The Iron Thorn

I’d slept not at all. I kept thinking of Conrad, of how it was all gone now—the smile, the sound of his voice, the feel of his hand on my shoulder. His simple tricks, the last, anguished glimpse of him before he dropped the knife and ran from my dormitory room.

I had to pack it away and move on because I wasn’t a simple schoolgirl any longer, one who had the luxury of flinging herself across her bed and crying.

I had a duty. My father had lost his brother too. He hadn’t let it stop him. I wouldn’t be the weak link in the Grayson bloodline.

The crows flapped overhead, one alighting on the shelter’s roof. It cocked its head, danced to the left, stared at me with its glass bead eyes.

“Why don’t you go fly back to Tremaine and tell him I’m doing as he asks?” I snapped at it.

“She wouldn’t.” Dean’s voice startled me, his appearance out of the ever-present fog like a camera lens clicking.

I kicked at the carpetbag with my toe. It was indescribably ugly, great orange cabbage roses on a hunter green background. “How can you know?”

“The crows don’t serve the Folk.” Dean sat next to me and performed the ritual of tapping and lighting a Lucky. He clicked his lighter shut and nodded to the crow. “They’re psychopomps. Guardians protecting the ways between the lands. Iron, Mist and Thorn, they all got doorways.”

“I don’t see why they’re always bothering me,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean took a drag. “Then why are you at the jitney stop, sweetheart?”

I shot him a glare. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

He picked up my hand and pressed his lips against the back, the briefest of touches, but it shattered the fragile dam I’d built around the events of the previous day. I moved into his arms silently, and let his body warm mine while the fog swirled.

“You’re alone?” I said.

“Nah.” Dean exhaled. Tobacco smoke made a halo around our heads. “The kid’s coming too. I left him with time to say goodbye to Bethina.”

“Good. I hope he goes back to her when this is over.” I checked the schedule for the dozenth time. There were still quarters of hours yet before any jitney would come, but my stomach was throbbing with nerves.

“I know you’re not scared, not you.” Dean’s heartbeat was steady, steady as a clock. “So what are you? I know something’s up after that scene about your brother.”

“I’m angry,” I said. “I’m angry that I know nothing about my family and that those Proctor bastards shot Conrad, and I’m angry there’s nothing I can do about any of it except take orders from that pale bastard.” I crumpled the schedule and tossed it into the road. “That’s all my life’s been, Dean. Doing what I’m told.”

Dean dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his boot. “I made you something.”

“Oh really?” I grumbled, not in the mood to be cheered up. “Have you taken up knitting in all of your spare time?”

Dean pressed a folded scrap of vellum into my hand. “That’s what folks in my part of the underworld call a geas.”

The scrap was folded on itself eight times, inked with a circle and a cross. “Dean …” I flinched as it prickled on my palm. “Dean, did you go snooping in the witch’s alphabet? You used it?”

“No!” Dean exclaimed forcefully. “I told you, I can’t do that sort of thing.”

“Then how?” I demanded, fed up with his denials. I wasn’t dumb. “You said you didn’t have a Weird, just a knack. Either you’re lying or snooping.”

Dean heaved a sigh. “Those the only two options you can come up with, eh? I’m either a liar or a spy?”

“Or both,” I shot back. “Dean Harrison, tell me what is going on this instant. And take this.” I thrust the paper at him. I wasn’t prepared to bear any more secrets for anyone else.

“A geas is a powerful enchantment,” Dean said. “It can steal your free will and your breath in the same moment. You shouldn’t give it back lightly.”

“I expect fibbing from Cal,” I said, getting angry he’d try to flummox me with a silly trick. “But I’d think you, at least, would be straight with me.”

“I am being straight with you!” Dean shouted. All around us, the crows took flight. “I made that. Made it for you, and nobody but. I didn’t need a musty book to tell me how, either.”

“You said you didn’t have a gift,” I gritted. “So either you lied, or you didn’t trust me.”

Dean jumped up as well and met me, our gazes inches apart. “You’re right, okay?” His face bore two spots of red and his chest was heaving with angry breaths. “I’m not like you, but I do have something. Did it occur to you that maybe I’m not as thrilled about it as you are? That maybe it’s more trouble than it’s worth?”

That put the damper on the flaming spout of anger boiling in me. “Dean … I didn’t mean it like that.”

“For your edification, princess, my mother taught me that geas,” he said, voice rough as sandpaper. “She stuck around just long enough to teach me to find north. Find lost things. Bind the truth. Nothing like your great gift”—the way he said it was like a slap—“but enough so that I could get by with one foot in Iron and the other foot somewhere else.”

“I didn’t know your mother taught you,” I said, suddenly feeling very small. Dean thought I found him common. I was just as bad as the horrid Uptown brats in Lovecraft. “Was she … a witch, like?”

“She wasn’t a damn witch,” Dean snarled. “A witch is a faker who gets hunted down and burned alive by Proctors. She was better than that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, too quiet because I was embarrassed. “I was wrong to accuse you.”

“Aoife,” Dean said, and the pain in his voice broke me from my own moment of shame, “I’m not mad at you. But … I ain’t told you the truth. And I owe you that.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, even though I desperately wanted to know Dean’s secret. “I didn’t expect to get your life story when I hired you.”

“It’s different now,” Dean said. He stepped forward, cupped my chin and kissed me softly. I cocked my head.

“What was that for?”

“Because when I’ve said my tale, I might not get the chance again.” His gaze darted from me to the road and the trees and back. I’d never seen Dean nervous before now, never mind scared. I wasn’t sure I liked it.

I reached out and smoothed down the lapel of his leather jacket. “Just tell me.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Dean said. “My mother wasn’t a child of men, Aoife. She was something else.”

I pulled back, suddenly mindful of Tremaine’s tales of places outside the Thorn Land, places that spawned things like the mist, the corpse-drinkers. “I don’t understand.”

“She was an Erlkin,” Dean said. “No word for it in English. The People of the Mists, they’re called, ruled by the Wytch King. The shadow-mirror of the Folk.”

In the new light of his words, Dean’s elfin ways and his peculiar skills with direction and finding, his miles- deep eyes came together, and when I looked again, the boy I’d hired in the Rustworks stared back at me, changed into something otherworldly. He didn’t frighten me, though. If anything, I wanted to kiss him again even more badly.

“Please, Aoife,” he whispered. “Don’t you bolt on me. When my old man kicked, I decided I’d rather be a heretic than a—a half-breed. And I’ve been living underground ever since. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“Are there many of you?” I said. It was the only question that came to mind. “Have the Folk been coming here all this time and having children like you?”

“I am not from the Thorn Land,” Dean snarled. “The Folk enslaved the Erlkin at the start of everything. We may have bowed to them, but we ain’t broken.”

“Tremaine called you something,” I remembered. “ ‘Greaseblood.’ ”

“That’s their word.” Dean’s eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them, thunderheads and lightning in his gaze. “Not ours. It’s what they call us when we work in their silver mines and their foundries. I’m an Erlkin, and I’m not shamed by it.”

He stood with his fists curled, like he expected someone to challenge him on the point. I waited for a horrid transformation, for the noxious mist to curl in around us and steal me away, but Dean just stayed where he was, looking like he wanted to pick a fight with the shadows.

“I wish you’d told me,” I said. “At least after we saw Tremaine. He made me think that everything outside