Dreams and Shadows (26 page)

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

T
HE
T
HREE
L
ADIES OF
L
ADYBIRD 
L
AKE AND THE 
S
OULS
T
HEY
K
EEP
B
ENEATH
I
T

T
he word
lake
was something of a misnomer, a polite fiction. It was actually a reservoir—a dammed-up section of the Colorado River, perfectly bisecting the city, that had at one time fallen into disuse. Only later, through civic revitalization, did it become a destination location for hikers, bikers, and joggers on the prowl. Trails lined the lake up one side and down the other, shaded by trees that ran its length both in and out of town.

Colby was given no deadline or timetable, but the weight of the task gnawed at him, demanding he be done with it. So there he was. It was night, and he stood naked at the edge of the lake at a spot a quarter mile west of the expressway, where he could still hear the traffic.

Of course, he knew of the nixie sisters by reputation, but he had never met them. There were often stories in the local news about drowned men that could be little other than the work of a nixie, and an urban legend about a woman who had drowned her husband and baby before hanging herself that local spirits often attributed to them. Hopefully, they knew as little of him as he did them, or better yet, that they had never heard of him at all.

The water was cool, a few degrees lower than the night air, tickling a bit as he slid into it. He dipped his head in the water, getting that momentary nastiness out of the way, then exhaled deeply, forcing every last bit of air out of his lungs. Then he dropped below the surface, sinking deep into the lake.

Beneath the water, Colby began his incantations. First his skin grew a thick green mucus, allowing his limbs to glide through the water as if it were air. Then his eyes grew a milky white membrane that blinked out the water, allowing him to see into the murky depths. A thick green, brown, and yellow turtle shell crept over his flesh, encasing all but his head and stubby little legs. Finally, he shrank several sizes until he was only slightly larger than a family dog. He popped his head above the water and took a deep a breath, an hour's worth of air.
There,
he thought.
Now I'm ready.

He swam down to the bottom of the lake, paddling quickly but quietly, to the nixies' hidden lair, careful not to disturb the silt surrounding it. Swimming through the atrium, he entered a cave decorated as a sitting room. Three waterlogged couches sat positioned as if they were meant to host company. Sitting atop one of them—chained down so as to not float away—was the slowly deteriorating, bloated corpse of the nixies' most recent victim.

Colby tried not to look as he swam past it into the dining room.

As he passed through the doorway—nothing more than a large hole connecting one cave to the next—he saw one of the nixie sisters dining on a stew of things culled from the lake bottom. She looked up at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked sweetly.

Colby grew nervous. If he spoke to explain himself, she would see through the deception; if he didn't, there was no telling what she might do.

She smiled. “Aren't you a cute little one? Don't spend too much time down here. My sisters are asleep, and if you wake them, they'll make a soup out of you.” She waved him off with a flutter of her hand. “Off you go then.”

Colby continued, hoping now not to see the other sisters. He passed into another cave, long and slender like a hallway. Along it adjoined several other chambers, four in all, each clearly bedrooms. At the end was the single largest cavern in the underwater den. It was huge, some sixty feet across, the floor covered with a thick layer of silt and sand.

The room was overflowing with jars, nearly 150 in all, each upturned—their necks buried six inches in the sand—upon them carved the names of the suitors they possessed. These nixies had been claiming victims here for decades. Colby eyed the names in the dark, eager to knock over the jar he was here for and be done with it. But there were so many, and he dared not loose them all; there was no telling what might happen then.

He read name after name, each carved messily into the clay with a small knife, until finally he found it:
JARED THATCHER
.

He nudged the pot with his turtle head, but it would not budge; he was too small and weak to knock it over. The only way he was going to overturn it was to return to normal, leaving him only a minute or so more of air to swim out. Though that left little room for error, he had no other choice. Colby closed his eyes and worked one final incantation, using the last lingering remnants of ambient dreamstuff to revert.

The water was frigid this deep down—a fact he hadn't noticed until his protective turtle flesh was gone—and the water flooded his ears, the pressure pushing in on his eardrums. He reached down with his arms, dug both feet into the sand, and tugged at the pot. It budged ever so slightly. He tugged again and gained another inch. Straining, he put every last bit of energy into pulling up the pot, finally freeing it from its moorings. A ghostly blue light slipped out from beneath, taking the form of a young man, only slightly older than Colby.

The man gazed upon him with horror, reaching out a single extended hand, his spirit drifting away in the current. “Why?” he gasped. “Why did you do this?”

Colby felt a strange sensation creeping in—a cold, dark, ominous feeling like a distant void peeking through, grasping hold of the spirit in front of him.

“Why?” Jared asked one last time, his eyes full of fear. Then Hell itself reached out from the void and dragged the spirit into nothingness.

What have I done?

