An Artificial Night - BK 3 (13 page)

“But I’ve seen his Hunt.”

“They ride when the fancy strikes them. He Rides only when there are children to be claimed. He’s vulnerable one night out of every hundred years—the odds are against you. No one stops him.”

“I will,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel.

The Luidaeg shook her head. “This isn’t another crazy changeling, Toby. This is
Blind Michael.
He’s stronger than I am. I couldn’t stop him. What makes you think you can?”

“Nothing,” I said, with complete honesty. It pays not to lie to the Luidaeg. She might take offense and rip off one of your limbs. “I’m probably going to die horribly.”

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your fatalistic outlook on life,” she said, clapping her hand down on another cockroach. “It’s always been one of your best features. Why bother going if you know you’re going to fail?”

“I have to.”

“Why?” she asked, popping the roach into her mouth. “It’s pointless. If you’re that anxious to die, just say the word. It would save us all a
lot
of trouble.”

“I don’t want to die.” That’s why I was negotiating with a woman who’d threatened to kill me at various points in the past. Sometimes my life seems devoid of any logic whatsoever.

“Then
why?
”

“I have to,” I repeated. “He took two of my best friend’s children, and there’s a third who won’t wake up, no matter what we do, and that doesn’t even touch the kids he took from the Court of Cats. I have to try. How could I live with myself if I didn’t?”

“I see.” Almost gently, she said, “If I help you—and you
need
me to help you—you’ll owe me. Can you live with that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Luidaeg. Three times asked and three times sure.” I shook my head. “You want my word, you have it. Now please. Tell me what I need to know.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms, leaning against the cutting board. “You have to move fast; he’ll have started to change the children, but he hasn’t had them long enough to do any permanent damage. Wait too long and you won’t save any of them. You’ll go tonight, and you’ll go alone, and you won’t look back. Because the rules say so.” Her smile showed the edge of a single scrimshaw fang. “It’s the beginning of September. He’ll hold them until Halloween night, changing them to suit his whims, and then they’ll Ride. It’s his way of remembering our mother. Her Rides were always held on Samhain night.”

I nodded, feeling the first flickers of hope. “So there’s a chance.”

“The rules let you try, right here, right now. I don’t know if you’ll succeed.” She yanked open a drawer, digging through it. “The rules require me to warn you, just so you know.”

“Warn me?”

“You go alone. You can take any help you find, but you can’t ask for it. You fight with what you have and what you’re given; neither steal nor buy any weapon of any kind. You can take each road once, and only once, and some roads not even that often. You go
now.
Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. Do you know where you have to go?”

“Blind Michael’s lands.”

“No.” She shook her head. “If that’s all you know, you’re finished before you start. Stop, think, and ask again.” She straightened, a paring knife in one hand. The handle was made of pearl and abalone, and the blade was a curl of silver barely wider than my finger. It looked like it could cut the air.

I kept my eyes on her face, trying to ignore the knife. It wasn’t working. “Just once, I wish you’d speak English like a normal person.”

“What would be the fun in that? Give me your hand.” I blinked, automatically holding out my left hand; she grabbed it, raking the blade across my palm. It cut deep, but there was no pain. Yet.

“Hey!” I yelped, yanking my hand away.

She looked at me impassively. “Give me back your hand.”

“No!”

“We can do this the easy way, or we can not do it at all. You can wander the hills looking for Blind Michael and never see him coming . . . or you can give me your hand, and I can give you a road to follow.” She shrugged. “It’s your call. You owe me either way.”

Great. Rock? Meet hard place. I extended my hand, trying not to think about what I was doing. Spike jumped down to the counter where it crouched, rattling its thorns.

The Luidaeg looked at it, amused. “Fierce protector.”

“It does its best,” I said, watching with sick fascination as the blood started to flow over my palm.

