Bindings (10 page)

T
IM FELT GROGGY AND STIFF.
No wonder
, he realized,
I'm all cramped up on the floor in a corner. A corner of someone's flat.

He sat upright, immediately on alert.
Now where am I?
He blinked a few times to clear his head and took in his surroundings.
This looks like an ordinary flat,
he noted. But he knew appearances could be deceiving. He shook his head. Where had he just heard that exact phrase? Oh well. He wasn't going to be able to remember. He could tell.

Tim tried to sense for danger, but he was too disoriented to feel much of anything. He leaned against the wall behind him.

A tall, slim young woman with very white skin and blue-black hair stood in front of him. Where did she come from? Had she been there all along? He was seriously out of it.

The woman didn't look much past twenty, and she seemed familiar. Tim worked hard to place her.

“Oh. You,” Tim said. “You
are
you, aren't you?” The girl from the end of time. A boy doesn't forget a girl that pretty—particularly when you meet in such a memorable place and in such remarkable circumstances.

The girl smiled. “All the time, and then some,” she replied. “Would you like a cup of tea? I've got the kettle on.”

A shrill whistle trilled behind a tatty curtain in the doorway. “Oops,” the girl said. “There it goes. Come on. If you want good tea, you can't let the water boil too long.”

“Really?” Tim had never heard that little bit of wisdom before. Not that he was much of a tea drinker.

“You bet.” The girl disappeared behind the curtain. “Really good anything takes timing. Coming?”

Tim climbed to his feet, pushed aside the curtain, and stepped into the main room of the flat. The “kitchen” ran along one wall of the living room—a stove, a fridge, a sink—and the whole place was quite messy. Plates were piled up in the sink, clothes were strewn everywhere. The girl strode to the stove and turned off the gas. The kettle silenced itself.

“This may sound like a silly question, but ummm…” Tim's voice trailed off. He knew what he wanted to find out, but he wasn't quite sure how to ask. He was still getting his bearings. He felt all off balance.

The girl rummaged through the cupboards and pulled out a tin of tea. She plopped tea bags into two mugs. Tim wondered if the mugs were clean.

“The only silly questions are the ones you already know the answers to,” the girl said. “And it's totally natural to ask those sometimes, too. Ask away.”

There was something about this girl's straightforward manner that put Tim at ease. Of all the people he had ever met, she seemed the most comfortable in her own skin. She exuded the same kind of warmth he had felt from Zatanna, the lady magician in California. And Molly, of course. When he let himself feel it.

“Okay, so where—” Tim cut himself off. He didn't really need to know where he was. There was a much more important answer he needed. “What I was really wondering is…who are you?”

The girl picked up the kettle and poured boiling water into the two mugs. Steam rose from her mug as she lifted it and took a deep whiff. “Mmmm. Sometimes I brew this stuff just for the smell of it.
Smells more like almonds than almonds do.” She handed Tim a mug. “See what I mean?”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the mug from her. He took a whiff and pretended to notice the smell. She still hadn't answered his question.
Why is she stalling?

“You're welcome.” She took a sip of tea. “I have a lot of names, Tim. Even if I stuck to my favorites, it would take forever to run through them all. But
who
am I? That's easier to say. I'm Death.”

Tim burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. Big hearty, full-out, full-body guffaws. He hoped she didn't get insulted, but he didn't even try to stop himself.

Eventually, Tim's laughter melted down into chuckles. The girl's steady gaze never left him. Then his knees went all wobbly and he sat hard on her sofa.

“Did you say Death? Like with skulls and skeletons and stuff?” He checked her out again. She was dressed all Goth—maybe she was using “Death” as her club name or something. She couldn't really mean she was the Grim Reaper, could she?

“Generally, I have about as much to do with skulls as your average chicken has to do with soufflés. Think about it.”

Tim gave her a sideways glance, then blew on his tea to cool it. He took another sip, and images suddenly flooded through him. The manticore. A slashing across his wrist. Burning pain. Blood. Falling. Darkness. Her face.

