“Blood for the children. Blood for all,” the sisters said as one.
Peter caught movement above him—eyes, the yellow slanted eyes slithering out from the shadows. Hundreds of them, twisted, deformed creatures, some no bigger than newts, others the size of raccoons. Blotchy gray skin rolled along their bony, cadaverous bodies as they slithered and shimmied toward him, all grinning with long, needle-thin teeth.
He caught sight of the bowl of gingerbread cakes, only they weren’t cakes at all, but fat, grubby larvae with little black heads. Again, Peter tried to shout.
The woman convulsed, coughed violently, and sat up. Blood was smeared all around her lips and mouth.
“Mother, what is it?” the sisters asked as one.
She coughed again, a retching cough. She clutched her throat, gagged, and spat up, dousing Peter with a mouthful of bile and blood.
She howled, the horrible sound filling the small chamber.
The creatures froze in place; their eyes terrified.
She stared at Peter while a long string of red drool slid from her lips. “It can’t be?” She shook her head. “How?”
She coughed again, spattered Peter’s face with more blood.
“Mother, what is it?” the sisters pleaded. “Tell us!”
The woman pushed the wolf cap back from Peter’s head. She stared at his ears. “Not a boy,” she said, her eyes wide with confusion and fear before they turned hard. “Not a child of the Sidhe either. An
Peter felt himself waking up fast, the room coming into sharp focus.
Her hand shot out like a viper, clutching his neck between her rigid fingers, her sharp nails biting into his flesh. “Where did you come from? Did Modron send you? Is this one of her games?”
Peter slid his hand down to his knife, but found the sheath empty.
“Is this her vexings?” she cried, her emerald eyes swimming with malice. “Answer me lest I bite off your boyhood and feed you to the leeches!”
Peter’s hand flailed about, hit the clay bowl. He snatched a hold of it and struck her, breaking the bowl on the side of her head, knocking her over. Peter kicked away and almost made it to his feet when her fingers bit into his ankle, tripping him, sending him barreling into the hearth.
She came after him, claws out, lips peeled back, exposing rows of long, green, blood-stained teeth. Her eyes shriveled to tiny pinpricks of glowing green set deep within dark sockets. She snatched a hold of his arm, her sharp claws puncturing deep into his muscle tissue. She raked her other hand across his ribs, tearing into his flesh.
Peter let out a shrill cry and snatched a shard of timber from the fire, cried out again from the heat of it, but held tight as he rammed the burning end into her eye.
She shrieked, a sound so loud that he had to clap his hands over his ears. She flew away from him, crashing across the room, the burning shard stuck deep in her socket, sizzling flames leaping up between her fingers as she clutched at it.
Peter didn’t wait around to see what happened next; he dove into the tunnel, scrambling up the shaft as fast as a mole rat.
“Get him!” she wailed. “Get him!
Every slithering, crawling, and flying thing, the very cavern itself seemed to howl then. And they came for him, all of them, the roots too, grabbing at his arms and legs. The tunnel shrank around him, like the convulsing throat of some giant monstrosity. Things leaped off the walls onto him: bugs, spiders. He felt their stings and bites. He reached the surface and the bat-winged creatures came for him like a swarm of hornets, stinging him with their tails, sending him howling away into the thickets. Peter ran then, ran faster than he’d ever run. He had no idea where he was going, intent only on getting as far away as he could from that woman, that creature, and all the biting, stinging things.
He heard howls and dared a glance back. The three girls were coming for him, running on all fours, great, loping strides, their feet seemed not to even touch the ground, long, pointed tongues lolling out from between sharp canine teeth as they rapidly closed the distance.
Peter broke out of the thicket onto a small path and dashed up the trail. He climbed steadily upward, the bog falling behind as the ground became firm underfoot.
A figure stepped in front of him. A man? Peter crashed headlong into him, both of them tumbling into a small grassy clearing. Peter hopped up, started to flee, and saw more men, five, no, six of them. They pointed long, thin swords at his chest. Peter glanced around, frantically searching for an avenue of escape.
“Whoa. Hold,” said the first man, the one Peter had knocked over. “What nonsense is going on here?”
On second look, Peter realized that these were not men, not of the sorts he’d known, anyway. In fact, they were elves, but Peter knew nothing about elves at the time. These elves were much shorter than men, boyish in size, little over a head taller than himself. Long in limb, thin of face, almost feminine with small, golden eyes, mere slits, slanted and set high and wide above sharp cheekbones. They had pointed ears and skin as white as chalk. Their hair hung down their backs in long braids. They wore tight-fitting garments that looked to be made of woven leaves and bark.
“Give him back,” came a little girl’s voice. The three sisters were standing at the edge of the clearing not ten yards away.
The elves shifted the points of their swords to the girls.
“We brought him through,” the girls spoke. “He’s ours.”
“I think not,” said the elf, the one Peter had run into. Peter could see he looked older than the others. His hair was pure white, and there were strong lines about his eyes. The elf got to his feet, drew his sword, and stepped in front of Peter.
The sisters hissed, all three of them raking the air with their claws, as though they couldn’t wait to rend Peter’s flesh.
“He belongs to me,” came a deep, guttural voice from behind the girls.
The elves exchanged looks.
The woman strolled into the clearing, one hand clasped over her eye. “He owes me something.” She dropped her hand, exposing the raw, bloody wound of her eyeless socket.
Several of the elves gasped, but held their ground.
“You’re trespassing, all of you. Give me one of the boy’s eyes and I will allow you to leave unharmed.”
“Nonsense,” countered a voice from behind Peter.
Another woman entered the clearing. She was a bit taller than the swamp woman, thin-boned and slender through the body, almost frail, her smooth skin so white as to be blue. Her long white hair was tied back and crowned with a ring of holly leaves. She was draped in shimmering white and gold and wore a bronze star attached around her neck by a simple gold chain.
“This is Myrkvior forest,” she said. “You’ve no dominion here. Go back to your hole and rut with your filthy beasts.”
The swamp woman smirked. “What do you know of rutting? You with your cold dead cunt.”
The white-haired woman’s eyes flashed, brilliant cerulean.
The swamp woman laughed. “A barren fertility goddess. No wonder you can no longer hear Father’s voice.”
A low growl rumbled from the white-haired woman’s throat, a sound that made the hair stand up on Peter’s arms. She stepped forward, her lips peeled back exposing long canine fangs, appearing more animal than human at that moment.
“Oh, stop your pissing, Modron,” the swamp woman said. “If you wish this creature, take him.” The swamp woman’s face changed then. Peter wasn’t sure if he saw sympathy or pity—maybe both. “How many?” she asked. “How many will it take to fill that hole in your heart? You can have all the children in our world and in theirs, but it will never bring your little boy back to you.”
Pain, deep pain, fell across the white-haired lady’s face.
The swamp woman started away, then stopped. She looked at Peter. “Be careful, little boy. I only want your
