An Artificial Night

“Ah,” the figure said, in a voice as soft and dry as dead leaves on the wind. Despite the rustling thinness of the voice, I could tell it was female. “I see.” She lowered her hand, rubbing her fingers together. “We have a visitor.”


Oh, oak and ash. I scrambled farther into my hiding place, cupping one hand around the candle to block the light. It burned my fingers, and I still wasn’t sure she couldn’t see it.

“Come out,” she called. She turned in a slow circle, pulling back her hood. “This is my wood. Come out and let me see you.” Lantern light fell over her face as she moved, bringing her into harsh visibility.

Her skin was daffodil yellow. Tendrils of brown and gold hair snaked around her cheeks, so matted and snarled that they looked almost like thin tree roots. They writhed constantly, twisting themselves into knots and curls. Her eyes were long and narrow and the color of brass from end to end; her pupils were thin silver lines visibly contracted against the light, like a cat’s, or a serpent’s. I’d never seen anything like her.

I shivered, wishing the Luidaeg was there. She’d have known what to do. There was something painfully ironic about that desire; I wasn’t a child, but I looked like one, and I was wishing for the sea witch to come and save me.

The woman frowned, eyes narrowing as I failed to appear. “I know you can hear me; the trees felt you pass. They can’t tell me where you are, but they know you’re here. Come out before you make me angry.” Her features were generous and well-formed, with a nose that was a little sharp and a lower lip that was a bit too large. Still, she was pretty, or had been once—a heavy scar ran from just under her left eye to her chin, pulling the side of her mouth into a permanently puckered scowl. There’s only one thing that can scar a pureblood like that. Iron.

And she was a pureblood. I could taste the purity of her blood like fire on my tongue, almost hot enough to actually burn. Whatever she was, it was strong. Strong enough that she might be Firstborn. The Luidaeg is the only Firstborn I’ve ever dealt with on a regular basis, and her power is subtle, damped down until she can seem human to the casual observer. This woman’s power wasn’t hidden at all. It blazed all around her, seeming brighter than the lantern light. And something had been fast enough and strong enough to run a scar down her face. Whatever it was, I hoped it wasn’t in the forest with us.

I stayed huddled in the dubious safety of my hiding place, shivering harder. My heart seemed impossibly loud to my terrified ears, and for an illogical moment, I was afraid it would lead her to me. It was so loud. How could she miss it?

She lowered the lantern, frown deepening. “My name is Acacia, and these are my woods,” she said. “If you seek Blind Michael, go toward the mountains; if you seek me, come out now. If you seek neither of us, go home by whatever road you choose. But do not hide from me in my own places, or it will not go well for you, no matter what your quest may be.” She paused, waiting. I didn’t speak. “Very well. Never say you had no choice.”

The branches bent to allow her passage as she turned and walked out of the clearing, her cloak billowing behind her. I’ve seen Luna get similar treatment from her roses, but never on such a grand scale; this woman seemed to be in command of the entire forest.

I stayed where I was for what felt like an eternity, listening to the silence. Her footsteps had faded; she was gone. At least I hoped she was—she could be lurking in the underbrush, waiting for me to come out. Why hadn’t she seen me? The forest obviously obeyed her, and my candle wasn’t that well hidden. If she was in control of the trees, they should have led her straight to me. So why hadn’t they?