Summer (6 page)

“Corpse-stink,” Lolo said, breathing through his mouth. “That’s the
sluagh
.
”

Summer’s scalp prickled. “Are they here?”

“No,” Barker said from the shadows, making Summer jump and fumble her flashlight. “It’s their prison you smell.”

“Fuck!” Lolo hissed. “Can you be less dramatic? Almost pissed my pants, you bastard.”

Barker murmured a word in the Gaelic. The pit went all bright and white and stark, then black again. Summer blinked, momentarily blinded.

“The Gate sucks it away,” Barker said. He sounded mild, but Summer thought she could smell his fear mixed with the corpse-stink. “Starlight. My torch lasted only a moment before the batteries died.”

Summer’s own flashlight began to flicker in reply. She switched it quickly off, alarmed by the dying strobe.

“Didn’t used to do that,” complained Lolo. “Always just spat out monsters.”

“Where is it?” Summer demanded as Lolo’s light faded. “I can’t see it. It’s too dark.”

“Look.” Barker took her shoulders. “This way. The moon has mostly set, but you can see a glint off the water.”

At first Summer didn’t understand. Then she saw it, all at once, a blacker patch in the darkness, and at its center a shifting gleam: faint light off the roll of waves, but so far away it was like watching the neighbor’s television one apartment building over.

“I can see it now.” She stretched out a hand, but the reflection of moon-on-water stayed out of reach. “It’s floating. Winter’s portal.”

“Sluagh
door,” said Lolo, disgusted. “What’s it doing here? Used to be all the way down past L’Enfant.”

“It moved.”

“No shit. How’d it do that?”

“I’m not positive.” Barker tried Gathering starlight again. It flashed and then fizzled, but this time Summer knew what she was looking for, and caught a quick glimpse of the Gate itself: a man-sized tear in the air, no wider than a bathtub, floating at knee-height.

“It needs to be closed,” Barker said. “Before it begins to suck in more than light and warmth.”

“Like a black hole,” Lolo said.

“You can’t close it!” Summer argued, frightened. “Not if Winter’s in there!”

“Is he? Lorenzo, are you certain?”

“I saw him go in. Dunno if he still is.”

“It’s a one-way door,” Barker murmured. “Shoddily made by a child who didn’t know what he was attempting and was lacking in both knowledge and power.”

“It can’t be one-way. You’re wrong. Win wouldn’t leave us behind. He promised Mama.” Summer made herself speak calmly, one word at a time, willing Barker to understand. “He has to kill the queen, and save Mama. You know he has to. We have the sword, we have Hannah.” She wanted to shout, but thought her father would disapprove. “Winter
promised
.
”

“Summer.” Lolo’s hand found Summer’s in the dark. He squeezed her fingers. “Calm down. We’ll figure something out. Win will figure something out. He always does. He’ll find a way back, because you’re right, he wouldn’t leave us.”

She heard Barker shift, Barker who was always sill.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s possible your brother didn’t know. Either way, the Gate needs to be closed before the
sluagh
grow restless again.”

“No. I won’t let you.” To Summer’s shame, she felt tears overflow her lashes and drip down the side of her nose. “You can’t. I’m Siobahn’s daughter, princess of the royal blood. And I’m telling you: leave it open!”

Lolo’s hand slid up her wrist, tightening. She thought he meant to pull her out of range in case Barker flipped out. She was wrong.

“Summer,” the boy said. “He’s right. You’ve never seen the shit the ghouls get up to. The things they do. It’s bad, Summer. They’re really bad.”

“Your brother spent every moment of the last ten years trying to protect mortals from this gate,” Barker said evenly, a low growl in the dark. “His best friend brought down the earth trying to close it. And you’ll tell me no,
Samhradh?
Make very sure, before you speak again. Because I’m bound to listen.”

“Summer,” Lolo pleaded. “You have to let him close it. Win will find another way home.”

Summer wiped snot from her face with the back of her arm. “What are the chances of that? Barker?”

He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. In the darkness of the pit, alien light shifted on far away water.

