Dreams and Shadows

chapter FORTY-FIVE

ALL HELL

Colby walked solemnly toward Ewan, words failing him. The world was about to come down on their heads—he had to choose between standing beside his murderous friend or throwing him to the fairies to be torn apart before his eyes.

But seeing him now, all he felt was sadness.

Ewan hadn’t moved since collapsing with Mallaidh. He held her, lifeless, in his arms, slowly rocking her back and forth, whispering softly as if to try to gently rouse her from a deep sleep. But she would not wake. Finally Ewan looked up at Colby, his eyes red and swollen.

“I didn’t mean to,” Ewan whimpered. “They made me think . . . they made me . . .”

“I know,” said Colby.

“They’re coming for me, aren’t they?” he asked. “For what I’ve done?”

Colby nodded. “Yes.”

“How many?”

“Most of them.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Yes it is.”

“How many do you suppose we could kill before they get us?”

Colby’s expression hardened, entertaining the thought. “Between you and me?” he asked. “I reckon we could take out a couple dozen. Maybe more.”

“I hope you’re not just being optimistic.”

“I’m not,” said Colby.

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“I don’t want to kill anyone who doesn’t have it coming.”

“They all have it coming,” said Ewan.

“I don’t think—”

“They took her from me, Colby.” Ewan looked him dead in the eye. “I never got . . . I never got to show her how much I loved her. This is my chance. I’m gonna kill ’em. I’m gonna kill ’em all. And I’m asking you, will you stand beside me when I do?”

Colby nodded. “I did try talking to them.”

“You did,” said Ewan.

“And they did pretty much tell me to go f*ck myself.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means we’re probably going to have to kill them.”

Ewan paused for a moment, gazing down at Mallaidh, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “You know what’s happening to me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m becoming one of them, aren’t I?”

“You always were,” said Colby. “We just didn’t know it.”

“But now?”

“You’re becoming a redcap.”

“I can’t . . . I can’t live like one of those things. I can’t keep killing like this.”

“I know,” said Colby.

“You realize that this is probably the last chance we’re going to have to talk like this, before . . .”

Colby nodded. “Yeah.”

Ewan looked up. “If you had it to do over again, I mean, if you could go back, knowing what you know now, would you still do it?”

“Save you? From them?”

“Yeah.”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Even if you knew it would come to all this?”

“Yes,” said Colby. “Even with all this.”

Ewan smiled. “I used to get pretty down about having only one good friend. I always looked around at the popular kids with dozens and thought something was wrong with me. Turns out something was wrong with me, but one friend was all I really needed.” He looked back down at Mallaidh. “What do we do? With her, I mean.”

“We send her back to where she belongs.”

“How do we do that?”

“Like this.” Slowly, Colby knelt beside the two, putting a hand on Mallaidh. He closed his eyes. Mallaidh exploded into a beautiful puff of orchid petals, the sweet smells of summer and a glimmer of sunlight accompanying the off-white remains to the ground.

Ewan’s eyes grew wide. He hadn’t expected her to be gone so soon.

“Gather together the petals and bury them,” said Colby.

“Do you think she would mind if I carried them around with me?” asked Ewan. “Just for tonight?”

“Mind? She spent her whole life looking for you. I think she’ll take all the time with you she can get.”

“So what now?”

“Now,” said Colby, “we go downtown and see what sort of trouble we can get into.”

IT WAS AN hour before dawn when the two swaggered into downtown. All was silent, everything bathed in a soft, orange, halogen lamplight glow, the city long since dormant, its bars locked up hours before. On the horizon, a ridge of clouds obscured the western stars, creeping over the sky toward the center of town. There wasn’t a soul about; even the angels had fled to their own private roosts, trying to hurry forth the dawn with a steady flow of wine. The two were alone, walking fearlessly toward their fate, neither with a word to say to the other.

Turning a corner they found themselves walking into a thick, knee-high fog. It swirled, thinning into a wispy mist, vanishing completely around their shoulders. From within the mist emerged a dark figure, his face obscured by a large-brimmed hat, under which he smoked a thin, hand-rolled cigarette. Bill the Shadow.

Ewan breathed deeply, his eyes wide, childhood memories nearly causing him to wet his pants. For years, Ewan had suffered nightmares about this man. Now that his memories had returned—Swiss-cheesed though they were—he recognized the lingering shadow for what it was. He’d thought the fighting would begin more dramatically than this, but so be it. Cautiously, he lowered his pike, ready to strike.

“Bill,” said Colby.

“Colby,” said Bill.

“Good to see you.”

“You too.”

“Odd night for a walk,” said Colby, looking around.

“Yep, I reckon it is. Heard there might be a ruckus. Haven’t had me one of those in a while. Thought I might stick around and see what yours looked like.”

“You’re more than welcome.” He motioned to Ewan. “You know Ewan.”

“Kid,” said Bill, tipping his hat to him.

“Bill,” said Ewan, nodding back, uncertain what to make of him.

Colby leaned in toward Bill, speaking softly, “Have you seen Yashar?”

Bill shook his head. “No. No one has.”

