Dreams and Shadows (35 page)

Gossamer licked the cluricaun's face, but still he would not wake. The dog lay down in the rain-soaked street beside him, letting out a deep sigh.
Now
he would never find his way home.

K
NOCKS STAGGERED TO
his feet, massaging his chest, wheezing for breath. Colby hadn't just knocked the wind out of him, he'd bruised his lungs, broken a rib. There was very little time left. The second wave of fairies would swarm over the town shortly, making easy work of the remaining angels. He needed to find Ewan before then, before someone else robbed him of the pleasure.

And then he appeared.

Ewan walked slowly, determined, toward the changeling, his pike held firmly in his hand.

Knocks smiled.
This is happening.
It's really happening.

Ewan stopped ten steps short of Knocks, propping the pike up heroically next to him. The two locked gazes. Neither man blinked.

Ewan drew breath to speak, but Knocks shook his head, waving a finger.

“I know,” said Knocks. “I know. Let's not spoil this with bullshit. The time for talk is over.”

The two stared at each other. Their muscles tensed, jaws clenched. Anger swelled in their guts. Ewan was the first to move, with Knocks charging him the hair of a second later.

Ewan swung his pike. Knocks ducked, the blade barely missing him.

Knocks threw an uppercut, catching Ewan directly under the chin. Ewan reeled backward, stunned. He recovered, swinging his pike wildly, trying to buy himself a little more time to clear his head.

Knocks sidestepped another swing, jabbing at Ewan, missing by inches.

Ewan kneed Knocks in the stomach, doubling him over, punched him clean in the back of the head.

Knocks reached up, grabbing the pike, punching Ewan repeatedly with his bloody stump; it hurt like hell, Knocks gritting through it, hitting him over and over—the rag beginning to swell, soaked with blood.

Ewan tried to protect his face, struggling with both hands to keep his grip of the pike. Writhing, he tried to avoid the blows, but Knocks kept landing them.

Knocks let go of the pike, and reached up, snatching the cap right off Ewan's head.

Ewan swung again, but he was too close, connecting with only the shaft, not the blade. Weakened without his cap, Ewan let go with one hand, swiping for it, missing.

Knocks tossed the cap behind him, then reached for the pike, wresting it out of Ewan's grip. He swung the blunt end into Ewan's gut, doubling him over, then, bringing the blunt end upward again, smashed him in the face.

Ewan was knocked upright. He staggered back a step, fuzzy from the hit.

The pike swung one last time, this time crossing Ewan's stomach, cutting deep into the flesh, tearing through his innards.

Ewan's jaw dropped, both hands clutching the wound. He fell to his knees, then backward, knocking his skull on the street, trapping his own feet beneath him.

Knocks held aloft his bloody-rag-wrapped stump, pointing at Ewan's stomach. “Try cutting that off to save your life.” He threw down the pike as if he was spiking a football, then held both arms out to his sides. “I did it,” he said, giggling. “I fucking did it. You're fucking dead.” He danced around a little. “I just killed you. What are you going to do about it, Ewan? Huh?”

Ewan gurgled, leaning up, reaching a single arm out to Knocks. It was over, but he wasn't ready to concede. He rolled onto his side—one arm trying to hold in his insides while the other tried to push him to his feet. His arm gave way and he tumbled face-first onto the pavement, spilling organs into the street.

Knocks stood over him, smiling. “Look me in the face,” he said. “You look death in the face and you accept it. I want to see you accept it.” Ewan pushed himself up again and stumbled forward on his knees, trying now to crawl away. With a light kick, Knocks toppled him over.

Ewan lay on his back like an upended turtle, staring unblinking into the rain as the life drained from him. The sounds around him dulled; he knew Knocks was talking, but he couldn't make out anything other than the staccato of rain spattering beside his ears.

It was over.

Y
ASHAR WIPED HIS
bloody fists off. The downpour was strong and steady now, the roar of the storm drowning out all but a few distant clangs. Angels and Sidhe littered the sidewalks. Blood ran pink in the swelling rainwater. Only two angels still stood, busy holding their ground, about to be overrun by the half dozen remaining Sidhe.

In the street between them, Knocks and Ewan wrestled with a pike.

