Defy the Dark (26 page)

Margaret stepped forward, her eyes narrowing at Rylan's obvious interest. “It didn't work that way. Which is why Esme must stay in the dark; why she is not . . . available, as other young ladies are.”

Rylan looked unswayed by her attempt to put him off. “So the spirit—Lady Esme's shadow—why does it not have a body of its own? One that would allow it to walk in the light, as well as in the dark?”

“It could,” Esme answered. “If it made space for itself first. If I am killed, and my spirit left my body, there would be room for it to come in.”

“Which is why you must stay out of the light,” Anne said sadly. “If Lady Esme is exposed to direct light from the sun, the moon, or a fire, it kindles her shadow.”

Esme's palms pricked with nerves when she looked over at Rylan, certain she would see him either backing away in horror or else politely fighting the urge to do so. As she read the expression on his face, she was stunned. Deep lines had appeared at the sides of his mouth as his full lips pursed in thought. His eyes were lit with a warrior's delight in the challenge of strategy.

“If you would pardon my abruptness,” he began, and Margaret snorted.

Anne brought the end of her walking stick down on Margaret's foot hard enough to make her yelp.

“My bones are telling me to be quiet and listen,” Anne growled at her. “They just told you the same thing.” She turned her withered face back to Rylan. “Go on.”

Ignoring Margaret's muttered complaints, Rylan spoke, his words measured and careful.

“I see how staying out of the light is a defense—a necessary defense—but I do not think it much of a solution. It seems to me that if a shadow is made of darkness, then the way to battle it may be with light.”

“That is the most painful bit of the curse,” Anne agreed. “I hear the truth in your words. But light also allows the shadow to separate itself from the darkness at large. There is no weapon that can be used against it. The time it would take to discover one would be more than enough for Esme's shadow to take her life. Speaking of which—”

Anne reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a small earthenware jar. “Margaret told me about your neck. Rub this on it, three times a day, and take plenty of eggs with your meals. It will help.”

Esme took the jar with a grateful nod. “Margaret has your payment.”

Margaret handed the coin over grudgingly, with a pointed glance at her injured foot. Anne grinned, her smile more holes than teeth. “Enough for some food and something to drink. I think I may stay awhile. It has been so long since there was anything for me to celebrate. . . . Sir . . . ?”

“Rylan of Sedgewick.” He bowed.

“Sir Rylan, then. Will you walk an old woman to the fire?”

Rylan glanced at Esme. His eyes were forlorn. She answered him with a determined stare.

Things would not end here. Not like this. She'd had a sip of the possible and she wasn't about to hand the glass back now.

“I will watch for you,” he said.

“I hope so,” she said.

“Oi!” The guard who had accosted them at the door let out a shout that cut through the din of the celebration as he lurched toward them, grabbing a torch that had been jammed into the ground. “Are ye ready to give me that dance?”

Margaret made a noise that was caught between a gasp and a retch.

Esme froze. She couldn't run past the guard and get back to the safety of her tower. Behind her, the celebration raged, with torches and bonfires pockmarking the field. She was trapped.

“Douse that torch! At once!” Margaret commanded.

It did no good.

The guard was so drunk he couldn't halt his own momentum. He swayed so close to Esme that she was cuffed tight in the circle of torchlight. Before she could shut her eyes against the glare, Esme felt a set of hands jerk her head back and rip off the cloak hood and wimple that hid her bruised neck. She saw nothing but stars—she felt nothing but the night air on the exposed skin of her throat.

Margaret screamed. She grabbed Esme's arm and dragged her out of the light. Rylan wrapped his arms around the half-mast guard and tossed him back toward the castle.

But it was too late.

The commotion had attracted the crowd's attention, and before Esme's feet had moved, they were surrounded by a circle of people, each of them bearing some sort of light.

Esme's shadow leapt back into existence, solid as an anvil and just as black. It wrapped an arm around her neck, and her already tender windpipe folded like a bellows.

The gasping, shouting ring of spectators spread and deepened. In some places, it was nearly a solid wall of torch fire and lamplight. There was no way out. No way through.

A haze of sparkles appeared as Esme tried to draw breath and failed. Through the glitter, she saw Rylan draw his sword. The blade reflected the flames that surrounded them. Instead of gleaming metal, a column of fire leapt from the golden hilt. Hope rose in Esme. Maybe the light in his sword was enough to slay the shadow and break the curse.

Rylan slashed at the shadow, but the blade passed right through. The hope that had flared in her so suddenly dimmed, and her vision narrowed as death crept into her.