Colby's lungs began to ache for air, the early stages of panic setting in. He needed to get to the surface; he needed to get to the surface
now
. Colby swam furiously, careless now of how much noise he made.
Air.
No matter how hard he thrashed, he just couldn't move swiftly enough against the current.
Need air.
Without thinking, he grabbed the wall, pulling himself along, casting himself haphazardly through the caves.

He entered the dining room and scanned for the nixie who had spoken to him. She was nowhere to be found.

Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!

He reached the threshold of the atrium, his lungs ready to burst. Then he heard them.

“Someone's here!” said a voice.

“It's just a turtle,” said another.

“No. It's a man!”

Colby kicked up toward the surface, struggling to make his way to fresh air. He shot through the water like a rocket, breaking through with a loud splash. His lungs barked out stale air, and he wheezed desperately to replace it. Behind him, two small splashes.

“And just where do you think you're going?” asked one of the sisters.

A clawed hand grasped his ankle, dragging him back beneath the water. He sank toward the bottom, flailing for the surface as it drifted slowly away. The nixie grappling with him climbed his body, embraced him face-to-face. She grinned, anxious to drown the intruder for his trespass.

“Now, just who do you think you . . . ,” she said, her voice stopping midsentence, trailing into worry. Her expression promptly changed. “Oh my . . . I'm so sorry!” she exclaimed, horrified at the face before her. She kicked with her fin and launched them both upward, breaking the surface, throwing him off her as far as she could. Then she swam away, terrified, as if he bore the plague.

“What are you doing?” screamed one of her sisters.

“I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Please don't hurt us!” she pleaded.

“What are you going on about?” asked her other sister.

“Him. It's the boy. The boy sorcerer.”

“Colby?” they asked together. They hadn't recognized him at first, but they'd seen him around. Everyone knew who Colby was, whether he knew them or not. And they were terrified of him. Without hesitating, the two sisters abandoned the third to the surface, disappearing beneath the waves, leaving her to stare, agape, at Colby. Colby had no idea what to make of what was going on.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

Colby shook his head. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” she said.

“Then let me swim to shore and you never have to see me again.”

She nodded and Colby splashed his way back to the embankment across the lake.

He pulled himself ashore, breathless, scared out of his wits, looking back out at the water. The nixies were gone, having vanished beneath the waves. He'd done it, but he wasn't at all sure what
it
was. It was probably best not to think about it. With the favor done, the Wild Hunt should not hunt for Colby's soul, and whoever Jared Thatcher was, he was least where he most likely belonged.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

O
NE
N
IGHT
O
NLY

A
fter a week of begging, pleading, and cajoling his slovenly potato of a boss into letting his band perform once more, Ewan got his chance. A local band had been hitting up the owner for more money, while Limestone Kingdom was willing to play for free. The owner came around. From then on, what time Ewan didn't spend curled up with Nora he spent in his bassist's garage, practicing their new songs.

Something was different about him. Color had returned to his skin—the pale, sickly white replaced by a fleshy, earthy pink. He smiled more. His eyes seethed with a fire, as if he'd been shown something incredible and couldn't wait to tell the world about it. There was a spring in his step, an interminable energy to his every movement. He oozed confidence; one could almost smell his charisma on the air.

Ewan Bradford was a fucking rock star. And it was time the rest of the world finally got the chance to know it.

Plugging in his amp, the place felt meager and small, almost as if it were unworthy of what he was about to unleash. He smiled, shook that feeling off, reminding himself that the magic was in the crowd, not in the rat-trap fire hazard of a club. There was a certain poetry to playing this music here first—a final
go fuck yourself
before his band made it. Something had clicked, their music finally just right. It had balls, it was layered; for the first time in his life, Ewan felt as if he had something to say. The drummer's sister stood offstage with a video camera, recording the show, the bassist's buddy, a sound technician, laying it down on tape.

All that Ewan needed now was to see Nora, to get one last playful glance from her before striking the chord that would mark the end of his old life and the beginning of the new. He glanced around, hoping she'd picked the same spot where he'd first seen her sitting, but she wasn't there. People were still pouring in, eager not to hear Limestone Kingdom, but the band following them, a local favorite. The crowd wasn't thick, but it was dense enough to make finding Nora tough. Frantically he scanned the room, looking for her.

And then he saw her. She stood at the back of the room, a foot propped up on the wall behind her, wearing exactly the same outfit as the night they'd met. She smiled and winked, noting that he'd finally found her. Then she blew him a kiss, nodding. He was ready.

BREEEEOOOOOWWWWW!
The first chord resonated like a bolt of lightning striking the amp, its thunder rolling over the crowd. Everyone looked up. Everyone. Ewan paused before he touched his guitar again, letting that single, drifting note draw everyone in. An awkward anticipation hung in the air, as if the crowd had been awakened suddenly at their desks in class with no idea why everyone was staring at them.

