The Dark Thorn

With dawn lighting overcast skies and his arm throbbing feverishly, Richard unlocked the door to Old World Tales and entered the bookstore on silent, uninvited feet.

No alarms screamed, no warnings sounded. Instead the old-fashioned bell tinkled in welcome as he closed the door. Richard adjusted to the dark; the store had not changed in his absence. Two windows displayed antique volumes, their wares cloaked behind sable blinds during closed hours. On the right, a counter supported the register; to his left, plush chairs surrounded a table bearing a chessboard. Rows of oak shelves vanished to the rear of the store, holding thousands of books. At the back of the shop, a set of stairs ventured to the owner’s hidden apartment above.

An open cage hung from the ceiling. Within, Arrow Jack rested peacefully upon his perch, the merlin asleep despite the intrusion.

The familiar odor of smoked tobacco lingered, comforting and haunting at the same time.

He suddenly hated how weak he felt in returning once again.

“You should have come earlier,” a familiar dry voice whispered.

Richard froze, suddenly unsure. All but invisible in the darkness, the faint outline of a figure shifted in one of the chairs. White light suddenly flared, blinding for a moment, before the table lamp revealed an old man with a short white beard clinging to a face lined by age. Icy blue eyes bore into Richard’s own, the gaze weighted from a man privy to all, but who shared none himself. In his hand he cradled an unlit pipe carved with swirling runes, an affectation Richard knew was never far from its bearer.

“I couldn’t come earlier, Merle,” Richard stated. “Work to be done.”

“I know,” the other said. “You do realize, though, wounds notwithstanding, the role you fulfill cannot be done if you are dead.”

A wave of intense annoyance crested within Richard.

“Maybe you should stop trying to control the world.”

Myrddin Emrys tamped fresh tobacco from a purse into the bowl of his pipe and lit it. The odor of cherry and vanilla intensified.

“It was genuine care, Richard.”

“You knew I would come here tonight.”

“I suspected,” Merle said, pulling on his pipe and emitting a cloud of smoke. “And I knew I must be ready. Some things are more important than a warm bed, even at this hour.” He gestured at one of the chairs. “Please, Richard, long months have passed since we last spoke. Sit with me.”

Richard nearly balked at the invitation; he wished to receive aid for his arm and nothing more. He instead took a seat across from the bookstore owner, a chess match in mid-play between them.

“What came through?”

“A cait sith,” Richard said. “Killed it. But not before three fairies slipped by.”

“Hmm, fairies,” Merle said. “Mischievous creatures.”

“The cait sith was a decoy.”

Merle frowned. “How so?”

Richard explained what had transpired hours earlier in the ruins of Old Seattle. Merle did not interrupt but smoked his pipe dead while listening, intent on the knight and what he related.

“The war between the fey and the Word of the Church has ever been rife with passion and thoughtlessness, and each new battle begins without clear indication of who has renewed it. Even in the most peaceful of decades, one grievance gives rise to retaliation,” Merle said finally, shaking his head. “The cait sith’s pronouncement against the Church cannot be ignored. It is apparent the fairies are the aggressors here in some larger plot.”

“Three fairies are barely an annoyance,” Richard said. “Hell, the crows in Pioneer Square will probably eat them before they cause harm.”

“True,” Merle said. “But even the smallest creature can be a pain in the ass.”

Richard had to concede the point. In his knighted tenure as one of the Yn Saith, he had seen the most innocent-seeming fey threaten lives and destroy property.

Annwn and its inhabitants could never be taken lightly.

“The failure of last night may bear fruit,” Merle said. “You must pay special care to your service in the coming months. The fairies have been sent through for a specific reason—of that you can be sure—and while they are mostly impotent as you say, do not forget the persuasive magic they carry.”

“It would take an idiot to fall prey to the whims of a fairy.”

“Or the cu sith that slipped by you mere months ago.”

Anger at mention of his failure rushed through Richard.

“Just be aware,” Merle said, raising placating hands. “‘Tis all I ask.”

“Who could plan this?” Richard asked, cooling. “The Morrigan? Cernunnos?”

“Or quite possibly Philip.”

Richard snorted. “Why would Plantagenet care? His crusade is not finished.”

“The Morrigan has far more pressing quandaries to deal with than this world, namely Philip,” Merle declared. He removed the ash from his pipe and began to tamp fresh leaves anew. “Cernunnos has never been interested in the war, choosing to keep the Unseelie Court in their shadows. Could be a rogue witch. Or perhaps a freed demon? Doubtful, although I suppose I should not be so quick to dismiss such notions. Whatever the case, it must be an entity with resources unimaginable to so brazenly enter this world with a plot—no matter how minor—and that fits Philip above all others.”