Colby screamed as the pike sliced open Ewan's stomach.

He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't let him.

Ewan collapsed. Colby had failed.

“Motherfucker!” Colby yelled, his voice drowned out by the rain. He watched as Knocks danced around, taunting Ewan. His stomach dropped, his throat went dry. Hands became balled fists digging fingernails into flesh; teeth gritted against one another, grinding away small flakes of enamel.

Colby could feel the veil between worlds thinning, a cold, dark presence rumbling on the other side, begging to be unleashed. A voice in the back of his head demanded to be let out. The door was locked; he had but to twist the knob.
Let us in. Let us do it,
it whispered. The fabric was growing thinner by the moment. There was enough dreamstuff flowing through him to do it. Then he recognized the voice.

It was the master of the hunt.

No,
he thought.
Not this way.

Colby let loose a torrent of energy, bolts cascading across the street with whatever dreamstuff he could muster.

Knocks swept the pike in front of him, deflecting the bolts away harmlessly, as they exploded like fireworks, showering sparks across the pavement. The changeling smiled wickedly, small fragments of the energy still hopping and popping around in the puddles beneath him. There seemed nothing Colby could do to hurt him.

“Try it again, Colby. I'm sure you'll hit me eventually.”

Colby reached out toward Knocks, yanking away the pike with an unseen force. It sailed past Colby, embedding itself in a brick wall behind him. Knocks stared wide eyed at the pike, smiling.

“Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Don't worry, I'll shut it for you.”

Let us in. Let us do it,
the voice whispered again.

Knocks laughed. “Just come here and hit me like a fucking man.”

Colby ran at Knocks, fists clenched, swinging wildly.

Knocks stepped out of the way effortlessly, knocking Colby onto the ground with a single awkward kick. “Come on,” he said. Colby scrambled to get to his feet, but Knocks kicked him square in the gut. “You're such a fucking pussy.”

Let us in.

Knocks leapt on Colby's back, rabbit-punching him with his one good hand.

Colby bucked, tossing Knocks to the ground. The two quickly scuttled away from each other, pushing themselves to their feet.

Colby's head throbbed. His knees ached. His hands were scraped and bleeding.

Then the two ran at each other again, trading blows. The first few hits were a flurry of jabs, but the two soon settled into a groove of hitting each other, punch for punch, one after the other.

Colby swung with a haymaker, loosening Knocks's jaw.

Knocks swung at Colby, bloodying his nose.

Colby swung at Knocks. Knocks swung at Colby. Colby swung at Knocks. Knocks swung at Colby.

It had become an endurance contest, each man trying simply to outlast the other. Neither had the strength to carry on much longer. Colby swung at Knocks. Knocks swung at Colby.

Colby swung, staggering forward, exhausted. He fell to his knees.

Colby looked past Knocks, saw Ewan bleeding, crawling in the street. His frustration and rage began to bubble over.

Knocks stepped back, shaking his head with a queer little grin. “You've got nothing. You can't fight me, Colby. What are you gonna do?”

Let. Us. In.

“Something.”

In that moment, he decided to let her in.

Colby closed his eyes, rewove the fabric of reality, shredding a piece of the veil, building from it a bridge between earth and Hell. The clouds rumbled their disapproval, belching out indigo streaks, lighting the world purple for three solid seconds. Everything shook and when the rumble of thunder faded, the shaking continued. The earth groaned wearily and spat out Hell.

The Wild Hunt roared out, a dozen riders strong.

Twelve massive black goats—their manes thick, shaggy, their horns long, gnarled, razor sharp—galloping ferociously toward the dying melee, a pack of howling hellhounds at their heels. Thunder now rose from the earth to the skies. Atop the lead steed was Tiffany Thatcher, more bone than flesh now, her sockets empty of eyes, replaced by the glowing embers of a hateful Hell. A few scraps of flayed, parchmentlike skin clung desperately to her jowls and rib cage, a few chunks of desiccated muscle refusing to yet break away from the bone.

Beside her, mounted on a goat of his own, was Jared Thatcher, a sad, lonely expression on his face. With them rode redcaps and nixies and the tattered remains of a single Bendith Y Mamau. Twelve creatures of Hell with hate in their eyes, bearing down on six battered Sidhe and a pair of angels.

