Dreams and Shadows (9 page)

The branches first tore the clothes from her body then the skin from her naked flesh; they continued to swing with an angry rage, rending chunk after bloody chunk, tossing each aside while hungrily clawing at the prize beneath. They reached in together in a gnarled wooden unison, dug deep into what remained of Stacy's body and in one terrible motion tore it apart in an explosion of muck, bile, and bone. Where a woman once stood, now only Nibbling Nils remained. “Fuck . . . you,” he said.

“I'd say we're even, old man,” said Bill the Shadow. “Let's not make this a bigger deal than it has to be.” He narrowed his eyes.

Nils backed down. He didn't want Bill's wrath any more than Bill really wanted his. “Yeah. Whatever. Fuck it.”

Bill smiled. “Kind of fun though, wasn't it?”

Nils curled the corner of his lips into a slobbering sneer—the closest thing he could manage to a smile. “Yeah. It really was.”

“Come on, let's go watch the Aufhocker.”

C
ARLY JERKED AWAKE,
surprised by something that wasn't there. She hadn't heard anything, couldn't see anything, and apparently Dallas and Stacy had slunk off for another tryst. She thought for a moment of the two off in the dark, passionately wrestling, clawing at each other, and she sighed deeply, left with no other option but the loser. But even he wasn't around. Carly Ginero was a crestfallen second place, her role that of booby prize to an unworthy, unwanted suitor. She really hated Stacy sometimes.

SNAP!
A twig cracked outside the tent. She didn't think, didn't stop for a moment to wonder if it was an animal or an intruder; she got up, storming out of the tent, angry that she had been left alone. Calling out into the night, she barked: “Now just where the hell have
you
been?” She trailed off, her eyes losing focus gazing out into the eerie silence. No one. No one at all. She looked around, uneasy, wondering who or what might be lurking in the woods just outside the dwindling firelight.

She saw the rustle of movement, heard another twig crack. Her head whipped around and there, just beyond the bushes, stood the creepiest, most emaciated little boy she'd ever seen. He stared back at her through the dark, his eyes hollow, empty. Her heart sank into her stomach and she froze in place. Then, with the flutter of eyelashes and the slight twitch of eyebrows, the little boy turned and ran into the woods, daring her to chase him.

That's when the thing leapt from the dark, grappling her from behind. “Run,” breathed a husky voice into her ear with air so hot it singed her hair. Carly sprinted, immediately hitting her full stride. Her bare feet tore over broken ground, rocks digging in, scraping the skin from her heels. She ran harder than she'd ever run in her life. There was nothing but fear now, a terrible anxiety that this was how she would meet her end—alone and screaming in the dark underbrush.

Eberhard rode astride her back—all three goblinoid feet of him—a snaggletoothed smile resting beneath his crooked hook nose that showed no malice at all. Only amusement. He hooted and hollered, his grip firm, his stance that of a prize-winning jockey. “Run, my little pretty, run!” he cackled. “Run until your feet fall off.”

The forest thundered with the steady, drumlike pounding of her heart.
BA-DUM! BA-DUM! BA-DUM! BA-DUM!
So great was the pounding that they couldn't hear the rustling leaves, snapping twigs, or even the crackling branches below them as Carly's delicate feet were nibbled apart piece by piece by a ravenous forest. Nor did they hear the distant rumble of thunder, or see the stars engulfed by dark black clouds backlit by distant fires. And by the time the rumble had become an unbridled roar, it was too late.

Eberhard and Carly looked up to see a dark rider atop a shadowy mound of matted fur emerging from the wood in front of them. In its hand it carried a monstrous ax—the blade alone half the size of a grown man—and by the time either realized they were in danger, the ax swung, cleaving Carly into two perfectly bisected pieces, then followed through, taking the Aufhocker in two pieces with her.

