.
“Dahlia’s dead.”
There’s no more to say. I disconnect. A few minutes later, there’s a knock on my door.
“It’s us,” Bill calls.
I open the heavy door to find Jane standing beside him. He must have summoned our little druid priestess and requested a transport via magic. I’d woken him from sleep, yet he still managed to dress neatly in a light blue polo and freshly pressed tan slacks. He even managed a pair of polished dress shoes.
He rubs his goatee, his expression worried and despondent. “We can’t come in unless you invite us, Livvie,” he reminds me.
My hands grip the collar of my robe. In my state, I forgot all about the protective wards. “My apologies. Please come in.”
The threshold hums and Jane steps in, followed closely by Bill. Bill wraps an arm around me when I can’t seem to move and leads me past our kitchen into the living room. His posture is leaden with grief. Mine isn’t much better. Jane sits beside me, her beady eyes trained ahead.
“Tell us,” Bill says.
And I do.
The story grows more unbelievable as I sort through each event. Sitting becomes too much for Bill, he paces along the small space, his heavy feet threatening to wear out the floral print area rug Dahlia selected. She liked flowers and bright colors. Like me, she was born on a bed of daffodils.
Bill pauses, tightening his jaw when I speak of the gremlins and how they stole our talismans and how Cathasach and his hounds arrived to maul us. But when I explain that I hurt Death, neither Bill nor Jane move.
I stretch out my hand, inspecting every streak and bruise along my arm. “You were right, Jane. I have magic. I just never expected this.”
Their scrutinizing gazes make me squirm. Do I frighten them? I hope not. I need them. They’re my only friends.
Relief sweeps over my aching muscles when Jane offers a gentle smile.
Bill isn’t so reassuring. He closes the small space separating us and grips my shoulders, easing his hold when he sees me wince. His hands fall away. “Olivia, do you have any idea what this means?”
I stare at him. “Not really.”
It’s Jane who answers, smiling softly as a single tear slides down her cheek. “You’re immune to Death, Livvie,” she croaks. “You can save us all.”
Chapter Nine
“You’re . . . No,” I say. “That can’t be right.”
Bill stands over me. “I know it sounds impossible.”
I nod. That’s really all I can do.
Bill smooths his hand along his beard. “Earth’s magic clashes with our own. It’s weakened most of our power. But in some, it’s altered it, morphing it into the unexpected.”
“Do you mean like Jane becoming the Hydra?”
“Exactly,” Bill agrees. “In Fae, Jane was simply a druid priestess.” Jane clears her throat. “Forgive me, Jane. I meant the most powerful of druid priestess. But no one could command another form and maintain it, unless it’s an ability they were born with.”
Like gnomes when they assume the forms of toadstools, I infer.
“If Jane hadn’t crossed with her pet snake,” Bill continues. “She never would have become the Hydra.”
Jane watches me as I stand. I mean to head into the kitchen to make tea. When you learn you’re some kind of magical pariah, tea sounds like a good idea. I change my mind, wondering if we have alcohol in the house or possibly a sledgehammer to beat my brains in. Yes. That will work.
I turn toward the large windows. Rays of brilliant sunlight penetrating through the openings in the lavender curtains, casting a sting across my tired eyes. I grip the ends to seal out the light. Mostly, I end up holding them as I work through Bill’s reasoning. “My wings were torn from me when I crossed.”
“I know, Olivia,” Bill replies quietly. He sighs. I’m not certain what I look like, however, I am sure “stable” is the last word that comes to mind.
“The world is believed to be in a delicate balance,” he reminds me. “When you crossed, this realm took something sacred from you. As a pixie, your wings were your source of power and identity. I believe in exchange for that loss, Earth’s magic granted you something more powerful.”
“Then what did it do to Ryker?”
My back is to them. That doesn’t mean I miss the stillness in the air that follows. Just say it, my mind insists.
They need to know. It’s the right thing to do. I’m just struggling to believe it myself and oddly enough, I feel like I’m betraying Ryker.
My words come out in a rush. “Ryker is the Grim Reaper. He was there. He saved me. He fought Cathasach and killed his hounds . . .”
Neither Bill nor Jane seem to take a breath until I finish my riveting tale of Ryker and his scary as hell scythe. The lethality he commanded was a combination of grace and raw power. I don’t quite capture it in words. Nothing can. I try my best anyway.
Bill clenches his fists, cracking his knuckles. “He carried the souls to the afterlife?” I nod. “You’re sure of this?”
I rub my face, the motion making me dizzy. “As much as I can be. They, the souls, I mean, went to him willingly. They sought him and followed him . . . upward.”
Bill whips out his phone, typing feverishly. “Jane, these circumstances necessitate you contacting the remaining Ancients. They must be made aware.” He pauses, his brows scrunching. “Did he try to feed from you or touch you in anyway?”
I sink into the couch, no longer able to stand. “No, to the eating part. And while he didn’t touch me, he did carry me out of the club.” Looking back, we were mighty close. It’s not something I dare mention now. Not with how stressed Bill appears. “Jane, if I’m immune to Death, how could Ryker touch me without disintegrating like the Cù-Sìth?”
Jane shakes her head, worry forming deep ridges into her wrinkled face. Bill slows his frantic texting to a stop. “This doesn’t make sense. All forms of Death from Fae nourish and strengthen themselves by consuming souls. All of them. Otherwise the magic of Earth’s realm causes them insufferable anguish.”
It explains why the Cù-S
ìth are especially ravenous. They’re warding off potential pain.
Bill kneels in front of me. “Olivia, I don’t believe Ryker carried those souls into the afterlife.”
The gnawing feeling in my belly returns when I remember those little leprechaun children, clutching his legs and placing their souls in his care. “You think he tricked those souls into trusting him?” My voice quivers. I’m suddenly so cold. “Only to devour them?”
“I don’t know,” Bill admits. “But I’d be a fool to presume he’s an ally just because he chose to save you. He’s worked at the firm what? A year? In that time, he’s managed to keep his true nature a secret from us. How is that even possible?”
“I don’t know,” I confess. “Do you think he knows what we are? Every Fae in the office wears a talisman. The magic should have kept us veiled from him.”
“In theory you’re correct.” Bill tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Except I find it odd that of all places he could have worked, why my firm? The office has a modest number of Fae. If he can detect us through our veils, and he’s looking for souls to feed his needs, there are larger corporations he could infiltrate that would provide a greater bounty.”
“Lawyer,” Jane croaks.
“That’s a good point,” I say. “Why would a Grim Reaper assume a human’s existence? Ryker attended law school and actively practices. I always pictured Death as those dark entities that skulk in the shadows waiting to pounce.”
“Most do,” Bill agrees.
“Then what’s up with Ryker?” I press.
“I wish I knew.”
It’s what Bill claims. Except the way he regards Jane tells me he’s already labeled Ryker a threat, one that needs to be contained if not eliminated. I clutch one of the bright throw pillows against me. “There were a lot of souls, Bill. Too many to count at the time. They swarmed him from all directions. Even those hesitant to approach were won over by his mere presence.”
Bill places his hand on my knee. “Olivia, I know you want to believe he’s different. But may I remind you, Ryker is Death. Some forms hunt like the Cù-Sìth. Others entice their victims into their dark webs, trapping their prey before they can escape.”