by Anthea Sharp
“You were like the sun emerging from behind frozen clouds on a mid-winter day, bright and warm and radiant. I had been alone here for so long, and your spirit melted away the ice around my heart. I couldn’t help but return to the glade that night to gather the mistletoe, even if it cursed me to remain in this forest for the rest of my immortal life. Your gift was worth that sacrifice.”
Tears had formed in Claire’s eyes, but she brushed them away.
Conall went silent. He had nothing more to say. And now that Claire knew the truth, she was no longer afraid to make her own confession.
She gestured toward the mound of yarn and said, “It is customary in our village for a woman, once a man has shown interest, to make some reply. If she doesn’t like him, nothing happens. But if she does like him, she starts to create a gift for him, one she works on throughout the entire courtship. The more she likes him, the grander the gift.”
Conall only stared at her, and Claire grinned. She remembered that look from the first day she met him. But it didn’t intimidate her now.
“So,” she piped, clapping her hands together, “since my aunt and I raise sheep and produce fine yarn, I thought my gift ought to be something made from wool. A scarf would take the least amount of time. Socks would be a little more intricate and gloves or mittens or a sweater even more so.”
She regarded him for several seconds until she thought he might squirm. Grinning once again, she stood and started rooting through the mountains of multi-colored yarn. When she reappeared, she sported a set of knitting needles.
“I think I’ll fashion a blanket out of all this. It will take me a good long while, too, since you are rather tall.”
Conall swallowed and placed his hands against the table, standing slowly.
“You can’t do this, Claire,” he rasped.
She ignored him, plopping back down in her chair as she took up the end of a long strand of yarn to begin her work.
He reached out a hand, placed it on hers, forcing her to pause. She glanced up. His face was hard, almost unreadable. He had wounds so deep she might not ever be able to reach them and soothe them, but she would try.
Claire stood once more to face him, barely a few inches separating the two of them.
“I found the golden mistletoe in my pack,” was all she said. “My aunt is healed. She doesn’t need me anymore. At least, not like before.”
Finally, Conall spoke, his tone serious. “I can never leave this place, this forest. I violated my geis when I put the mistletoe in your bag.”
Smiling softly, Claire moved to sit in Conall’s lap. He didn’t shrink away from her when she wrapped her arms around his neck. He didn’t flinch or tense up. In fact, the color of his eyes darkened and focused entirely on her.
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I like it here,” she murmured in response, then leaned in close and kissed him.
* * *
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Bane and Balm started out as a Red Riding Hood retelling set in my Otherworld universe. However, as I delved deeper into the tale, it began to take on a life of its own. I kept some elements from the original (a young woman wearing a red cloak venturing off into the woods only to encounter a cursed huntsman with eyes like a wolf). In my version, Claire is not on her way to visit her grandmother. Instead, she’s trying to figure out how to return healing waters to her aunt, and although the ‘wolf’ in question unnerves her at first, she soon realizes there is more to Conall than his gruff exterior. Although I deter from the original Red Riding Hood anecdote, I hope the fairy tale elements still ring true, and that Claire and Conall’s story resonates with all who hold a special place in their hearts for any story that takes us away to a distant world, once upon a time.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jenna Elizabeth Johnson grew up and still resides on the Central Coast of California, the very location that has become the setting of her bestselling Otherworld Trilogy, and the inspiration for her other series, The Legend of Oescienne.
For contact information, visit the author’s website at:
www.jennaelizabethjohnson.com
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Cat White
Kay McSpadden
Until he moved to the city, Liam had known only one anthromorph—or at least, one who would acknowledge publicly what Liam suspected privately. It was rude to ask outright. Not that there was anything shameful about morphing. Morphing was as natural to an anthromorph as not morphing was natural to everyone else.
Mortals outnumbered anthromorphs 100 to 1—probably 1000 to 1—though that, like everything else Liam knew about any of the Folk, was a wild guess. They were private about their gifts, and understandably so. In the middle ages—in some dark time in the past—the Folk had been hounded and hunted. Even now some mortals were fearful, or jealous, or whatever it was that made reasonable human beings not so reasonable.
The anthromorph he’d known in elementary school was a shy young boy whose family lived so far back in the woods that he was the first person on the school bus in the morning and the last one dropped off in the afternoon. Liam’s family lived out almost that far on a cattle farm of rolling pastures and meandering creeks. Often the two boys were the only ones on the bus, and over the years, they’d struck up a friendship of sorts—conversations sketched out of nothing more substantial than football statistics and anecdotes about mutual acquaintances. From time to time Liam caught a glimpse of the boy in a certain light and saw the quick, startled motions of a bird, his hooked nose and delicate elbows transformed for a second into the beak and wings of a trembling songbird. Afterwards the boy would blush, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.
Only later, on the last day of sixth grade, did he confess to Liam that he was finding it difficult not to relax his guard and morph into his bird form in front of his classmates.