Carly stopped running, each leg still shuffling forward a bit more before both of her halves fell in opposite directions, the wet, gelatinous slop of her innards spilling out upon the earth the last sound she would ever make. And were the countryside not echoing with the deep, brutal thunder of Hell, someone might have noted the lonely sadness and what it had to say about her troubled, meandering, unfulfilled life. But Carly Ginero—the daughter of an autoworker and a nurse, who had dreamed up to the last moments of her life of becoming a princess—would not be the last sad story to come to an end that night. Nor would her end be the most spectacular. In death, much as in life, she would prove to be an unnoticed footnote amid a much larger story—not even a close second in her bid to be noteworthy—for tonight was another woman's big night, and that woman had waited seven long years in Hell to get it.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
HE
W
ILD
H
UNT

An excerpt by Dr. Thaddeus Ray, Ph.D
.,
from his book
A Chronicle of the Dreamfolk

There are few sounds in this world more terrifying than the thunderous onset of a Wild Hunt. These dark, murderous, black riders arrive foretold only by the tumultuous cacophony of their steeds coming from miles off, the strike of each hoof uniting into a deafening roar that can set a man's ears to ringing from a quarter mile away. It is the sound of the damned that some say are the echoes of Hell, reminding the riders that their stay in our world is short. They are also a beastly warning of a calamity to come; gifted with terrible visions, the riders are seers of unfortunate futures.

Hearing
the strikes of the hooves and the howls and horns of the riders means one shall experience the coming disasters firsthand.
Seeing
the riders, however, means almost certain death.

No one knows when the first hunt took place, though history is rife with their tales. Antiquity tells us stories of mounted mobs sweeping through the desert atop black steeds whose nostrils billowed smoke and whose hooves sparked fires in the brush as they rolled across villages, slaughtering dozens before vanishing, never to be seen or heard from again.

The earliest historically recorded appearance comes to us from the
Peterborough Chronicle—
the copy of the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
so named for the monastery at Peterborough in which it was kept. The
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
, a literary record of the events of the day—updated yearly—had this to say about the 1127 appointment and arrival of Henry of Poitou as the new abbot of Peterborough:

“Let no one think strange the truth that we declare, for it was well-known throughout the entire country that as soon as he arrived there—that is, on the Sunday on which one sings, ‘
Exurge, quare obdormis,
Domine?
' immediately thereafter many men saw and heard many huntsmen hunting. These hunters were black and big and ugly, and all their dogs were black and ugly, with wide eyes, and they rode on black horses and black goats. This was seen in the deer park itself in the town of Peterborough and in all the woods between Peterborough and Stamford. And the monks heard the horns blowing, which they blew at night. Reliable witnesses observed them at night. They said it seemed to them there might well have been twenty to thirty blowing horns. This was seen and heard from the time he came here, all that Lent up to Easter. This was his arrival. Of his departure we cannot yet speak. May God provide!”

No record exists of what calamity this portent meant to foretell, whether one of the great losses in the Crusades or some local treachery that history has wiped clean, but the description is unmistakable. Throughout record these riders have made their presence known and run down the wicked, the sinful, and the unbaptized, the lawbreakers, heretics, and purveyors of immorality that have offended the master of the hunt.

This head huntsman only seems to command the hunt for scant periods of history. Sometimes the same mad huntsman is reported for decades whilst others are seen only once. The rhyme or reason behind how a man becomes head of such a pack is unknown. What is known, however, is that whoever leads the Wild Hunt has mastery of his hounds and fellow riders. The wickedness of such a display seems entirely to rest upon the cruelty of his command. On some occasions, like the Peterborough incidents, the hunt seems to leave little or no carnage behind. Other, more bloodthirsty rides, however, show no mercy to even the most venial of sinners.

Some, but not all, accounts of these rides include mentions of hounds. These range in description from the terrifying Black Dogs, roughly the size of a calf, spoken of in English folklore, to the nearly indescribable hellhounds yelping incomprehensible gibberish amid sharp barks. Most accounts, however, seem to describe the Barguest (or barghest), a massive shaggy hound with powerful jaws that can tear limbs clean off, and teeth sharp enough to rend flesh instantly from bone. These hounds emit the pungent stink of brimstone, their eyes burn like coals, and they possess the ability to vanish in a flash of hellfire. Daring to cross paths in front of a Barguest can cause a wound to mysteriously appear that will fester, blister, and refuse to heal. Their most notable quality, however, is their howl, which is reserved for the nights on which someone of great importance is to die. Unlike the banshee, this person need not hear the howl, for it is not for them. It is for everyone else, a signal that someone great or powerful among them is that very night trapped in the clutches of Hell.