“He should have died long ago.”

“Yes, he should have,” Merle agreed as he relit his pipe. “One more reason to be cautious. There will come a time when what he has acquired in Annwn will no longer serve. He will want more. It is in the nature of such men.”

“Plantagenet would never use the fey.”

“Would he not to gain an advantage?”

Richard thought it over. He had seen such men do just that. People in every aspect of life—whether in government, business, religion, or even on the streets—became corrupted upon gaining power and used whoever they could to retain it. Richard had spent years ignoring the demands of such men in the Church and in Seattle’s homeless area known as the Bricks—and doubted it would ever change.

Philip Plantagenet could not be ignored.

“Have the other portals seen activity?” Richard asked.

“I do not know.”

“That is not like you, Merle,” the knight said, darkening.

The old man shrugged. “Regardless, it is what it is. The other knights have not reported activity to you, have they?”

“No. They haven’t.”

“Well then,” Merle said pointedly.

“Dammit! Don’t mince words, Merle,” Richard growled. “You always know more than you share.”

“We have had this discussion before,” the store owner said flatly.

“And never finished it!”

“The past is for the dead,” Merle said. “The present is for the living. That’s you.”

“Don’t spin your philosophies to mollify me, old man,” Richard spat back. “I am beyond your games, now that I know of them.”

“The past can consume a soul, Richard. Do not let your own destroy you.”

Richard wanted to explain that it already had.

“I know differently,” Merle continued, as if he had heard the knight’s thought. “You would not be so eager to attend to the portal, not so willing to put yourself in harm’s way every day for years, if there were not a worthwhile spark still within your soul.”

Richard shifted uncomfortably, weariness from his wound helping to rein old lingering anger. He suddenly wished he were outside on his streets. It was hard coming into Old World Tales and being confronted with painful memories; it was harder to hear that Merle still believed in him. The certainty in the other’s ancient blue eyes drove a fresh spike through his heart, easily penetrating walls he had purposefully put in place. Richard took a deep breath. Despite the qualms he held for the bookstore owner and how Merle made him feel, the knight had not come to Old World Tales to fight.

“Is there anything you can do about the fairies?” Richard asked.

“Without a Heliwr? Or you running across them? No. I am powerless.”

“You aren’t powerless though,” Richard admonished. “Why have you not appointed a new Heliwr?”

“It is not yet time,” Merle said simply.

The knight’s emotions boiled anew. “Well, when will it be time?”

“All things in due course, Richard,” the old man answered, looking to the ceiling.

“That’s not good enough!”

“What is going on?!“

Richard was on his feet instantly, Arondight a call away.

Where the light of the front room met the darkness of its rear, a boy of around twenty years old stood like a tensed creature ready to attack—hair wild, green eyes flashing challenge. He wore only a pair of gray sweatpants, his frame sinewy and strong. With both hands he gripped a large hardcover book like a baseball bat, ready to swing and strike if need be.

Richard relaxed. The youngster was no threat.

“What do you plan on doing with that?” Richard demanded.

The boy didn’t back down, but uncertainty filled his eyes.

Then Richard saw the book’s cover. A golden rose emblazoned on the leather flashed in the weak illumination, its five petals opened and inviting readership. No title or author name could be discerned. It was an old tome but well cared for, its cover still supple despite its obvious age, its binding resewn by Merle numerous times.

Richard knew the book well.

“Did you just pick that book up?” he asked. “Or was it given to you?”

The boy frowned, a fight still written on him.

“Given.”

“Relax, gentlemen. Sit, Richard,” Merle said sternly. “Nothing to be on guard about here.”

“Are you all right, sir?” the boy questioned.

“Bran, meet Richard.”

Richard looked into the boy as he approached, surprised at what he had initially missed. Cold, untrusting eyes. A pursed, soured mouth. Distrust in every movement. Deeper within, a rod of steel existed, one tempered in hellfire most would never know.

The boy had seen hard times and they had left their mark.

“I heard raised voices…” Bran started.

“Go back to bed,” the bookseller said. “Richard and I were discussing…old wounds. I am fine and you should be resting for the work on the morrow.”

Bran hesitated, his eyes stubborn. Giving Richard a once over and a departing frown, he vanished into the darkness of the store.

“Have a new apprentice, eh?”

“Now, Richard—”

“Don’t patronize me,” the knight said curtly. “I know you better than you think. You do nothing without intention, invite no one into your life you cannot use. The boy would not be here out of charity or good will. Especially with that book. Do not believe me daft now as you once did so long ago. And do not ruin another life for your games.”

