The Master (16 page)

He gave her a concerned look, so she smiled in reassurance.

It was silly, but she truly felt better when Nick touched her—she was stronger, smarter. Just . . . better. He was human and therefore couldn't possess any real magic, but somehow he helped with the fear. Maybe it was something about his humanity that kept the shadows at bay and forced the horrible voice out of her brain.

Zee exhaled slowly, letting muscles unknot themselves from their painful bundles. She lectured herself about her new pessimism and chronic fear as they sped along the highway.

Why was she afraid? They were heading for Cadalach and at high speed. Nick believed her and would help her convince the fey of what had happened. They would stop the monster from doing this horrible thing—whatever it was—and the faeries would know how to keep her and the children safe in their dreams until the monster was dead. Everything would be okay. It had to be.

“It will be okay,” Nick said softly, as though she had spoken aloud. “I promise. Everything will be fine.”

And though there was no reason to, Zee believed him.

Nick felt odd: mostly wonderful, but not himself. Actually, part of him felt pretty terrible. He was tired and very aware that his body was full of bones and joints that were past their first youth and flexibility. He especially felt it in the vertebrae of his spine. Though all his skeleton had legitimate grievance, the small bones of the spine protested loudly their night on the cabin floor, carrying on like it had been a bed of broken glass and nails instead of wood. And they would probably go on protesting until he promised not to do it again. And maybe even longer—just to teach him a lesson. The only thing that would shut them up was a double chucker of ibuprofen, which he didn't want to take until he found somewhere to stay for the night; Ibuprofen was great with pain but it, like almost all drugs, made him sleepy.

And he didn't want his senses dulled—for many reasons, not the least of which was that he hadn't felt so alive in at least a decade. Maybe longer.

Nick realized more than ever that his recent years had not been a real life. The ghost was right, though he hated to admit it. Every tomorrow he had been waiting for was shaping up to be just like every today, which was just like every yesterday—all of them essentially empty. Though he had saved a lot of people, given them the greatest of gifts—or at least prolonged that greatest of gifts—he still had no one to share his important thoughts with. There was no one who smiled when he did because they shared his sense of the ridiculous, or loved sundaes made with mocha ice cream and butterscotch sauce, or walking in the rain without shoes.

Consequently, he'd been drifting. It was productive drifting—useful and necessary and financially rewarding—but he hadn't been building a path to ward any particular future. It had all seemed blank, the same, every day repeated endlessly until the end of his life. Why make the effort to build a road to nowhere? he'd thought. Drifting would get him there eventually.

Fortunately, drifting without expensive hobbies had allowed him to pay off his student loans and even accumulate a nest egg. He was glad now that he had some money set aside. He'd gladly trade it all— and all the money he'd ever earn, and maybe even his very life—to keep Zee and these children safe.

A part of him realized that this was an extreme reaction, not a feeling he had ever before known. It was, in fact, quite alien. But the feeling was there and quite real, and he had to face the fact that he hadn't been his normal self for several weeks now. Not since the ghost had shown up.

The voice in his head chose that moment to clear its throat.

What?
Nick asked, immediately wary.
Can't you see I'm brooding here? Show some respect for my privacy.

Yeah, I know you're brooding. It's just that I've been meaning to talk to you about this whole what-is-normal thing for a while now.

Talk about it how?
Nick thought suspiciously. He glanced left. The reflection he saw looked a bit like someone who belonged in a detox ward.

Are you sick?
he asked the ghost in sudden concern.
You look older.

I've felt better—manifesting is hard work. But never mind that. We need to talk about what is and is not normal for you. You see, what you are feeling for Zee right now—it isn't all that alien, under the circumstances.

No? Then how come no one I know has jumped off the
emotional deep end, doing a love-at-first-sight to end all other love-at-first-sights? Are you going to tell me that everyone else in the world actually does feel this sort of thing but has managed to keep it a secret from me?

Of course not. You don't know anyone who has reacted like you because—well, you don't know anybody like you. You aren't like your friends, Nick. Not entirely. You see, you aren't quite a hundred percent human.

That's the meanest thing you've ever said,
Nick thought indignantly.
Just because I'm devoted to my work and a bit antisocial—

No, it's not that. I mean you aren't human. Literally. At least, you aren't
all
human.

What the hell are you talking about?

This may be hard to accept—

Just get on with it. How am I not human?
Nick's hands tightened on the wheel.

One of your ancestors about three generations back had a sort of close encounter of an amorous kind with a powerful pixie. Your mother's father.

A pixie!
The car swerved slightly, and Zee sent Nick a mildly alarmed look. He tried to smile reassuringly.

“Thought I saw a bird in the road,” he muttered. Then he added to the ghost:
Look what you almost made me do! Stop making up stuff, okay? At least stop while I'm driving.

Sorry, but I'm not lying—it was a pixie. And being lovestruck she, uh . . . well, a child resulted. Her family has tried to live it down ever since. Your fey ancestors have been on the run for a long while. Do you remember how your mother used to turn your pants pockets inside out before she'd let you go outside?

Nick frowned as he looked at the shadowy face in the window. He recalled vividly, now that the ghost brought it up. It had been damned annoying, too; he'd always been teased by the other kids. He would put his pockets back in as soon as she was out of sight, but occasionally he would forget to turn them out again before he got home, and his mother would have a fit, sometimes shouting and sometimes crying. Eventually, when he and his sister continued failing to cooperate, his mother took to sewing their pockets shut and insisting they always carry salt.

Well, that was a way of keeping the pixies away
, the ghost explained.
Your mother was always afraid they would try to come and claim you, since you were the first male offspring of the line. It's why you spent so much time with your father's family. They lived a long way from any magical beings and had a knack for keeping the fey away.