Words from the night danced through her head. Something Rylan had said . . . something besides fighting darkness with light . . . her knees buckled beneath her and Esme tumbled to the ground. Her shadow fell with her, loosening its hold on her neck just long enough for Esme to draw a single, burning breath.

The sweet heat of the air swept through her, and she remembered the thought she'd been seeking.

The right weapon in the right hands has its own kind of magic.

She looked up at Rylan, who stood with his sword pointed at the pressing crowd as he shouted at them to get back.

“Sir Rylan!” Esme croaked as the shadow's arm found its favored place against the soft flesh of her neck. In spite of the breathlessness of her voice, he heard her.

He spun away from the crowd, facing Esme with a look of powerless horror.

She could no longer speak, nor could she breathe. She held out a hand, staring hard at his sword.

If it was foolishness, so be it, but one way or another, the curse would be broken in the next moments.

Without hesitating, Rylan turned the point of the sword toward himself, offering Esme the hilt. With her arms weakened, the weapon was so heavy that she could barely lift it. The point dragged along the ground and, as the blade drew level with her eyes, Esme could see the shadow reflected in it, its features growing more distinct as her own life waned.

With the last of her strength, Esme lifted the sword's hilt above her head, moving the blade so that it would swing behind her like a pendulum. A susurration swept across her hearing, like a flock of startled birds taking flight. The sword slipped from Esme's grip and thudded to the ground.

A cloak of icy blackness settled over her, and as her vision waned, Esme glanced up at the distant stars and begged forgiveness as the last of the world slid from her view.

The darkness that followed was pure and limitless.

Vaguely, she heard Anne's voice. “Wake up, child.”

Wake up?

Her throat tore and then tore again, as her breath hissed in and out. Esme's eyes fluttered open and she mewled in surprise at the bedclothes that scratched against her skin.

She was back inside the tower.

Anne and Margaret huddled over her.

“Is it—is she?” Margaret's breath hitched so badly that she couldn't finish her questions.

Anne peered into Esme's eyes. Still too weak and stunned to move, Esme stared back. Anne glanced at Margaret.

“Lift her shoulders a bit and bring that torch just a bit closer. Carefully, now. Sir Rylan, be at the ready.”

Esme winced as Margaret's arm slid beneath her, propping her up. Anne bent, studying the sheets beneath Esme, but Esme's attention was fixed elsewhere. Near the foot of the bed knelt Rylan, a mixture of pride and surprise written on his face. His sword was still unsheathed and his hand wrapped around the shimmering hilt.

Something was different. The blade—the shining, fiery blade was dull as the stone of the tower walls and just as dark.

“It's gone,” Anne announced. “Look.” She pointed beneath Esme, to the spot where the torchlight should have cast her shadow. “The torchlight casts my shadow. Sir Rylan has one. You do, too,” she said to Margaret. “But Esme's is gone.”

Margaret gasped.

The news shook her and Esme reached out her hands, looking for something—anything—solid to hold on to. Rylan sheathed his sword in an instant and moved to Esme's side, scooping her weakened body into his arms. Margaret gasped, but Esme couldn't imagine that this scandal would outshine the breaking of her curse. Moreover, she didn't want him to put her down. The feel of his hands pressing against her through her clothes was delicious, even in her fragile state. No man had ever held her like this. Surreptitiously, as though he were adjusting her in his arms, he laid his cheek against her forehead, and his bright auburn hair swept against her skin, making her shiver gladly.

Margaret stepped closer, bringing the dancing light of the torch with her. Instinctively, Esme coiled, but then the sweetness of the glow against her skin reminded her that she had nothing to fear. She felt herself bubbling up—stretching and strengthening with the relief of finally, finally being illuminated.

“I'll go get the duke and bring him in to her.” Margaret left, taking the torch with her. Without it, the feeble glow of the lamp near the door was the only light left in the room.

Esme was still cradled in Rylan's arms. Everything looked different. The stone walls looked softer, the tapestries more alive. She stretched out a trembling hand and caressed them, in love with everything, enamored of the very air.

Anne knelt next to Rylan, who laid Esme down gently.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.

Rylan stood and looked down at Esme, his shoulder brushing the bedpost. In the dim corner, surrounded by the dark bedclothes, panic clawed at Esme.

“Please bring a torch. Or a candle. Anything,” Esme rasped. “I can't bear the darkness another second.”

“Of course. At once.” Rylan ducked into Margaret's quarters and returned with a candelabra that bore enough lit candles to make Esme's panic retreat.