Arrow Jack stirred in his cage above but remained asleep.

“Actually, Richard, the boy lived on the street—like you,” the old man countered. “I have given him a place to lay his head and have put him to work. Mayor Dimes has treated the homeless terribly. You know that better than anyone. No, Bran is better off now than he was a month ago when I invited him to work the stacks.”

“Riddles within riddles,” Richard grumbled. “I have never told a lie, Richard,” Merle said. “Ever.”

Richard gritted his teeth. Like the chess game in front of them, Richard and Merle were in the middle of an old battle, but this one with words. Chess was about misdirection and entrapment, making your opponent believe an attack was imminent from a horse rather than a conquering pawn. Merle knew how to play chess like no other, and it showed in how he related with Richard and the other knights; if the bookstore owner made a point to share information, it often had consequences far beyond any surface meaning.

“I saw the book, Merle,” Richard said finally. “Don’t treat me like a child.”

“I am completing his education. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” Richard scoffed.

“Just so,” the bookseller answered. “Many have read Joseph d’Arimathe by Robert de Boron. I would think you, as an educated and scholarly man, would appreciate trying to broaden a young man’s mind with the larger world about us all.”

“Joseph d’Arimathe is a rare text few college professors assign to their graduate students, let alone to a boy his age,” Richard argued. “There is only one reason you’d give him that book and it has nothing to do with a lack of quality education.”

“For a learned man, you assume much,” Merle stated, his eyes darkening.

Richard snorted, unable to hide his derision. No matter what Merle said, the story of Joseph of Arimathea was not common reading. Considered a minor literary work in Arthurian lore, it recounted how a man of some import and wealth named Joseph watched the centurion Longinus pierce the side of the crucified Jesus Christ with a lance to discover if He was dead. The Bible accounted blood and water spilled forth, but later de Boron wrote that Joseph caught the fluid in the cup Christ drank from at the Last Supper. With the aid of a staff given him by God, Joseph fled the Holy Land with his family, made his way to Britain where he kept safe what would become known as the Holy Grail, and helped Christianize the Misty Isles by founding Glastonbury Abbey.

Since most of it was cannibalized by later Arthurian writings, no one had reason to read Joseph d’Arimathe.

Except those who needed to know the history of the Heliwr.

“If your intentions toward the boy are truly only altruistic, what kind of work does he do in the stacks?”

“He helps me about the store,” Merle said, shrugging. “Does what you once did.”

“And look how that turned out.”

Merle leaned forward, his eyes softening. “I know our past has never made our present an easy one to naviga—

“Do not lecture,” Richard interrupted sharply.

“I will,” Merle insisted. “What you do not know has always hindered your judgment, especially where I am concerned. That will change with time, sooner than you think, I wager. That I know to be true, Richard McAllister.”

It was Richard’s turn to be quiet. He did not trust Merle, no matter his sincerity. Merle had a résumé full of completed machinations, ones that had wounded innocent people—like Richard—in their execution. The bookseller had always attempted to control events around the world for the betterment of mankind. Yet every attempt yielded casualties of the body, heart, and mind. For the old man to directly make such a bold statement about Richard’s immediate future left the knight feeling more leery than ever.

When Merle began telling Richard unveiled truth, the knight would give him the benefit of the doubt. Until then, he would keep the wizened man away from his heart.

And maybe not even then.

“My own counsel will I keep,” Richard said finally.

“As you should,” Merle said, gaining his feet and placing his pipe back in his pocket. “Now, shall I have a look at that arm? Or should I let you keep bleeding into those filthy, stained clothes?”

Richard followed Merle into the depths of Old World Tales.

The knight didn’t say a word.





With the alley shadows draped about him, Richard waited like a wraith for its prey, and watched the light of Old World Tales wink out.

The boy did not immediately appear.

No one was about. The late rush hour had finished, tourists had gone, the fall sun had set long before. After Richard left the bookstore in the early morning, he had spent the day walking the dirty streets of Pioneer Square, searching for any sign of the fairies. He had found no trace; the tiny fey creatures were adept at hiding. Every flight of fallen leaves, every furtive movement the crows made, drew his attention. But no matter where he looked, the fairies were nowhere to be discovered.

It left him disconcerted but there wasn’t much he could do.

Now he took a deep breath and shifted in the gloom, wincing. The arm Merle had bandaged still ached but the infection was already dissipating. The bookseller’s administrations had hurt like hell, and Richard had gritted his teeth throughout them. But he knew by the next morning he would be greatly healed.

Even though it galled Richard to admit it, Merle was still deft at his craft.