“You’d be surprised at how deep rose thorns can cut. They’re pretty, not safe.” She wrapped her fingers around my wrist, turning my palm toward the floor. Blood spattered on the dirty linoleum. The Luidaeg dumped a handful of tarnished silver coins into a baby food jar and shoved it under my hand, saying, “Hold this. We only need a little blood.”

“Why do we need
any?
” I was trying not to be sick. I’ve never liked the sight of my own blood. If I get hurt in the line of duty, I can usually handle it until I’m out of the path of certain doom. Standing in the Luidaeg’s kitchen with no visible dangers—except maybe the Luidaeg herself—was forcing me to fight the urge to stick my head between my knees and pass out.

“Because there are no free roads, moron,” she said, sorting through the mess on her counter. “You should know that by now.” She turned back to me, holding a length of filthy, off-white twine. “You’re going to need a map. The blood pays for it; proves you mean it.”

“A map
where?
”

“Back in time and just around the corner. You’re going to visit my brother, and he’s choosy about who he lets through the door. Give me that.” She took the jar from my hand. “Silver that’s come a long way already, the iron in your blood . . . it’s going to have to do. Go ahead and run your hand under the tap, but don’t bandage it. The wound’s not going with you.”

“What are you talking about?” I turned on the faucet, looking dubiously at the cloudy water, and then stuck my hand under it. The cold registered a moment before the pain. I shrieked and jumped back, turning to glare at the Luidaeg.

She shrugged. “I’m the sea witch, remember? Were you expecting fresh water?”

I shouldn’t have been, but I was. I’d stopped worrying about the Luidaeg and started thinking only about her brother; that was a mistake. “No,” I said, quietly. “I guess not.”

“Good girl.” She dropped the twine into the jar and screwed the lid on before shaking it. The coins rattled, and the blood sloshed against the glass. I looked away. “Wimp,” she chided. I looked around to see her uncap the jar, pouring the contents into a wax mold, and topping them with salt water from the tap.

“What are you doing?” Blood rituals are dangerous. If I was going into one, I wanted to know.

“Making your map.” She lifted the mold and shattered it against the kitchen counter, easily catching the candle that fell out of the shards. “Perfect.”

I stared.

The candle was a foot long, made of multicolored wax. Swirling streaks of moon white, copper red and pale straw gold mingled together in long, lazy spirals. The wick was a deep, rich brown, like long-dried blood. “What the—”

“There are three ways I could send you to my brother.” She turned the candle in her hand, making the colors in the wax seem to dance. “There’s the Blood Road—you could take it, but you don’t want to. Not if you want a chance to come home alive. There’s the Old Road, but even with my help, you couldn’t find the door as you are. You’re too much of a mongrel.”

“What does that leave?” I asked. Spike was still rattling its thorns, growling. It didn’t like this. Neither did I.

“The last road.” She held up the candle and smiled, almost sadly. “The road you walk by candlelight. It’s not going to be easy—it never could be—but you have iron, and you have silver, and you can get there and back if you hurry.”

“How do I get started?”

“Did you jump rope when you were a kid?”

I stared at her. “What?”

“Jump rope. Did you stand on the playground jumping over a piece of moving rope and chanting? Cinderella dressed in yellow, Miss Suzy’s steamboat?”

“Of course.”

“Blind Michael is a child’s terror. When you’re hunting bogeymen, you look for the nets you need in the stories you’ve almost forgotten.” Her eyes flashed white. “Look where the roses grow. You need to take a walk to my brother’s lands. Do you remember the way?”

“I never knew it!”

“Of course you did. You’ve just forgotten. How many miles to Babylon?”

“What?”

The Luidaeg sighed. “You’re not
listening.
How many miles to Babylon?”

The phrase was familiar. I paused, searching for the answer in the half-forgotten memories of the childhood I’d long since left behind, and ventured, “Threescore miles and ten?”

She nodded. “Good. Do you know how to get back again?”

“You can get there and back by a candle’s light.” I could remember holding hands with Stacy while we jumped and Julie and Kerry turned the rope, certain we’d be young and laughing and friends forever.

