SIXTEEN
Shock sent the sensation that I was falling from my head to my feet, and then back up again. My mouth gaped open, but no words came out.
“That’s the deal we made, my girl. They’d take our Peter, and in return for keeping him alive, we would raise her son. The boy we raised, the boy we love as if he were our own true son, the boy you let fill your womb, he’s one of them, the daoine sidhe. One of the gentry. That is why he can never know any of this.”
“Come on. This is crazy. It can’t be true. There’s no such thing as fairies,” I said. The words came out by reflex, but I myself had encountered stranger things. Even so, even if fairies existed, it was not possible that my Peter could be one of them. That my baby could be half Fae. I placed my palm over my stomach. Ellen had not sensed anything unusual about my son. At least nothing she had told me about.
“And there is no such thing as witches either, but here you stand before me.”
I couldn’t argue that away. “Okay.” I said. “Accepting for the moment that this is possible, how can I keep it from Peter? If it’s true, he has the right to know.”
“But there’s the rub. If you tell him, if he ever learns the truth about his nature, we will lose him. He will go to them. He won’t be able to resist, no matter how much he may love you and his son. Trying to resist would only drive him mad or kill him. No, Mercy, you have to lay aside your opinions of right and wrong and do what I tell you. This secret, the truth about Peter—whom I very much consider my son in spite of it all—you have to take it with you to the grave.” Wow. Twice in one morning. I was still trying to process the fact that Emmet had been right all along when a loud knock rapped the door and both our eyes darted toward it. “They’re here. They don’t know about Peter, so keep your mouth shut about him.”
“Wait. Who are they?” I halfway expected King Oberon and Queen Titania to be waiting on the other side of the door.
Claire didn’t respond. She righted the chair she’d knocked over, then crossed over to the door. She undid the deadbolt and opened it, but my view was blocked until she swung it wide and stepped aside.
“Hello again, pretty lady,” the man who called himself Ryder greeted me, stepping over the threshold. I recognized him immediately—he was the leader of the trio of “train people” who had accosted me outside the bar. Ryder’s companions, Birdy and Joe, followed him, Birdy making quick furtive glances around the room as if she halfway expected an ambush. Joe sauntered in behind her and flashed me a big toothy smile before taking a seat at a table near the door. Claire closed the door behind him and reset the deadbolt.
“You’ve met?” Claire asked.
“Yeah, we’ve had the pleasure,” Ryder responded.
“Wait,” I said, focusing on Claire. “You know these people?”
Claire looked at me. “Don’t be afraid, Mercy. Ryder’s here to help us.”
“Help us what?”
“He knows about Emmet. Ryder has experience with the supernatural. I was researching the gentry, trying to figure out why Emmet had come nosing around. Most of what I read was nonsense, but when I found Ryder’s website—”
“Wait. You found him online?”
Claire winced at the sound of my outrage. “He’s offered to help. He’s come all the way from Louisiana.” When these points failed to move me, she leaned in toward me, her tone conspiratorial. “He’s dealt with the daoine sidhe before.”
“What do you mean dealt?”
“Dealt,” he said tapping the top of the knife he wore strapped to his leg. “And with other supernatural creepy-crawlies too. Skin-walkers,” he continued, “demons, blood drinkers . . . witches.” I flinched, and he laughed.
“But you aren’t a witch yourself. You must borrow the power.” As Jilo had taught me, some non-witches were extremely talented at channeling energy, so I didn’t doubt his story. I forced myself to shake off my fear of the man and looked at him through the lens of my own magic. An aura of scattered and violent energy surrounded him, flecks of red emitting from a black hole. I sensed the darkness inside him recognizing my own power and tugging at it, trying to swallow it.
Ryder held up his forearm, and the tattoo that covered him from wrist to shoulder began to glow, a pulse of energy racing along its lines. Its design began to change, becoming animated before my very eyes. He held his arm up, proudly displaying it. “You got some juice in you, girl,” he said with a leer. “I’d sure love to squeeze it out.”
“What are you?” I asked, unable to tear my eyes away from the morphing design. As I watched, the ink transformed itself into an expertly rendered etching of my own face.
He lowered his arm, and I flicked my eyes from his tattoo to his face. The smile I saw there sickened me. “I’m just an ordinary guy. A man who has accepted a mission and been given the power to carry it out. I see a problem, and I do my best to deal with it. One of your kind, one of you witches, appreciated my efforts enough to give me this here tattoo. It not only gives me a bit of my own magic, but it makes me pretty much immune to most other magic. That’s why you couldn’t just shoo me away the other day. I could’ve had you then, but it wasn’t the right time. She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” He laughed, rolling his forearm around to compare the ink rendition of my face to the real deal. “Started out as a band around my wrist, but it’s growing nice.” The tattoo flashed and returned to its original pattern.