Anne squinted at her. “So the curse is ended?” She handed Esme a cup of wine, which Esme sipped gratefully, though it burned her wounded throat.

“Yes. I mean, it must be. I'm here. There is light around me and on me and no one is attacking me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It's been so many years, locked in that prison. I never thought I would be free of it. I thought the darkness and sadness—dear God, the unbearable loneliness—I thought that was sure to be my destiny.”

“But now it is not. And I am here to help you take your rightful place in the light,” Rylan said, bending his knee.

“I am so grateful to you, Sir Rylan. And I am sorry to have seen your sword in such a damaged state. Though I must admit, I would be grateful not to have it used against me again.”

“Against you?” The question dropped from his lips.

Anne's grip on her hand tightened.

“Indeed. If that monster's soul hadn't leapt from her the moment before she swung, I fear the outcome might have been different.” She smiled up at Rylan. “I did think, if it was to be my end, that I would be happy to have my last vision be something filled with so much light. Dying in that brightness would have been better than being trapped endlessly in the dark.”

Anne let out a strangled sound.

With great effort, Esme brought Anne's hand up to her face and rubbed her cheek against it, gently. “Oh, Grandmother. I thought I would never get to see you—to speak with you. I could hear them talking about my mother, sometimes, while I was in the dark. I never understood why she forced me into that black prison. It was worse than death. I fought so hard to come back into the light. Back to you.”

Rylan gripped the bedpost. “You are . . . you are the shadow?”

Esme blinked. “I am myself. The shadow was my prison.” She turned and smiled at them both, radiant. “And finally, I have escaped.”

Saundra Mitchell

Now Bid Time Return

D
acey Shen had never won anything before. In fact, she hadn't even told her parents she'd entered the contest until the sponsors called to congratulate her.

“It would have been nice,” her mother said as if they hadn't already had this conversation several times, “to know about this ahead of time. Daddy and I could have gotten time off work. We could have gone with you.”

Clasping her hands, Dacey stood by and watched her mother rummage through her luggage. Again. “I know. I'm sorry.”

“We're going to miss you.” Producing an industrial pack of crackers and cheese, her mom shoved it beneath the paperbacks. Just in case the plane crashed in Outer Mysteria, south of Nowherelandia—Dacey wouldn't have to eat the other passengers. She had mom rations.

Dacey watched, counting off the minutes until their cab arrived. “I'll miss you, too. But it's a once-in-a-lifetime thing. And it's going to look so good on my college apps.”

“Extracurriculars are important,” Mom agreed.

One week in Norway, to explore and discover and probably pose for a lot of brochure pictures. A student exchange program had sponsored the contest, and all it took to enter was an essay. Dacey had written hers in one afternoon.

 

If I could go anywhere in Europe, I'd choose Tromsø, Norway, so I could photograph the northern lights.

 

Like most essays written in one afternoon, it was fiction. She didn't know anything about photography. The aurora was pretty, but she'd never thought about it much. It was Tromsø that interested her or, more specifically, polar night.

Everybody had heard of white nights, when the sun never goes down. It was kind of a kick to find out there were polar nights, when the sun never came up. Weeks of dark, with just a little twilight at noon to stir things up.

So she wrote the essay, sent it off, and forgot about it. Then she won, which meant dealing with her parents—they were cool with out-of-state camping trips, but across-the-ocean field trips? Not so much. But there were chaperones! Other juniors and seniors! A trip of a lifetime!

Finally, they gave in.

Well. Daddy gave in. Her mom was going to drag out the pain as much as possible.

Dacey shut up and endured the taxi ride to the airport, while her mother leaked anxiety everywhere:
If you get arrested, don't let them call the Chinese embassy! Make sure they call the American embassy!
Then there was the long walk to security:
Don't make any jokes about bombs.
It was good Mom couldn't go past the ropes, because Dacey had already heard the TSA lament:
Bare feet! Who knows what kind of diseases are on those floors?

There were kisses and tears and finally Dacey was off. Alone. To Norway. For a second, uncertainty engulfed her. Maybe it was too much to do on her own. Maybe she should just stay home? Heart thrumming, Dacey looked back one more time. Her mother waved in the distance, then put both thumbs up.

Okay, maybe she
could
do this.

After boarding, Dacey settled into her seat and nursed a flicker of hope. She was in 2A, and in 2B a grandma with silvery hair and a kind smile. Grandmas loved to talk. Plus, bonus, they usually couldn't sleep, either. Which meant Dacey would have company on the long flight.

