An Artificial Night

Inside, the Luidaeg shouted, “It’s open!” When you’re a legendary sea witch, you don’t need to worry much about robbers.

I pushed the door open and led Quentin into the dark, cluttered hall. Quentin stepped easily into the spaces between the debris, moving with the quiet, self-assured grace that comes naturally to the pureblooded Daoine Sidhe. I was easier to track; I was the one who kept tripping and slamming my toes against things in the gloom. The Luidaeg’s hall seems to change length to fit her mood, and we walked for quite a while before we saw the other end come into view. Quentin picked up the pace, his hand still locked in mine, and I let him drag me along.

The living room was as cluttered as ever, reeking of marsh and fen and decaying couch stuffing. Quentin paused for a moment, obviously not used to the smell. Then he saw Katie and froze.

She was sitting on the couch with her hands folded in her lap, gazing into the distance. Her hair had been washed and brushed over her shoulders, and her clothes were clean and new. She looked unhurt and human. The Luidaeg was next to her, one half-clawed hand resting on Katie’s knee.

“Katie?” said Quentin. Then he smiled, brightly enough that it seemed to clear the shadows out of the room. I relaxed, letting my own smile slip forward. Then I saw the look on the Luidaeg’s face, and smiling ceased to be an option. She looked troubled; almost bleak. I stopped, smile fading, and tilted my head to the side in silent question. She nodded, very slightly, and turned to watch Quentin’s approach.

Katie didn’t acknowledge Quentin’s presence, or even seem to know that he was there until he dropped to his knees in front of her and reached for her hand. When he touched her she flinched, cowering against the Luidaeg and whimpering. The Luidaeg lifted one hand to stroke Katie’s hair, whispering soothing words in a language that probably died with Atlantis. Katie shivered, returning to silence.

Quentin leaped to his feet and backed away, eyes as wide and shocked as those of a child who’s just learned that fire burns. Oh, baby. The fire always burns.

“Can you fix her?” he whispered, blinking back tears. His world was falling down around him; I knew how that felt. I’d have tried to offer him something solid to hang onto, but I knew better. I was too frayed already. I might snap.

The Luidaeg’s gaze was mild, but when she spoke, her tone was icy. “Fix her? I suppose. She has the potential to talk, laugh, cry, lie, and betray again, just like every other human. She can live; she’s not too broken for that. At least, not yet.”

“How?” asked Quentin, with raw longing in his voice. I winced.

The Luidaeg curled a hand over Katie’s shoulder, smiling bitterly. “Will you pay for her restoration? There are costs and choices to be made—one choice, actually, but it’s yours alone, and making it pays my fee. Can you bargain with the sea witch a second time, little boy?” Katie’s breathing calmed as she leaned against the Luidaeg; Quentin might be breaking, but she was broken, and it was our fault, every one of us. Not all the sparks that fly when the mortal lands and Faerie meet are bright ones.