“A gift freely given, then,” the demon said. “Along with my name. I am Aerico. The fox is familiar to me. You are not. Some winter spirit, yes? Some cousin to Pelznickel?”
Frost glared at him. “Frost.”
“Ah, yes. Jack Frost. Well, when you are through lecturing your friend you may want to reconsider your rudeness. So many of your kind have been slaughtered already. Father Christmas and Knecht Ruprecht and so many of your winter cousins. Krampus is too cruel and crafty to be taken so easily. But the others . . . the Strigae bring the whispers and songs each morning. The Hunters are abroad and the Borderkind are dying or disappearing. Roanes and Merrows slain and worn as coats. Jenny Greenteeth is dead. Even the gods of the Harvest are among the hunted. Appleseed has vanished, missing for days now.”
“So many,” Frost said softly, hanging his head.
Kitsune rubbed herself against Oliver’s leg, orange-red fur alight with sunshine, and as she did she transformed again, growing to stand beside him as though she had been there all along. She had, of course, but the transformation was always startling. Her hood shaded her face, those exquisite Asiatic features, and her fur cloak clung to her body even as she moved, brushing the stone underfoot.
“You see, then, why we may not trust you,” Kitsune rasped. “We must continue on. If you wish to be hospitable, give us not nourishment but information. Have the Strigae spoken of Hunters nearby? Have any crossed the bridge of late? Answers are a gift we would gratefully accept.”
Aerico grinned, revealing teeth as black as rot, and the demon’s fingers and toes curled around the branches to which it clung. Those deep-set eyes blinked several times and it extended its body forward far enough that the sunlight streaming through the outer branches dappled its smooth purple head.
“You are the only strangers I have seen on the bridge today. But there are others who are not strangers to me. And while they might not hunt such as yourselves . . .” One of those long, spindly fingers pointed at Oliver, who shuddered as though the demon touched his very heart. “. . . I’d wager they would not look kindly upon any who’d bring an Intruder through the Veil.”
Kitsune darted forward in a single swift motion, leaping up onto the stone rail and perching there as she thrust her hands into the cherry tree’s branches and wrapped her hands around the demon’s throat.
Aerico choked, trying to withdraw into the deeper shadows of the heart of the tree. Kitsune held tightly.
“You shall say nothing of his—”
The demon twisted and kicked at her head, knocking her hood back. Kitsune lost her grip and nearly tumbled from the bridge. She kept her balance, but only barely.
“I will not have to say a word. The army comes even now!”
Oliver frowned and glanced at Frost, but the winter man had already turned. He was staring back the way they had come, pale blue eyes wide with alarm. Frost snarled in a guttural voice. If they were words, Oliver did not understand them, but he garnered their meaning well enough.
The first few soldiers of some kind of militia had just appeared over the rise in the west, following the Truce Road just as they had.
The winter man spun, icicle hair whipping around his head, and looked in the other direction, gauging their distance to the far side of the Atlantic Bridge. When Oliver sought Kitsune he found that she was transformed again.
“Are they after us?” Oliver stared at Frost’s cold eyes.
“It matters little. The word has traveled. If they discover you, it will not go well.” For just a moment he hesitated, eyes narrowing with suspicion as he glanced at the demon of the cherry tree. Then he gestured toward the trees.
“Hurry. Into the branches. Climb down.”
“But—”
“We’ve no choice!”
A chill breeze encircled Oliver and urged him toward the stone rail. Frost was beside him. The demon scuttled back farther toward the trunk of the tree as the fox leaped from the bridge onto a tree limb. Oliver crouched on the rail and steadied himself on one branch, then swung down to find a foothold on a thicker limb below. Frost was there above him, red cherries like blossoming wounds against the white ice.
“Down, down, to the island, and quiet about it,” Aerico said, a trace of gleeful hysteria in his voice. “I told you I was hospitable. The orchard will hide you.”
Oliver paused in the lower branches of the massive cherry tree. He could see through the leaves that the island spread out around the stone footing of the bridge support, and there were far more trees than he had guessed. The orchard was dense and the fruit fairly glistened where the sun touched it.
“Wait. Be still,” Frost said from above.
On a branch to Oliver’s right, the fox sat watching him with her jade eyes. At the sound of marching boots, heavy and rhythmic as they crossed the bridge, she glanced up. All four of them gazed up at the bridge and waited. Oliver held his breath for long seconds and then began letting it out slowly, soundlessly. He had no idea what sort of creatures would be in the army of Euphrasia, or if they might have ears acute enough to hear him breathe. Or noses that might catch his scent, or those of his companions. Kitsune had been aware of the demon’s presence. Oliver did not even want to think about what might happen if they were discovered down here. On this little island in the rushing river, there was nowhere to run.
The marching grew louder. Up on the bridge, an officer shouted muffled orders.
From this angle, Oliver could see nothing of the army save for upturned pikes bobbing and the helmets of soldiers who passed near the side of the bridge. Something massive lumbered by, shaking loose mortar from the underside of the structure, but he saw only the stooped shoulder or back of the thing moving past like the black, gleaming body of a whale breaching the ocean for an instant before sliding back beneath the surface.
The faux fur around the hood of his parka itched his neck and he felt heavy, clinging to the branches there. The shotgun case was like an anchor. He tried to catch Frost’s eye and then Kitsune’s, but both of them were staring up at the bridge and listening intently to the sound of boot heels on stone. Reluctantly he glanced around for Aerico and found the demon resting against the trunk behind and above him. The demon smiled, staring at Oliver with those sunken eyes, as though the fear that ran like mercury through him was all of the entertainment Aerico had ever desired. Oliver tore his gaze away and forced himself to stare at the masonry of the bridge, trying not to feel the eyes upon him or the nearness of so many who would kill him simply for existing if they discovered him there. He had never wanted to come here . . .
