An Artificial Night

“That’s what I said. Poor kid must be exhausted. She’s been asleep since you got here.”


“Luidaeg, she’s been asleep since Blind Michael came.”

She dropped the plate she was holding, whipping around to stare at me. “What?”

“She won’t wake up.”

“Aw,fuck. You mean Lily wasn’t being obscure to piss me off?” She stalked into the hall. I followed. I’ve seen a lot of things since meeting the Luidaeg; some of them were even pleasant. But I’d never seen her bedroom, and considering the condition of the public parts of her apartment, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Still, if Karen was there, I needed to. I put my feet where the Luidaeg put hers as we walked down the hall, trusting her to know where it was safe to step. She stopped at the one door in the hall that was always closed, sighed, and pushed it open. “After you.”

I only paused for a moment before stepping through.

The room was dark, filled with shifting shadows too active to be natural. Behind me, the Luidaeg said, “Close your eyes,” and snapped her fingers before I had a chance to react. The candles clustered on every available surface burst into flame, flooding the room with light.

When the afterimages faded from my retinas, I blinked, looking around again. The candles filled the room with slow, heavy light that refracted off the six large fish tanks lining the far wall and threw ripples across the ceiling and the polished hardwood floor. Strange fish swam in those tanks, monsters of the deep with poison barbs and razored spines. A pearl-eyed sea dragon the length of my arm swam up to the glass, eyeing me balefully. The air smelled like seawater and brine.

An antique four-poster bed took up most of the wall next to the door. The frame was ornately carved with waves and seaweed and stylized mermaids, and the heavy black velvet curtains were drawn, hiding its contents from view.

“Luidaeg, this is—”

“Yeah, I know. I can’t keep up appearances everywhere; a girl has to sleep sometime.” She gestured toward the bed. “She’s in there.”

I stepped over to the bed, opening the curtains. Karen was lying there with sheets drawn up to her waist, unmoving. The blankets and pillows were a deep wine red, seeming almost bloody against her skin. She looked like a sleeping princess from a fairy story, small and wan and lost forever. Kneeling, I put my hand against her cheek and winced. It felt like she was running a fever, but there was no color in her cheeks; she was burning up without a flame, and her eyes were moving behind closed lids. Still dreaming. She’d been asleep for days, and she was still dreaming.

“Why won’t she wake up?”

“Hell if I know.” The Luidaeg sat on the edge of the bed, nudging Karen in the arm. When this failed to get a response, she nudged again, harder. “She’s really out of it.”

“I know that. Can you tell me why?”

“Not yet,” she said, leaning down and prying Karen’s right eye open. She peered into it, apparently looking for something, before leaning back and letting go. Karen’s eye closed again, but otherwise, she didn’t move. “Huh. How about that.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I balled my hands into fists, resting them against the bed. I hate feeling helpless almost as much as I hate bleeding.

“Could be a lot of things,” she said. “A curse, a hex, bloodworms, food poisoning—you got that knife of yours?”

“What?”

“Your knife. The one I know you carry. Do you have it with you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good.” She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

“Why?” The Luidaeg had a nasty tendency to cut things when she was armed, and frequently, that meant me. I didn’t think I could stop her by refusing to hand over my knife, but I had to ask.

She lifted her head. “Do you want to know what’s wrong with her?”

“Yes!”