“Those symbols in your tattoo, they help you steal others’ power. There’s a price for that, you know? You’ll burn for it. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Oh, I will burn all right, girly, but not today.”
“I think I’ve made a mistake inviting you here.” Claire began crossing cautiously toward me. I figured that she had probably just made the biggest understatement of her life. “I think you all should leave.”
“Now, y’all ain’t gonna make the same mistake twice, are you?” Ryder asked, and in a blink Joe had crossed the room and was cradling Claire in his arms, the serrated blade of a hunting knife similar to Ryder’s pressed against her throat. “Maybe you’d like to try this again?” the ringleader asked, looking at me. “How about that drink you refused me the other day?”
“Don’t hurt her,” I pleaded. I went behind the bar and found three glasses, filling them with sour mash. Could I do something to take out Joe without hurting Claire? I could feel my magic rise in waves around me, my panic pushing it to limits I doubted I could control with any kind of precision. I had to find a way to reach them without harming Claire. As I carefully set the glasses on a tray, the flimsiest of tactics formed in my mind.
“No. You stay where you are,” Ryder commanded, and then, “Fetch, Birdy.” She jumped at his words, eager to please. She was so grateful to count Ryder as her man that she didn’t seem to mind being ordered around like a dog. Our eyes met as she collected the tray. Hers hardened at the sight of the pity in mine.
“Emmet isn’t what you think he is,” I said, hoping I might think of a way to convince them he wasn’t worth their trouble.
“He isn’t human.” Ryder said. “And he’s just burstin’ with magic.” He took a drink from the tray. “So what is he?” I remained silent and stared at him, my mind rushing over plausible tales. For about the millionth time, I cursed my inability to out-and-out lie. “You want her to keep her tongue, you better start wagging yours.”
Joe pried Claire’s mouth open and shifted the blade. Her eyes had grown as wide as silver dollars with panic. “He’s a golem. A golem. Let her go.”
“Well I will be good and damned,” Ryder said, tossing back his whiskey. “They still makin’ them things?”
“He’s more than that, though. He’s alive for real. I don’t understand it myself, but he’s alive.”
“Hear that, Joe? A patch of dirt has turned itself into a living, breathing man.” Joe nodded at him. Birdy dropped the tray on a table and stood by the younger man’s side as he took a swig of his whiskey. She downed her own in one gulp and threw the glass at the bar, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Claire jumped at the sound, and the blade sliced a shallow nick into her neck.
“Easy there,” Ryder said to her. “You’re my collateral in this here transaction.” He turned back to me. “It ain’t natural, a golem with a mind of its own,” he said, addressing me. “A golem needs a master. Your boy is probably aching for someone to take control of him, help rid him of that pesky free will, that conscience.”
“So you want to turn him back into a puppet.”
“No.” He laughed and in a single movement slid his knife from its sheath and sliced through the air. “I want to skin him, that’s what I want. Real magic, witch magic, has been bound up in his body. I’ll turn his pelt into objects of power, talismans,” he said, as if repeating a recently learned word. “Turn his bones into relics, cook his marrow into unguents.” He mispronounced the word, but I still got his meaning. “Ain’t a wannabe witch in the world who wouldn’t give me their firstborn for a piece of your golem’s magic. Including that old darky you been hanging with.”
How did he know about Jilo? That was a question for another time. “Listen,” I said. “If it’s money you are after, I have plenty . . .”
“No, darlin’, I ain’t doing this for money. I’m doing it for power. The trinkets I’ll make out of your golem’s hide will come at the price of fealty”—a medieval oath of loyalty, another word intended to impress—“and a sacrifice of blood. The power of that blood will become mine.” He nodded at me once. “Now you call him. You tell him to get himself on over here, and once we have him, we will leave you lovely ladies to get on with your day.”
“Enough,” I said. “I am not helping you hurt Emmet to power some magic Ponzi scheme.”
“Oh, missy, I ain’t asking for your help. I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while, and maybe you ain’t noticed it yet, but wherever you are, that golem of yours ain’t never too far behind. He may not give a damn about your friend here, but I am pretty sure he gives one for you. Maybe if I start to cut that little bastard out of you, he’ll show hisself instead of hovering invisible behind you like some kind of limp-wristed guardian angel. How about it, golem? When the bough breaks, it’s all gonna fall down anyway,” he said and parted his lips into a sneer.
“Call him, Mercy. Call him,” Claire keened. Blood had trickled down from the wound on her neck, dampening her shirt.