“The Dread Host were imprisoned for a thousand human years before Winter cracked a hole in their prison,” he said at last. “And they never found escape. But your brother is a constant surprise to those of us who remember astonishment. It’s not impossible he will find a way when the
sluagh
did not.  Unlikely, but not impossible.”

“Summer.” Lolo let go of her wrist. “Winter saved my life. But the
sluagh
, they eat babies. Like you and I eat chocolate candies. I’ve seen it. They. Eat. Babies. You can’t let them come back. There’s no one left here to fight them off but me.”

“No one left here...” Summer repeated. Her father was gone, Winter was gone. Lolo was what she had left, and she could hear the terror in the crack of his voice.

Mercy
, Malachi had said, a few weeks before he’d left her.
Remember mercy.

“Close it,” she ordered. “Close it, and this time, make sure it’s closed for good.”

In spite of himself, Richard grew used to the shackles. He learned how to shuffle, one foot and then the next, so the cuffs around his ankles didn’t catch and throw him to the ground. The bronze circles around his wrists were more difficult; they caused the muscles in his shoulders to ache and pull. After only a single stretch of hours on the meandering path, Richard would have done anything for a chance to raise his hands above his head and ease the pain in his back. But the shackles on his wrist were attached to the circlets around his ankles and he couldn’t lift his fists past his waist.

The gnawing pain in his damaged hand was so constant it became almost bearable. Only when he was jostled or when he accidentally forgot to hold the limb still did the nerves wake in white-hot agony.

Something had changed. Richard thought the change had to do with Water-Bearer. Ever since he’d tangled with the one-eyed
sluagh
, Richard’s place in the alien world had shifted. He was no longer forced to walk on the edge of the feathered army; instead he was nudged along at the very center of the Host, protected from the biting wind and acrid air by a barrier of feathered wings and writhing tentacles.

When the Host stopped to rest, Richard was allowed an allotment of journey-root with his swallow of water. And when, on what he roughly calculated as their fifth day on the narrow path, burning rain hissed in a sheet from grey clouds, the
sluagh
pressed close, protecting with mottled flesh, warming him as he shivered.

Richard realized he’d grown used to their foul smell. When he curled into a ball, reaching for sleep, he was unreasonably grateful for the small furnace of a
sluagh
body next to his own.

“Why?” he dared ask Water-Bearer on the seventh day, when the
sluagh
squatted to offer the water jug.

“‘Why’ is a mortal failing.” Water-Bearer shrugged as it stoppered the water. Its wings ruffled and shed feathers. “The
sidhe
rarely pause to question the intricacies of life. Best you do the same.”

“Sidhe?”
Richard asked around a mouthful of root. Because he couldn’t lift his hands past his hipbones, Water-Bearer severed bits of turnip with its own sharp teeth, then fed them to Richard. Richard hated it. At first he’d gagged and spat, but then his angry stomach had grown used to the taste of metallic saliva and earthy root.

“Sidhe
or
sluagh?”
he asked, chewing, although he thought he already knew.

Water-Bearer only grimaced in what Richard had come to think of as a shit-eating smile. Its single eye gleamed. Then the monster wandered off, intent on its duties.

“That one is trouble,” the Prince said from behind Richard. “His influence is far-reaching as a poison in the water and if he’s taken notice of you, mortal, you’d best wonder why.”

“‘Why’ is a mortal failing.” Richard didn’t bother look around. He chewed on the root and studied his wrists. His skin had stopped bleeding beneath the bronze circlets. His damaged hand was swollen inside Water-Bearer’s splints.

The sun had sunk below the horizon. The Prince didn’t cast a visible shadow, but when it loomed, the warmth of its breath spread against the back of Richard’s neck.

“I might have killed him long ago,” the Prince continued. “But that one had more influence at Court than any of us, and I mean to keep every weapon I have. Alas, his body is finally failing beneath the weight of this world, even if his wits are sharp as ever.”

“Dying, you mean.” Richard looked past the resting tangle of the Host. He could see Water-Bearer still moving about, bending to offer the jug here and there amongst the pile of lazing
sluagh
.

