Under Cover of Darkness (21 page)

“So you're mounting a one-man assault.” Lawrence's eyes glowed. “If I could win free of my responsibilities to Feisal, I'd join you in a snap.”

“Sorry.” Percival shook his head. “I couldn't allow it. I'm afraid you'd be a liability when I meet Quint and his minions. Their vanquishing requires . . . uhmmm . . . specialized knowledge.”

“Ah.” Lawrence's ebullience deflated.

“Take comfort in the fact that Grand Sharif Hussein is already quite safe. And I've set my best protections around the prince: Feisal wears a brother to your stone. It's time I continue my quest.”

His voice softened. “My calling is sometimes a lonely business, Thomas. It was good seeing you again. I'd like to stay longer, but I cannot.”

“One more question.” Lawrence shifted position, and winced. “Why under Heaven do the Rosicrucians send only one man to accomplish such a huge task? I'd think there should be an army.”

Percival smiled. “Because my Order is eternally optimistic, Thomas. And we don't normally need an army. Too, it would be an admission that there's more evil in the world than an individual can conquer.”

Lawrence had to think about that. Percival stood.

“You brought us luck today, you know.” Lawrence said. “If there's ever anything I can do to repay you . . .”

“Keep up the good work with Prince Feisal. There's likely to be more for you to do on behalf of the Arabs after the war. And think positive thoughts in my direction.”

“Too bad I can't send anything with you except water.” Lawrence called to a nomad, who handed Percival a full skin.

“That's enough. Farewell. Your friendship rides with me, Thomas.”

Percival turned, ordered his camel to kneel, looped the waterskin around the peaks of the saddle, and hopped onto the padding. He prodded her to rise. Turning her with the halter and tapping her neck with his stick, he rode through the tribesmen and swirling dust. As his camel settled into her best walking pace, he intoned a spell.

“Be careful, Percival!” Lawrence's shout tickled in his ears.

He smiled and raised a hand in acknowledgment, aware that it was the only part of his body still visible as the swirl of metaphysics and desert consumed him.

Amanda Bloss Maloney

 

 

I
AM SEVEN years old again. The earth spins beneath me as I lie on the grass and watch dark clouds race through the sky, like an armada struggling to reach a critical battle. It's hot, but some of the humidity has lifted as if a valve has been opened to ease the pressure.

It is twilight, and dinner is late because we lost power in the afternoon. Between the storm and the rolling blackouts, electricity is erratic throughout the city. Some lights still shine at the core to the east, a beacon of civilization. It almost hurts to look at them, like staring at the sun. They cast an eerie glow on the clouds skimming just above the tallest buildings. Everywhere else is gray; the sunset is a distant haze, not really trying to pierce the clouds. It's too much effort and the day is coming to a close, so why not rest?

Mrs. Hudson is with me. Her flashlight is off now, but I think she still sees me by the final burn of the day. She climbed the small hill where the hydro towers march in the field behind our neighborhood, said she'd seen me leave through the gate and didn't want me to get lost. We sit for a while, watching the storm clouds and pointing out interesting shapes that remind us of familiar things. She braids my hair, her warm, wrinkled face smiling down at me.

She lives alone on our street and sometimes has dinner with us. She tells wonderful stories with so much detail they almost seem real to me; of beings who share our world but cannot be seen. There are tales of the Seelie Court—the benevolent Faeries—who sometimes entertain mortals. I listen to her stories about the Faerie folk and dream of visiting the Court. I would wear a dress woven from moss and drink dew from the heads of flowers. Mrs. Hudson says I'd have other human children to play with: there are no Faerie children at Court. She always says a blessing for them at every meal. “Must make the
Daine Side
feel welcome,” she says. Mum has explained in hushed tones that Mrs. Hudson is talking about beings that don't exist.
She
thinks they are real and Mum doesn't want to upset her with the truth.

I am alone now. Mrs. Hudson has gone just down the hill to pick some flowers to decorate my braids. We'll have to go home soon as dinner will be ready. I close my eyes so I can't see the hydro tower looming above me and picture myself in a forest instead, full of colorful flowers and sweet-faced faeries dancing in a glade.

The crickets are suddenly silent and the wind has stilled. Something is very wrong. I open my eyes and stare up at four figures. They are pale phantoms of men in long, black coats. Their skin has a luminous quality and their hair is long and silver. The faces are poor imitations of being human. Their features are oddly spaced; the noses too narrow and the eyes and mouths are too large. I recognize these creatures; Mrs. Hudson has an attentive seven-year-old sponge absorbing everything she says. They are the Slaugh, or The Host, unsan ctified dead who fly above the earth, steal mortals, and take great pleasure in harming them. They are part of the Unseelie Court, the unblessed faeries, the damned. I don't know how they can be here. They are creatures of myth: Mum said so. Having them real is too much. I blink but they don't go away.

“Lookie-look,” a strangled male voice says. It sounds like he's choking. Something wet lands on my cheek; it isn't rain.
Drool . . .

I try to roll away, but sharp hands grab my arms and lift me from the ground as if I were a doll. Their bones tighten against my flesh. Something tugs on one of my braids.

“Pretty,” another voice says. I kick and squirm but to no avail. “Can we have it?”

“It's only a snack.”

“Maybe we should take it to the King.”

“You have to go home now, young Nattie,” Mrs. Hudson says from behind me, her voice strong and clear. I don't know when she arrived, but my tears of relief are making it hard for me to see.

“Ooooo,” the choking one says. “Main course.”