“Even better. Are your feet nimble and light? For your sake, they’d better be.” She opened the refrigerator, removing a brown glass bottle capped with a piece of plastic wrap and a rubber band. “But there are ways to fake that sort of thing. Here.” She held the bottle out to me.

I looked at it dubiously. I could hear the stuff inside it fizzing. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Did someone hit you with the stupid stick this morning? You’re supposed to drink it.”

“Do I have another option?”

“Do you want to come back alive?”

I sighed, reaching for the bottle. “Right.” The plastic wrap disintegrated where I touched it. “How much do I need to—”

“The whole thing.”

There was no point in arguing. I lifted the bottle, swallowing its contents as fast as I could. It was like drinking mud mixed with battery acid and bile. Gagging, I wrapped my arms around my waist and doubled over. Spike jumped off the counter and bristled at the Luidaeg, howling, but I was too busy trying to make the world stop spinning to care. I didn’t want to throw up on the Luidaeg’s floor. There was no telling what she’d do with it.

“If you throw up,” she said, sharply, “you
will
drink it again.”

The reasons not to be sick got better and better. Still gagging, I forced myself to straighten. The Luidaeg nodded, apparently satisfied. Spike kept howling, thorny tail lashing.

“You and me both,” I mumbled. My throat felt charred, but the pain in my hand was gone. I glanced down. The wound on my palm was closing. Somehow, that just seemed like the natural progression of events.

“Now,” said the Luidaeg. “Come here.”

One day I’m going to learn not to listen when she says that.

I stepped forward. She reached out, grabbing my chin and forcing my head up until our eyes met. Her pupils and irises dwindled, filling her eyes from top to bottom with white. I froze, unable to move or look away. She’s older than I am, much, much older, and catching me doesn’t even challenge her.

She smiled again. The expression wasn’t getting any nicer—practice doesn’t always make perfect. “How many miles to Babylon?”

I swallowed. “Threescore miles and ten.” The air felt thick and cold. I was losing myself in the white of her eyes, and I didn’t know whether I’d ever be found.

“Can you get there by candlelight?” She forced the candle into my hand. I clutched it, feeling the blood it was made from singing to me, even though I was barely feeling my own skin. This wasn’t good at all, but the further I fell, the less I cared. “Can you, October Daye, daughter of Amandine?”

“Yes, and back again.”

“If your feet are nimble and light, you’ll get there and back by the candle’s light.” She leaned down, placing a kiss on each of my cheeks. I blinked at her, puzzled. She was too tall or maybe I was too small, and the world was falling away. “You have a day. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said. My voice sounded thin and far away, and a pale mist was blurring my vision, leaving only the whiteness of the Luidaeg’s eyes. I could still hear Spike howling, but I couldn’t see it.

“I hope you do.” She tapped the wick with one finger, and it burst into dark blue flame. The light pulled the color out of the world, leaving me alone in a sea of mist. The Luidaeg had vanished with everything else, and the sky above me—sky? When did I go outside?—was endless and infinitely black.

“Luidaeg?” I called.

Her voice chanted from the middle distance, light and faded as a memory or ghost. “How many miles to Babylon? It’s threescore miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Aye, and back again. If your feet are nimble and your steps are light, you can get there and back by the candle’s light.” She paused, voice changing cadences. “Children’s games are stronger than you remember once you’ve grown up and left them behind. They’re always fair, and never kind. Remember.” Then she was silent, leaving me alone in the seemingly endless mist.

“Luidaeg?” I shouted. I didn’t want to be there; more, I didn’t want to be there alone.

The candle’s flame jumped and surged in time with my panic, a tiny light beating against the darkness. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I staggered, dropping the candle. It hit the ground and rolled several feet, blue flame burning away the mists as it touched them. At least the blood that it contained kept singing to me, keeping me from losing track of its location. I scrambled after it, realizing dimly that I wasn’t wearing the dress anymore. Then I reached the candle and curled myself around the light, and wept until the dizziness passed.