Roadside Magic (8 page)

T
here were no horses on the streets and their cities had turned to stone, but one thing, at least, had not changed—mortals saw what they wished to, and nothing more. Their metal chariots were wondrous enough, Crenn supposed, but the belching clouds of foulness they left behind would wrinkle even the nose of a stonetroll, and
those
were not gifted with overly refined senses.

Which could have explained this particular stonetroll, curled in a choked, noisome culvert some ten miles from the city’s limits. Except for the fire-scarring on the thing’s tough hide, and the fact that metal carriages whisked on a stony road above, much faster than even a steam-train. While the sound of their passage could have lulled the troll, it wasn’t like one of their kind to sleep so close to sunlight.

Or with the silver gleam of a leash about its thick throat. Unwinter was hunting the Ragged as well.

The thing’s trail overlaid hers, and he perhaps should not have followed so quickly, since the scent was already fading. The Ragged had not been Summer’s errand girl for naught; she was sprite-fleet, vanishing like a startled naiad.

Alastair, crouched easily at the mouth of the culvert, narrowed his sharp eyes as thin trickles of nasty-smelling water slid around his boots. He’d bargained hard for his footwear from Madge the Wanderer, marveling at their thick but supple soles and how they kept his feet dry without chantment.

Crenn’s nostrils twitched. Seamed, runneled flesh tingled all over his face. The scars spilled down his neck, grasping his shoulders and continuing down his chest and back. They tingled, too, and he knew the sensation too well to move.

A leash on a troll meant someone to hold it, of course. Any Unwinter hiding behind the large, gray-green, slightly snoring hulk couldn’t venture out without the violet dapples of lightshield chantment on them, and Crenn needed to double back to find the Ragged’s trail again . . . but still. Leaving an enemy alive behind you was a fool’s move.

Besides, he held no love for the Unseelie.

Still, he hesitated, the sting of stagnant water and choking moss exhaling into the sunlight touching his shoulders and his brown-green hair. The moss would begin to dry soon, without Marrowdowne’s shady, steady drip, drip, drip to creep between the strands.

What had she done, to fire-scar a troll and drive it this far? There was her voice, of course.

Not a scratch upon her . . . I will make you beautiful again
.

Crenn straightened. As he did, something occurred to him. Her trail was
far
too thoroughly confused. He wasn’t her only pursuer, but who else would erase her traces?

Who else would Summer send? And why ask for Crenn himself, a forgotten relic mired in a noisome swamp?

Perhaps because there was another player in this game, one the Hunter of Marrowdowne was known to have some manner of grudge against. Though grudges were as common as
pixies; to have sidhe blood was almost synonymous with craving vengeance.

Crenn left the stonetroll—and whatever else it was guarding—to its sleep. It was a puzzle. First Unwinter’s attack during the revels, now spring bursting free over the mortal world and Summer’s errand girl to be brought back whole.

Then there was the little matter of
him
.

Gallow
. Perhaps
he
was clearing the Ragged’s trail, so as to have the pleasure of gutting her? It wasn’t like him to kill a woman, or at least it hadn’t been when Crenn had called him
brother
.

Still, you could believe a Half capable of almost anything, with the right inducement.

While Crenn might make a halfhearted effort to keep Summer appeased, the idea of thwarting the former Armormaster held
much
more appeal. Perhaps Summer had known as much.

His scars tingled afresh, thinking of doing that green-eyed Half bastard a disservice.

“Fear not, little bird,” he murmured as he reached the top of the hill and peered through a screen of bushes at the metal carriages whizzing past. “Not a hair on your head shall be harmed.”

First, though, he had to
find
her.

Crenn checked the sky, rolled his shoulders back, and vanished.

I
t cowered as she worked herself free of the tangle, but it didn’t vanish into the bushes alongside the deck. Where had it hidden, that childcatchers couldn’t find it? Had the shock of Sean’s . . . death . . . driven it into witless flight? Was that why they had vented their anger on the parents, not finding the placeholder sleeping in his bed?

It doesn’t matter
. She had to carefully wriggle between the glass teeth; the last thing she wanted was to leave a bloodtrail. Getting to hands and knees was tricksome, and crawling free probably destroyed whatever dignity she had left.

At least when she finally extricated herself the changeling didn’t flee
her
. It crouched, a thin, bleached figure, near the grill. It was alarmingly gaunt—of course, without its mortal anchor, its substance was thinning rapidly. Its eyes, once as bright blue as Sean’s, were now the color of old much-washed cotton sheets and protruded from its starveling face. It made that tiny sound again, a baby bird’s pleading. A wet, filthy, red T-shirt with a picture of a dog stuck to its wasted chest; it hitched its similarly filthy jeans up with skinny, dirty fingers.

Robin slowly, so slowly, sank back on her haunches, brushing
at her skirt. She pushed her hair back, and the changeling cowered, shrinking away.

“It’s all right,” she managed, as soft and soothing as possible. Her voice made sidhe nervous—those who knew of her, at least.

Those who didn’t learned soon enough.