There is no known ward or protection against the Wild Hunt. It must simply run its course. If ill fate so has it that you find yourself hearing the roar of their hooves: find shelter, crouch low, and pray they do not notice you. An open field, the forest, or anywhere without nearby shelter is the last place you want to be when the hunt is called—for those hooves and horns may be the last thing you hear, and will certainly be the last thing you see.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
HE
T
HUNDEROUS
H
OOVES OF
T
IFFANY
T
HATCHER

T
iffany Thatcher had spent seven years with a rope around her neck, her heart heavy with regret, her feet charred black from the fires burning beneath her. She had but from the tolling of the witching hour to the ticking of its last, lingering seconds to find her prey and strike it down.

The Devil granted few reprieves; why he had chosen her she had no clue, but if it meant an hour off the noose she would take it without question—especially if it meant bringing that
thing
back with her. There wasn't a moment she didn't relive that night, not a second spared from the rope burn and the tears. But in Hell, she did more than choke, she spun lazily in front of a window, watching her husband drown over and over again beneath the lake's waves as she burned.

And Jared's murderer was here, dripping wet, wandering through the woods. Tiffany could smell the lake water on her; could smell the blood and tattered flesh beneath her fingernails; could smell the stain of her sins. Tonight she would drag that creature back to Hell with her, tearing apart anyone else that got in her way.

With her rode a morbid procession of a dozen maddened spirits, each somehow wronged, desperate to stave off the pits of Hell for even the smallest slivers of eternity. Together they rode, galloping through the hills of the material world atop mastiff-size goats as black as a starless night, looking for souls to take their place. The sound, deafening though it was, proved a comforting relief from the endless wails, moans, and screams that accompanied every painful, waking moment of the hereafter. This sounded like adventure; it sounded like life again. And though revenge was at the heart of their crusade, it was the exhilaration of the ride, the thrill of feeling alive again, that made it worth the extra suffering they would endure if they didn't each return, soul in hand.

The gates of Hell were open and the Wild Hunt was called. They had a message for the world, and if the world was wise, it would listen.

The beautiful woman that was once Tiffany Thatcher was no more. All of her delicate loveliness had been drained, leaving a pale, ghoulish husk, her hair slicked down with years of sweat and grease. What strode atop that hellish steed was not the mother who had once cradled her cooing child, but a gaunt, cadaverous nightmare with sores oozing ochre puss and a beastly snarl that barked out orders to the braying hounds chasing behind her. Evil. Tiffany Thatcher was the very picture of evil. And she would have her revenge, even if she had to wipe the landscape clean with hellfire to do it.

So she led her charge and sounded her horns, setting the forest alight with the strike of her goat's ebony hooves. Tiffany Thatcher was the master of the hunt, and tonight the hunt would take no prisoners.

A
CROSS THE FOREST,
mere miles away, two young fairies bounded through the brush, traveling swiftly toward the Wild Hunt rather than away.

“Hurry up,” Mallaidh anxiously called behind her. “We're going to miss it.”

“I don't think they've started yet,” Knocks reassured her. “Besides, a good hunt takes all night. That's what they say.”

“I know, I know. But I don't want to miss it. I've never been on a hunt before. What do you think Ewan will be doing?”

Knocks stopped in his tracks and grumbled abrasively under his breath. Mallaidh, already outpacing him, didn't stop, nor did she look back. He hastily started again, trying to keep stride. “Probably nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing?” she sang, as if to contradict him.

“Well, it's his first hunt. He's probably just watching. Maybe he'll be a decoy for Eberhard or something, but I doubt he'll get a chance to do anything. It's not as if he's really one of us, you know.”

Mallaidh stopped and turned around, putting two delicate hands on her hips. “I
know
that. That's what makes him special.”

Finally able to catch up, Knocks walked up to her and stopped, standing almost nose to nose with her. “What?
Not
being able to do anything special makes him special?”

Mallaidh thought about that for a second, then shook her head. “No. That he was chosen to be one of us makes him special!”

“Aw, phooey.” Knocks waved both of his hands, dismissing her outright.

