Under Cover of Darkness (14 page)

The creature turned his attention to Emily. She could see him trying to figure out what to say, how to work the situation to his best advantage. She'd seen that look before, when her brothers tried to make her do something she didn't want to do. She had no patience for it.

“You're injured,” she said.

“How observant you are. And all this time I thought humans were stupid.”

“And you need my help, so if I were you, I'd think about being a bit more polite. Are you a faerie?”

“Bones, girl, do I
look
like a faerie?”

“I don't know, I've never seen one before.”

The creature thought about this for a moment. “Fair point. No, I am not a faerie. Faeries are stupid creatures with wings. Faeries are a waste of space. I am a Piskie—from Cornwall.”

“Fine. Are those men I can hear coming for you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Look, can we talk about this while we move? Only, those footsteps sound like they are getting awfully close.”

“Fine,” said Emily again, and picked the piskie up. He weighed next to nothing, his bones sharp against her flesh. “What's your name?” she asked.

“Corrigan,” said the piskie.

“Mine's Emily Doyle. Pleased to meet you,” she said. She tucked the piskie beneath her shawl and stood up. She turned to the entrance of the alley.

The was a man standing there. He was so tall and thin, his clothes so tightly fitting, that Emily's first impression was that of a skeleton in a velvet suit. But then the man doffed his top hat and stepped forward.

“Good morning to you, Miss Doyle. My name is Mr. Creely, and I see you are in possession of something that belongs to me.”

Emily backed up a step.

“Come now, Miss Doyle. I am afraid my patience is thin so early in the morning. Just hand over the piskie.”

“Why do you want him?”

“Why? Because they are vermin, Miss Doyle, and my group eradicates vermin before they can overrun the city.”

“You kill them?”

“We have no choice. London holds some sort of symbolic meaning for them and they want it for themselves. That's why they fight each other.”

Emily took another step back. “I don't believe you.”

“That is beside the point.” Mr. Creely's eyes flicked over Emily's shoulder. She turned swiftly, and saw a fat man sneaking up on her. She didn't hesitate. She ran toward him, dodging at the last moment and sprinting for the alley's entrance. She heard Mr. Creely cursing behind her, but she didn't look back. She burst out of the lane and took the first turning she came to. She knew these backstreets well. They'd never catch her.

Some time later, she stopped in the recessed back doorway of a shop and uncovered the piskie. He didn't look good. His limbs hung limp over her forearm and for a horrible second she thought she had suffocated him. But then he groaned and swung his long face around.

“What is it?”

“The arrow. It must have been poisoned. You must take me—”

Emily's heart leaped in her chest. “But I was hit as well! One of the arrows got me!”

“All the more reason to take me to Merrian. I'll give you directions.” He winced, and gently repositioned his leg. “He's a bit on the gruff side, but if you remember to give him his due respect, everything will be fine.”

“I'll not give him respect if he doesn't earn it,” said Emily firmly.

“You will.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said the piskie, “he used to be a god.”

 

He may have once been a god, thought Emily, looking around the cramped shop, but he certainly didn't know how to keep things tidy. Dust covered every available surface. The front window was so dirty you could barely see in or out. Emily wasn't even sure what type of shop it was meant to be. There was no clear indication of what he sold.

“Just . . . ring that bell.”

Emily looked and saw a bell on the counter. She was surprised she hadn't seen it before, as it was the one thing in the shop that looked as though it was routinely polished. The handle of the bell was carved from a pale wood and featured a delicate scrollwork carved carefully into the grain. The bell itself was white, and it shimmered with blue highlights as she looked at it. Emily gently placed Corrigan on the counter and picked it up. The slight movement this caused drew from the bell a clear, high ring. Emily quickly replaced it.

“Now what?” she whispered.

“Just . . . wait.”

No sooner had Corrigan uttered those words than the curtains at the back of the shop were torn aside and a giant lumbered through, ducking his head to avoid banging it on the doorframe. The man was bald with a long braided mustache that trailed down to his chest. He stopped short when he saw Emily and glared at her.