“Death is a mortal failing,” the Prince mocked. “But, aye, he’s no hope of continuing.”

Richard finished chewing. When he shifted on the cold sand, his shackles rang.

“Can I see Aine?” he asked, as he did every time they stopped.

“Not yet,” the Prince responded, as it did every time Richard asked.

Richard imagined leaping up and somehow strangling the Prince with the chains he wore.

Useless
, Bobby cautioned. And Winter said,
Be patient
.

So he closed his eyes, the
sluagh
Prince’s breath warming his neck. He pretended to sleep.

Richard discovered if he didn’t keep his mind busy, terror would creep in, filling the secret places in his head with hopeless, black thoughts. It had been the same when he’d first left Bobby; the fear lived permanently in his stomach until he couldn’t eat or sleep. He’d been half-dead with dehydration and malnutrition, more than half-high on the last of the pills he’d taken with him from home, when he’d fallen off the platform at Eastern Market.

He’d been lucky enough not to hit the third rail, a miracle he didn’t really appreciate until months later. He’d stood up, brushing dirt and trash from the knees of his pants. No one had paid him any attention at all. The platform was now at shoulder height. Richard wasn’t sure he had the strength to pull himself back up.

So he’d turned and walked into the tunnel.

Three trains rushed past while he wandered. The first time he heard the rumble he’d pressed hard against the wall, closing his eyes as the cars screamed by. The second time he leaned an inch toward the train, just to feel the stale wind on his face.

When he saw the lights rushing toward him for the third time, Richard thought about throwing himself on the tracks. He knew it was a quick end. Bobby had murdered one of his backlogged clients similarly, but on an above ground track in Alexandria. Richard had watched it happen. The junkie didn’t even have time to scream before the train passed over his head, popping his skull like a grape.

He’d taken a step forward, screwing up determination, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed something interesting on the tunnel wall.

It was a man-sized gate, rusting and secured with a padlock. Obviously old. Possibly antique.

By the time the third train passed, forgotten, Richard had managed to jimmy the padlock with the penknife his mother had given him on his tenth birthday.

The Money Line beyond, and its buried mysteries, was puzzle enough to keep Richard alive. He forgot terror in the enormous effort it took to turn the forgotten tunnel into a home.

He remembered to eat and to sleep. He remembered to live.

There was nothing so obvious as a locked-gate mystery to distract Richard from the enforced march. He was deeply entombed at the center of the small army, and couldn’t see much past the mash of wing and claw. The path they walked was interesting only in its enduring sameness. The width and grade seemed to change little, if at all. Pebbles had turned to rocks when he’d fled uphill, but the bits of gravel on the path remained bits of gravel, entirely unremarkable.

The sun rose and set, a white orb in the black sky. The wind blew, the wind eased. There was a time for rest and sleep, food and drink, then wake and repeat. Boredom lead to terror. Terror beat like an angry moth behind Richard’s eyes. He caught himself chewing through his lips to keep from howling. The taste of iron coated his tongue.

Somewhere between one step and the next blood trickled down his chin and dripped onto his shackles. Richard watched the blood fall in black beads. It rolled over the metal, spread into tiny rivulets, dripping onto gravel.

He stopped. The
sluagh
walking behind him did not. Richard was knocked sideways. He staggered, almost fell, and was plucked off his feet and steadied.

“You’re bleeding,” Water-Bearer said without sympathy. “From your mouth.”

“Yeah.” Richard turned his head and spat. The darkness in his head was retreating, chased back by the gleam of neatly turned bronze manacles. “These are manufactured,” he said, turning the links over in his fingers as the Host marched on, an endless tide.

Water-Bearer looked at him sideways, single eye narrowing.

“Manufactured,”
Richard repeated. “Machine made. No wright made these. They’re too perfect.”

Water-Bearer paced at Richard’s side, claws clicking on gravel. The
sluagh
seemed more interested in Richard’s bloody mouth than the shackles.