And then he laid into his guitar like a ravenous dog on a piece of meat. There was nothing limp or mediocre about it. It was profound. It was like seeing the aurora borealis for the first time. Everything they were doing seemed wrong, but felt right. Discordant notes blended to form melodies and shockingly addictive chords. Hooks that felt as if they'd been in the audience's heads for years played to their ears for the first time. Eyes and jaws stared wide, unblinking, at the stage.

There was no stage show. No lighting. No pageantry. But their essence was palpable. Three guys pouring their hearts into a song that everyone swore they'd heard somewhere before but could not place. Everyone present would describe their experience differently, but they would all speak of it reverently, as if it were somehow religious.

The band had left a dozen T-shirts behind the bar, the same dozen shirts they'd had printed months before and brought with them just to seem legitimate. Simple and black, they had a seemingly handwritten scrawl upon them that read: “Limestone Kingdom.” All twelve sold before the end of the second song.

Mallaidh, dressed as Nora, stood at the back of the crowd, beaming with pride. She knew the music well. They were fairy tunes she remembered from childhood, played originally by the master musician Dithers and duplicated with raw intensity by his ward and unknowing student. She rocked back and forth, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, nervously fidgeting with her rainbow-colored scarf, giddy as a schoolgirl.

“He's beautiful,” said a woman standing next to her.

Mallaidh nodded with a love-bitten smile.

“You've chosen well.”

“Excuse me?” Mallaidh gave the stranger a sidelong glance. The woman beside her was lithe, graceful and only slightly taller. She looked as if she were in her late twenties, yet at the same time ageless, with a timeless style and tattoos that looked neither fresh nor faded. Her hair was short and black, her eyes sharp and dazzling. A faded rock T-shirt clung to her body, knotted above her belly button, leaving her tight, youthful midriff exposed. Below that, she wore a pair of faded, tattered jeans, too perfectly torn to be a mistake, too ragged to be prefabricated.

The woman was the very definition of rock style. And she was eyeing Mallaidh's man.

“You've chosen very well for your first time out,” said the woman.

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean,” said Mallaidh.

The woman smiled. “Your first love. You can always tell when a Leanan Sidhe is looking upon her first love. There's a sort of magic to it. I wish I could go back and reexperience my first. It was incredible.”

Mallaidh winced. “What are you talking about?”

“Sweetie, you knew these were my stomping grounds. Right? You had to imagine that you'd meet your mother one day. Guess which day today is?”

Mallaidh's jaw dropped and her heart with it. The thought had never crossed her mind. She'd never known her mother, never thought she'd meet her. And her pursuit of Ewan had been so single-minded that it didn't matter where he ended up—she would have followed him there. He just happened to be in Austin. Now, standing before her, was the woman who had abandoned her decades ago, looking no more along in years than an older sister.

“Wait,” said the woman. “You had no idea?”

“Cassidy?” asked Mallaidh.

“Cassidy Crane.”

“Mo . . . ?” Mallaidh began.

“Call me Mom and you're dead meat, kiddo.” Cassidy glared facetiously, smiling at the same time. Her daughter looked just like her. She could see through the glamour—all the tricks and wiles of the Leanan Sidhe—and noted that, despite the blond locks, she was her mother's daughter. The nose, the chin, the eyes. All hers. The cheeks were her father's though, something that made Cassidy's heart swell a little as she thought back upon the days spent in his arms. Cassidy still loved that man, though were she honest with herself, most of those lingering feelings stemmed from what he'd left behind.

“I don't understand,” said Mallaidh. “Where have you been?”

“Here. I've been here the whole time. Didn't Meinrad explain any of this to you?”

Mallaidh shook her head, confused. There was a quiet bitterness rising in her gut, a feeling of rejection churning behind it. At the same time, she was joyous. She'd never met her mother and here she was, on what was the third most important night of her life, when it really mattered.

“He was supposed to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“What you are. What
we
are.”

“I'm a Sidhe,” said Mallaidh.

“A
Leanan
Sidhe,” said Cassidy. “We're different.”

“Different how?”

“You really don't know
any
of this?”

“I know that you left me with Meinrad because you thought he could care for me.”

“Yeah,” said Cassidy, “just as you'll choose someone to leave your child with one day. We don't raise our young. We can't.”

“What?”

“We're not cut out to be mothers, you and I. We're lov-
ers,
not lov-
ing
.”

Mallaidh shook her head. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“That's okay. It'll come with time. You'll understand. The first few are the hardest, but you get used to it. You grow accustomed. You never forget them and you'll always love them, but it doesn't hurt the same. This one will destroy you, though.” She pointed at Ewan. “He's magnificent. I couldn't have chosen better for you had I spent a year trying.” Cassidy put a firm hand on her daughter's shoulder. “You've got the knack. You certainly can pick 'em. You
are
your mother's daughter.”