The changeling sank down. It had a pair of red sneakers, just as muddy and wet as the rest of its attire. It settled on its knees and reached up, touching its own tangled, pale mop.

Robin concentrated on breathing. Four in, four out. The changeling was alive, for now. There was, if she looked closely, an echo of Sean in its bird-thin grace, its fading coloring. It had lost the ability to speak—perhaps the shock. Just a faint copy, wasting away. It would dissolve into nothingness soon enough, if the childcatchers didn’t come back and snatch it. No doubt Summer would use the flint knife even on this sorry specimen.

Even a changeling wasting away to nothing could still bleed.

What was I thinking? Was I even thinking at all?
She dropped her hands, and the changeling did as well. Its piping stilled, and it stared at her.

The wriggling of an idea in the back of her head became more pronounced. Robin stilled, her breathing evening out. A damp morning breeze touched her bare, steaming shoulders. The deck, hard and gritty against her naked knees, stayed just as solid, but she rocked a little as the idea crept out of its hiding place and presented itself.

Don’t be stupid, Robin. It’s madness.

And yet.

Her hand stole out, found a glass shard tangled in the canvas. Wicked-sharp and slightly curved. The changeling stared blankly at her. It didn’t judge her a threat.

Should it? It had the sense to flee from the childcatchers, or perhaps mere luck had saved it. Who could tell?

Her fingertips skated along the glass shard. It was madness. Unthinkable folly. She should simply leave the fading thing to its fate.

Then why did you come here, Robin? Why?

She picked the glass up, delicately. Thin sunshine strengthened—the clouds were clearing. It would probably be a beautiful day.

It’s insane. A Half can’t do what you’re thinking. That much chantment will hurt you, badly.

If Summer ever found out . . .

A small, pained smile lit Robin’s face, echoed by the changeling’s ghastly grin. It copied her slight movement to pick the shard up, brushing its filthy fingertips across decking.

“Changeling,” Robin said, again so softly, soothingly. “Do you want to live?”

Its mouth moved, nothing but the piping coming out.

“Do you?” she pressed.

Something struggled in its pupils, a dim spark. It stopped grinning, its forehead knitting, and for a moment it looked like a wizened old brughnie, its face a map of wrinkle-rivers.

It nodded, and its outlines blurred.

Robin set the glass shard against the back of her left forearm—not the inside, where the veins could be opened. She, after all, wanted to live as well.

If she did this, she might even be able to salvage something of her pride. Or at least make the grief and despair a little smaller.

She hissed between her teeth as she drew the glass along her flesh. It was surprisingly hard to slice, but once she’d made up her mind to do it, the sharp edge sank in, almost as if eager.

She was going to leave a bloodtrail after all.

The changeling hissed, too, and crept forward, its palms scraping the deck and its head bobbing. The hiss became that pleading little noise again.

Robin dropped the glass shard onto her skirt. The wound glowed red as sunshine steamed along the wreckage. Behind her, the kitchen door slammed, the mortal house closing itself around its secret carnage.

The changeling’s mouth fastened on her arm. It suckled, experimentally, and Robin opened her mouth. The Old Language dropped like rain, chantment blurring down her arm, and when the changeling set itself more firmly, its small hands creeping up to grasp her arm, and drew again on the wound, she winced.

She held the chantment steady, even when darkness beat at the corner of her vision, and the changeling drew again. A Half wasn’t supposed to do this; changelings belonged to the Queen. Their blood made corners of the sideways realms forever Summer, and her apple trees drove their roots deep to do the same. To do this was to rob the Queen, outright inexcusable theft. No sidhe of Summer would ever dream of attempting it.

Swimming weakness closed around Robin Ragged. Lungs straining, heart laboring, she held the stream of the Old Language steady. The changeling flushed, its outlines running like clay in water.

Syllables thrust up through the stream of chantment, repeated over and over. They fitted themselves together, sharp edges slicing as they fought against her hold. If she could just keep the chant long enough, they would knit themselves together, and—

A massive internal noise. Robin sagged, dimly aware of her head striking the deck as she toppled. The changeling’s mouth tore away, almost taking a chunk of her arm as its teeth clicked
together, and the thing threw back its head and howled as the finished chantment pierced it, reshaped it.

The oldest of magics—to create is to
name
.

Howling ceased. Groaning and shuffling, glass shattering, the creaking of metal tubing. Heavy, wet crunching sounds as the changeling-no-more writhed and spasmed, the name shaping the thing.

Birth is always painful.

Darkness, brief shutterclicks of light as her eyelids struggled to rise, then slammed down again.

When the spasming and writhing ended, a sleek wheat-gold shape lay, still as death, next to a milk-pale woman in a faded blue dress, her redgold hair oddly drained of its luster. The sun shrugged free of thin clouds, burning away haze and pouring over both of them, and for a moment the heartbeat of both creatures halted. Still, the chantment continued, its thunder fading into the distance as the act rippled through real and more-than-real.

