An Artificial Night

I stared.

The candle was a foot long, made of multicolored wax. Swirling streaks of moon white, copper red and pale straw gold mingled together in long, lazy spirals. The wick was a deep, rich brown, like long-dried blood. “What the—”

“There are three ways I could send you to my brother.” She turned the candle in her hand, making the colors in the wax seem to dance. “There’s the Blood Road—you could take it, but you don’t want to. Not if you want a chance to come home alive. There’s the Old Road, but even with my help, you couldn’t find the door as you are. You’re too much of a mongrel.”

“What does that leave?” I asked. Spike was still rattling its thorns, growling. It didn’t like this. Neither did I.

“The last road.” She held up the candle and smiled, almost sadly. “The road you walk by candlelight. It’s not going to be easy—it never could be—but you have iron, and you have silver, and you can get there and back if you hurry.”

“How do I get started?”

“Did you jump rope when you were a kid?”

I stared at her. “What?”

“Jump rope. Did you stand on the playground jumping over a piece of moving rope and chanting? Cinderella dressed in yellow, Miss Suzy’s steamboat?”

“Of course.”

“Blind Michael is a child’s terror. When you’re hunting bogeymen, you look for the nets you need in the stories you’ve almost forgotten.” Her eyes flashed white. “Look where the roses grow. You need to take a walk to my brother’s lands. Do you remember the way?”

“I never knew it!”

“Of course you did. You’ve just forgotten. How many miles to Babylon?”

“What?”

The Luidaeg sighed. “You’re not listening. How many miles to Babylon?”

The phrase was familiar. I paused, searching for the answer in the half-forgotten memories of the childhood I’d long since left behind, and ventured, “Threescore miles and ten?”

She nodded. “Good. Do you know how to get back again?”

“You can get there and back by a candle’s light.” I could remember holding hands with Stacy while we jumped and Julie and Kerry turned the rope, certain we’d be young and laughing and friends forever.

“Even better. Are your feet nimble and light? For your sake, they’d better be.” She opened the refrigerator, removing a brown glass bottle capped with a piece of plastic wrap and a rubber band. “But there are ways to fake that sort of thing. Here.” She held the bottle out to me.

I looked at it dubiously. I could hear the stuff inside it fizzing. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Did someone hit you with the stupid stick this morning? You’re supposed to drink it.”

“Do I have another option?”

“Do you want to come back alive?”

I sighed, reaching for the bottle. “Right.” The plastic wrap disintegrated where I touched it. “How much do I need to—”

“The whole thing.”

There was no point in arguing. I lifted the bottle, swallowing its contents as fast as I could. It was like drinking mud mixed with battery acid and bile. Gagging, I wrapped my arms around my waist and doubled over. Spike jumped off the counter and bristled at the Luidaeg, howling, but I was too busy trying to make the world stop spinning to care. I didn’t want to throw up on the Luidaeg’s floor. There was no telling what she’d do with it.

“If you throw up,” she said, sharply, “you will drink it again.”

The reasons not to be sick got better and better. Still gagging, I forced myself to straighten. The Luidaeg nodded, apparently satisfied. Spike kept howling, thorny tail lashing.

“You and me both,” I mumbled. My throat felt charred, but the pain in my hand was gone. I glanced down. The wound on my palm was closing. Somehow, that just seemed like the natural progression of events.

“Now,” said the Luidaeg. “Come here.”