“Who in the name of all the Gods are you?” he shouted in a deep voice.

Emily stared in awe. Then she cleared her throat to make sure there wouldn't be a squeak to it. “Emily,” she said. “Emily Doyle.”

“Well, Emily Emily Doyle. What are you doing in my shop?”

“I told her to come here, Merrian,” said Corrigan.

Merrian looked down at the counter. His brows knitted in surprise. “Corrigan? What are you doing here?” He stepped forward. “You're hurt! Was it her?” He glared at Emily. “I'll kill her—”

“Relax, Merrian. It wasn't her. She saved me. It was the Unseelie.”

“What? Gods, have they broken their word already? Who were they?”

“A tribe of Tylwyth Teg out of Wales. We followed them in from Bath.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

“What?”

“There's a truce on. The Dagda Himself has asked to meet the Queen tonight at Hyde Park. Said he wants to end all the fighting.”

Corrigan looked surprised. “Just like that? And what of London?”

Merrian shrugged, and cast a sidelong look at Emily. “Greater minds than ours will decide her fate. Here, let me look at your wound.” He bent over and examined the piskie. “Nasty,” he said. He sniffed. “Unicorn shit and . . .” he sniffed again. “Unicorn shit mixed with the dead flesh of a Slaugh.”

“Can you heal him?”

“Aye, I think so.”

“Can you heal me as well?” asked Emily. She held out her hand. “One of the arrows got me.”

Merrian took hold of her hand. It looked like a doll's limb resting in his huge palm. He bent over again and sniffed. “Not too bad. You got it out quick enough. I'll give you a poultice, though.”

Merrian opened a drawer and took out a tiny glass vial. He handed it to Corrigan. “Drink this while I look for the ingredients. It will take away the pain.” He moved off to the shelves and started taking down dusty jars, muttering to himself as he examined them.

Emily watched him for a moment. “Who are the Unseelie?” she asked, turning her attention back to Corrigan.

“They're the Black Sidhe,” he said. “Our enemies. We've been fighting them for thousands of years.”

“And who are you?”

“We are the Seelie.”

“But why are you fighting?”

Merrian laughed. “Why does it rain? They fight because they always
have
. All through the centuries there have been hidden wars between the fey.”

“Rubbish,” scoffed Emily. “Why don't we know about it, then?”

“Some do,” said Corrigan. He looked over his shoulder. “This is good stuff, Merrian. Does the job.” He turned back to Emily. “There are groups of humans—secret societies—who know about us, who try to stop us. That Mr. Creely you met? He's in one. The Invisible Order they call themselves. Founded by Christopher Wren. You know who he is?”

Emily shook her head.

“He started the Royal Society a couple of hundred years ago, a society for men who worship on the altar of science and logic. But the Society itself was just a cover to hide his real purpose. The eradication of the fey, the destruction of Faerie itself.”

“Why would he want to do such a thing?”

Merrian lined up five jars on the counter. He opened them and took out bits of bark and leaves. “Your kind have always hovered on the outskirts of our wars, like hungry dogs eager for scraps of meat, but Mr. Wren—the reason he got involved was more personal.”

Corrigan sat up. “You mean that was true?”

Merrian grinned and stuffed the contents of the jars into his mouth. He chewed on them and nodded.

“Bones, I thought that was just gossip.”

“What are you talking about?” snapped Emily. “I'm not magic, you know.”

“Mr. Wren had a thing for our lady the Queen, but she in her infinite wisdom saw fit to spurn his advances.”

“I see. So you're telling me that faeries and goblins and spriggans and all kinds of strange creatures live in London?”

“All over,” said Corrigan. “We're just good at hiding.”

“Not that good. I found you.”

Merrian spat the brown mess he had chewed into his hand and laid it on the worktop. He scooped some out with his finger and held it out to Emily. “Here. Put this on the wound. It'll draw out the remaining poison.”