“Have you been to Norway before?” Dacey asked.

The woman smiled apologetically and answered in another language. No idea what it was, although Norwegian was a pretty good guess.

So much for a chatty granny,
Dacey thought. Tightening her seat belt, she sighed. Eight hours wide-awake and trapped in her own head, while the other passengers slumbered around her. Whee.

The thing was, Dacey thought she should have gotten used to it—she barely slept anymore. It wasn't senioritis or SAT anxiety, it was insomnia. Hideous little pockets of it, leaving her marooned at three a.m. Sometimes she played on the computer; sometimes she went for walks.

Sometimes sleep came in a dozing chain, or restless dreams that were worse than being awake in the first place. She'd dreamed about lying awake in bed, studying the cracks on her ceiling. They stretched for the walls, and it wasn't until they touched the floor that Dacey realized they weren't real. And then, oh so cleverly, she woke up and couldn't get back to sleep.

Insomnia sucked.

She was sick of sleeping pills and warm milk, late-night television and endless exercise, caffeine, no caffeine, bizarre herbal supplements and well-meaning advice from people who thought insomnia meant it took twenty minutes to fall asleep instead of twenty seconds. She was tired of worrying her parents, who took her to the doctor over and over.

That's why she'd entered a contest to go anywhere in the world. That's why she'd chosen Tromsø in January. Polar night, long days of nothing but dark, just a hint of twilight spread across the midafternoon. Dacey had a new Nikon in her luggage and a photo-essay outline on her Mac.

One week of polar night—one week photographing the aurora borealis—she called the project
Winterglow
, but that would probably change. Maybe to something like
I Don't Know Much about Photography
or
I Just Thought I Might Get Some Sleep if the Sun Never Came Up.

It was a work in progress.

 

T
he camera was busted.

Dacey glared at it, her only Christmas present just for this trip, all six hundred dollars' worth of it.

New images popped up on her computer screen. Unearthly greens and blues filled each shot, sinuous curves stretching the heavens. The software chugged away, piecing multiple pictures into one panorama—and it was almost breathtaking. Almost.

In the middle of each picture was a spot. A smudge. A pale something that repeated all the way across the panorama. She couldn't cut it out—she didn't know how to Photoshop it out. Her first set of pictures was ruined.

Dacey opened one and zoomed until the smudge filled the entire screen. Tension burning between her shoulder blades, she leaned in to stare. A pale smear with dark streaks in it marred the shot. It was delicate, like a wisp of fog or an errant puff of cottonwood.

It looks like a face
, her brain chirped.

“Shut up,” she replied.

It seriously does
, her brain replied.
A younger, cuter version of Thor
.

Sliding from her chair, Dacey closed the laptop and started for the bedroom. It was lack of sleep talking—when she was really low on
Z
s, she saw minotaurs on subways and phantoms during physics class. She felt rooms shaking when they totally weren't. And now, apparently, she saw handsome faces in the aurora borealis, in the middle of polar night.

Best to ignore it all; none of it was real. Maybe sleep deprivation made her crazy, but she didn't have to actively participate. She stripped off her jeans and collapsed into the turned-down bed.

Around her, the cottage cooled with a low, blue glow. Moonlight on the snow outside seemed to make the world quieter. There was a serenity to the long run of hills; they turned to stone mountains on the horizon. Dark water spread into the distance, still as glass. The world was a lullaby.

Sleep didn't come. Instead, her mind hopped on a hamster wheel. Tromsø wasn't what she'd expected at all. She'd thought there would be a hostel, tons of people everywhere. Instead, she had her own cottage, one of several tucked into the countryside.

The exchange counselor had given her a huge binder full of touristy things to do, and then left her alone to do them. Which was actually kind of nice, and something she would never, ever tell her mother.

Then she wondered what was wrong with the camera—if she could fix it here, or if her dad would have to return it. She couldn't go back to New York with
nothing
. It had a warranty, right? Of course it did—it was brand-new.

New camera, broken camera, face, not a face, what's that noise outside, maybe nothing, maybe wolves, until it finally settled into a soothing pattern of white noise.

Not once did she wonder who had turned down the bed.

 

M
orning never came. When Dacey finally rolled out of bed, a dusky imitation of dawn greeted her—the sky still dark, sunrise colors at the horizon. Her travel clock insisted it was 9:00, but was that a.m. or p.m.?

Hunger ended the contemplation. Dacey stumbled to her feet and trudged toward the kitchen. Then she groaned when she realized the cupboard and the fridge were empty. Briefly, she glanced at the giant block of orange cheese crackers.

