An Artificial Night

“Once.”


“But that was a long time ago.”

“I know.” She paused, looking down at her hands. The dainty claws that tipped her fingers retracted, reshaping themselves into human nails. “How did he die?”

“I killed him with silver and iron and the light of a candle.” I shivered as the memories slipped over me, trying to ignore the feeling of blood on my hands. Blood has power; part of me was his forever. The knives had been iron and silver, but that was only the end of the kill, not the means. He died by blood and fire and faith, by roses and the cold flicker of candlelight. My blades were only an afterthought, a sharp reminder that the long, wild chase was over, and it was time to lie down and be still. It was time to close the nursery windows. It was time to grow up.

The Luidaeg’s hand on my shoulder brought me back. I froze, blinking up at her, and she smiled. “As it should have been. Silver was his right, and iron will force the bastard to stay dead. Remember that; you can only kill the Firstborn if you use both metals. They’re too fae for silver alone, and too strong for iron. Anybody that tells you different is lying. You did good, Toby. If it had to be anyone, I’m glad it was you.”

“Oh,” I said, and stopped. There was nothing else to say. I’ve always been proud of my words, and they’d all left me. They’d been doing that a lot lately.

The Luidaeg sighed and put her arms around me, pulling me close. “Come here,” she said. “I need to hold someone, and you need to be held. It’s a fair trade. Just for a little while, and then we can go on being what we are.”

I thought about objecting, but dismissed the idea and nestled against her, enjoying the feeling of security given by knowing someone bigger and stronger than I was would stop anything from hurting me. That’s all childhood is, after all: strong arms to hold back the dark, a story to keep the shadows dancing, and a candle to mark the long journey into day. A song to keep the flights of angels at bay. How many miles to Babylon? Sorry. I don’t care.





THIRTY-THREE



I RANG THE DOORBELL with one hand, juggling my armload of packages in an effort to keep myself from scattering them across the porch. It wasn’t working very well, and having Spike on my left shoulder wasn’t helping.

From inside, a shrill voice caroled, “I got it I got it I got iiiiiiiit!” The front door slammed open to reveal a panting six year old, exhausted by the effort of beating her siblings to the prize. “Auntie Birdie!”

“Hey, Jessie,” I said, kneeling to hug her with my free arm. Spike chirped in annoyance, jumping down to the floor. “How’re you doing?” She seemed to have recovered from her time in Blind Michael’s lands, at least on the outside; the inside was another matter. Her mother said she woke up screaming almost every night. If I could’ve killed the bastard again, I would have.

“I guess okay.” She squirmed free, rocking back on her heels. “You here for the party?”

“No, I’m selling Amway products.” I ruffled her hair. “Goose. Take me to your leader.”

“Okay!” She grabbed my hand and hauled me toward the kitchen, shouting, “Kareeeeen! Auntie Birdie’s here!”

The family was gathered around the table in the kitchen. The birthday girl smiled from her seat, raising one hand in a wave. “I know,” said Karen. “Hi, Aunt Birdie.” Then she broke off, giggling, as Spike jumped up into her lap.

“Hey, baby. Hey, Stace.” I put the packages down and hugged my best friend, hard. She shivered and hugged me back.

“I’m so glad you came,” she whispered.

“You couldn’t keep me away.”