The ghost asked abruptly,
Do you recall the story of Peter Pan, and how a fairy died every time someone said that they didn't believe? Well, there's some truth to that. Some humans have that power. Your dad's family was sort of like . . .

A roach motel for magical beings,
Nick finished for him. He didn't like the thought, but it fit a little-understood pattern that had always been in his subconscious. He thought about his family's constant watchfulness, and their extreme disapproval whenever he or his sister said something whimsical or played with good-luck charms. This could explain why he had always felt suffocated by them—at times even to the point of physical illness.

His ancestors killed fey—anything magical, in fact— dead. Not with weapons, but with their thoughts. The entire clan is psi-null, too. Meaning . . . they are like the anti-matter of the fey universe. Psychics can't work around them either. They cancel out magic in any place, in any form. That blood had thinned by your father's generation, so his family's presence wasn't physically fatal to you or your sister, but there was enough anti-magic left to keep the pixies away.

The pixies and one cheery old elf. No wonder Christmas had always been so joyless. What was a holiday without magic—even if was the magic of faith? It also explained why he thought of his family as toxic personalities and unpleasant people, even though they were well-liked and respected by everyone else.

Precisely,
the ghost agreed.
They are toxic to you. And it wasn't that they believed too little in your mother's story. It was that they believed too much, and were afraid for you and your sister. They do care about you, Nick—at least the parts that are human. If they could have exorcised the fey blood in you, they would have.

Nick felt slightly stunned and more than a little cold.

So, that's why Mom stayed with Dad—even though she was miserable and they fought all the time.

Yes.

Damn it! Why didn't anyone say anything about this? Why leave me and my sister in ignorance? We had a right to know.

I don't know why they stayed silent. . . . Fear that you and Prudence would chase forbidden fruit, perhaps. You and your sister always were rather stubborn about disobeying rules. And perhaps your parents would have told you if they had lived.

It was true that he and Prudence had always been willful and resourceful when they were young. Running off to play with pixies would have seemed a great game.

So, what does all this mean for me? Why is this happening now? Have the stars come into some weird alignment?

No, the heavens are still where they should be. All it means is that you have another reason to go to see the fey—for I believe that this is happening now, not because Mercury is in retrograde or anything like that, but because you have encountered your first magical being and it's woken up some dormant power inside of you. It's kindled the candles of your soul. It's time for enlightenment.

Nick thought about this.

Zee's magical?

Yes, she isn't just part goblin. She's fey, too. The name Finvarra is an old one—older than even she knows.

Is it wise to go to the faeries, though? My mother clearly wanted to keep me away from them. She must have had a good reason. Zee seems afraid of them, too. And the children are
very
afraid.

At this juncture, I think it's the only thing you can do. You're up against things that you have no experience with, and I suspect that your feelings will only get stronger and harder to control the longer you are with Zee.

The ghost was right. All this—his feelings, Zee, Zee's monster—it was all way beyond anything he had ever dealt with. He needed help.

This is why you're really here, isn't it?
Nick asked the ghost.
You're not here to save my Christmas spirit, or even my soul. You're here to make sure that I—

That you choose the right path and quit denying who you are. This is the crossroads, Nick. The point where you must decide who and what you will be. We erred once—I don't want it to happen again.

What do you mean? Are you saying that I met Zee before—I mean, you did—and we, or you, walked away?

Yes, we—you—I—walked away from her. And we regretted it forever. I don't know what future lies down this path—not entirely—but trust me on this: The road not taken has to be better than what's in store if you go on denying who and what you are. To steal a quote here—a house divided against itself cannot stand.

So, you don't know what happens with Zee and me?

No, but I am more hopeful now than I've been.

Nick was, too. But he also knew that he was going to need help. Lots of help. More help than his buddy Jace could give. More help than this ghost could provide, if the ghost was telling the truth about not knowing what came next.

I'll do what I can. The dead have some ability to see into the future,
it promised.

Thanks.

Nick exhaled. He needed help, but he also needed caffeine. A man shouldn't have to face these sorts of revelations without a little chemical assistance.

He began eyeballing the passing terrain, and found himself wishing that he had a Jeep or some other vehicle that wouldn't mind climbing nearly vertical cliff faces. The Jag had plenty of power and was fast, but she was also built really lean and low to the ground. She was a racehorse, when what was needed right now was a mountain goat.

The ghost interrupted his thoughts:
So, I have a hypothetical question for you, Nick. How do you feel about taking goblin lives? Could you do it if you had to? You said you'd give up your life for Zee. Would you give up your principles?

Nick thought about this. Doctors were meant to help people; they took the Hippocratic Oath. He was all for truth, justice and the human way, but killing someone . . . even a goblin . . . Hell, he didn't even like hunting.

Uh, Nick? You still with me?

Yes, I could if I had to,
Nick decided finally. But he was reluctant. Doctors didn't kill. Yet, if it came down to killing a goblin to protect Zee or the children, or human lives, he knew what he would do.

Good. I hoped you'd feel that way
. The ghost sounded tired. He looked tired. He had aged at least ten years since they'd climbed in the car.

You don't look real good,
Nick said, again feeling vaguely alarmed.
Are you sure you're okay?

The ghost shrugged tiredly.
My time is running out.

What do you mean?
Nick felt suddenly dismayed.
How can your time run out? You're a spirit—those are eternal.

Of course spirits are eternal, but you didn't think I'd haunt you forever, did you?
the ghost answered. It forced a small smile.
Come on, you've read your Dickens. You know that isn't how it works. Anyway, the more you change and become someone different, the more I disappear.