There came a stiff bark from the fog, accompanied by the dull clicking of claws on concrete. A golden retriever, his fur matted and ruffled, a small, snarling cluricaun straddling its back, appeared. It was Old Scraps. The wily cluricaun smiled, a small, homemade pike—nothing more than a long cast-iron piece of pipe with a butcher knife wedged into it—in his hand. He nodded politely, pledging his support.

“Thought I’d bring a friend,” said Bill.

“We could use friends,” said Ewan.

“That’s the rumor. Way I hear it, Ruadhri’s bringing every Sidhe on the plateau, and most of the unseelie court.”

“That’s a lot, isn’t it?” asked Ewan.

“Oh yeah,” said Colby, “that’s a lot. Especially for the four of us.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Bill. “It depends on how bad things are about to get.”

That phrase sounded familiar. Bertrand. Colby smiled wryly. “Am I on the right side of this?”

“If you weren’t,” said Bill, “we wouldn’t be here.”

“Well, then,” said Colby with a wry smile, “let’s go get some pissed-off angels.”

Fat Charlie’s Archangel Lounge was only a few blocks away and extraordinarily packed for this time of night. The four stood outside—none of them welcome within—staring into the windows, waiting. After a few moments, Bertrand leaned his head out, and saw them standing there. He nodded to them, then turned around, holding the door open. With a firm whistle, he twirled his fingers in the air, rousing his fellow angels from their stupors.

Out poured eleven drunken fallen angels, each dressed in battered white armor—soiled with age and dinged from a hundred different battles—every one of them carrying a brutal claymore in one hand and a bottle of stiff liquor in the other. Bertrand was the last out the door, a nearly drained bottle of fine Irish whiskey in his hand. “My friends and I heard you might be having something of a rough morning.”

Colby nodded. “It sure looks that way. You boys looking for a fight?”

“Shit,” said Bertrand, “we’re always looking for a fight. Especially against anything that pays the Devil’s bill with innocent blood.” He turned to his flock. “Boys, drink up. We’re gonna kill some fairies.” The angels leaned their heads back, raising bottles to their lips, drinking sloppily. Then, in unison, they pulled away their bottles, raising them into the air, sounding a boisterous yawp before smashing them on the pavement with a resounding shatter. Each angel flapped his wings, taking to the sky. Glass ricocheted off the sidewalk, whiskey splashing Rorschach patterns, feathers gently floating to the ground around them.

The night grew suddenly quiet.

Bill cocked his head, listening to the wind. “They’re here.”

Angels lined the buildings along both sides of the street, perching upon the ledges, swords in hand. Bill took a deep breath before exhaling a thick, sticky fog that swept briskly over the streets, snaking its way into alleys, roiling like a sea just before the storm. He breathed and he breathed until he could breathe no more, coughing out enough dewy murk to obscure several city blocks.

Old Scraps trotted his pup next to Colby and stopped, looking up at him. Colby returned the look in kind. “I like you, kid,” said Scraps. “You’ve got bigger balls than anyone else in this town, that’s for sure. I’m proud to have been your bartender.”

Colby laughed. “And I, your patron. You need something to drink before we do this?”

Old Scraps grinned. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “I’ve been drunk for hours. HIYAH!” He spurred his dog off, disappearing into the mist.

KNOCKS MINDLESSLY FIDDLED with the blood-soaked rag tied tightly around his stump, his mind ten minutes ahead of him, in the thick of battle. They had chosen to come up from the lake, traveling alongside the river, outrunning the storm at their heels by mere minutes. Two dozen Sidhe, a handful of redcaps, and a smattering of other creatures slid quietly through the early-morning darkness. Several minutes behind them, a second contingent—nearly twice as large—made their way around the city to outflank anyone who stood with Colby and Ewan.

Knocks hoped the second wave wouldn’t need to fight.

They made their way up from the banks, fleetly shuffling from building to building, the air thick and hazy, growing thicker the farther into town they pressed. Something wasn’t right. Ruadhri sniffed deeply, wetting a finger on his tongue, raising it above his head.

He looked at Knocks, shaking his head slowly. “There shouldn’t be fog in this weather,” he whispered, “not before the storm.”

“Sorcery?” asked Knocks.

Ruadhri nodded. “An ambush.” He motioned to his Sidhe, each dressed in dark, loose-fitting clothing, bearing bows and quivers full of cursed arrows. “Fan out,” he ordered quietly, “and keep your eyes sharp.”

The Sidhe split up, several moving to the opposite side of the street. Two Sidhe moved to take point at the front of the group, walking slowly, soundlessly, straight up the middle along the dotted yellow median line. The fog had grown so thick that the air now buzzed with the humming of power lines overhead. There was no other sound.

There came a light whistling—like air passing through something at high speed—then a heavy thump. A shadow descended through the fog, slamming into one of the front-most Sidhe, picking him up, carrying him away into the mist.

The Sidhe let loose a volley of arrows into the sky.

Quietly they waited, listening as their arrows skittered off buildings or clacked against concrete.