Just when the knight was about to give up his vigil and head to his alley bed, the door to the darkened bookstore opened. Bran emerged into the night.

Richard stood still, watching.

The boy locked the door behind him. He wore a dark sweater and jeans, his hair as wild as in the morning. At first Bran did not move. Then with furtive eyes scanning his surroundings, he hiked a brown knapsack upon his shoulder and moved southward along First Avenue.

Richard separated from the gloom and followed.

The knight kept at a safe distance, thinking. Myrddin Emrys was a sneaky old bastard. He never made a choice that did not suit his ends. The boy had some role to play in Merle’s plans, and Richard could not—would not—let another innocent become a pawn. Richard no longer cared if the old man had a well-intentioned purpose or not; the knight had witnessed firsthand what that meant and wished it on no other.

He would learn all he could about the new worker for Old World Tales.

And decide how best to progress with Merle.

Never deviating from the shadows, Richard watched Bran cut deeper into the heart of Pioneer Square. The knight hung back far enough to not be observed but close enough to keep up. He had no trouble; he knew every street, alley, and niche. The tall spire of Smith Tower lorded overhead, its white stucco gleaming, the light at its apex blazing amethyst over blocks of squat brick buildings. The night was mostly silent. As the boy avoided those leaving bars and traveled deeper into the Bricks, Richard passed bundles of sleeping bags, blankets, and flattened cardboard jammed into almost-hidden spaces. Homeless addicts, the mentally handicapped, criminals—or worse—they were the underbelly of a city that largely disdained them.

No matter the new clothing he now wore, Richard had a great deal in common with the denizens of the Bricks.

The self-contempt he carried in his heart made it so.

Within the bowels of the building he walked passed, the portal to Annwn thrummed, a reminder of his duty and why he tracked Bran. Pioneer Square was the oldest part of Seattle, but in 1889 a great fire had decimated it, giving the city council of the time an opportunity to improve it in the rebuild. It had originally been built upon tide flats that flooded twice daily; as a way to fix the problem of backed-up sewage, the council decided to sluice a nearby hill into the flats and raise Seattle above Puget Sound. The business owners could not wait for the project to finish before reconstructing their stores, resulting in thick buffering walls between the buildings and the dirt. The entrances to the businesses soon vanished beneath the modern-day street level.

The ruins below Richard’s feet were what used to be the first floor of Old Seattle.

Much later, the portal to Annwn had been placed there where few ventured, a concrete defensive cap encasing the entry into this world from the fey one.

Richard exhaled sadly. He had watched over the portal for years, ever since graduate school. It felt like a lifetime ago, and the memories he carried seemed to be those of an entirely different man—one who had dreamed, hoped, and loved.

Merle had destroyed all of those things.

Bran turned down Second Avenue and passed Waterfall Garden Park, remaining in the shadows as much as possible. The boy was being careful, but for what reason? Was he on an errand of import for Merle? Or was he on his own after-hour venture?

“Come on, kid,” the knight whispered. “What are you doing?”

As if hearing Richard, Bran paused, head tilted like a wolf catching a scent.

And then disappeared.

Richard blinked in shock. He pressed himself into obscurity, unsure of what had just happened. One moment Bran had been in clear sight.

The next, the boy had vanished.

Long minutes passed.

Richard peered deeper into the gloom where Bran had last stood. Two buildings sat next to one another. No alley existed between them, no doorway he could discern. Nothing presented itself.

The knight was about to investigate when movement stopped him. Two police officers walked out of an alleyway farther down from where Bran had vanished. They were young men, new to the force, Richard wagered, placed on night shift in one of the darkest parts of Seattle. They spoke in hushed tones as they passed where Bran had been and beyond where Richard hid, laughing at some shared joke before entering the next block.

After the cops had strolled on, Bran reappeared as if by magic and traveled on.

Richard frowned, curious, and approached the spot where the boy had disappeared. A gap not a foot wide separated the two buildings, a tiny enough space for Bran to hide from the police.

Smart lad, Richard thought.

The knight followed anew, knowing to be more careful. Richard had never seen Bran in Seattle but the boy knew the Bricks well. Bran had to have come from the derelict and disenfranchised part of a different city.

The Bricks changed, became darker, the distance between the street lamps increasing even as the buildings fell into greater disrepair. Richard kept alert. Pioneer Square could hide any number of evils and become a dangerous wild creature if one was not careful once the sun had gone down. Bran did not seem to mind the change, never deviating from his direct path, and he crossed into an empty parking lot where two buildings joined to form a bordering ell.

An orange light glowed ahead, fighting against the night.