“Cassidy, what is this all about?” asked Mallaidh.

“This is about being time that you learned who you are. And what's going to happen to the man onstage.”

“Ewan?” There was fear in her voice. “What's going to happen to him?”

Cassidy looked both ways. “Look, I think I've said all I can in here.” She glanced at the door. “Follow me. I have something very important to tell you.”

Mallaidh looked at the stage then back at her mother.

“Come on, it will only take a few minutes. He's got at least three encores with this crowd before he can get off the stage.” Cassidy walked toward the door, a lingering look over her shoulder telling Mallaidh she had no choice but to follow.

Outside the night air had a different sound to it, the music nothing but a dull bass line and drum thumping when passed through cinder-block walls and a solid metal door. The rest of the night was peaceful. They'd emerged from the atmosphere of earth into the cold, bleak space surrounding it. Cassidy walked farther still, turning a corner into the adjacent alley. She gave one last look over her shoulder before disappearing.

Mallaidh quickly followed, surprised by four hands emerging from the dark.

She was thrown up against the wall, grappled by two men half her size. Looking down upon the moist crimson sacks draped over their heads, she knew right away what was happening.
Redcaps
. Their clawed hands dug into her flesh as she struggled futilely against their overwhelming strength.

“You're not my mother!” she screamed at the woman.

Cassidy looked devastated, her heart breaking before her daughter. A small tear formed in the corner of her eye. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances,” she said. “But I love too, you know.” She turned to the alley and spoke bitterly. “We had a deal. Where is he?”

A voice cut through the shadows. “You'll find him unconscious in his car on the top floor of the parking garage two blocks north of here,” it said.

Cassidy looked back at her daughter, but still spoke to the shadows. “She doesn't get hurt.”

“Were I to hurt her,” said the man, “I would find myself on the wrong side of this. As it is, I am entitled to collect the boy as payment for the deaths for which he is responsible.” The man stepped out of the dark, his face very much like Ewan's, only twisted, scarred, and wrinkled—like a wax sculpture left in the sun to bake.

“Knocks?” asked Mallaidh. “What are you doing?”

“What should have been done years ago; I'm collecting on the Devil's debt.”

L
IMESTONE
K
INGDOM HAD
run out of songs. The crowd was howling, their cigarette lighters held aloft in the air, but Ewan had nothing left to offer them. There was no chance they were going to play one of the old numbers, but the crowd wanted one more song. So the band did the one thing they could think to do—play the first song over again.

The crowd bought it. Instead of rolling their eyes they began to sing along. This was now less of an opening song and more of an anthem—so the second time around, they simply played it harder. The drummer pounded the devil out of his drums, the bassist played his fingers raw. Sweat poured down Ewan's chest, his drenched shirt clinging tightly to him as his lungs heaved, gulping air between bellowing notes.

Then it was over. The final guitar note faded into the air and the crowd erupted with enthusiastic applause. They were a hit. In the back of the club, the next act bickered, arguing about whether to go on at all, unwilling to follow something so overwhelming. The owner shook his head, wondering why these three had performed so poorly so many times before.

Women in half shirts, tank tops, and skintight blue jeans began lining up just offstage, their eyes expectant, waiting for Ewan, but willing to settle for anyone in the band. Ewan unplugged, walking offstage, his eyes never meeting those of a single adoring fan. He cast his gaze wide, darting past each hopeful girl, anxious to find Nora. The club was fuller than before, and as he passed, men pounded him soundly on the back, giving him knowing hipster nods of approval.

A lanky blonde with alabaster skin, a loose-fitting sundress, and a petite, unobtrusive piercing in her nose stepped in front of Ewan, nodding ever so slightly, tilting her head down, looking up at him suggestively, a slight pout to her lips. He nodded politely and tried to move past her, but she gracefully strayed farther into his path.

“Hi, Ewan,” she said, her voice drifting like jasmine on a summer evening. “I'm Molly.”

“Hey, Molly,” he said politely but without interest. “Have you seen my girlfriend?” He raised his eyebrows, expecting the blonde to shrink away.

“Oddly enough, I have.”

Ewan was skeptical. “Excuse me?”

The blonde smiled delicately, wrinkling her nose ever so slightly, as if to say
I know more than you know
. “Nora's my cousin.”

“She never mentioned a cousin.”

“And how much about herself has she actually told you?” she asked. Ewan began to speak but stopped himself. The blonde continued, “Has she even told you where she lives?”

“Not exactly.”

“That's our Nora; way too guarded.”

“Where is she?” asked Ewan.