I am dropped like a broken toy. I cry out, but my voice is too small to be heard.

The Slaugh ignore me and direct their attention to my neighbor, circling her, hissing. Their limbs are restless and their long, long fingers click together like branches in the wind. They are fast, too, and I don't know how Mrs. Hudson is going to survive if they attack her. She seems small and frail by comparison.

Mrs. Hudson is motionless, as if waiting to take a breath. She makes an abrupt gesture with her hand and one of the attackers keens loudly before dropping to the grass. He doesn't move again. I suddenly realize she's fought them before.

I have to help. I get to my knees, scared but determined. A strange feeling sweeps over me, as if I'm being covered by a heavy blanket, and I collapse. I cannot move.

My eyes remain open, and I am only a spectator as the hydro tower fifty feet away groans under the strain of a force that pulls steel free of welds and concrete. It crashes toward the hill, dragging wires, ripping bolts, and crushing one of the creatures that doesn't move fast enough. The remaining two scatter, silver hair and black coats floating behind them, and then return angrier than before.

The wind has come to play. It rushes over my head and howls like the dog next door when it's left alone. I try to scream, but the invisible blanket muffles my voice. I think I'm going to die. I want to close my eyes, but I can't. Helpless, I witness the end as Mrs. Hudson staggers under the assault of their slashing claws and cries out. Her head is severed from her body and she falls from my range of vision. There are sounds I can't identify. I lie there in shock, heart racing, waiting for them to find me.

I wake with a scream crawling up my throat, scrabbling to get free. It takes me a moment to relax my rigid limbs. Tears burn my face as they track, unchecked, down my temples to dampen my ears and run into my hair. The Slaugh fled when family and friends, having witnessed the collapse of the hydro tower, rushed to the field. I was carried away without seeing the remains of Mrs. Hudson.

Fourteen years ago.
The creatures of silver and black linger in my memory and haunt me when my headaches are at their worst. I have never encountered them again.

“Irish, Spanish, Chinese.”

I glanced up from the newspaper I'd borrowed from Mrs. Wu in 1B. The guy in 2A had his radio blaring again; some kind of modern jazz/funk mix, and the baseline was thumping through the brick building with all the subtlety of a gang war. I didn't know him very well. His mailbox in the lobby read “Jack;” I was tempted to add “ass.” It irritated me that we seemed to work within blocks of one another and I often encountered him during the day.

I peered down toward his small balcony, my expression of annoyance clear. He straddled an old wooden chair and fiddled with the radio, his short hair standing on end as fashion dictated. The frat boy look was complete with a taupe cotton T-shirt, coordinating khaki pants, and old cowboy boots. He grinned up at me and demonstrated that he knew how to lift his middle finger; I returned the gesture in kind. At least we were keeping it friendly today.

“What?” I asked, trying to tune out the noise.

My roommate, Ali Jones, squinted her pale blue eyes against the sun, too lazy to find her sunglasses. Her short, blonde hair held the shape it had assumed when she rose that morning. She was curled in the old vinyl office chair like a cat, sipping from a small glass that contained some of the orange juice we'd bought the day before.

“Your family. Irish, Spanish, Chinese.”

“Um, yeah,” I managed, feeling like I should say something just to fill the space. She was looping back to a conversation I thought we'd finished about five minutes before. I'd just revealed my immediate ancestry after almost three months of watching her not ask me about it.

My glass of juice was already half empty—or half full, depending on your perspective—and we only had enough left for another two servings each. Anything imported always came at a price, especially with the U.S. being so picky about shipping their produce lately. The reserve list at the market was long, and affordable orange juice with pulp was rare.

“Doesn't sound like a family tree,” she stated after a lengthy pause.

I shifted in my lawn chair, avoiding the strap that was broken, and took another sip of juice, savoring it. “What does it sound like, then?”

Ali snorted and smiled impishly. “Fusion cuisine.”

Well, I guess the “fusion” part works
.

When I looked in the mirror, I either saw a young woman still getting her bearings in the world or a puzzled girl who was trying to hide. It depended on the day. Genetics had given me the dark hair and pale coffee complexion that was my mother's Spanish heritage. Mixed in was an Asian influence contributed by my grandmother on my mother's side, especially noticeable in the shape of my eyes and the roundness of my face. I wasn't sure if the Irish part was responsible for my height—five feet, eleven inches—or for my obsession with potatoes. Physically, I didn't hit my stride until I was fifteen. According to a guy I played basketball with at school, that summer I went “from gangly to gourmet.” Whatever. I didn't mind discussing my background with Ali. It just wasn't a subject I wanted to share with the whole building.

“Fusion cuisine?” I wrinkled my nose and tried to redirect her. “You've been listening to that guy at the sushi place too much.”

“Hey, he listens to me, I return the favor.”

I nodded, put my glass on the crate beside me and skimmed the pages for anything interesting. I handled the paper very carefully in order to prevent unnecessary wear as several people were still waiting to read it. There weren't a lot of presses left that could afford to produce a paper daily and they didn't print as many copies as they used to: took too much power, too many resources. Mrs. Wu fit a paper into her budget every other day and had it reserved at the convenience store two blocks away. As well as the newspaper, she shared her plot of vegetables with most of the building's inhabitants. She had been in that ground floor apartment more than half her life and had taken over a fair portion of the court-yard for her garden. In exchange for fresh produce and time with the paper, I gave her a manicure and pedicure every two weeks and styled her hair when her family came to visit.