An Artificial Night

“You can’t hurt me,” he said.

“Too bad you don’t believe that.” I bore down, pressing the blade harder against his skin. My blood was falling over everything, making it impossible to tell whether I was really hurting him. “How long since you did your own fighting, Michael? How long since you started hiding behind children?”

“I—”

“How long?” I shouted. He stopped struggling, eyes closing, and I looked up to see the Ride staring at me in unified terror. They finally believed that I’d do it. That I was going to kill their lord . . .

And I couldn’t. Nothing I did would hurt him enough; nothing. He needed to suffer forever. I shuddered, letting my head droop as I tried to calm myself enough to slit his throat.

Then Acacia’s hand was on my shoulder, and a knife was landing in the dust beside me. “Kill him or let him go, Amandine’s daughter, but don’t torture him,” she said. “Make your choice. You haven’t got much time.”

I looked up. “Acacia—”

She looked down at me, the short tendrils of her hair curling around her face. When I distracted Blind Michael, that must have broken his hold on her, allowing her to rip herself free. “No. You let others make your choices too often. Kill him or let him live, but do it now. No more games.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You always know. You just don’t listen to yourself.” She shook her head, turning, and started to walk away. The Riders parted to let her pass, still silent, still staring at me.

Choices. Oh, Oberon’s blood, choices.

I put the candle between my teeth, keeping my knife pressed tight against Blind Michael’s throat. The flame licked at my cheek, filling the air with the hot smell of singed blood as I reached out and picked up Acacia’s knife. I almost dropped it when the metal hit my hand. Iron—it was made of iron. It would have to be; did I really think I could kill one of the Firstborn with silver alone? That was never an option. Not really.

My father was human; I can stand the touch of iron, if only barely. I forced my hand to close around the hilt, looking at Blind Michael through the thin haze of blood clouding my eyes. I was looking for my hatred, but I couldn’t find it. I found pity and anger, but no hate. He was insane. He hurt people because he didn’t know any better; he hadn’t known better for a long time. Did that absolve him of what he’d done? No. Did that make it right for me to torture him?

No. It didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t forgive you.” I lifted my hand, bringing the two knives together, and slammed them together down into his throat.

Iron slices through faerie flesh like it’s nothing but dry leaves and air. That’s what iron exists to do: it kills us. Silver can do almost as well, if you use it properly. Acacia’s knife was iron, Dare’s was silver, and I held them together as I thrust downward.

He screamed when the blades broke his skin; it was a high, childish sound, the last gasp of someone who thought he was invincible. My vision fragmented for an instant, shared between a hundred sets of eyes before the Ride fell as well, clutching their chests, eyes closing. For that moment, I was Blind Michael; I was broken; I was bleeding; I was dying.

And then there was nothing but blood. The tolls had been paid—I just didn’t know who’d paid them or whether it was done in time. Him or me? The age-old question. I slumped forward onto Blind Michael’s corpse, eyes closing. It didn’t really matter; he was dead, I had won, and I couldn’t fight anymore.

No more children would suffer because of him. In the end, I’d proved myself as a child of Oberon’s line, no matter how much I tried to deny it; I was a hero, and I was dying like one, and that was all right, because it was how things had to be. I let out a long, slow breath, relaxing at last, while blood ran down my cheeks like heavy crimson tears.