Whistle; thump. The second of the front-most Sidhe vanished.

“Volley and fall back!” ordered Ruadhri. The Sidhe let loose their bowstrings again, this time retreating back toward the lake under the cover of fire.

Angels swooped in from behind, slamming into the Sidhe. Several Sidhe bounced off angelic shields, some knocked to the ground, others carried off, battered against buildings or dropped back onto the street from great heights.

Knocks and Ruadhri exchanged troubled looks. Angels.

Ruadhri swung his arm forward, pointing deeper into the city. “Draw your swords,” he ordered, “and press on. Charge!”

The Sidhe surged forward, slinging bows over their shoulders, drawing longswords. The redcaps charged after them, vanishing into the morning.

Thunder rumbled overhead, the subtle hiss of rain a few hundred yards off. The storm was almost here; they were losing whatever advantage they had. It was time to abandon the plan and simply go all-out. Knocks reached into his pocket, pulled out his stained, dried cap. It offered him no strength, but it made a point he wanted very much to make. Knocks belonged, and if he died this morning, he died a part of something.

Knocks gritted his teeth—the pain in his stump far worse than he’d imagined it would be—letting his rage overtake him. He charged headlong into the city, screaming at the top of his lungs.

COLBY LISTENED INTENTLY, scattered skirmishes erupting less than a block away. The fog was so thick, he couldn’t single them out, but he could hear swords unsheathed from their scabbards, the clanking of armor landing, the battle moving from the skies to the streets. He and Ewan held the line, waiting for any fairies who broke through.

“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHH!” screamed a familiar voice, its sound growing ever closer by the second.

Colby and Ewan both steadied themselves.

Shapes swelled in the fog before Ewan, but the sound grew loudest near Colby. The two traded one last glance.

Two redcaps emerged from the fog, swinging pikes at Ewan.

Ewan raised his own pike, deflecting both blows, the sudden nature of the blitz forcing him to give ground, retreating back toward an alley, bracing himself for another charge.

Colby raised an arm to react, but the screaming reached its apex. He turned in time to see Knocks tackle him, lunging headfirst out of the fog and into his chest.

Colby fell to the ground, the strength of the charge sliding them both ten feet across the pavement, tearing his shirt, scraping several layers of skin off his back. He tried to cry out, but the blow had knocked the wind clean out of him. Knocks wasted no time, pounding Colby’s face with his one good fist. The blows felt like a hammer against his cheekbone, each hit simultaneously cracking the back of his skull against the ground.

Colby rolled over, kicking Knocks off, throwing a punch of his own that glanced weakly off Knocks’s chin. Knocks swiftly rose to his feet, while Colby struggled to one knee, trying to regain both his footing and senses. He was stunned, wobbling on uneasy legs, unsure of what was going on. Once more, Knocks dove at him, swinging a haymaker across his jaw.

Colby spun around, punch-drunk from the hit, collapsing.

Knocks stood over Colby, fist clenched, ready to hit him again.

From the fog came the sound of scurrying. Old Scraps emerged astride his galloping golden retriever, swinging his makeshift pike, hollering an unintelligible battle cry. The blade slashed Knocks along the backside of his legs, dropping the changeling face-first to the ground. Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, Scraps disappeared, up the block.

Colby pushed himself to his feet, reaching with an outstretched hand toward Knocks. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the dreamstuff swirling within the changeling—hoping to evaporate it—but there was none. Try though he might, he could feel nothing there.

Knocks pushed himself up, rising to his feet, mindful not to exacerbate his new wounds. He smiled, proud of himself. “You can’t disbelieve me,” he said. “I am not held together by the stuff of dreams or the will of men. I am glued with their hate, conjured from their loss, fueled by their pain. And those are all things I know for a fact that you believe in.”

The staticky hiss of rain rolled over the buildings, onto the street. Fat drops slapped the earth, the hiss becoming a roar, drowning out the distant sounds of fighting, scattering the fog, tearing it apart drop by drop. At once everyone was soaked, the streets slick. While the fog was all but chased away, the air was now bleary with rain.

Two Sidhe pushed through the last shreds of fog, emerging on either side of Knocks.

Each raised their bows, leveling their lethal arrows at Colby.

Knocks smiled. “Kill him.”

Both exploded into a shower of petals—the heavy POP of air rushing into the vacuum left behind, taking the place of any final scream they might have had. Colby pulsed with the dreamstuff he had pulled in.

“You might be nothing but hatred, Knocks,” said Colby, “but they aren’t.” He swung both arms out to his sides, letting loose a barrage of eldritch shards—pink glowing dreamstuff hardened into serrated pieces of glass—arcing across the street, homing in on Knocks.

Knocks leapt out of the way, two shards tearing through the flesh of his stomach, another half dozen grazing layers of skin off his arms and legs.

Colby unleashed a bolt of pure kinetic force, striking Knocks square in the chest, blasting him back a full city block.

DIETRICH AND AXEL circled Ewan in opposite directions, their pikes leveled at his heart, both intending to be the first to spear him. Ewan spun about, keeping each redcap in his line of sight.