Mallaidh giggled. “Phooey? You sound like an old woman sometimes.”

Knocks scowled. “Shut up.”

Mallaidh, unsure if he was joking, smiled big, melting Knocks down to his basest elements. “No, you shut up,” she said. She reached out, touching him on the shoulder, then gave him a playful shove. Even at her young age she understood her gifts. Knocks had no immunity to her wiles; he had to look away, his ill-hanging cheek-flesh blushing a purplish red. “Come on,” she said. “We're missing it.”

“Wait.” Knocks looked up. “Do you hear that?”

“The thunderstorm?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“For the last few minutes or so, yeah. What about it?”

“I don't know,” he said. “It doesn't sound right.”

“Well, come on. Let's see for ourselves.” Mallaidh reached out and took Knocks by the hand. He smiled, as if somehow his life had been made complete, and the two ran off into the dark woods toward the distant sound of thunder. “Knocks?” she asked.

“Yeah?”

“What's a decoy?”

T
HE SOUND HAD
grown deafening. The riders were sweeping through the valley, their charge seemingly unstoppable. Dithers bounded through the woods, Ewan thrown over his shoulder. He was fast and agile, but not fast enough to outrun unholy steeds; he had to stay high, out of sight. At first he traveled over branch and bush until he found a densely packed spot of brushwood where they could hide, shrouded on the upper limb of one of its tallest trees. There they looked out over the dark valley, the moon now hidden behind a plume of black clouds. Without the moonlight there was little to see. Orange embers drifted slowly to the earth like an ashen rainstorm, and the movements of the riders could be tracked as distant streaks lit by the glow of the fires set by their goats' hooves.

“Dithers, what are those clouds?” asked Ewan, his voice cracking and buried beneath ten minutes of pants-wetting fear.

“Ewan, behind those clouds is Hell. Those clouds are there to keep us from seeing how awful it is.”

“But why is Hell here?”

“Because the Devil has unfinished business here on earth.”

“Is he coming for us?”

“No, no,” Dithers reassured him. “There's no reason for the Devil to come for you. He's here for someone else.”

“A fairy?”

“Maybe.”

“If he's not coming for us, then why are we hiding?”

“Because he'll take whoever gets in his way. And tonight, we're in his way.”

“Like Eberhard?”

Dithers shared a pained, grieving look with Ewan. “Yeah. Exactly like Eberhard.”

“I liked Eberhard.”

“I liked him too.” Dithers looked off into the distance and said a silent prayer for the Aufhocker, hoping quietly that Eberhard wouldn't suffer so terribly in Hell.

T
HE RIDERS MADE
an end run up one side of the hill and down the other, three of them sweeping in, rejoining Tiffany Thatcher on the way back down. One of them, a particularly large, wicked-looking specter, rode by her side. His tangled hair was pulled back into a topknot, and slung over his shoulder he hefted a gargantuan, blood-spattered ax that had already split a person in half this night. Behind him he dragged two shrieking souls, their tormented screams barely audible over the galloping hooves beside them. Tiffany could see their sins. The diminutive fairy was covered in a layer of grime inches thick, with untold amounts of blood on his hands, and the girl, while no murderer, was also no saint; these were clean kills. They would pay the toll.

But time was running short. She whooped and cried, then lifted a horn to her lips. The call went out with a shrill twitter—riders dispersing in every direction without missing a stride; her only remaining companions two bounding hounds, their glowing eyes burning bright enough to silhouette their massive skulls.

And that's when she caught wind of her prey.

It did not flee. Rather, it was headed right for her. And it wasn't alone.
No, there was something else . . . familiar. A second prize. A bonus to accompany her vengeance.
Had all the parts of her that understood joy not burnt out long ago, she might have felt elated. She pressed her buck harder, her hands firmly gripping its hooked razor-sharp horns, riding it pitilessly into the night, a trail of cinders fluttering in their wake.

F
EAR WAS NOT
a feeling to which Nibbling Nils was particularly accustomed. While he was familiar enough with its taste and the tickle it caused in the back of his throat while probing through the thoughts and dreams of a good meal, it was something he had never himself experienced. Anger. Bitterness. Loathing. These were the emotions he was used to feeling, not fear. So when he found himself running through the woods on all fours, sprinting across broken limestone trails, vaulting over boulders to gain precious seconds on the time between himself and the three shadowy, brimstone-reeking riders behind him, he was understandably pissed. But being scared came as something of a surprise.