“It’s really hard,” he told Liam as they bumped along in the back of the bus, “because I feel like I’m wearing a heavy wool coat all day. It’s so much easier just to stretch out my wings and fly.”
“Then you should,” Liam said. “Be who you are really are.”
He’d said it with the innocence and sympathy of a 12 year old who knew little of the history and pain of the Folk. The other boy gave a wistful, knowing smile.
In college Liam had classes with various Folk—some openly practicing mages, a red-haired Selkie from Sligo, a surprisingly amiable vampyre, and a hazy, taciturn ghost—though Liam was told that shade was the more progressive term. He was disappointed that the Folk tended to stay together rather than mingle with their mortal classmates. His early experience with the anthromorph boy, such as it was, had led him to expect more as an adult. More friendships. More authentic sharing. More…community. They didn’t rebuff him exactly, but he was aware that they moved in different circles, went to different parties he wasn’t invited to, spoke with inside knowledge about things they didn’t explain.
After college he took a job as an assistant to a record producer at a large music studio. In many ways it was an odd fit. He rarely listened to and knew almost nothing about popular music. Consequently, he was unimpressed when he met hot-shot singers and their agents who expected special treatment.
“Sure, she’s a jerk,” one of the other assistants counseled when a well-known diva complained that Liam hadn’t offered her a latte the last time she came to see the producer, “but she’s also the reason we all get a paycheck. Play nice.”
He tried. He paid attention to the music his boss produced, impressed with the process more than with the music itself. Recruiting singers and hiring studio musicians, brainstorming a concept album, coaxing the musicians to match a vision—by the time his first performance review rolled around, Liam
knew enough to walk the walk and talk the talk.
“So now it’s time to up your game,” the boss told him. “I’m not going to be in this business forever. Retirement’s looking better every day. Time to find my replacement soon.”
He sketched out his plan to Liam and the other two office assistants. Whoever could find the next big hit—single, album, instrumental, he didn’t care—would step into the producer’s chair when he retired.
Liam’s heart sank.
“You need to hit the clubs,” his roommate, Robbie, told him. “Silent Barn, Saint Vitus. Heck, you should check out the Blue Note. And the Williamsburg Playhouse. They have all kinds of indie bands on the weekend.”
So Liam went. Jazz, alternative, metal, soft rock. All of it bored him. Noise, really. That was all. At work he overheard the other two assistants laying out their strategies for covering as much of the music scene as possible. They seemed—if not exactly enthusiastic—at least geared up in a way he didn’t feel at all.
He decided to spend one Saturday updating his resume and checking his LinkedIn contacts.
“You’re giving up too easy, dude,” Robbie said. “You’ll never find another job that pays this well again.”
That was probably true. With a sigh, he closed his laptop and grabbed his jacket.
“Where are you off to?”
Liam picked up his wallet and his phone from the table by the front door. “Wherever the music takes me.”
* * *
The first place he stopped in Bushwick couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be called a club. Even dive gave it more credibility than it was due. A few scattered folding chairs in a dark room, it seemed more like a meeting place for an AA group.
He stayed long enough to hear the opening set of a band comprised entirely of boys who couldn’t have been older than 13 or 14.
The second place was down the street, a warehouse turned music venue. He paid a $20 cover and regretted it almost immediately. The first singer was so bad that she was heckled by several drunks sitting up front. The second singer was at least on key, though she mumbled the lyrics and stood so far back from the mic that her voice wavered in and out, like a bad phone connection.
He left and was on his way to the Jefferson Street subway station when he saw an ogre standing guard at the door of a multistory brick building. An ogre! Liam blinked and slowed to get a better look.
Occasionally he saw ogres doing the kinds of jobs they seemed to prefer—construction, road crews, and once, driving a Lyft during rush hour.
But this ogre was nattily dressed in a tux, a black bow like a butterfly around his thick neck. From an open door behind him came the plaintive wail of a saxophone. As Liam watched, a woman in a white fur jacket nodded at the ogre before she disappeared through the door.
Without thinking, Liam crossed the street and approached the ogre.
“Is there a charge?” he asked. The ogre turned his small, dark eyes on Liam and frowned.
“You want to go in?”
“I do,” Liam said. “See, I work for Barry King, the music producer. You’ve probably heard of him. He produced Mistress Mambo’s last album. The one that went platinum? Anyway, I’m looking for—“
He knew he was babbling but he couldn’t stop. The notes of the saxophone had changed into the plaintive weeping of an oboe. And the woman at the door—the one in the white fur jacket—before disappearing inside had looked over her shoulder and made eye contact with Liam. He knew she wanted to tell him something.
“Go,” the ogre said. His voice sounded like rocks smashing together.
Liam pointed at the door. “It’s okay? I mean, is there a charge?”
The ogre reached out and gave him a shove toward the door. Liam stumbled over the doorjamb and looked up at the scene inside.