“Be mindful of his pike,” said Dietrich. “Its cut cannot be healed.”

“Aye,” said Axel.

Ewan swung his pike at each, keeping them at bay, but they circled still. He eyed the two up and down, searching for a weak spot. Both were dressed from head to toe in greasy rags, their stance leaving their squat torsos relatively unexposed. Only Dietrich had anything different about him—an ornate, carved bottle of ancient glass dangling from a leather strap attached to his belt.

Ewan had a pretty good idea what it was.

Ewan swung his pike wildly, giving himself a wide berth. The redcaps stepped back cautiously, keeping pace with Ewan, refusing to give him any ground. Then Ewan dropped low, swinging at Dietrich’s midsection. Dietrich arched his back, dodging the blow—missing entirely that the blade wasn’t aimed at his flesh, but rather his belt. The pike sliced off the leather strap.

The bottle clinked to the ground, bouncing off the pavement, rolling noisily down the street.

For a moment they gaped wide eyed up the street—each comically looking back and forth at the other like players in a Three Stooges sketch, waiting for the others to react.

Ewan raced after the bottle.

Dietrich lunged for it.

The bottle stopped with a clang against the curb.

The redcap reached for it. Ewan’s pike swung down. Dietrich flinched, the blade passing inches from his fingers. The pike connected with the neck of the bottle, shattering it.

Dietrich and Axel stared in stunned silence.

Ewan stepped forward toward the redcaps, his pike at the ready. Behind him, Yashar smoked up from the broken bottleneck, taking form from the head down. He grew eight feet tall, with golden, hairless skin and muscles that looked as if they could bench-press small cars. His arms were folded, his brow furrowed.

“Ewan,” Yashar’s voice boomed.

“Yeah?” said Ewan over his shoulder, refusing to take his eyes off Dietrich.

“I got this.”

Ewan stepped away. “They’re all yours.” He vanished, running off into the fog.

Yashar unfolded his arms, pointing a single finger at Axel.

Axel shook his head nervously, backing away. “No!” he cried. “It wasn’t me. It was him!” He pointed at Dietrich. “It wasn’t me!”

“I know,” said Yashar. “You get off easy.” With a thought, he turned Axel inside out, the redcap’s innards splattering on the pavement with a wet slap. Yashar cocked his head at Dietrich.

Dietrich eyed the pile of bone, muscle, and skin that was once his friend and then looked up at the djinn. Sneering, he spat angrily on the ground, cursing him. “Don’t keep me waiting,” he said. “Just do it.”

Yashar flung himself at the redcap, grabbing him by his shirt with one hand, pummeling him mercilessly with the other. His huge fist pounded relentlessly into Dietrich, flesh and bone not slowing the beating for a moment. He picked him up off the ground, throwing him into a nearby brick wall, the redcap’s body flopping limp as a rag doll onto the ground below.

Yashar was undeterred. He picked Dietrich up again, heaving him across the street, slamming him into another wall.

Once more Dietrich hit the ground. What few remaining bones of his that weren’t completely shattered were merely broken. He tried to push himself up, but the bone in his forearm splintered, puncturing the skin. He cried out.

Yashar slowly marched across the street, picking Dietrich up, throwing him one last time, putting him through a cinder-block wall. Blocks showered inward. Dietrich writhed on the floor, trapped beneath half a dozen blocks. With a single hand, Yashar palmed a cinder block, straddling the redcap.

“You deserve far worse,” said Yashar, “but I don’t have the time.”

The cinder block came down, bursting his head like a melon.

Yashar took a deep breath. His flesh lost its golden sheen, returning to its native olive, terrible scars marring his once smooth skin. He shrank, tufts of thick black hair growing out of his head. Within seconds he was a somewhat disfigured mockery of his old self, brutalized and scarred, but whole.

Colby stood behind him, eyeing the carnage. Yashar could feel him there but didn’t turn around.

“Do you still hate me?”

Colby shook his head. “Hate that strong is only worth carrying around with you if you aim to use it to kill a man. Otherwise, what are you keeping it for?”

“And?” asked Yashar.

“I don’t intend to kill you.”

“I sold you out. I told them where Ewan was.”

Colby nodded. “You can’t hold your breath underwater forever.”

“No, you can’t.” Yashar stood up and turned around.

Colby scrutinized him; Yashar was intact, but just barely. “Let’s go find Ewan.”

SEVERAL REDCAPS HUDDLED together behind an imposing stone troll, cautiously moving up the street through an ever-thickening fog, their pikes extended, their faces full of fear. The troll was massive, carved from granite, with eyes of onyx, teeth made of jagged quartz, dragging an uprooted tree for a club, the sound of grinding stone echoing off the buildings around him as he moved. The fog grew thicker still. And it began to whisper awful things.

The redcaps huddled closer, gripped their pikes tighter.

The air grew colder. The world dimmed darker.

“Just do it already,” one of the redcaps growled.

The shadow materialized in the darkness. Snatched a redcap by its pike. Vanished into the murk.

The redcap screamed as if his very flesh was being torn from his body.

