The Stolen: An American Faerie Tale (30 page)

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-­FIVE

“G
ood Lord, do you ever shut up?” Caitlin asked, rubbing her temples. A persistent throbbing had taken up residence behind her eyes and apparently had an extended lease.

“Not that I've ever heard.” Brendan smacked Puck on the back of the head. “How close are we, Tinker Bell?”

“Do you see wings?” Puck asked and stamped a foot. “No, you don't. Why? Because I am not a pixie! I'm a pùca. Pùca! Pùca! Pùca!” He began jumping up and down, increasing the volume every time he repeated the word.

“You'll be a cloud of twinkling lights if you don't shut your gob!” Brendan said. “If you're lucky, I'll only boot your arse across the bleeding woods. Now, how close are we?”

Puck glared back over his shoulder at Brendan and began bouncing his head back and forth. “Booot yer arse acroos da bleedan wood,” he said in an exaggerated brogue and flashed Brendan a dirty look.

“Oh, you're claimed now!” Brendan reached for his knife.

Puck let out a squeak and ran toward a marble structure. “Here it is! Here it is!” he shouted as he reached the building. Then he bounded up into a tree and was gone in a rustling of branches.

“Oh, thank God,” Caitlin said. “He isn't nearly so annoying in the play.”

“I think old Billy Shakespeare was afraid the little bugger wouldn't stop pestering him if he'd made him as he was.”

Caitlin chuckled, then looked at the building. “Is it me, or does that look just like the Parthenon?”

In fact, that was exactly what it looked like, though smaller in scale. The white marble still gleamed, but dead, brown grass and vines grew over it and up the columns.

“The fae contributed to a lot of architecture in mortal history,” Brendan said. “You'll find things like this all through the Tír.”

“So, what now?”

“We go inside.” Brendan led the way up the stairs.

“Is Puck gone?” Caitlin asked. “Or do we need to worry about him jumping out of the shadows?”

“Well, he did say until we got to the hall of doors,” Brendan said as he reached the top. “So, he's no longer bound to do no harm, but he's a bleeding coward. I'd say we need to worry more about the doors at this point.”

“The third challenge?” Caitlin asked as she joined Brendan at the top of the stairs.

He nodded.

Inside, dirt covered the marble floor between dried, dead plants, vines, and scattered leaves. As Caitlin stepped inside, she saw walls lined with huge wooden doors set right into the marble.

“I don't remember ever hearing about a hall of doors. What is it?”

“The Dusk Court uses it to torment mortals they've brought across. Each door offers something you truly desire in a different way.”

“And what's the catch?” Caitlin asked, looking at Brendan with a raised eyebrow.

“It's EXACTLY what you want, but in the worst possible circumstances,” Brendan said. “If you opened a door wishing to be famous, it might be because you were hated and loathed.”

“Infamous.”

“Aye, and if you wanted money, it would be in a place where it had no value. Things like that and much, much worse. The Dusk Court takes great pride in coming up with new and clever ways to twist your deepest desire into your worst nightmare.”

“So what are we doing here?”

“One of these doors will take us to Fergus's court.”

“Which one?” Caitlin looked from one door to another. They were all different woods in all different states of disrepair, ranging from fresh oak to nearly rotted pine.

“I don't know. That's up to you, love. You're going to have to outsmart Fergus by wanting something he can't twist.”

“What?”

“I can't open a door. This is your journey, and she's your
girseach
. I'll back you no matter what happens though.”

“I still don't understand. What am I supposed to do?” Caitlin's palms were wet, and her heart was beating faster.

“You have to focus on Fiona, on getting her back. Do it so strongly, without doubt or ambiguity, that nothing about it can be turned on you.”

“Any door?”

“That's where you trust your instincts.” Brendan went to his knees and crossed himself.

“Are you praying?”

“Aye.” He looked up at her. “I figured it couldn't hurt, but I can stop if you don't think we could use the help—­”

“No.” She shook her head. “By all means, go right ahead.”