“No need,” Emmet’s voice came from behind me. “I am already here.” I turned my head for a quick look, relief flooding me as Emmet materialized behind me. He reached forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I promised I’d be here for you if you needed me.”
“She needs you all right,” Ryder said, sneering at us. Emmet pressed his body up against my back. His arms hooked around me. “You know what I am, don’t you, golem?”
Emmet tightened his grip on me. “By your markings, I can tell you are a collector. You kill, and with each death you cause, you gain power. You are a scavenger of the potential energy of others. You are the bottom feeder of black magic.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said, sliding his knife from its case. “You can insult me all you want, but I am still gonna wear your skin. Joe,” he commanded, but the boy didn’t obey the unspoken order. He swayed on his feet and then fell backward, Claire dashing from his faltering grasp. Birdy rushed to his aid, but then she crumpled over too. “The bitch doped us, baby,” she managed to call to Ryder before losing consciousness. The spell I’d placed on the whiskey had worked. I’d hoped it might take out Ryder too, but he lunged at me with his knife, seemingly unaffected.
My fear and anger bound themselves together and I poured my focus entirely into the blade in his hand. The knife glowed red and then blue, the metal losing shape and transforming into a molten glove that charred the flesh beneath it. He howled, and then grasped his wounded hand. Rage burned in his eyes. His jaw unhinged like a snake, and he vomited foul-smelling black orbs that fell to the floor. Unrolling, they revealed themselves to be horrible little creatures, rats with nearly human faces that scurried along the floor, surrounding me. Razor-sharp claws protruded from their very human fingers and ripped into the bar’s wooden floors. Claire screamed and climbed up on the bar. I let my magic slide me over to her side.
“Burn them, Mercy,” Emmet said, his tone so free of fear, so matter-of-fact. Without a further thought, without the least concern for Birdy and Joe, who still lay unconscious where they had fallen, I raised my hand and sent out a bright and searing blue flame to encircle the vermin and the mad man who had summoned them. The creatures drew in closer to Ryder, protecting him, trying to extinguish the flames, but they failed. The fire rose like a wall between us, the rodents popping like frying bacon, releasing the stench of sulfur as they were incinerated. As his last defender fell, Ryder roared, but to my surprise, he raised his arms and began to summon the flames to him. An old lesson, the first Jilo had taught me, surfaced in my memory. I had sent the energy to him, and now he could do with it as he willed. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Emmet flung himself in front of Claire and me, and threw up a shield of light separating us from Ryder. As I watched from behind the energy I prayed would keep us safe, Ryder pulled the flames into himself, screaming in agony but welcoming the power all the same. As he consumed the last of the fire, he drew the supine figures of Joe and Birdy toward himself. Their bodies constricted and shot up in the air, disappearing before our very eyes.
“They’ve escaped,” Emmet said, turning toward us.
I nodded, trying to take it all in. The floor where Ryder had been standing was scarred by scorch marks and gouges left by the creatures’ claws. The scent of sulfur, burnt skin, and ozone nauseated me. I fought the urge to vomit.
“But I am still proud of you,” he continued. “You defended yourself admirably.”
“But if you were here all along, why didn’t you help us sooner?”
“It presented you with an opportunity to learn. I stepped forward when they threatened you.”
“But they were hurting Claire.”
“She is not my concern.” He lifted me off the bar and set me on the floor. He didn’t remove his hands, even though I had my footing. He looked at me with gentle eyes. “You are my . . . charge.”
“She was in danger,” I said, breaking free of his grasp. He towered over me, and I strained my neck to look him in the face. His expression was so calm, so matter-of-fact. Emmet could be exasperating. If he hadn’t just saved me, I probably would have punched him. “You should have helped.”
“She wanted me killed and my skin to be worn as a garment.”
I looked at him. I looked at Claire. He had a point. “Emmet isn’t out to harm me or the baby,” I said, addressing Claire. “He isn’t a threat to you, Colin, or Peter,” I continued.
“But can I trust him not to share what he has learned about Peter?” she asked, and then, “Hell, can I even trust you?”
“I will keep your trust if Mercy wishes it,” Emmet said. “As long as Peter’s true nature does not pose a threat to her.”
“Peter could never be a threat to me,” I said. “Yes. I want this kept between us.”
“But does it not change your feelings toward him, knowing he is no more a normal man than I am?” Emmet asked, a certain wistfulness in his tone.
I felt Claire’s eyes fix on me like a drill boring through metal. “I think deep down, I’ve always known he was something more than that. So, no,” I said as I met Claire’s gaze, “my feelings for Peter haven’t changed.” Her face softened at my words, but Emmet’s self-satisfied smile told me that he felt he had found a foothold.