The troll swung its tree through the blackening mist, striking nothing. It bellowed a shrill, bitter boom that rattled windows, setting off car alarms blocks away.

The screaming stopped. The bellow echoed into the distance, the patter of rain the only nearby sound. White knuckles clasped the two remaining pikes.

A balled-up red knit cap and a pile of rent skin slopped on the pavement before them.

The shadow emerged again, dragging another of the redcaps, hollering, off into the darkness.

The last redcap flailed his pike, slashing repeatedly at the nothing surrounding him on all sides. The troll looked down at him, rockbound jaw dangling, onyx eyes wide with horror.

The redcap grew uneasy, trying to puzzle out what the troll’s expression meant. Then he too was tugged away into the brume.

The troll thrashed its tree, smacking the ground around it, its trunk audibly splintering, cracking. It cried out, confused, upset. He was alone and afraid in a dark morass, both hands tightly around his maul.

Then the tree came alive, writhing, gnashing, clawing at the troll. He was wrestling a snake by its tail, fangs sinking into his stony flesh, breaking off chunks, spraying gravel.

The troll tossed away the tree, cracking it in half against the corner of a nearby building.

Bill the Shadow stepped from the fog, staring silently at the troll.

The troll took one step back, rearing up, his arms stretched wide, ready to swat Bill between his hands.

Bill slowly, politely, removed his hat, the shadows receding from his face. The troll stood in place, terrified by what he saw, eyes unable to break from Bill’s gaze.

Breathing deep, Bill sucked the soul right out of his body, out through the troll’s mouth, into his own. The spirit held fast, howling, phantasmal hands clinging tight. But the pull was too great, Bill swallowing the troll whole, leaving its lifeless stone husk to shatter, instantly breaking apart into ten thousand tiny pieces.

Bill looked at the carnage around him—blood and skin and stone—smiled wryly, and slowly returned his hat to his head before vanishing once more into the mists.

OLD SCRAPS TORE wildly through the streets atop Gossamer. Though the golden retriever was clearly spooked by the chaos surrounding him, he obeyed unwaveringly. Gossamer was a family dog—a good dog, Gossamer had assured Scraps—that had gotten out through a hole in the fence chasing something he’d never smelled before. He lost his way and couldn’t remember his route home, so he walked the streets, hungry, for days until Old Scraps had found him. Old Scraps offered him a deal: if Gossamer would let Scraps ride him, he would show him the way home.

So the two worked in tandem, riding up and down the sidewalks, slicing the hamstrings of any Sidhe they neared. Gossamer was fast, but tired, and it would be hours before Old Scraps sobered up. Both hoped that everything would be over soon.

From the looks of it, it was.

The Sidhe had fallen back, rallying together, unleashing flight after flight of arrows into the sky. The angels had taken to the ground, but weren’t as quick or lithe as the Sidhe who attacked them from afar, slicing chunks out of the weak spots in their armor. Though determined, the angels were being battered into weariness, a few dropping from too many cursed arrows, a few more dropping from too much whiskey.

Bertrand still stood, his sword dripping, his armor sprayed with a light coating of fairy blood. A redcap charged him from behind the Sidhe ranks, his pike low, his speed incredible. The angel sidestepped, putting his sword through the chest of the creature, severing its upper body from its lower. One half of the redcap hit the ground a second after the other.

Before he could celebrate, Bertrand caught an arrow in the eye, falling to the ground, desperately trying to pull it out. The Sidhe raced to put their swords into him.

Old Scraps spurred Gossamer on, the two charging as fast as they could toward the gathering remains of the Sidhe, hoping to buy Bertrand time to get to his feet.

“One more pass, Goss,” said Old Scraps, “and then we’re going home to sleep this off.”

The arrows missed Gossamer entirely, several catching Scraps directly in the chest. His rosy cheeks and nose went white. Gossamer sprinted around the corner of a building, finally coming to a stop. The wily old cluricaun looked down at the three arrows sticking out of him, swearing. He couldn’t feel them, but he knew it was bad. His head felt fuzzy, the world tipping slightly on its side. Slowly he slid off Gossamer, slamming into the pavement. Everything grew blurry.

If I survive this, he thought, I am going to wake up with the worst hangover of all time. And then he died.

Gossamer sniffed him, nuzzling him with his nose, trying to rouse him. He barked sharply. Then he barked again, nuzzling him once more. Old Scraps wouldn’t wake up. Bark! Bark bark! No response.

Gossamer licked the cluricaun’s face, but still he would not wake. The dog lay down in the rain-soaked street beside him, letting out a deep sigh. Now he would never find his way home.

KNOCKS STAGGERED TO his feet, massaging his chest, wheezing for breath. Colby hadn’t just knocked the wind out of him, he’d bruised his lungs, broken a rib. There was very little time left. The second wave of fairies would swarm over the town shortly, making easy work of the remaining angels. He needed to find Ewan before then, before someone else robbed him of the pleasure.

And then he appeared.

Ewan walked slowly, determined, toward the changeling, his pike held firmly in his hand.