Brendan lowered his head again and began to mutter something in Latin as Caitlin looked at each door.

Which one?

First choice, she thought. Don't second-­guess yourself.

She closed her eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. She looked from one door to another. Her eyes passed over several, finally stopping on one that was dark red and well maintained. She walked to the door and swallowed as she reached out a trembling hand.

She touched the handle, and her breathing became more shallow and rapid. She closed her eyes and tried to think like a lawyer writing a contract.

“
In nomine Patris,
” Brendan whispered.

Caitlin tightened her grip on the polished handle.

“
Et Filii
.”

She pushed the handle down.

“
Et Spiritus Sancti
.” Brendan crossed himself.

The door opened, and a gust of wind rushed past her face. All she could see was a blinding white light. At the last moment, she thought, I just want this to be over.

C
aitlin sat up in bed with a start. She took several shuddering breaths as she looked around the darkened room. Cold sweat drenched her, causing her thin shirt to cling to her body.

“Are you all right, love?” a soft voice tinged with an Irish brogue asked.

A warm hand touched her shoulder, and she turned.

James looked at her with his brow knitted. “It were just a nightmare. That's all.”

“Nightmare?” she stared at him.

“Aye, all's well now.” He sat up and touched her face.

Something churned in her stomach. “No.” She shook her head, closed her eyes, and turned away. “This isn't—­”

“Isn't what?” Edward asked.

Caitlin opened her eyes and looked at him. His smile was as comforting as ever.

“Was it a bad one?” he asked.

“She was alive,” Caitlin said.

Edward wrapped her in his arms, pulled her down to him, and held her close.

She closed her eyes, rested her cheek on his bare chest, and fought the gnawing emptiness in her heart.

“It's okay,” Edward whispered, then he kissed her head. “It was just a dream. It can be hard for your mind to accept, but she's gone.”

A tear escaped and ran down Caitlin's cheek, landing on Edward's chest. “I miss her so much.”

“Me, too.” He squeezed her. “But just think about the good things—­”

“Good things?” she asked. “What good things?”

“I don't mean it that way. Just think of all the freedom you have now, that we have. It wouldn't be like this if Fiona—­”

Caitlin sat up and looked at him. The words bit like an icy dagger, but images came to her mind; walks with Edward, quiet dinners, and the sweetness of them falling in love.

She shook her head. “I'd have thought you'd tell me to take all the time I need. That losing a child is the hardest thing—­”

“I have, a thousand times, and I will, but there comes a time when you have to let the past go and see—­”

“No,” she said.

Edward's face became stern. “You know I love you, but I can't share you with a ghost.”

Caitlin's stomach turned. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“All we've done, all we've become, and you still can't—­?”

“She's alive!” Caitlin said.

Edward let out a breath. “She's not. Caitlin, you saw her body. You're the one who found her. It wasn't your fault, gas leaks happen.”

There was a flash of memory; a cold room, a morgue. Caitlin stood over a table and looked down at the discolored face of her daughter.

Tears poured down Caitlin's cheeks. “No!”

“Damn it, Caitlin!” Edward threw the blanket aside and got to his feet. “This is the last time I'm having this conversation!”

“No, no, no, no!” She shook her head and covered her ears. “This is wrong, all wrong.”

“You've got that right,” Edward said.

“No, Eddy, please.” She reached out for him, but he backed away. “She's alive, I know she is. I can feel it! Please believe me!”

“Would you listen to yourself? Do you have any idea how crazy you sound?”

“Yes, but I—­” She stopped.

“But you what?”

“You didn't correct me,” she whispered.

“What are you talking about?”

“You always react when I call you Eddy,” she said. “I don't know if you're even aware of it anymore. Sometimes it's just a look, or a smile, but you didn't this time.”

He scoffed. “You've lost it. I got over that a long time ago.”

Caitlin pulled the blanket up to cover herself. “Who are you?”