“No magic, either,” Richard pressed. “Look, look! Right here. The whorls, and the grooves. These are the marks of a machine. A
machine
.”

Water-Bearer had eyebrows, fine and black on its pale, misshapen face. It quirked them in humor or curiosity. “Aye?”

“Technology and the
sidhe
are enemies. Even Winter avoids it, and he was born into a manufactured world. So what’s the Dread Host doing with machine-made chains? Doesn’t that seem...strange...to you?”

He’d forgotten what he was talking to. Water-Bearer grinned toothily, but didn’t reply. Richard shivered. He looked away from that horrible smile, clutching the chains between his fingers like a talisman.

The Prince came for Richard on an especially windy slice of time between the rise and fall of the sun. The dark
sluagh
didn’t speak. He grabbed Richard by one manacled wrist and pulled him through the Host.

“Hey!”

Richard wasn’t strong enough to fight, but he wasn’t ready to die. He wriggled in the monster’s grasp. The Prince picked him up off the ground, hauling him under one arm like a parcel.

“Stop!” Richard kicked, chains rattling. “Put me down.”

He’d spent part of several days trying to count the
sluagh
, but without reliable results. Sometimes he thought the Host was comprised of no more than twenty or thirty ghouls. Other times their number seemed endless. He wasn’t sure if the discrepancy was in his head, or if the count honestly changed.

The Prince carried Richard deep into the heart of the march.
Sluagh
bowed their heads and lowered their wings at his approach. The Prince ignored their obeisance, going so far as to hiss and spit when a few of the Host were slow to move out of its way.

It was only then that Richard realized the army had come to a halt. Wings continued to pulse on an unseen draft. Tentacles quivered and claws clicked, and a few of the monsters leapt into the sky, hovering overhead, but there was no longer any forward movement.

“Here.”

The Prince flung Richard onto gravel. He rolled, trying to protect both his damaged hand and swollen face. When he came up onto his knees, he was almost nose to nose with the changeling.

“Aine!”

She looked as though she’d barely survived violent battle. Her golden curls were smudged with gray dust. It coated all of her diminutive figure like mortuary ash. Her clothes were torn in several places, and stained with dried blood and old
sluagh
goo. There was a burn healing on her chin and another on her throat.

He’d done that to her, he realized. Aine was marked by his decision, blackened by the explosion he’d engineered. Only her wide blue eyes remained undamaged.

She watched him as he shuffled across gravel on hand and knees.

“Richard,” she said quietly. “I thought you were dead.”

He sat on the ground at her side, unable to speak. Guilt closed his throat. Aine sighed quietly and laid her head in his lap like a small child in search of comfort. Richard’s chains allowed him little movement, but he was able to wiggle his forearms until he could touch her cheek.

She was skinnier than was healthy, more bone and muscle than padding, and she’d been small to begin with. Where Richard touched her skin, the gray ash rubbed off in a greasy smear, showing raw pink flesh beneath.

“Are you alright?” he whispered, even though he knew it was a stupid question.

“Aye. But I’m tired. The food here makes me sick and dizzy.” She frowned a little. “It thought it would be over by now.”

Richard stroked her limp curls with his good hand. More greasy gray ash came off on his fingers.

“They said it’s to protect me,” she said, when he shuddered in disgust. “From the poison in the air. It’s a salve, very similar to Mistress Gabriel’s, I believe. But...foul smelling.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Everything here smells foul,” Richard replied.

“Doiteain domhain
. Cold Fire. This land stinks of it. Little wonder the
sluagh
are half-mad. Nan says the
doiteain
domhain
is a double-edged blade, best wielded with care.” Aine shifted restlessly. “Even Gloriana is reluctant to employ that magic.”

“Nan?” Richard echoed. He didn’t like the way Aine’s eyes rolled in her head. When he let go of her curls and touched her face, she felt too warm.

“Richard, I’m thirsty.”

It was almost a whine and he’d never heard Aine utter a single complaint. He looked about, seeking, until he glimpsed a familiar pair of mange-riddled wings.

“Hey!”