Knocks smiled. This is happening. It’s really happening.

Ewan stopped ten steps short of Knocks, propping the pike up heroically next to him. The two locked gazes. Neither man blinked.

Ewan drew breath to speak, but Knocks shook his head, waving a finger.

“I know,” said Knocks. “I know. Let’s not spoil this with bullshit. The time for talk is over.”

The two stared at each other. Their muscles tensed, jaws clenched. Anger swelled in their guts. Ewan was the first to move, with Knocks charging him the hair of a second later.

Ewan swung his pike. Knocks ducked, the blade barely missing him.

Knocks threw an uppercut, catching Ewan directly under the chin. Ewan reeled backward, stunned. He recovered, swinging his pike wildly, trying to buy himself a little more time to clear his head.

Knocks sidestepped another swing, jabbing at Ewan, missing by inches.

Ewan kneed Knocks in the stomach, doubling him over, punched him clean in the back of the head.

Knocks reached up, grabbing the pike, punching Ewan repeatedly with his bloody stump; it hurt like hell, Knocks gritting through it, hitting him over and over—the rag beginning to swell, soaked with blood.

Ewan tried to protect his face, struggling with both hands to keep his grip of the pike. Writhing, he tried to avoid the blows, but Knocks kept landing them.

Knocks let go of the pike, and reached up, snatching the cap right off Ewan’s head.

Ewan swung again, but he was too close, connecting with only the shaft, not the blade. Weakened without his cap, Ewan let go with one hand, swiping for it, missing.

Knocks tossed the cap behind him, then reached for the pike, wresting it out of Ewan’s grip. He swung the blunt end into Ewan’s gut, doubling him over, then, bringing the blunt end upward again, smashed him in the face.

Ewan was knocked upright. He staggered back a step, fuzzy from the hit.

The pike swung one last time, this time crossing Ewan’s stomach, cutting deep into the flesh, tearing through his innards.

Ewan’s jaw dropped, both hands clutching the wound. He fell to his knees, then backward, knocking his skull on the street, trapping his own feet beneath him.

Knocks held aloft his bloody-rag-wrapped stump, pointing at Ewan’s stomach. “Try cutting that off to save your life.” He threw down the pike as if he was spiking a football, then held both arms out to his sides. “I did it,” he said, giggling. “I f*cking did it. You’re f*cking dead.” He danced around a little. “I just killed you. What are you going to do about it, Ewan? Huh?”

Ewan gurgled, leaning up, reaching a single arm out to Knocks. It was over, but he wasn’t ready to concede. He rolled onto his side—one arm trying to hold in his insides while the other tried to push him to his feet. His arm gave way and he tumbled face-first onto the pavement, spilling organs into the street.

Knocks stood over him, smiling. “Look me in the face,” he said. “You look death in the face and you accept it. I want to see you accept it.” Ewan pushed himself up again and stumbled forward on his knees, trying now to crawl away. With a light kick, Knocks toppled him over.

Ewan lay on his back like an upended turtle, staring unblinking into the rain as the life drained from him. The sounds around him dulled; he knew Knocks was talking, but he couldn’t make out anything other than the staccato of rain spattering beside his ears.

It was over.

YASHAR WIPED HIS bloody fists off. The downpour was strong and steady now, the roar of the storm drowning out all but a few distant clangs. Angels and Sidhe littered the sidewalks. Blood ran pink in the swelling rainwater. Only two angels still stood, busy holding their ground, about to be overrun by the half dozen remaining Sidhe.

In the street between them, Knocks and Ewan wrestled with a pike.

Colby screamed as the pike sliced open Ewan’s stomach.

He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t let him.

Ewan collapsed. Colby had failed.

“Motherf*cker!” Colby yelled, his voice drowned out by the rain. He watched as Knocks danced around, taunting Ewan. His stomach dropped, his throat went dry. Hands became balled fists digging fingernails into flesh; teeth gritted against one another, grinding away small flakes of enamel.

Colby could feel the veil between worlds thinning, a cold, dark presence rumbling on the other side, begging to be unleashed. A voice in the back of his head demanded to be let out. The door was locked; he had but to twist the knob. Let us in. Let us do it, it whispered. The fabric was growing thinner by the moment. There was enough dreamstuff flowing through him to do it. Then he recognized the voice.

It was the master of the hunt.

No, he thought. Not this way.

Colby let loose a torrent of energy, bolts cascading across the street with whatever dreamstuff he could muster.

Knocks swept the pike in front of him, deflecting the bolts away harmlessly, as they exploded like fireworks, showering sparks across the pavement. The changeling smiled wickedly, small fragments of the energy still hopping and popping around in the puddles beneath him. There seemed nothing Colby could do to hurt him.

“Try it again, Colby. I’m sure you’ll hit me eventually.”

Colby reached out toward Knocks, yanking away the pike with an unseen force. It sailed past Colby, embedding itself in a brick wall behind him. Knocks stared wide eyed at the pike, smiling.

“Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll shut it for you.”

Let us in. Let us do it, the voice whispered again.

Knocks laughed. “Just come here and hit me like a f*cking man.”