“Oh,” Tim whispered. “I remember now.” He carefully placed the mug on the low table in front of him, afraid he would drop it. “You are, aren't you.” This time it was a statement, not a question. “That's why you were there at the end of the universe, too.”

Death nodded.

Tim went cold. He bent forward and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Will I feel anything?” he asked in a small voice.

“Tim, relax,” Death said.

“Easy for you to say,” Tim snapped. “You're not the one dying.”

“Hey, you can lean on Cavendish, if you want,” the girl suggested, “or just hold him. He's good for that.”

“Cavendish?” He squinted at her. What was she on about?

“He's right behind you. Wait.” She reached behind Tim and handed him a stuffed bear. “He's not the brightest bear in the world, but at least he knows when to keep his mouth shut.”

Tim stared at the teddy bear. Was she nuts?
What was he supposed to do with a stupid toy? He didn't want to make her mad though. He figured, since she was Death, if she got angry there would be serious consequences. He sat the teddy bear on his lap.

“Sorry, Tim,” she said. “I thought it would take you a while longer to figure it out. You caught on so quickly I didn't have a chance to really prepare you.”

She tousled his hair. “That is quite a hearty laugh you have, though. When I told you who I was and you bawled, I almost forgot for a moment that you're a magician.”

What did that mean?
Tim wondered.
Magicians have no sense of humor? Or did she mean that the life of a magician was so riddled with pain, confusion, and tragedy that there was nothing for a magician to laugh about?
But Tim pushed that thought aside to deal with the present moment.

“So let me see if I've got this right,” Tim said slowly. He found he was clutching the teddy bear a little tighter. “I'm dead. Funny. I always thought there'd be more to it.”

“You're not dead, trust me.” The girl patted Tim's knee. “I'd know if you were. You're pretty close to it though, or I couldn't have brought you here. Not so easily, anyway.”

“You brought me here?”

The girl nodded. “Uh-huh. Manticore venom is nasty. Manticores like it that way. If you were in your body right now, you'd be in agony. And when I say agony, I don't mean just pain.”

“But—” Tim tried to understand. “You mean you brought me here so I wouldn't suffer? That's bizarre.”

The girl looked puzzled. “Why?”

It was so obvious to Tim—why wasn't she getting it? “Well, because you're Death, of course.”

“There's nothing bizarre about it,” the girl replied. “Death and suffering don't necessarily go together. Hey, do us both a favor, would you?”

“Uh, sure.” What favor could she possibly ask of him? He braced himself.

“Don't let that tea get cold.” She gave him a grin.

Tim grinned back. She was funny. He liked her, even if she
was
Death.

She seemed to be studying him. “So, you get around a lot,” she said, “even for a magician.”

Tim put his mug down again. “I wish you'd stop calling me that.”

“All right. You get around a lot, period. What are you up to in Faerie?”

“Oh.” He fiddled with the teddy bear's foot. “I was just…just trying to figure out who my
father was. Is. It's sort of…sort of…” His voice began to break. “Complicated,” he finished.
No, he told himself
, digging his fingernails into his palms.
I'm not going to cry
.

He felt a huge lump in his throat, and no matter how much he swallowed he couldn't loosen it. His vision grew watery as tears filled his eyes.

He felt humiliated, crying in front of her. She'd think he was a total baby. He doubled over, the teddy bear crushed on his lap, as he tried to hide his face. His shoulders shook from struggling to keep the sobs jammed inside his chest. But he knew she could see he was crying. No way to pretend he wasn't.

“This…this is stupid,” he choked out. He took off his glasses and wiped his face. He stared at the wetness on his fingertips. “They're not even real, are they? I'm just imagining I'm crying.”

“Mmm. I don't know,” Death said. “They look like real tears to me.” She settled back into the arm of the couch and tucked her feet up under her. “Why don't you tell me about this father thing.”

“Do I have time to?” He'd never faced imminent death before. He didn't know how long it would take.

“We have time.”