Emily grimaced and took the warm sludge from the giant. She pasted it over her wound.

“What were you doing in the alley anyway?” asked Corrigan.

“Taking a shortcut.” Emily suddenly remembered where she was supposed to be. “The cresses!” She looked to the window, where she could just see the building across the street through the grime. “I'll never get any good bunches now.” She unconsciously patted her threadbare dress, where a pocket sewn on the inside held her penny.

She couldn't feel it.

She turned her pocket inside out, but the money was gone. She must have dropped it in the alley when she escaped from Mr. Creely.

“I have to go,” she said urgently. If she didn't get that penny back her family wouldn't eat tonight. She took one last look before she opened the door, trying to freeze in her mind the image of a giant God bending over a trembling piskie, then she hurried out into the watery gray dawn of a winter's morning.

 

The alley looked deserted. Emily hugged the wall and watched for what seemed like an hour, but there was no movement. But then, why would there be? The piskies were all gone, what need for Mr. Creely and his men to linger?

When she was satisfied she was alone, she moved to the spot where she had found Corrigan. The sky had lightened enough for her to see and she scanned the wet cobbles for her money.

“Looking for something, Miss Doyle?”

Emily felt as if her heart simply stopped in her chest. She turned quickly and saw the skeletal figure of Mr. Creely blocking the alley mouth. Her heart made up for lost time and thudded painfully in her chest. She turned, intending to run to the other end of the passage again, but a hand grabbed her painfully about the arm and a sack smelling strongly of onions was thrown over her head.

 

Emily felt suffocated by the darkness. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she still had the sack over her head and her eyes were streaming because of the stench of onions. She was angry—not because she was crying, she wasn't—but because Creely would
think
she was crying.

She tried to move, but her hands were tied behind her back. She shifted, and something sharp dug into her spine. She realized she had been propped up against some crates. She fell forward onto her knees, then stood up, feeling with her hands until she touched the sharp corner at the top of the crate. Then she tried to wedge it into the knot, pushing down with her wrists to get it as deep as possible into the loop and then pulling forward, slowly loosening the binding.

It took over ten minutes, and each second she expected Mr. Creely to walk through the door and discover her attempt to escape. She dropped the rope to the floor and yanked the sack from her head. Light exploded across her vision. She squinted to block out the brightness and looked around. She was in some kind of storeroom. Crates were piled against three of the walls and a single window let in the rich light of afternoon. She must have fainted in the hansom cab Mr. Creely bundled her into.

She hurried over to the door and pressed her ear against the rough wood. She could hear voices on the other side. Mr. Creely talking to someone.

“I ain't gonna to do it. I'll go to hell for that, Mr. Creely.

“My dear man, the last thing someone such as yourself should be worried about is going to hell.”

“Oh. Thank you very much, Mr. Creely.”

“You misunderstand, Mr. Vance. I think it
inevitable
you will end up in hell. But at least the monetary recompense will allow you to damn your soul with some style.”

“But—”

“Mr. Vance! Please! If we are to play our part in the Dagda's betrayal, we must be at the Serpentine Bridge before midnight. And you still have to pick up the weapons. Just go in there and find out where she took the piskie. Use whatever means necessary.”

Emily stepped away from the door. The Dagda's betrayal? Wasn't the Dagda the person meeting with the Faerie Queen tonight? To discuss a truce? Were the Seelie headed into a trap? She turned and studied the window. She had to warn Corrigan.

She climbed onto the crates and pushed open the window, pausing only to stuff some potatoes and oranges into her shawl for her family's supper. Then she clambered out into a yard piled high with mounds of moldy sacking and disappeared through the open gate.

 

Two hours before midnight, Emily slipped through the massive arches at Hyde Park Corner and hid at the bottom of a huge statue of a naked man. She waited for a few minutes to make sure there were no police around, then she jogged across the grass, following the road that ran along the Serpentine River.