An Artificial Night

There’d be time for hatred later. Right now, getting out was what mattered. I took a step forward. “Don’t you remember the answer? It’s threescore miles and ten.” The children moved back again. One of them hissed. “Can I get there by a candle’s light? Oh yes, and back again.” I was passing them, and they weren’t stopping me in their haste to get away from the light. All of them were fleeing now, all but that little Roane boy who couldn’t seem to get back to his feet.

Pausing, I offered him my free hand, heedless of the danger. It wasn’t his fault. None of them had chosen this. He raised his head and looked at me, eyes wide and empty. I jerked away instinctively just before he lunged, leaving his razor-sharp teeth to close on empty air. They opened a wide gash in his upper lip, and it began oozing blood that was practically black.

That would teach me not to reach out to the monsters. I stepped backward, holding up my candle like a shield. “If your feet are nimble and your heart is light, you can get there and back by the candle’s light,” I said, as fast as I could. “How many miles to Babylon? It’s threescore miles and ten—” I kept chanting, backing toward the wall.

The children were slinking back into a group, watching me with angry, empty eyes. It’s always nice to feel loved. I kept backing up, chanting the rhyme over and over until my shoulders hit the wall. I glanced from side to side. There were no doors. No way out.

Emboldened by my sudden stop, the group of children began creeping closer. They surrounded me in a loose semicircle, stopping well out of reach. The Piskie looked at me, saying, “Oh, you won’t go.” She seemed to be the unofficial spokesperson for the group. Most of the others didn’t say anything more complex than “new girl” without being prompted. “There’s no leaving before it’s time.”

“I see,” I said, not moving. “That’s good to know.”

“Good and bad don’t matter—there’s no point in running. Rider or ridden, it’s not your decision, and if it’s the second, to the stables you’ll go. If the first, you’ll join our company . . . for a time.” There was no softness in her smile. “Making enemies of the only friends you’ll find here isn’t wise.”

“Maybe she wants enemies,” said the Centaur.

“No one smart wants enemies,” replied the Piskie.

Considering that I’d voluntarily entered Blind Michael’s lands, I wasn’t sure I qualified as smart. “What happens now?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. They were avoiding the candlelight, but candles can’t last forever. Eventually, the wax would burn down, and they’d take me.

“Now we wait,” said the Piskie.

“We wait for Him,” added the Urisk, in a hiss.

“He’ll come.”

“Because you’re here.”

“New girl.”

“New blood.”

“Rider or ridden.”

“And maybe he’ll take one of us when he takes you.”

“To the Ride—”

“—the Hunt—”

“—to where the darkness waits—”

“He’ll take us home.” This last was from the Roane, who popped his thumb into his mouth as he finished speaking. His fangs fit neatly around it, barely grazing the skin, although the blood from where he’d bitten his own lip made that difficult to see.

“How long have you all been here?” I asked, keeping my shoulders pressed against the wall. I’d been distracted by their seeming innocence once, and I wasn’t going to risk doing it again. In this place, innocence could kill.

The answers came from all around, called out too quickly for me to see who made each one. “A long time.”

“Long time.”

“Many new children.”

“I was new once.”

“We were all new once.”

The Piskie hugged herself, saying, “Sometimes He comes and picks one of us, even when there aren’t any new ones. He takes us away to join Him, and we never come back here again.”

“Where is here?” Children like to talk—even monster children. If I could keep them talking, they might tell me something I needed to know.

“Home,” said a voice from the back of the crowd. The Piskie scowled over her shoulder before looking toward me again, eyes narrowed.

“The Children’s Hall,” she said. “It’s where we wait. You’ll wait, too, if you’re a Rider.”