Yashar ran to Colby. Though he couldn't yet see them, he knew what this was. “What have you done?”

“Ended this,” said Colby.

“They'll kill us all, you know.”

“No. We have a deal. I know what they want now. And he's standing right there.” He pointed to Knocks.

The two remaining angels helped Bertrand to his feet. Bertrand turned, looking at Colby, a broken arrow sticking out of one eye. He shook his head sadly. Then the angels took to the sky, carrying Bertrand away with them like a banner fluttering in the wind. Only the Sidhe and Knocks remained in the street now, staring toward the approaching rumble.

The Sidhe scattered and the hunt split up to run them down. Few got far before axes cleft them in two, clawed hands grabbing them by their hair, dragging them through the streets. Ruadhri ran, blindly firing arrows over his shoulder, looking for some sort of cover. As he rounded a corner, he saw two beasts bearing down on him. Then he turned to see two more coming from behind.

The clawed hands each grabbed a chunk or a limb before Ruadhri was torn completely apart, his head carried off by one rider, his torso by another.

Knocks looked down at Ewan, taking a deep, relaxed breath. “You don't want to kill me yourself?”

“No,” said Colby. “You've damned yourself.
They're
here for you now.”

Knocks looked up at Colby, smiling. He could hear the thundering hooves rumbling toward him. The ground shook, the heavens wept. For Knocks, it was all so perfect. “I was born in the rain, you know. On a morning a lot like this.”

“Enjoy dying in it, you son of a bitch,” said Colby, backing away, giving the hunt a wide berth.

Knocks nodded, looking up at the sky. “The legacy of a storm is not in the measure of its rainfall or the sound of its thunder, it is in the devastation it leaves behind. I've had a good run.” He cast his arms out wide, smiling broadly at Colby. “I wonder if my hand will be waiting for me in Hell.” He turned his head, staring at the oncoming stampede, thinking about the last lesson his mother ever taught him.

The front-most hoof of Tiffany Thatcher's goat tore a hole in his head, splattering his brains across the pavement, each remaining hoof trampling his torso in half. The Wild Hunt roared past Colby without giving him a look, each carrying off a piece of Knocks with it. Once they all had passed, there wasn't a spot of Knocks left in this world to remember him by—not so much as a single drop of his blood staining the pavement.

The riders continued on, but their hounds came to a stop, raising their heads into the air, letting out a soul-chilling howl, turning and racing off to catch up with their masters once more. And as quickly as they had entered this world, the hunt was gone, closing the gate behind them, leaving only the waning rumble of rolling thunder to signal their departure.

Colby kneeled down beside Ewan, the red puddle beneath him grown wide, thinned by the rain. There was little life left to leak out of him. Ewan stared up at the sky, unable to focus his eyes on anything.

“Ewan,” said Colby, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“You can't see me,” said Ewan with a weak smile.

“Yes I can,” said Colby.

“No you can't. I'm invisible.”

“You're not invisi . . . ,” he said, then the memory caught up with him. Tears trickled down Colby's face. Beneath him, Ewan died.

Colby could feel the swift tendrils of Hell closing in. Cold. Black. Angry.

“You can't have him,” he said. Then he put a second hand on Ewan, evaporating every last bit of dreamstuff, sending it off into the city. No flower petals dropped to the ground; no smell lingered in the air; only his cap remained, staining the rainwater around it. “Go find her.”

Colby looked up, the streets swollen with fairies, approaching cautiously.

He turned to Yashar. “You've been awfully quiet.”

“There's little left to say.”

“After a thousand cursed wishes, I guess you get used to this sort of thing, huh?”

“No,” said Yashar. “You never get used to it.”

“Nor should you,” said Bertrand, flapping above them. He looked down upon Colby with a bitter sadness. “You unleashed Hell. You shouldn't have done that.”

“We were losing,” said Colby. “I had to do something.”

“No,” Bertrand said. “We weren't losing. We
lost
. Hell got everything it wanted today. What did you get?”

“Wait, I was just doing what you said was right.”

“You were damning yourself?”

“Yeah, for all the right reasons.”