“Sorry,” she told them. “I'm not that desperate yet.”

A brisk hike and a ferry ride later, Dacey strode through the streets of Tromsø proper. Though the streets were narrow and the lights were on, it didn't feel like a village. It was very much a
city
on the edge of night, full of people, full of life. Everything glittered in purple and gold: the water, the buildings, even the mountains in the distance.

She followed the buzz into the heart of town and eventually found herself in a café that promised omelets and reindeer.

When her waiter greeted her in Norwegian, she managed to reply, then consulted her phrase book.
“Snakker de Engelsk?”

“American?”

“Yes.” She folded the menu and smiled up at him.

Ruddy cheeked and animated, the waiter could have been twenty or fifty—it was hard to say. His hair was so pale, it could have been gold or silver, but his smile seemed friendly. He leaned against the table comfortably. “Visiting family?”

“On vacation. Sort of.” It sounded so weird to say that; to realize she was on vacation all by herself. Apparently, that thought showed in her expression, because the waiter laughed.

“Sort of?”

“I'm doing a photo-essay on the northern lights,” she answered. “For my school newspaper.”

“They
are
beautiful.” He hummed his approval, then leaned over to help her with the menu. After selecting a salmon-egg omelet and convincing her to try the
lefse
bread with currant jam, he stood and offered, “For the best view, you should try to get away from town. Just a hop on the ferry . . .”

Pleased for no real reason, Dacey gestured vaguely behind her. “Oh! I have that view. I'm in a little cottage across the bay. The harbor. The bay?”

“Harbor,” he said.

“It's perfect; it's right on a hill. There are these huge windows. . . .”

Awareness lit his face. “Kristian's cottage.”

“I didn't know it had a name.”

The waiter tapped the edge of the table with his order book. “Let me get this started. I'll be back.”

He disappeared for a moment, and Dacey reconsidered the whole conversation. He seemed nice enough, but she could just hear her mother now:
What were you doing, telling a stranger you're alone? And where to find you! That man could have been an ax murderer!

Considering the number of people her mother thought were ax murderers and the number who actually were, Dacey relaxed. Besides, the guy was obviously on the clock. When would he have time to hack her to death, between courses?

When the waiter returned, he brought her a cup of black coffee and a tray of sugar and milk to sweeten it.

“Right, so,” he said, leaning on the edge of the table. “It's an old cottage. Very romantic.”

Dacey colored slightly. Was he hitting on her? “I'm just here to take pictures.”

“No, no. Not for us. My Terje would have my head; you would be so disappointed. I mean, a romantic
story
.” He laughed, a soothing sound that let Dacey settle again. Still leaning at the edge of the table, the waiter glanced up, like he was trying to remember something important.

Finally, he spoke again. “A hundred years ago, almost exactly, I think. A boy named Kristian arrived from the south. Couldn't have been much older than you. And he went to work, building a cottage for his sweetheart. He said she only came in the dark. He lived his whole life for the polar nights.”

Leaning in, Dacey asked, “Regular night wasn't good enough for her?”

“He claimed she didn't belong to this world.”

Starting to smile, Dacey shook her head. “Seriously?”

“The sunlight drove her away,” the waiter said. He brushed his fingers together, holding back a laugh. “So she came when the nights were the longest. Maybe she was a vampire.”

Dacey picked up her coffee. “
Let the Right One In
, right?”

“
Pfft.
That's Sweden.” He spread his hands as he stood upright. “Do you want proof? He's buried on the hill behind the house. In the pine trees.”

Wow, that wasn't creepy at all. Dacey tried to picture the land around the cottage. There were lots of trees and lots of snow. She definitely didn't remember a graveyard. A little uneasy, Dacey pointed out, “All that proves is that he existed.”

“True.” The waiter grinned, teasing. “But maybe his vampire is still out there, waiting. Polar nights, you know. Perfect for lurking in the dark.”

“Now you're just trying to scare me.”

Laughing, the waiter said, “If I were trying to scare you, I'd tell you that the cottage is haunted.”

With a relieved smile, Dacey waved him off. He was
so
full of it. She didn't believe in ghosts, vampires, or quirky regional myths. The closest she got to encounters with the supernatural were the hallucinations when her insomnia got superbad.

But people loved legends, and there had to be more. If she couldn't get the camera to work, her editor would be just as happy with a local folklore and mysteries story.

She did a little dance in her seat and then dug into breakfast, recharged.