An Artificial Night - BK 3 (44 page)

“I’m more of an atheist, really,” I said.

“I see.” He smiled, extending an empty hand toward me. I thought I heard the Riders around us shout in triumph; then they were gone, voices fading as the mists surged up to block the landscape. “But church is such a quiet, welcoming place. There’s no pain there, little changeling. No death. No need for swords.”

The sword in my hands vanished, swallowed by the mist. I clenched my fingers together, trying to find it, but touched only air. I looked up, furious—and met Blind Michael’s empty eyes. His smile didn’t waver. I couldn’t look away.

“No pain,” he whispered. “No death, no need to fight. Come back, little changeling. Come back to me and be with me forever.”

The whiteness of his eyes expanded, just like his sister’s, and I was drowning. “I’m not yours,” I said, forcing the words out one by one. It was getting hard to move or think, and something in the back of my mind was shouting hosannas, ready to leap back into his arms.

How much of me belonged to him? How much of me was ready to betray the rest? I sucked the inside of my cheek, trying to use the blood I knew was there, but I couldn’t taste anything; his magic was too strong, and he wouldn’t be caught that way twice.

“I don’t want this,” I whispered, aware of how weak I sounded. He took another step toward me and I dropped to my knees, staring up at him. There was no pain this time. Either I’d lost more blood than I thought, or he was just that strong—and either way, the odds were good that I was screwed.

“Why not?” he asked, pressing his hand against my cheek. My vision was struggling to fragment back into the multiplicity of the Ride. I caught fleeting glimpses through other eyes, watching a changeling bleeding to death as she bowed before her lord and master. “You’re lost without me.”

Oh, oak and ash, Luidaeg, Sylvester, Quentin, I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing this time. I thought it was important.

“I’m not . . . lost . . .” He was filling the world. There was nothing left but Blind Michael and the mist, and the brief, fractured visions I was stealing from other eyes.

“Oh, but you are,” he said. “You’re lost. You can’t get there or back again; not anymore. Now close your eyes and let me take you home.”

Home? Home. It sounded like a wonderful idea; all I had to do was close my eyes, and he’d take care of everything else. He’d make the world everything it was meant to be. I knew I was bleeding. I knew his home was nothing but enchantment and lies. It still sounded right, and I was so tired . . .

I lowered my head, shivering. I’d have the strength to try this once; if I failed, all bets were off. “Yes,” I whispered. “Take me home.” Blind Michael straightened and removed his hand from my cheek, confident again now that he’d won me back.

That was what I’d been waiting for.

He stepped away and I lunged, scrabbling in the dust. The ground had no texture; it was just mist. Behind me, he laughed. “What are you doing, little changeling? What are you hoping to find?”

My hand hit something and I grabbed it blindly, hoping. There was a brief, stabbing pain in my forehead as the taste of blood filled my mouth, and then my candle was bursting into flame, bright blue and gleaming like a star through the dissolving mist. Jackpot. I stood and turned to face Blind Michael, wiping the blood out of my eyes with my free hand.

Every visible inch of me was covered in blood, running from the nearly countless cuts covering my body. It was getting harder to focus, and not because of anything that he’d done; the Blood Road demands its tolls. “I will not go with you,” I hissed.

He looked almost frightened. Good for him. Sylvester’s sword was lying in the dust between us; he stepped toward it and I advanced to meet him, the candle held in front of me like a shield. “Do you really think you can threaten me?” he demanded.

It would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t been shaking. “Yes,” I said, and smiled. My mouth tasted of blood, and for once, that was a reassuring thing. As long as I could taste the blood, he couldn’t catch me.

Blind Michael lunged, going for the sword. He was closer than I was, and so I didn’t even try to beat him; I jumped back instead, grabbing my knife from Acacia’s lap. “Come on, Michael. It’s not even a fair fight. You’re older and stronger than I am. Now take me down!”

He clutched Sylvester’s sword, expression telegraphing his unease. When was the last time anything truly frightened him? The Riders were whispering in the darkness, but none of them were stepping forward to help him. He was fighting me alone. “You’re beneath me,” he said, trying to sound confident.

“Doesn’t sound like you believe that,” I said. Baiting him was fun, but I didn’t have time for fun. I relaxed enough to let his borrowed eyes tell him my guard was down, and then lunged.

It’s hard to fight what you can’t see, and Blind Michael couldn’t really see me. He had a hundred borrowed perspectives to use, but he was missing the most important one of all: his own. He swung wildly as I approached, and I didn’t even try to block. The sword hit my upper arm, opening a long, shallow cut between my shoulder and elbow. It was a glancing blow—it hurt, but not badly, and it wasn’t going to be crippling. Good. My own attack depended on him thinking he could win, if only for a moment. He thought he had the upper hand; I could see it in the way he let his blade dip, not bothering to brace for a parry.

My shoulder hit him in the chest, bowling him over. He hadn’t been expecting that. Idiot. I had nothing but a knife, while he was wearing armor and had a sword—where, exactly, was the benefit in attacking him directly? Disarming him was a much better approach.

He hit the ground hard, Sylvester’s sword skidding out of his hand. I landed on his chest, bracing my knees against his upper arms and pressing the edge of my knife against his throat. “What does it take to kill a god?” I asked, coldly.

“You can’t hurt me,” he said.

“Too bad you don’t believe that.” I bore down, pressing the blade harder against his skin. My blood was falling over everything, making it impossible to tell whether I was really hurting him. “How long since you did your own fighting, Michael? How long since you started hiding behind children?”

“I—”

“How
long?
” I shouted. He stopped struggling, eyes closing, and I looked up to see the Ride staring at me in unified terror. They finally believed that I’d do it. That I was going to kill their lord . . .