Tim wiped his face on his sleeve, then replaced his glasses. He cleared his throat a few
times. “You're just trying to be nice. Thanks, but I don't need to talk. I'll be fine.” He put the teddy bear between him and Death on the couch. He didn't want it to look like he was a little kid who needed a stuffed animal.

“Well, I'm not trying
not
to be nice, I'll grant you that. But I asked mainly because I'd like to know. What's this all about?”

Tim sighed. How could he possibly explain it all? He was still trying to understand it himself.

 

Tamlin sat beside Timothy Hunter's stiffening body. The boy was going blue, and his limbs twisted as the venom made its accursed way through his body.

The child has—
Tamlin thought, then stopped himself.
What am I saying? “The child”? My
son
, I mean. My son has brought the land back from the dead. My son has broken a binding that Titania herself could not undo. He has overthrown an adversary no paladin of Faerie has ever dared challenge. And he has paid a grievous price. The manticore's venom seethes in his blood. And no healer born of woman ever worked a cure for that bane. He will die soon.

Tamlin could not allow that to happen. He had to do something—anything. He stood over Tim and said words of transformation.

“Flesh of my flesh, be what you must if I am
to carry you,” Tamlin said, tapping into the magic surrounding him, the magic of Faerie. “By our blood, breath of my breath, shape yourself as I will.” With several passes of his hands, Tamlin felt the energies mingle and mix. The outline of the dying boy's body shimmered as he lost his human boundaries. The molecules and atoms rearranged themselves into a new shape, a shape Tamlin could work with.

Timothy Hunter transformed slowly into a hawk's feather. Once this was done, Tamlin, his father, assumed the hawk's shape. He picked up the quill of the feather in his beak, flapped his powerful wings, and took to the sky.

As Tamlin flew, he thought over the remarkable change in himself.
The boy was a stranger to me. For thirteen years of his life and three hundred of mine, I never gave him a thought. But now—

Was it seeing him? Talking to him? Testing him? When did I begin to want to know him?

Tamlin traveled quickly, covering a great distance, urgency carrying him forward.

He saw into me. While I played at judging him, he needed no knife to cut to the heart of me. “Do you feel sorry for yourself all the time?” he asked me. And I struck him because he had seen and spoken a truth. I should have thanked him.

The infant he was—who I had never thought of
again after that first moment—became a child whose eyes pierce the darkness as mine never have and never will. I would like to know the man that child will become. Might have become.

Upon reaching the palace gardens, Tamlin swooped down and landed at the feet of Titania. Laying the feather gently on the grass, he transformed himself back into human shape.

“Tamlin!” Titania cried. “Oh, Tam, you've done it!” She flung her arms around his neck, her body pressing against his. He could feel the life flowing through her again, as it had when they first met. Before it had all soured. Before the bindings. Before the manticore sucked the spirit from the land. She was as restored as Faerie.

“Everything is beautiful again,” she exclaimed. “The garden is so alive. All the roses are whispering secrets to one another.” She ran her hands along his arms and took both his hands in hers. “Walk in the arbor with me, Tamlin. I want you to hear them, too. You and no other.”

Tamlin gently held her away from him. “I am not the one who has restored your twilight land to beauty. You owe me no thanks for your deliverance. Another paid that price.”

“Who did this, then?” Titania asked. “And what is this price you speak of?”

Tamlin released Titania and faced Tim, still a
feather on the grass. Using his talents, Tamlin transformed Tim back into his twisted, pained, and suffering body. He stepped aside for Titania to see.

“Merciful gods,” Titania gasped and dropped to her knees beside Tim's tortured body. “The child. Oh, Tamlin. The prophecies were true.”

Tamlin gazed at his former love and watched her weep. She looked up at him, her eyes flashing with anger. “Who did this to him?” she demanded.

“The child was raving when I found him, lady. Delirious. But he gave me reason to believe he'd fought the manticore.”

“The manticore,” Titania repeated. “Tell me more.”

Tamlin kneeled down beside her. “I brought the boy here for healing. Let the story wait.”