The changeling-no-more stirred. It whined as the cramps and seizures withdrew. Its slim paws twitched, and after a little while it dragged itself to the depleted statue of a sleeping woman, curling its long body into that uncertain shelter.

C
lose. Very close.
Half the afternoon was gone, clouds massing in the north as another spring storm tiptoed its unsettled way closer and closer. Jeremiah sighed, an involuntary noise, as he scrambled up the side of an embankment and found a housing development spread before him. One of the newer ones, its pavement still tar-black, and a couple dead ends showed where they were going to build even more as soon as winter lost its grip. Bulldozing the trees that might have been here before and putting in these blocks of tofu, then planting anemic saplings—well, it was enough to make any sidhe shake their head. Even a Half.

Still, people had to have places to live. And he’d done his share of running a dozer, or a chainsaw. Each time he saw mortal buildings rising, or a mortal street running straight and true, half of him felt a nasty secret joy.

He just didn’t know
which
half.

What the hell was Robin doing
here
? There was some sense to her wanderings, she was going far too directly to be simply hoping to throw off pursuit.

The sunlight dimmed, and Gallow’s back prickled. The
scars writhed madly, but he denied the lance its freedom and simply turned, slow, his hands loose and easy.

Scrubwood and bushes, the freeway in the distance making a high-pitched humming. She’d come along the line of Highway 4, crossing and recrossing the river of iron cars—it was a nice trick, but he had the locket. It tugged insistently under his shirt-collar, but instead of drawing it out he focused on the stillness in the shrubbery.

And waited.

When the shape melded out of scrub and a tangle of blackberry vines, the lance poked and prodded for its freedom even more relentlessly. Gallow denied it, but his weight did shift slightly.

The man was a shade taller than Gallow but built much leaner. Brown leather cut sidhe-fashion, a jerkin and trews, and a pair of brown engineer boots, of mortal make. He still had the earring, a hoop of dull iron, and his hair was still long and brown, green tints drying out.
Looks like he’s been fen-hopping. Wasn’t he in Marrowdowne, last I heard?

It didn’t matter.

A gleam of eyes through the curtain of shaken-down hair, glaring. Two hilts riding his shoulders, and his capable hands were just as empty as Gallow’s own.

That was also meaningless. Even without weapons, the new arrival was dangerous.

“Gallow.” A baritone, rich enough to charm a bird or two from a branch and into his nets.

“Crenn.” Jeremiah tilted his head.

A long silence. Clouds drifted, the sunshine intensifying, dimming again. The other man leaned forward slightly; Jeremiah did, too. So much of a battle was decided in the first few moments, before hand met hilt, far before blade met blade.

“I am,” Alastair Crenn said, “not here for you.”

That only leaves one other reason. Shit.
“Then what for?”
If he’d get his hair out of his face, it would be easier to tell what he’s thinking
. That was why he didn’t, Jeremiah supposed. There were also the scars. Burning tar did things to a man.

Even a Half.

“There is a certain lady in distress.” A gleam of white teeth. It couldn’t be a smile; it was probably a feral grimace.

One who finds
you
attractive?
That was an asshole thing to say, even if they hated each other. Still, it trembled on Gallow’s tongue before he found a more diplomatic brace of words. “No doubt.”

“I shall be plain.”

“Please do.”

“Cease following the Ragged, and I shall let you live.”

What?
A chill slid down Gallow’s back.
Just hold on a minute
. “Summer granted her life to me, Alastair Crenn. You will not interfere.”
There. That’s honest, at least.
As long as Summer thought
he
wanted to kill Robin . . .

But Jeremiah had faced Unwinter for Robin’s sake. Like an idiot, he’d telegraphed it.
My lady Robin
.

That gleaming, teeth and eyes, didn’t alter. Did he wear a mask of chantment, or did he just abhor being seen so much it created a glamour all its own?

“I warn you again,
Armormaster
.” Crenn all but hissed the last word, lingering over the sibilant. “The Ragged is under my protection. And this time you have no mortals to do your dirty work.”

I never did in the first place
. But had he lingered too long, and Crenn paid the price? That night, the fire and screaming as the police bore down on the Hooverville shantyslum, the bubbling tar and the stink of mortal death . . . “I was not of Summer
then, Alastair, and neither were you. I still would have spared you that, if—”

“I needed no
sparing
,” the man replied, not hotly, as he once would have. No, it was a soft, deadly song of words repeated over and over in the dead watches of the night.

How did Gallow know? Because he had his own cantos to sing in that same tone. “We are not at cross purposes here—”

Crenn was already gone, down the hill in a blur, following the fading traces of Robin’s passage.

Did Robin know him; had she made a bargain with him? What man would say no to the Ragged, with those eyes of hers, and that hair? Or was it just that Jeremiah was a fool? How well did Crenn know her? Did he owe her something?

Or was this a gambit of Summer’s? What inducement could the Queen offer
Crenn
, of all people?

You know she’s got ways
. Gallow was already moving, the lightfoot blooming under his own boots.
Don’t worry about that. Focus on Robin.

You’ve got to get to her first.