“Wow.” He sighed. “Okay, I'm calling the hospital. We need to get you admitted.”

“What happened the day we met?” She climbed off the bed and blocked his path to the phone.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Get out of my way.” His eyes turned to stone. “I don't want to hurt you.”

Caitlin smiled. “You just proved my point. Eddy is the gentlest person I've ever known. There's nothing I could do, nothing, that would make him hurt me.”

Edward sneered and cursed, then the room spun.

C
aitlin landed hard on her back. She looked around, and everything was blurry.

“Easy,” Brendan said. She couldn't make his image come into focus. It took her a moment to realize that it was the tears pooling in her eyes.

“I'm right here,” he said.

Caitlin wiped her eyes and sucked in a breath as her vision cleared.

“What did you see?”

She sat up with Brendan's help and chided herself for the mental slip.

“Can you hear me, love?”

“No, I mean yes, I can hear you. I'm an idiot. I had it figured out, then at the last moment . . .” She shook her head.

“It passes,” he said, finishing for her. “That is what these—­these bastards rely on. They can find the part of you that isn't quite dark and twist it just so. That's part of the torment. They delight in it, making you face something like that.”

“So I failed?”

Brendan shook his head. “If you had, you wouldn't be here. Now, you try again.”

Caitlin felt a rush of panic, and she looked at the doors. She was about to say that she wasn't sure she could do it again, but she stopped herself. She couldn't screw up again. She had to focus.

“Don't you see, you beat it, love,” Brendan said. “They found something and taunted you with it, but you got the best of them.”

“How do you know?”

He laughed. “Because you're here.”

The nagging doubt began to vanish under a current of confidence. “I beat it.”

“Aye.”

Caitlin got to her feet.

“Find that fire, and focus on Fiona so hard there's nothing else. You have to block out those little thoughts and worries. You can't let nothing sneak in. Now get to it—­it's nearly done.”

She looked at him. “Nearly?”

“Threes, always in threes.”

A stab of cold tried to settle in her stomach, but she squashed it before it could. She walked over to a faded pine door. Reaching out, she took the handle.

I want Fiona, my child. I want her back and I want her safe.

She focused on that thought as she turned the handle and opened the door.

A
warm summer breeze blew across Caitlin's face, and she couldn't help but smile. Everything in the world felt right, and she couldn't remember the last time she was so relaxed. When she opened her eyes, she saw Fiona, eight years old and playing on the monkey bars. She reached out for one bar then another, smiling and laughing the whole time.

“Mommy, look at me, watch!”

“I see you, peanut.”

Fiona dropped down and headed across the playground. An older boy, maybe thirteen, beat her to the last open swing.

“That's mine,” Fiona said in a flat tone, her smile gone.

“Beat it, shrimp, I got it first,” the boy said.

Caitlin walked over to intercede. She stopped when she saw Fiona grip the chain of the swing and stare at the boy.

“I said, it's mine,” Fiona said.

Caitlin blinked, then shook her head. “Honey, just wait your—­”

“NO!” Fiona screamed at her. “He can't have it, it's mine!”

“Fiona,” Caitlin said in a stern tone. “I said, wait your turn.”

The boy laughed and stuck out his tongue as Caitlin took Fiona's arm.

Fiona pulled from Caitlin's hold and tore the much larger boy from the swing. Caitlin watched in horror as Fiona took the boy's head and twisted it until there was a cracking sound, then dropped the limp body to the ground.

Caitlin's heart lurched, and her blood ran cold as Fiona stepped over the body and climbed into the now vacant swing.

“Oh, my God, Fiona,” Caitlin said just above a whisper. “What did you do?”

“I told him it was mine,” Fiona answered. “He should've given to me.”

“You . . .” Caitlin swallowed. “You ki—­” She tried to say the words, but she couldn't.

Fiona stopped the swing, looked at Caitlin, and blinked. When her eyes opened, her sparkling green irises were replaced by solid black orbs, devoid of anything human.

Caitlin shook her head. “No.”