An Artificial Night

“Blind Michael’s lands.”


“No.” She shook her head. “If that’s all you know, you’re finished before you start. Stop, think, and ask again.” She straightened, a paring knife in one hand. The handle was made of pearl and abalone, and the blade was a curl of silver barely wider than my finger. It looked like it could cut the air.

I kept my eyes on her face, trying to ignore the knife. It wasn’t working. “Just once, I wish you’d speak English like a normal person.”

“What would be the fun in that? Give me your hand.” I blinked, automatically holding out my left hand; she grabbed it, raking the blade across my palm. It cut deep, but there was no pain. Yet.

“Hey!” I yelped, yanking my hand away.

She looked at me impassively. “Give me back your hand.”

“No!”

“We can do this the easy way, or we can not do it at all. You can wander the hills looking for Blind Michael and never see him coming . . . or you can give me your hand, and I can give you a road to follow.” She shrugged. “It’s your call. You owe me either way.”

Great. Rock? Meet hard place. I extended my hand, trying not to think about what I was doing. Spike jumped down to the counter where it crouched, rattling its thorns.

The Luidaeg looked at it, amused. “Fierce protector.”

“It does its best,” I said, watching with sick fascination as the blood started to flow over my palm.

“You’d be surprised at how deep rose thorns can cut. They’re pretty, not safe.” She wrapped her fingers around my wrist, turning my palm toward the floor. Blood spattered on the dirty linoleum. The Luidaeg dumped a handful of tarnished silver coins into a baby food jar and shoved it under my hand, saying, “Hold this. We only need a little blood.”

“Why do we need any?” I was trying not to be sick. I’ve never liked the sight of my own blood. If I get hurt in the line of duty, I can usually handle it until I’m out of the path of certain doom. Standing in the Luidaeg’s kitchen with no visible dangers—except maybe the Luidaeg herself—was forcing me to fight the urge to stick my head between my knees and pass out.

“Because there are no free roads, moron,” she said, sorting through the mess on her counter. “You should know that by now.” She turned back to me, holding a length of filthy, off-white twine. “You’re going to need a map. The blood pays for it; proves you mean it.”

“A map where?”

“Back in time and just around the corner. You’re going to visit my brother, and he’s choosy about who he lets through the door. Give me that.” She took the jar from my hand. “Silver that’s come a long way already, the iron in your blood . . . it’s going to have to do. Go ahead and run your hand under the tap, but don’t bandage it. The wound’s not going with you.”

“What are you talking about?” I turned on the faucet, looking dubiously at the cloudy water, and then stuck my hand under it. The cold registered a moment before the pain. I shrieked and jumped back, turning to glare at the Luidaeg.

She shrugged. “I’m the sea witch, remember? Were you expecting fresh water?”

I shouldn’t have been, but I was. I’d stopped worrying about the Luidaeg and started thinking only about her brother; that was a mistake. “No,” I said, quietly. “I guess not.”

“Good girl.” She dropped the twine into the jar and screwed the lid on before shaking it. The coins rattled, and the blood sloshed against the glass. I looked away. “Wimp,” she chided. I looked around to see her uncap the jar, pouring the contents into a wax mold, and topping them with salt water from the tap.

“What are you doing?” Blood rituals are dangerous. If I was going into one, I wanted to know.

“Making your map.” She lifted the mold and shattered it against the kitchen counter, easily catching the candle that fell out of the shards. “Perfect.”