Other fae in the valley feared Nils; he was the stuff of nightmares, a draconian master of fright—not some rabbit to be chased down by dogs in a field. This was not how Bubers met their end. And yet, there behind him trailed a pack of slavering hellhounds, their jaws dangling midgrowl, smoldering craters left in the wake of their footfalls. As the three riders drove their hounds, so too did the hounds drive Nils and, for the very first time in his life, he was afraid.

No matter how hard he ran, they kept pace. No matter how inaccessible the terrain, they managed their way over it. No matter what he did, they would have him—or so it seemed. But he had one last trick up his sleeve, one last chance at making it through the hour. He was cornered, running out of ground to cover, headed dead on toward a cliff face. Nils was betting that no matter how fast they could gallop, they probably weren't especially good climbers.

But
he
was.

It was a harrowing dash, with logs, boulders, and all manner of shrub in his way, but through thorn and thistle, past pond and pecan tree, Nibbling Nils made it to the last few steps before a massive limestone escarpment. Without even casting an eye back to see how close the riders had gotten, he shot up the rock face, grasping for handholds, propelling himself up the side. It took only seconds to skitter up the fifty-some-odd feet, and as he gave one last kick, he lunged upward in an arc, over the edge of the cliff, landing squarely on his feet.

Much to his surprise and almost immediate alarm, he was not alone. He had managed to land almost perfectly beside Dragana, who stood there weeping, her eyes welling with tears. Together they peered over the side, watching as the riders and hounds sat patiently below, staring back at them. Nils extended his middle finger their way, smiled a crooked grin, then sneered at Dragana. “What the fuck's your problem?”

She looked up over her shoulder, nodding into the forest behind her. They were not alone. Three more riders perched atop their flickering midnight steeds, leaning casually forward, each goat's fur ruffling in the wind. They gave one another knowing looks, then let their skeletal, rotting jaws flap loose an infernal scream before heaving forth, blades held high.

Nils's expression fell. “Aw, hell,” he muttered. He looked over the cliff once more, seeing that the riders below hadn't moved. Dragana took his hand in hers and wiped away a stream of tears with the other.

Nils reluctantly accepted her hand, giving her a weak smile. “Well. That's that, I guess.”

T
HE WORD PASSED
quietly through Dithers's lips like air leaking from a balloon. “Shit.” Below, the rider blazed by without missing a step, its ax slicing through the core of the tree as easily as it would flesh. Flame licked the trunk, showering the ground with a spray of smoldering splinters. There was only time for instinct now. Dithers grabbed Ewan, slung him onto his back once more, and then flung himself off the limb toward the earth below. He grasped at passing branches, slowing his descent, but still cratered down with a concussive thud, knocking the wind out of Ewan.

Dithers bounded forward. The riders were on to him almost immediately, but Dithers launched himself a good twenty feet into the air, flying once again branch to branch, far out of the riders' reach, matching their speed when not occasionally gaining ground.

Ewan held on tight, gasping for air as he tried to recover from the hard landing. His stomach hurt, but as he finally managed to force his lungs back into action, the pain subsided, air rushed back in. He looked around, seeing only a blur of foliage and the occasional flicker of flame. “Dithers,” he asked, “what's happening?”

“The Wild Hunt,” said Dithers.

“I thought you said they weren't coming for us.”

Dithers paused. “I was wrong,” he said. Ewan tightened his embrace; it was the only thing he could think to do.

WHUMP!
The blackened arrow struck Dithers in the chest with the force of a clenched fist. It was a full inch thick, carved from hellish black wood, tipped with forged pieces of jagged nightmares. He doubled over in midair, flailing backward, frantically grasping for a branch to regain his momentum. Ewan lost his grip, tumbling to the ground while Dithers slammed into the trunk of an oncoming tree, folding to a stop over a large limb. Ewan scrambled to his feet, running into the thick brush. Hoping to hide while Dithers collected himself, he dove headlong into a bramble patch.