And I couldn’t. Nothing I did would hurt him enough; nothing. He needed to suffer forever. I shuddered, letting my head droop as I tried to calm myself enough to slit his throat.

Then Acacia’s hand was on my shoulder, and a knife was landing in the dust beside me. “Kill him or let him go, Amandine’s daughter, but don’t torture him,” she said. “Make your choice. You haven’t got much time.”

I looked up. “Acacia—”

She looked down at me, the short tendrils of her hair curling around her face. When I distracted Blind Michael, that must have broken his hold on her, allowing her to rip herself free. “No. You let others make your choices too often. Kill him or let him live, but do it now. No more games.”

“I don’t know what to
do.
”

“You always know. You just don’t listen to yourself.” She shook her head, turning, and started to walk away. The Riders parted to let her pass, still silent, still staring at me.

Choices. Oh, Oberon’s blood, choices.

I put the candle between my teeth, keeping my knife pressed tight against Blind Michael’s throat. The flame licked at my cheek, filling the air with the hot smell of singed blood as I reached out and picked up Acacia’s knife. I almost dropped it when the metal hit my hand. Iron—it was made of iron. It would have to be; did I really think I could kill one of the Firstborn with silver alone? That was never an option. Not really.

My father was human; I can stand the touch of iron, if only barely. I forced my hand to close around the hilt, looking at Blind Michael through the thin haze of blood clouding my eyes. I was looking for my hatred, but I couldn’t find it. I found pity and anger, but no hate. He was insane. He hurt people because he didn’t know any better; he hadn’t known better for a long time. Did that absolve him of what he’d done? No. Did that make it right for me to torture him?

No. It didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t forgive you.” I lifted my hand, bringing the two knives together, and slammed them together down into his throat.

Iron slices through faerie flesh like it’s nothing but dry leaves and air. That’s what iron exists to do: it kills us. Silver can do almost as well, if you use it properly. Acacia’s knife was iron, Dare’s was silver, and I held them together as I thrust downward.

He screamed when the blades broke his skin; it was a high, childish sound, the last gasp of someone who thought he was invincible. My vision fragmented for an instant, shared between a hundred sets of eyes before the Ride fell as well, clutching their chests, eyes closing. For that moment, I was Blind Michael; I was broken; I was bleeding; I was dying.

And then there was nothing but blood. The tolls had been paid—I just didn’t know who’d paid them or whether it was done in time. Him or me? The age-old question. I slumped forward onto Blind Michael’s corpse, eyes closing. It didn’t really matter; he was dead, I had won, and I couldn’t fight anymore.

No more children would suffer because of him. In the end, I’d proved myself as a child of Oberon’s line, no matter how much I tried to deny it; I was a hero, and I was dying like one, and that was all right, because it was how things had to be. I let out a long, slow breath, relaxing at last, while blood ran down my cheeks like heavy crimson tears.

I was done.

The darkness was almost polite as it came for me, wrapping itself around my fading mind. I had time to wonder if the night-haunts would be able to find me in Blind Michael’s lands; then there was only darkness and the sweet taste of blood.

I was done.

T
HE TASTE OF BLOOD WOKE ME. I opened my eyes and rolled over, spitting at the ground. It didn’t help. The air around me was light—too light—with a strange, even brightness. It was a little jarring. I sat up and looked around, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

I was lying on a bed of moss at the edge of Acacia’s forest, shrouded by the sheltering trees. The branches above me were putting out new leaves, pale green and trembling in the air. They were growing. Everything was growing. The sky between the branches was dark, but three pale moons shone against the blackness, surrounded by a scattering of stars. The strange new light was moonlight. The stars didn’t form constellations I knew, but it was comforting to see them; they were a sign that the long night of this land was changing, if not coming to an end.

The bushes rustled behind me, and I turned to see Acacia walking toward me. The branches bent away from her as she walked, avoiding the hem of her gray silk gown, and her short-cropped hair was curled into a nest of tiny knots that rearranged themselves as I watched. She wasn’t wearing her cloak. I stared at her, openmouthed, as I realized what she’d been hiding. I’d never seen her without that cloak; she’d changed gowns, but the covering had always remained the same. I could finally see why.

Acacia had opened her wings. They were broad moth’s wings, pale green with golden “eyes” at their tops. The edges were tattered from their long confinement, but they’d heal; anything that could last as long as she had would need to be resilient. And they were beautiful.

“You have wings,” I said, amazed.

“I do,” she said, still smiling.

“But why did you hide them?”

“Because if Michael forgot them, he wouldn’t take them like he took everything else.” She tilted her face upward, closing her eyes. “I can feel the stars. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel the stars.”

“Is he . . . ?” I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask if I’d killed her husband, so I stopped.

“Dead? Yes, you killed him.” She smiled, eyes still closed. “He’s as dead as dead can be. No more midnight rides or stolen children, no more blood on his hands—or on mine.”

“Bloody hands.” I looked down at my own hands, almost afraid of what I’d see. Dried blood was caked under my nails and in the creases of my knuckles, but the cuts were gone. My skin was whole. “I’m not bleeding.”

“You paid the toll.”

I started to stand, stopping and wincing as I tried to put weight on my left arm. Looking more closely, I saw that my jacket and sweater were slashed open all the way to the elbow; the cut beneath was long and raw. “Not entirely.”

“My husband gave you that. It wasn’t part of your fee.” She lowered her head, opening her eyes. “Consider it a part of your reward.”

“What happens now? Are you free?”

“What does free mean, I wonder?” Acacia shook her head. “I won’t leave these lands, if that’s what you mean; they’ve been my home too long. I don’t know the world you come from. It would be no home for me.”