Richard slowed and angled to get a better view. At the base where the two buildings met, a small fire flickered lowly. Specters in ragged clothing huddled around it, unmoving, stealing the flaming light and its warmth. The scene was muted like a cemetery in winter.

Bran walked straight toward the group.

Richard hung back.

The boy approached without hesitancy. He was only a few feet from them before a gaunt man turned, the hint of a downtrodden soul peering from black eyes that lit up in greeting. Then the others turned—two bearded older men, a stringy-haired blonde woman with palsied hands that shook like Walker’s, and a round black man—and all welcomed Bran with smiles and warm words.

Richard frowned. He did not know these particular homeless.

Bran unslung his pack, withdrew tinfoil-wrapped objects that glinted in the weak firelight, and tossed them to the group. Some of the homeless tore into their offering; a few came over and patted Bran on the back first.

It could only be one thing, Richard thought.

Food.

Bran sat with them for a few minutes, embracing their reverence and the fire, before saying his farewells and leaving. Richard sank back into his shadows; he was unwilling to confront the boy just yet. The streets were tough and he didn’t know enough about Bran. The harsh conditions forced homeless men and women to form bonds of kinship out of a necessity to survive. Despite Richard choosing to live a life alone, he still relied on others like Al and Walker, people who—like him—endured through collective companionship. The knight found it curious that Bran, at such a young age, had developed such selfless responsibility for others.

It meant the lad had been on the streets a long time and knew these people well before joining Merle at Old World Tales.

Bran walked through the gloom as he had before, furtively careful. He did not return the way he had come. Richard watched him take a corner on the far side of the lot and disappear, on his way to a different part of the Bricks.

The knight was about to follow when his instincts screamed.

He froze and waited.

The itch at the back of his consciousness grew, a preternatural warning given life. The knight looked about. Nothing presented itself, but he knew better. Someone or something was watching, and the prying eyes held ill intentions. He had been in his role long enough to know the difference. But Richard did not know if it came from the fairies, the police, or another entity entirely. It did not feel alien—just angry, watchful.

He moved from his place of hiding, frowning darkly and peering into every crevice he passed as if it held a snake. Naught became apparent. He was a match for anything that might appear, but he would not be careless. To be so could lead to death. Arondight thrummed just beneath his skin, always a thought away from materializing, the ancient sword an assurance against being attacked by even the most formidable opponents.

If his life were in danger, he would have no qualms calling the blade into being.

But the night continued to hide its spy.

Bran visited two more groups, none of which Richard knew. The boy gave more food away until his pack was limply crumpled. The knight watched him, keeping his other eye on whatever pursued them from the shadows. Nothing presented itself. No matter what tracked the two, Merle’s assistant seemed to be unaware of it as he aided those who were not as fortunate in life as he had become.

Richard stepped into the light to catch up to Bran, to confront the lad and notify him of the danger he was in from Merle and whatever watched from the shadows, when a sound came on the chilly air that stopped him short.

It was a chittering Richard knew well.

The knight sank deeper into the night, watching. He did not have to wait long. The hum came again, more urgent and excited this time, whirring overhead from several directions at once. Richard kept quiet. He watched to differentiate whom the buzzing creatures were after.

“Come get some,” Richard whispered.

The shadows dropped like stones but not toward the knight. Instead they went for Bran, too colorful to be bats. His worst assumptions about the boy made clear, Richard scowled.

The fairies had found their prey.





Bran Ardall strode through the vacant, dilapidated streets in the area he now knew as the Bricks, the city of Seattle hiding him beneath a mantle of darkness.

The damp avenues were like many others he had traveled.

Even though he had not lived in the city since before the death of his parents and had never been in the Bricks to his knowledge, Bran felt he knew Pioneer Square. Every city possessed a quarter where the less fortunate converged—an area a bit darker but available, more run down but with a soup kitchen, perceived less clean by the locals but with enough people to beg change from. The name of the city did not matter. Bran had been up and down the West Coast from place to place, but wherever he roamed he was prepared to survive because it never changed.

He hated living in such conditions.

To be homeless was hardship he wished on no other.

It was a difficult life. Food was hard to come by. The winter stole warmth and the summer scalded. Sleep was fitful and rarely replenishing. Danger strolled the streets in the form of aggressive drug dealers, meth heads, and thugs from every background, all of whom fought for imaginary turf. Thieves were rampant; liars were everywhere. Despair was a tangible entity, able to kill if one let it. Disgust from those who passed on their way to lives of importance permeated this world, gazes of contempt left unchecked.

Bran wondered when such looks would not wound.