Colby ran at Knocks, fists clenched, swinging wildly.

Knocks stepped out of the way effortlessly, knocking Colby onto the ground with a single awkward kick. “Come on,” he said. Colby scrambled to get to his feet, but Knocks kicked him square in the gut. “You’re such a f*cking p-ssy.”

Let us in.

Knocks leapt on Colby’s back, rabbit-punching him with his one good hand.

Colby bucked, tossing Knocks to the ground. The two quickly scuttled away from each other, pushing themselves to their feet.

Colby’s head throbbed. His knees ached. His hands were scraped and bleeding.

Then the two ran at each other again, trading blows. The first few hits were a flurry of jabs, but the two soon settled into a groove of hitting each other, punch for punch, one after the other.

Colby swung with a haymaker, loosening Knocks’s jaw.

Knocks swung at Colby, bloodying his nose.

Colby swung at Knocks. Knocks swung at Colby. Colby swung at Knocks. Knocks swung at Colby.

It had become an endurance contest, each man trying simply to outlast the other. Neither had the strength to carry on much longer. Colby swung at Knocks. Knocks swung at Colby.

Colby swung, staggering forward, exhausted. He fell to his knees.

Colby looked past Knocks, saw Ewan bleeding, crawling in the street. His frustration and rage began to bubble over.

Knocks stepped back, shaking his head with a queer little grin. “You’ve got nothing. You can’t fight me, Colby. What are you gonna do?”

Let. Us. In.

“Something.”

In that moment, he decided to let her in.

Colby closed his eyes, rewove the fabric of reality, shredding a piece of the veil, building from it a bridge between earth and Hell. The clouds rumbled their disapproval, belching out indigo streaks, lighting the world purple for three solid seconds. Everything shook and when the rumble of thunder faded, the shaking continued. The earth groaned wearily and spat out Hell.

The Wild Hunt roared out, a dozen riders strong.

Twelve massive black goats—their manes thick, shaggy, their horns long, gnarled, razor sharp—galloping ferociously toward the dying melee, a pack of howling hellhounds at their heels. Thunder now rose from the earth to the skies. Atop the lead steed was Tiffany Thatcher, more bone than flesh now, her sockets empty of eyes, replaced by the glowing embers of a hateful Hell. A few scraps of flayed, parchmentlike skin clung desperately to her jowls and rib cage, a few chunks of desiccated muscle refusing to yet break away from the bone.

Beside her, mounted on a goat of his own, was Jared Thatcher, a sad, lonely expression on his face. With them rode redcaps and nixies and the tattered remains of a single Bendith Y Mamau. Twelve creatures of Hell with hate in their eyes, bearing down on six battered Sidhe and a pair of angels.

Yashar ran to Colby. Though he couldn’t yet see them, he knew what this was. “What have you done?”

“Ended this,” said Colby.

“They’ll kill us all, you know.”

“No. We have a deal. I know what they want now. And he’s standing right there.” He pointed to Knocks.

The two remaining angels helped Bertrand to his feet. Bertrand turned, looking at Colby, a broken arrow sticking out of one eye. He shook his head sadly. Then the angels took to the sky, carrying Bertrand away with them like a banner fluttering in the wind. Only the Sidhe and Knocks remained in the street now, staring toward the approaching rumble.

The Sidhe scattered and the hunt split up to run them down. Few got far before axes cleft them in two, clawed hands grabbing them by their hair, dragging them through the streets. Ruadhri ran, blindly firing arrows over his shoulder, looking for some sort of cover. As he rounded a corner, he saw two beasts bearing down on him. Then he turned to see two more coming from behind.

The clawed hands each grabbed a chunk or a limb before Ruadhri was torn completely apart, his head carried off by one rider, his torso by another.

Knocks looked down at Ewan, taking a deep, relaxed breath. “You don’t want to kill me yourself?”

“No,” said Colby. “You’ve damned yourself. They’re here for you now.”

Knocks looked up at Colby, smiling. He could hear the thundering hooves rumbling toward him. The ground shook, the heavens wept. For Knocks, it was all so perfect. “I was born in the rain, you know. On a morning a lot like this.”

“Enjoy dying in it, you son of a bitch,” said Colby, backing away, giving the hunt a wide berth.

Knocks nodded, looking up at the sky. “The legacy of a storm is not in the measure of its rainfall or the sound of its thunder, it is in the devastation it leaves behind. I’ve had a good run.” He cast his arms out wide, smiling broadly at Colby. “I wonder if my hand will be waiting for me in Hell.” He turned his head, staring at the oncoming stampede, thinking about the last lesson his mother ever taught him.

The front-most hoof of Tiffany Thatcher’s goat tore a hole in his head, splattering his brains across the pavement, each remaining hoof trampling his torso in half. The Wild Hunt roared past Colby without giving him a look, each carrying off a piece of Knocks with it. Once they all had passed, there wasn’t a spot of Knocks left in this world to remember him by—not so much as a single drop of his blood staining the pavement.

