Dreams and Shadows

chapter ELEVEN

COURTING YOUNG MALLAIDH

At eight years of age, Mallaidh (pronounced Molly), had endeared herself to the whole of the fairy court through her hoydenish charm and unearthly grace. Her eyes were pools of childhood; the golden wisps of her hair were ever in motion, always caught in some light breeze, even when there was no wind, glinting, even when there was no sun; and she had a way of wrinkling her nose just so as to make the freckles across the bridge of it dance. She was delightful. Were she not preceded by her own mother, the title of “fairest of them all” would have been hers.

Not that she cared; had she concerned herself with such things, she would not have been half as captivating. Instead she had this way about her that never included attending to her own looks or fashion; rather, she appeared desperately in love with whomever and whatever she was with at the time. Her moods were infectious. Blithe and untamed, she was a free spirit, untethered from routine or convention. Hers was an essence that pined for adventure and longed for a life sprinkled with magic.

A life like her mother’s.

Cassidy Crane (a surname she’d picked up in the hole-in-the-wall bars of the Austin club scene) was something of a legend. A slender, raven-haired punk-rock goddess, she was a demure boot-wearing, butt-kicking beauty with specially inked tattoos that, if you looked closely enough, you could watch move and change color with her mood. She didn’t tolerate lovesick fools and was always at the hip of the brightest and the best up-and-coming talent. Artists, musicians, and writers all found time with Cassidy—if they had the gift. But it wasn’t until her steadiest beau—an incredibly talented actor—overdosed and died in her arms that she secured her immortality: Mallaidh. That name was the last thing Cassidy left her daughter before vanishing back into the ether of the rock scene.

When Cassidy walked the foothills and trails of the Limestone Kingdom, she ruled the roost—so when she left the swaddling-wrapped Mallaidh at the foot of Meinrad’s cave, it was thought by all that her daughter would follow in her footsteps. Thus far, she had. Mallaidh was the highlight of the hills, the glowing talk of whomever she graced with her time.

And to Nixie Knocks the Changeling, she was the center of the very universe.

Mallaidh was neither unusually cruel nor given to any sort of boorishness, so whenever Knocks came around to call there was no reason to be unduly rude. She flirted; it was in her nature. Her eyes grew big and brown and she smiled in a way that dislodged his stomach from its moorings, sinking it a solid foot. He had no choice but to fall madly, deeply in love with her. Though she did not return his affection, she did enjoy the attention, and she devoured it when—time and again—he would pay her a visit in the vain hope that she might see him differently once and for all. Times like today.

“Hello, Mallaidh,” he said, his eyes making indirect contact while his foot nervously drew semicircles in the dirt. His arm was concealed poorly behind him, fresh-picked, dying wildflowers clutched hopefully in his grimy little fingers. He was eager, nervous, unsure of himself. As far as Mallaidh knew, this was his natural state. His upturned cockeye blinked, entirely independent of the other, and Mallaidh tried to pretend that seeing that didn’t bother her so much.

“Hello, Knocks,” she said sweetly, her voice almost cooing. Her mood was particularly bright today, mirroring the radiant skies and the soft, billowing clouds that drifted dreamily in the distance. “What’s the haps?”

“The . . . haps?” he asked, confused.

“Oh, did I say that wrong?” She leaned in flirtatiously, trying coyly to play it off. “You used to live in Austin. That’s what they say there, right? What’s the haps?”

“I don’t know. I . . . I’ve never heard that before.”

“Oh, how silly of me,” she said, recovering for both of them. “I must have gotten it wrong. You know people better than I do.”

“No, I . . . I . . . ,” he stammered.

“Don’t be modest. You’re smart. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

He scuffed the ground harder, not yet consciously realizing that he’d drawn a heart in the dirt. “So, Mallaidh.”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, curiously. “Why?”

Knocks leaned in close, almost uncomfortably close. The next part he whispered. “I have a secret.”

“Ooooh.” She loved secrets. “What is it?” she whispered in the covert tenor of a secret agent.

Knocks smiled and looked both ways. “There’s a hunt tonight.”

“There is?” she asked excitedly. “Why haven’t I heard about it?”

“Because it’s a secret. Only a few of the forest bogeys know.”

Mallaidh grimaced playfully, watching the young boy trying to present himself as a man. “Since when are you a forest bogey?” she asked.

“W . . . we . . . w . . . well . . . ,” he stuttered “I’m not. But I heard them. And I’m gonna go take part.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed—a young belle offered a chance to a dance to which she was clearly not really invited. “Well, I’m too young for a hunt. And I’m afraid there’s nothing for me to do.” She was clearly losing interest in the conversation. “Look, I—”

“Oh, well, Ewan and I are—”

“Ewan’s going to be there?” she interrupted. Her eyes lit up as if someone had set off fireworks behind him.

Knocks’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. He strained for normalcy, his eyelids fighting to stay open against the weight of his jealousy. Through gritted teeth he spoke, very slowly. “Yes. Ewan will be there.”

“And I can go with you?” she asked, clapping excitedly, bouncing.

Knocks paused for a second. “Yes. Of course you can come with me,” he said, smiling broadly. His plaque-encrusted, yellow teeth sprouted as randomly from his gray gums as trees did from the ground, his sickening grin turning Mallaidh’s stomach. She muscled through it, betraying nary a second of her discomfort.

“Where should I meet you?” she asked.

Knocks answered in a sour staccato he tried disguising as mere theater. “The Great Stage. Sunset. Come alone.”

Mallaidh smiled, touching Knocks lightly on the arm, above his elbow. “Oh, I’m so excited,” she said. “I can’t wait! See you tonight.” She winked before slipping immediately back into the forest.

Little did he know it wasn’t his demeanor or appearance that so spoiled his chances. To Mallaidh, a changeling was just another fairy—a revolting and misanthropic fairy to be sure, but a fairy nonetheless. And that simply wouldn’t do. Not for a Leanan Sidhe. Fairies were prone to long, meandering lives, their life force like an artisan’s candle, meant to burn long and slow. But mortals, they burned out quick and flashy, like puddles of gasoline. They were exciting, fresh, always on the precipice of death. And for a Leanan Sidhe, only the company of a mortal would truly do.

It was the life her mother had led, which meant that it was good enough for Mallaidh as well. But try telling that to a changeling.

KNOCKS INHALED DEEPLY, the air still perfumed with her breath, notes of lilacs mixed with peaches in sweet cream. He looked on, smiling, dumbstruck at the touch, for a moment forgetting the rotting flowers wilting behind him in his grasp.

He stared agape into the woods behind her, the lingering smile slowly sinking as reality once again set in. The flowers burned in his grasp, a stinging reminder of his humiliation. Reaching back with his other hand, he grabbed hold, mindlessly twisting until the heads of the flowers popped off and the stems were a green, ragged tangle of carnage staining his hands a mossy olive. There was much work to do.