Now nineteen years old, Bran hoped it would no longer matter. He had settled. Merle had given him an opportunity, looked past the grime of the streets, and Bran planned on taking advantage of his generosity.

Bran had been discovering what type of businesses existed in the Bricks, when he stopped in front of Old World Tales to scan the volumes in the windows. His father had loved books. As a nine-year-old, one of the last memories Bran had of him took place in his father’s library, watching him pore over various tomes. Bran could not touch them; many were quite old, bound in leather with foreign letters stamped into the spines. When his father was not traveling, Bran watched him closely, fascinated by what he deemed so important.

At times, the odor of parchment and ink from that library returned to Bran from buried memory, thick in his nose, reminding him of a past before the streets, a past when he was happy and loved.

No matter what city he found himself in, the memory accosted him anew when coming across a bookstore.

While staring at the books, lost in reverie, the door had opened. A white-bearded man wearing a white collared shirt and khaki pants stood at the entrance and breathed in the warm late summer air before his eyes settled on Bran.

“Love books?” the man inquired.

“I do,” Bran said, nodding. “Just something about them.”

“Magic.”

“Excuse me?”

“Magic,” the old man repeated. “Nothing like a book, really. Nothing like a book can help a person become who they have always wanted to be. Nothing like a book can return us to our childhood. A book can hold amazing magic.”

Bran looked at the man. Icy blue eyes penetrated deep, but his face held warmth and understanding.

“Looking for a way to get off the streets?”

Bran frowned. Trust was a luxury he had a hard time offering freely. Homeless rarely benefited from such unions with more respectable members of society. But there was something different about the man in the doorway, an innate goodness like his father had possessed.

“You own the store then?” Bran asked.

The other smiled. “Maybe.”

“Then maybe I am looking to get off the streets.”

“My name is Merle.”

“Bran Ardall.”

Merle nodded and, pulling a pipe from his pocket, welcomed Bran into the shop.

It had been a month since they met, the summer giving way to fall. Bran helped in the bookstore, dusting shelves, aiding customers, cataloguing books Merle acquired, and giving Arrow Jack—a temperamental merlin who watched with beady-eyed curiosity—occasional freedom to hunt outdoors. At times Merle also disappeared for days, leaving Bran in charge; it was that kind of trust that made Bran respect Merle all the more. The owner had one condition only—read the books he supplied to gain an education. It had been hard at first but Bran had read seven already, most about European history. It was easy work for a wage and the chance to sleep in his first bed in years. Now Bran tried to use his new life to help his few friends still on the street.

It was all he could do. As a high school dropout, he had limited options.

Bran had just begun to make his way back toward Old World Tales and an evening of reading in his warm bed, when instincts honed during his life on the street screamed like sirens.

He slowed, looking about.

The night was as secretive as before. The Alaskan Way Viaduct loomed in front of him, its double-decker highway blacker than the midnight around it. Light from the occasional streetlamp created vast puddles of dank shadow.

Danger could come from anywhere.

The face of Merle’s visitor flashed in his mind—the haunted eyes, the emaciated frame. Richard, the bookseller had called him.

Was it that man out in the gloom, watching Bran now?

Bran didn’t think so. Whatever followed him felt different. It was not the police, a thieving addict, or any of the commonplace threats that used to confront him daily. With the feeling came a stabbing hatred, one not tired like the streets, but fresh and vibrant.

A shift of gloom at the corner of his eye raised his fight reflex. Heart racing his mind, his feet picking up the pace, he probed the world.

Nothing.

The movement came again, closer, accompanied by a high-pitched whine. It came once again from two directions, and he understood with stunning clarity why he hadn’t caught sight of his pursuer earlier.

It was in the air.

Bran ducked self-consciously as tiny flying shadows materialized. They were gone just as quickly, darting back into the night. Bats would buzz people, but with autumn come, the bats had gone into hibernation. When the fast-moving creatures came again, crossing over his head almost at the same time, Bran got a closer look at them—and couldn’t believe his own eyes.

They definitely weren’t bats.

They were something else entirely.

It was enough to set him running. The things came again, swooping in on sleek dragonfly-like wings of gossamer that shimmered in the weak light. They were each the size of a bat, but any other resemblance disappeared with their human-like arms and legs and tiny leaves sprouting in patches over cocoa-colored skin.

Panic quickening adrenaline, Bran dove behind a parked car, keeping low, watching. He was still several blocks from the safety of Old World Tales. What he had seen gave his sanity pause and his fear rein. Uncertainty pulled him in multiple directions—run, scream, fight, or all of them.

The chittering returned and he picked out intelligible words.

“Here, here, here!”

“Kill, kill, kill!”

“Feed, feed, feed!”