The room seemed to go on forever. The walls and ceiling were the blue of cornflowers, with tiny white lights that floated and drifted overhead. Small round tables and chairs filled most of the space in front of the stage, a brightly lit platform where a music combo was playing a downbeat tune. Looking around for the woman in white, Liam was startled to realize that everyone appeared to be Folk.
“Something to drink?” The voice at his shoulder was silky and clear, even as the music swelled into a climax. Liam turned and saw the outline of a large green snake with yellow eyes. He blinked and the snake shimmered into the image of a woman holding a tray laden with cocktail glasses. “Take one,” she said. “It’s on the house. We don’t often get your kind in here.”
He tried not to tremble as he reached for the nearest glass. The waitress—the anthromorph—gave him a sly smile.
The music ended to applause. Several of the Folk scooted back their chairs and stood up, making their way past Liam to the door. Most did a visible double take as they passed him, and he felt his heartbeat in his throat.
It was probably a mistake to come inside, a violation of their space. And for what? Because he was intrigued by a mysterious woman. He was losing his mind. Liam moved toward an empty table and reached over to set down his drink so he could leave.
“You look like someone running away.” The woman in white was suddenly at his side, her fluffy jacket a stark contrast to her black hair which she wore pulled up in a chignon, a style that on her looked classy rather than old-fashioned. “If you want to hear some music, you ought to stay. The next singer is phenomenal.”
As she talked, Liam was transfixed. She was as slinky and lithe as a cat, with large green eyes and an upturned nose. With a start, Liam realized that she was a cat—and a beautiful woman at the same time.
They sat at the little table as the singer came on stage. Blonde and thin and dressed in a floor length red gown, the singer motioned to the bass player behind her and the music started—a slow torch song that might have been the saddest song Liam had ever heard. As her voice rose and fell, he thought he could hear the sorrow of an empty forest, the wind in abandoned trees, the rustle of grass where no one walked. It was bereft, and for the first time that he could recall, Liam was moved to tears by a song. When she finished and left the stage, the musicians played a series of soft instrumentals while the anthromorph waitress walked through the milling crowd and refreshed drinks.
“I know this sounds crazy—“ Liam began. The woman in white put her hand on his forearm, silencing him.
“You’re wondering why you’re here,” she finished for him. “It’s because I wanted you here.”
“I don’t even—“
“Know me? Not yet. My name is Catherine, by the way. Catherine White, though my friends call me Cat.”
She laughed then, a throaty purr, and Liam gave a tentative smile. Was it okay to make jokes about Folk-ness? Maybe if you were a Folk you could, but it would be bad manners if anyone else did? He felt off-kilter, as if anything he said was a landmine.
“I’m Liam,” he said. “Liam Prince.”
Cat removed her hand from Liam’s arm. “I know who you are. You work for Barry King. A friend of mine is a sound technician at the studio. He’s mentioned you.”
“I’m surprised—“
‘That people talk about you?”
“No, that any Folk work in the studio. I didn’t realize that.”
“You don’t think Folk could do the job?” She was clearly annoyed. In the faint halo of light around her, Liam saw the silhouette of a twitch of whiskers and the flick of an ear going back.
“That’s not what I meant!” he protested. “I meant, I thought I would have noticed—“
“Because Folk are so easy to spot?” Her words were clipped and sharp. “You do know that lots of Folk still feel they have to pass? To stay safe. To keep from being hassled.”
Liam felt his face grow hot. “No, I guess I didn’t realize. I never…thought about it.”
Cat looked away.
“I’m, I’m sorry,” Liam said, desperate to keep her from dismissing him. “I know I should have thought about it, but—“
/> “It’s okay,” she said, her tone softer. She turned her gaze on him and he gave an involuntary shiver.
They chatted for another hour between sets. She was a graphic designer whose work in TV had earned her two Emmy nominations, but she wanted to paint.
“Watercolors, actually,” she said. “Portraits, landscapes. Even abstracts. I just want to do my own art.” Her expression darkened. “But it would never sell. Mortals aren’t interested.”
“You should try anyway,” Liam said in a rush. “Be who you really are.”
Cat gave him the same knowing, wistful smile that he remembered from that anthromorph boy all those years ago.
“You’re a nice guy,” she said, “but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
* * *
They started meeting up on the weekends at the club to listen to music and to talk. Cat seemed to have a keen ear for the best singers, pointing out their range and technique as if she were the music producer. For the first time in his life, Liam was genuinely moved by music, the emotionality of it catching him off guard.
“I don’t know why more mortals don’t come here,” he said. “This puts everything else to shame.”
He tried to talk Robbie into joining him one weekend but he begged off with a transparent excuse.
“I told you,” Cat said. “Mortals aren’t interested in what Folk have to offer.”
“That’s not true,” Liam said. “I know Folk working in lots of jobs.”
“Lots?” Cat said, one eyebrow arched.
“I’m pretty sure my dental hygienist is an anthromorph octopus. She has more tentacles than is humanly possible.”