But that was a lie. He had wanted to pierce the Veil his entire life, even before he had known that it existed.
A full minute passed as the soldiers filed by, and then at last the pikes and helmets were gone and the thunder of the march diminished. The demon made his skin crawl, but Oliver knew that Aerico had saved them a terrible encounter.
“Thank you,” he said, hoping he hid his reluctance as he forced himself to look up at the cherry-tree demon again. Aerico was sprawled across branches, fingers and toes curled round them like a sloth, studying him with great interest. The demon was no longer smiling.
“Oh,” it said. “You are quite welcome.”
Oliver recoiled from the menace in its voice, readjusting his grip on the rough bark, parka and shotgun weighing on him. His left foot slipped as he backed away from the demon and he looked past Aerico, past branches and thick leaves and bunches of cherries, hoping for intervention from Frost or Kitsune.
The fox was curled in several branches, captured by them, one of them prying her jaws open as she tried a muffled bark.
Beside her the winter man had been impaled on a half-dozen tree limbs. They had spiked through him, burst from his neck and skull and torso, and where they had emerged, fresh clusters of cherries grew. These were no longer the illusions of wounds.
“Oh, you fucker,” Oliver whispered. He felt faint, felt as though he would lose his grip and tumble from the tree. But as he tried to move his hand it was held fast to the branch.
Frenzied, he swung his head around to see what had grabbed hold of him, thinking the branches would capture him as they had Kitsune. But this was far worse. The branches were not moving. Instead, the bark of the cherry tree had begun to grow up over his fingers, spreading. A cherry blossom bloomed on the bark that covered his hand.
The demon laughed and whispered something, dangling from the branches above him. He thought it was one word.
Hospitality.
CHAPTER 9
T
he demon’s pink eyes gleamed wetly in the shadows among the tree’s branches. Its smile split the cherry-purple flesh of its face to reveal those black, rotting teeth again.
If I don’t get out of this tree, I’m dead.
Numbed by shock and dread, Oliver felt a grim coolness settle upon him. He did not spare another glance at his companions, could not afford to consider their fate before his own.
“Bascombe,” Aerico said, reaching down toward him with one hand, those spindly digits stretching as though to caress his face. “That’s the name on the warrant. There’s a reward for your life, do you know that? Oh, word gets around quickly enough. The Strigae are wonderful that way. Now, Bascombe, we shall sample some of
your
fruit.”
All thought of strategy left Oliver then. Animal fear overrode logic and he reacted like a wolf caught in a trap. Pain did not matter. Only freedom. Oliver grabbed a branch above him and shook it fiercely, trying to set the cherry-tree demon off balance. Holding on to that branch as an anchor, he twisted his arm around, trying to tear his fingers from the bark that was growing up over them. It was attached to his skin somehow and his flesh burned as he worked it loose, as though he was tearing off the upper layer.
Aerico held fast to the branches that supported it and sneered at his efforts. “Oh, I think not. You’ll just stay here until I get my reward. Or most of you will.” The demon ran his long, thin black tongue over those disgusting teeth and it reached out to grab Oliver’s arm.
Oliver flinched back. The cherry-tree demon’s fingers only grazed his wrist, but where it touched, bright red blisters erupted. It occurred to him then that the demon was toying with him, that it did not consider him a threat and so had attacked the Borderkind first.
When the demon reached for him again Oliver shouted the filthiest obscenities he could think of as a kind of battle cry and threw himself backward, simultaneously tearing his hand away from the bark that had grown over his fingers. His skin burned. Pain drove up his arm and for a moment it took his focus, so that he barely felt himself dropping through the lower branches of the tree, branches and leaves and cherries whipping past him as he fell. He struck a thick branch and his weight and momentum broke it, the parka helping to blunt the pain of the impact.
He crashed to the island on his back, grunting in pain as he landed on the shotgun case that he still carried. The wind was knocked out of him and he struggled to breathe, face flush with pain and panic, his shoulder and spine aching as though he’d been struck with a baseball bat. Above him he heard Kitsune begin to bark, and somewhere in the midst of his agony and terror felt a small spark of relief that she was alive. Twined in those branches, she could not transform or the constriction might be the death of her. But for the moment, the cherry tree had not killed her.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Bascombe. If it is a game you desire, I will play.” Aerico clambered down through the branches toward him.
Oliver stared up at the demon as it descended. His fingers were scraped raw, a hundred pinpricks of pain. He took in long, ragged gasps of air, steadying himself. The ache in his back was so brutal he thought there was a chance it might be broken, and that he would then lie here like carrion awaiting the vulture’s arrival.
Except for the times he had played one on stage— and perhaps that was why he enjoyed acting— Oliver Bascombe had never been a hero. Not even the hero of his own life. In his own mind. He had studiously avoided conflict. But he was more terrified of dying than he was of fighting.
He rolled over and staggered to his feet, muscles in his back protesting. Unsteadily he backed away, staring up at the cherry tree, and swung the shotgun case around so that it hung in front of him. Aerico laughed softly in that sticky voice and dropped to the lowest limbs of the cherry tree. Oliver shot back the zipper and reached in, hauling out the gun. There was more ammunition in the case, but the shells already loaded would be all the chance the demon would give him. He let the case fall to the ground and swung the shotgun barrel up.
Aerico leaped out of the tree. Oliver tracked him with the gun and fired. The blast resounded across the island, bouncing off the masonry of the bridge and echoing out over the river. Leaves flew and cherries exploded and a branch cracked and hung toward the ground. But the demon had not been lunging at Oliver at all. The branches of the next tree swayed and Oliver’s stomach twisted as he realized Aerico had made the leap from one to the next like some flying squirrel.
