An Artificial Night

“Have you ever seen Blind Michael?”


Blind Michael was part of the local landscape. Everyone knew his name, everyone had seen his Hunt riding the Berkeley Hills in search of prey. Smart people kept their distance; if you weren’t careful, you might end up on the wrong end of their spears. I’d seen Hunt leaders, and I’d seen Hunters. Had I ever seen their lord? “I don’t know. I think so?”

“You haven’t. You’d know. Blind Michael doesn’t leave his lands, because as long as he stays there the rules protect him, and he’s safe. That’s why my sisters and I couldn’t kill him. You can’t hunt him in his own halls, you can’t follow him into his own darkness.”

“But I’ve seen his Hunt.”

“They ride when the fancy strikes them. He Rides only when there are children to be claimed. He’s vulnerable one night out of every hundred years—the odds are against you. No one stops him.”

“I will,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel.

The Luidaeg shook her head. “This isn’t another crazy changeling, Toby. This is Blind Michael. He’s stronger than I am. I couldn’t stop him. What makes you think you can?”

“Nothing,” I said, with complete honesty. It pays not to lie to the Luidaeg. She might take offense and rip off one of your limbs. “I’m probably going to die horribly.”

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your fatalistic outlook on life,” she said, clapping her hand down on another cockroach. “It’s always been one of your best features. Why bother going if you know you’re going to fail?”

“I have to.”

“Why?” she asked, popping the roach into her mouth. “It’s pointless. If you’re that anxious to die, just say the word. It would save us all a lot of trouble.”

“I don’t want to die.” That’s why I was negotiating with a woman who’d threatened to kill me at various points in the past. Sometimes my life seems devoid of any logic whatsoever.

“Then why?”

“I have to,” I repeated. “He took two of my best friend’s children, and there’s a third who won’t wake up, no matter what we do, and that doesn’t even touch the kids he took from the Court of Cats. I have to try. How could I live with myself if I didn’t?”

“I see.” Almost gently, she said, “If I help you—and you need me to help you—you’ll owe me. Can you live with that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Luidaeg. Three times asked and three times sure.” I shook my head. “You want my word, you have it. Now please. Tell me what I need to know.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms, leaning against the cutting board. “You have to move fast; he’ll have started to change the children, but he hasn’t had them long enough to do any permanent damage. Wait too long and you won’t save any of them. You’ll go tonight, and you’ll go alone, and you won’t look back. Because the rules say so.” Her smile showed the edge of a single scrimshaw fang. “It’s the beginning of September. He’ll hold them until Halloween night, changing them to suit his whims, and then they’ll Ride. It’s his way of remembering our mother. Her Rides were always held on Samhain night.”

I nodded, feeling the first flickers of hope. “So there’s a chance.”

“The rules let you try, right here, right now. I don’t know if you’ll succeed.” She yanked open a drawer, digging through it. “The rules require me to warn you, just so you know.”

“Warn me?”

“You go alone. You can take any help you find, but you can’t ask for it. You fight with what you have and what you’re given; neither steal nor buy any weapon of any kind. You can take each road once, and only once, and some roads not even that often. You go now. Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. Do you know where you have to go?”