There were other words, but Bran couldn’t make them out. The dark twittering litany increased from all directions. As they swooped past his head again, Bran bolted. Shoes pounding the sidewalk, he tore through Pioneer Square, his confusion and fright lending him strength. The buildings passed in a blur. Each breath burned in his lungs as a fire, every nuance of the world acutely emblazoned on his awareness.

He would fight until he won safety.

He was almost back to Pioneer Place Park, Old World Tales only two blocks away, when one of the creatures slammed into his head. Revulsion flashed hotly through his body. Clawing and scratching, the enraged fairy kept at him, spitting curses into his ear. He fought the thing, stumbling into an alley in a panic to get away from the creature, hissing like a cornered cat.

The fairy leapt off suddenly.

Breathing hard and worried at the next attack, Bran searched the air frantically. The fairy flew to join its brethren in the middle of the alleyway. The three floated on the air, chattering excitedly, their wings a blur and voices echoing and shrill.

Bran turned to flee down the alley—and froze. There was nowhere to go. Three brick walls prevented exit.

It was a dead end.

As Bran cursed his mistake and turned to flee, he skidded to a halt on the graveled pavement.

A creature from nightmare blocked freedom.

“What the hell?” Bran breathed.

The thing was wolf-like, its red eyes glaring malice. It was larger than a mastiff, with patches of coarse black hair like spikes growing out of dark green fur along its shoulders and hindquarters. Its hair bristled as it came deeper into the alley, the muscles beneath thick and rippling, its tail a braided mass sweeping the night like a whip. Slaver dripped from its fangs, evidence of its thoughts.

Trapped.

The fairies suddenly lost all importance.

Bran backed away. The unnatural hound’s large paws were silent on the gravelly pavement as it crept toward him, its muzzle pulled back against canines. Sweat broke out in hot beads over Bran’s body, infusing him with wildfire.

The only thing he cared about was escape.

The dog boomed a bark, spraying saliva everywhere.

Manically, Bran ripped the area apart, looking for a weapon or escape. Two doors with steel screens were closed and locked, the windows nearby covered in bars. A dumpster pushed against a wall wafted its damp contents. Freed bricks, wet cardboard, and a scurrying rat were his only other options.

There was nowhere to go. It was over.

The beast knew it. Eyes burning like coals in the darkness, it took slow steps forward. It grinned its intentions, pointed ears twitching in eagerness.

Dread threatened to overwhelm Bran. Alone and without a weapon, it was only a matter of time before the huge demon creature rent him asunder. Rather than cower in fear, fierce anger as he had never known rose within him like a tidal wave. It swelled until it crested, setting him in motion.

He grabbed up the only items he found at all useful. Two broken bricks.

And waited for the beast to attack.

“Get away!” he screamed, brandishing the weapons.

“No,” it growled lowly.

“You speak?” Bran asked, surprise mingling with his fear.

“As thou do, child of man,” the creature mocked darkly.

“What do you want?”

“Thy death,” the creature salivated.

From a window ledge above, the fairies watched what transpired, goading the beast forward with squeaky voices and glee in their eyes.

“But why?!” Bran yelled, his heart pounding.

The animal stopped. The light in its eyes dimmed briefly before flaring anew.

“Because I must.”

“Come then,” Bran growled shakily, and raised his bricks like boxing gloves.

Ready for the coming battle, Bran’s heart froze in his chest when a new shadow entered the alley behind the hound.

“Not. Another. Step!” a man’s voice thundered.

Eyes narrowing, the canine spun, ears flat against its head.

“Knight shyte,” it snarled. “I know thee, thy stench.”

The man stepped deeper into the alley, unafraid, his hands balled into fists, his clothes ragged. He appeared the same as the last time Bran had seen him. Richard. The Old World Tales visitor from the previous night.

“Help me!” Bran shrieked.

Richard said nothing. The man was wholly fixed on the dog.

“Why protect him?” it whined. “He is nothing.”

“He is innocent, cu sith,” Richard said. “You are not.”

“Thou knowest nothing,” the dog growled low.

“The fairies above have twisted you to their will, cu sith,” Richard shot back. “And you will not attack this boy nor survive to try.”

A spark of hope entered Bran, although how a homeless man planned to defeat such an obvious threat, he didn’t know.

The barrel-chested dog gave its enemy a final glance.

Then leapt at Bran.

Bran barely had time to bring his bricks to bear.

Before the hound could reach him, a powerful burst of blue light pummeled into the thing’s hindquarters mid-jump, sending the beast reeling against the wall. Bricks and mortar broke free from the impact. Bran shrunk from blast. The green foe yelped shock and pain as it tumbled to the wet pavement, its fur disheveled and eyes surprised.