The riders continued on, but their hounds came to a stop, raising their heads into the air, letting out a soul-chilling howl, turning and racing off to catch up with their masters once more. And as quickly as they had entered this world, the hunt was gone, closing the gate behind them, leaving only the waning rumble of rolling thunder to signal their departure.

Colby kneeled down beside Ewan, the red puddle beneath him grown wide, thinned by the rain. There was little life left to leak out of him. Ewan stared up at the sky, unable to focus his eyes on anything.

“Ewan,” said Colby, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“You can’t see me,” said Ewan with a weak smile.

“Yes I can,” said Colby.

“No you can’t. I’m invisible.”

“You’re not invisi . . . ,” he said, then the memory caught up with him. Tears trickled down Colby’s face. Beneath him, Ewan died.

Colby could feel the swift tendrils of Hell closing in. Cold. Black. Angry.

“You can’t have him,” he said. Then he put a second hand on Ewan, evaporating every last bit of dreamstuff, sending it off into the city. No flower petals dropped to the ground; no smell lingered in the air; only his cap remained, staining the rainwater around it. “Go find her.”

Colby looked up, the streets swollen with fairies, approaching cautiously.

He turned to Yashar. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“There’s little left to say.”

“After a thousand cursed wishes, I guess you get used to this sort of thing, huh?”

“No,” said Yashar. “You never get used to it.”

“Nor should you,” said Bertrand, flapping above them. He looked down upon Colby with a bitter sadness. “You unleashed Hell. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“We were losing,” said Colby. “I had to do something.”

“No,” Bertrand said. “We weren’t losing. We lost. Hell got everything it wanted today. What did you get?”

“Wait, I was just doing what you said was right.”

“You were damning yourself?”

“Yeah, for all the right reasons.”

“That may be,” said Bertrand. “But that doesn’t make us friends, compadre. The truly damned have few friends, especially among the angels. I may understand why you did it, but we’re done, you and I.” Bertrand raised a hand, delicately examining the shaft sticking out of his eye. He shook his head, disappointed. “You were on the right side of this for so long.”

Flapping his wings harder, he flew off, drifting drunkenly into the rain.

Slowly the fairies closed in.

Colby looked up. “What?” he asked loudly of them. “What do you want?”

Amassed before him was a full half of the Limestone Kingdom, Sidhe and salgfraulein, pixie and troll. Overseeing them was the remainder of the Five Stone Council, Meinrad taking the lead.

Colby clenched his fists.

“There will be no need for that,” said Meinrad, his voice deep and booming.

“Not if you turn around and leave, there won’t.”

“This fight is over,” Meinrad continued. “The boy is dead and all offense ended. There is no more need for bloodshed.”

“So why are you here?” asked Colby.

Meinrad stepped close to Colby, looming over him. “You are henceforth banned from the Limestone Kingdom. All rights of safe travel are revoked. You have until noon to gather your things and make your way out of Austin.” He poked a rocky, moss-covered finger into Colby’s chest. “There needed to be only one death today. You should not have interfered.”

Colby nodded, the last pieces of his heart breaking. “I’m sorry.” He turned, taking a step to walk slowly home.

Then he stopped.

And he turned.

“No,” he said, his eyes cold, bristling with anger. “The time for me to respect the will of the fairies ended with the death of my friend.”

Colby raised his arm and evaporated Meinrad where he stood.

The energy released was massive, the resulting boom echoing for miles, shattering windows, spraying limestone and leaves everywhere within a thirty-foot radius—debris embedding into surrounding walls but bouncing harmlessly off Colby, who bore neither a scratch nor a speck of dust despite his proximity to the explosion.

Colby walked slowly toward the fairies.

Once more he raised his arm, this time pointing a stiff finger at the crowd, fairy after fairy exploding into a burst of flowers and smells. The mob panicked, fanning out like a bursting dandelion.

While others scattered, Rhiamon stood still, unafraid. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m taking back what’s mine,” said Colby.

“What do you think makes this place yours?”

Colby paused for a moment, allowing the fairies a moment to take cover. “You just did; you and your ilk. I’m done playing with you; I’m done kowtowing to you. If I am to be damned, then let me be damned with purpose. Austin is off-limits. No fairy may walk here. You may have the plateau, but Austin belongs to man.

“And the Tithe—the Tithe as you know it is done. For every child taken to pay it, I will take two of yours. I will come at night and snatch your young from their cradles and I will scatter their essence to the wind. From this day forward you pay your Devil’s due with your own blood—or I will see to it that the price doubles. Now, go and find yourself a new king.”

The scampering stopped, fairies standing silent in the face of Colby’s decree.

Colby looked around. “How many more of you need to die before you get the picture? Get. Out. Of. My. City.”

The fairies exchanged troubled looks and, with mouths agape, began their slow, wordless retreat from Austin. Coyote smiled at Colby, winking, before making his way with the rest of them.

Rhiamon looked old, older than anyone had ever seen her. She nodded emotionlessly. “As you wish,” she said. Then she turned, taking her leave with the rest of the court.

And with that, the city emptied, its magic slowly walking out with its head held low.