It was slow to regain its paws.

Bran pressed up against the rear alley wall, breathing hard. Richard stood on the other side of the animal, a flaming sapphire sword in his right hand. His eyes burned with conviction, fixated on the struggling animal. With the fairies raucously cursing from above and shaking their wings in fury, Richard charged and brought his weapon up, driving its blade at the struggling dog, his ferocious intent unmistakable.

The canine jumped aside the last moment.

The sword cut into the wall as if it were made of paper.

With dexterity that belied any injury done to it, the dog jumped at Richard. It raged against the blue fire that accosted it, the smell of burnt hair filling the alleyway as it fought to reach the homeless man. Gritting his teeth, Richard backed away before the assault, the snapping jaws and massive paws of the cu sith returning the fight. Bran could barely see Richard, the man lost in a swirl of sapphire. The two continued to tear at each other, one with protective fire and the other, quick and shredding teeth. The time for words had passed.

The victor would be left alive and the other dead.

Bran wanted no part in it and awaited his chance at freedom. As the minutes wore on, the dog appeared to be failing. Both hind limbs limped as it circled its foe. The man followed the hound’s movements, steady in his steps, poised to take the advantage. Whatever damage had been done to him Richard did not show it. He was as indomitable as a mountain, moving fluidly, the muscles of his neck, shoulders, and arms corded knots. No growls emanated from the two enemies; with the exception of the angry chittering from the fairies above, the world had gone still.

Weakened and harried, the green beast leapt at Richard.

Richard moved like silk.

He stepped to the side with nimble ease—and rammed the blade of his flaming sword through the side of the hound’s chest.

The dog gave a weak yelp as it landed limply on the ground.

It didn’t move.

Richard did not stop. In one fluid motion he raised the sword above his head, hilt first, and brought it down with pure vehemence. The blade hammered through the neck of the canine and continued into the asphault of the Bricks like a knife through warm butter. Blood and gore spurted, sizzling from the heat.

His arms splattered with crimson, Richard straightened, breathing hard.

“Who are yo—”

Before Bran could finish question, Richard sent the fire of his weapon skyward.

The fairies tried to leap away. They were too slow. Screaming rage, they erupted into ash that sifted down like snowflakes.

The sword disappeared.

Richard and the carcass were all that remained.

“Bran,” Richard said flatly.

“Who the hell are you?!” Bran questioned, suddenly angry.

The rail-thin man walked toward him, his haunted eyes growing darker with each step, his lips a severe line. Even in the darkness Bran could see Richard was tired. With pale skin and shaggy hair, the homeless man barely looked alive, a walking zombie.

“I am no one to worry about.”

“No, seriously,” Bran pushed. “Who the hell are you and what was that thing?”

“It was a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“Yes, thank you,” Richard scoffed. “No more, at least.” He peered down at the dead body of the cu sith. “The cu sith got lucky once. Not tonight though.”

“What were those things?” Bran reiterated, pointing where the fairies had been. “And that dog thing?”

“That is none of your business.”

“The hell it ain’t,” Bran hissed, still fueled with adrenaline. “I want answers!”

“Answers, huh?” Richard mocked. He offered his hand. “Leave the Bricks, boy. Get your things and get out of that store. You are safe, for tonight. But not from Merle.”

An unidentified chill swept through Bran. Merle’s visitor smiled in assurance but there was no warmth in it, the offered handshake a mechanical act. Bran sensed danger in touching the man’s hand. He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

Bran rebuffed the hand.

“Why shouldn’t I trust Merle?” he said instead.

“Don’t come back down here—at night at least,” the disheveled man said, ignoring Bran’s rejection and turning to leave. “Mark my words. Stay away from that old man. He is nothing but trouble.”

“Hey! Wait!” Bran shouted.

“Go back to your street friends,” Richard said over his shoulder as he left the alley. “They are safer than Merle ever will be.”

Leaving the dead cu sith behind, Bran chased after. “Stop, you assho…”

But out on the sidewalk, Richard had vanished.

Still leery of the night around him, Bran hurried the last few blocks to the bookstore. He didn’t know what to think. Creatures that looked like fairies had attacked him. A giant green dog had spoken to him and then tried to kill him.

Either he had been drugged or it had really happened.

And Richard, a friend of Merle, possessed a sword that became vapor at will.

While unlocking the door, Bran peered through the night back the way he had come, angry at the fear still rushing through his veins and his inability to uncover what had truly happened.

For an instant, he thought he saw a flash of brilliant azure light.

Then darkness fell once more.