An Artificial Night

She looked at me. I stopped, biting my lip. After a moment, she continued; “His name is Blind Michael. His mother was Maeve and his father was Oberon. His domain was wider once, but none of us are what we once were.” Her smile was brief and bitter, gone in an instant.

“He’s Firstborn?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “He saw the races of Faerie born, yours and mine alike.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

“Have you never wondered where he gets the members of his Hunt?”

“What?” That wasn’t a question that ever occurred to me. Blind Michael and his Hunt were part of the landscape, like the trees or the rocks. They didn’t need to come from anywhere.

Her voice was calm and measured as she continued, like she was reciting something she’d memorized years before, something painful. “He rides them hard. Night after night through the darkest parts of the Summerlands, where there are still monsters, and old magic—he brings the madness with him. He rides them, and there are casualties. There are always casualties. Where do you think he finds his Riders? Who would willingly bow to such a fate?”

I stared at her, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. It wasn’t easy to do; I’m not stupid. Damn it. “No one.”

“No one,” she agreed. Her eyes were too bright, but she wasn’t crying. Yet. “And when there are no willing Riders, the unwilling will suffice.”

“The children.”

“Yes. Once a century. Fae children to be his Huntsmen; human children to be their steeds. No locks can keep him out. No door can bar his way. He’s too old and too strong, and he follows the laws of Faerie too closely to be caught that way.”

I shook my head to clear away my growing horror, asking, “What does he do to them?”

“Do?” She cocked her head. “He takes them and he binds them. Fae children ride, so they grow strong and fierce; human children are ridden, so they learn the ways of hoof and bridle. And they are changed. Beware Blind Michael’s children, Toby—beware all his children, no matter how honest or honorable they seem. I can’t stop you from trying. Heroes never listen. That’s why they’re heroes.”

“Luna—”

I don’t know if she heard me; she just kept talking, words falling together like stones constructing my tomb. “You, at least, I can still warn: beware his children. They’re too lost. There is no peace for them. There is no salvation. There is nothing but the Hunt and the darkness and the hope that, one day, death will claim them.” She shivered and turned her face away. “Be wary, beware Blind Michael’s children and come back to us. Please.”

Slowly, I asked, “Where did Sylvester go?”

“There are ways to keep him out. Not gates, not locks or bars, but laws and rituals that make him less than welcome. Sylvester has gone to warn the Court so that we can keep the dark at bay a little longer.” She shook her head, ears flattened. “It’s all we can do. It’s not enough.”

I shuddered. Her words were taking on two meanings in my head. Neither of them was good. Maybe that was all they could do, but I had to do more; staying safe was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I wanted to ask Luna how she knew so much and why her eyes were so far away, why she was almost crying. I didn’t. I didn’t have that luxury either.

“How do I find Blind Michael?”

She glanced back toward me, expression bleak. “There are roads.”

“Can you tell me how to find them?”

“My roads are Rose Roads. If you seek darkness, ask the darkness. It can help you.”

“Luna …” I shook my head, biting back a groan of frustration. “What do you mean, ask the darkness? I’m getting tired of being told to talk to things that won’t talk back just because people don’t feel like saying, ‘Hey, go ask Bob, he knows what to do.’ ”

She sighed. “I’ve sent you to her before, when I thought we might lose you if I didn’t. Now I’m sending you again. This time, I’m afraid you’re already lost.”

I froze. “Oh. No.”

“Yes,” she said. “You have to go to the Luidaeg. Tell her he Rides.”

Oh, Lord and Ladies. The Luidaeg and I may be the equivalent of old Scrabble buddies these days, but there’s a big difference between visiting a friend and asking a favor from one of the Firstborn. The latter is a lot more likely to get you killed. And that was exactly what Luna was telling me to do.

EIGHT

I WALKED TOWARD THE EXIT with Spike riding on my shoulder. I’d finally given up on fighting with my skirt, hacking it off above the knees before letting Luna lead me out of the garden. It was a relief to walk without constantly feeling like I was going to trip myself. That was the only thing that gave me relief.

Once I called the Luidaeg, everything would be in her hands, not mine. Luna was right. The situation called for extreme measures, and the Luidaeg is about as extreme as you can get.

The Luidaeg’s Firstborn, like her brother, and she hasn’t lived this long by being kind. None of the Firstborn have. Maybe more important, the Luidaeg is one of Maeve’s children, and there are very few of them left. Cruelty always came easier to the children of Titania; the only survivors of Maeve’s line are the ones who let themselves learn how to become monsters. Titania’s children are cold and hard and beautiful. Maeve’s children are hot and strange and come in every shape imaginable. Oberon doesn’t claim most of his descendants, leaving them to the mercies of their mothers. Those few races that he does claim … those are Oberon’s children. And Oberon’s children are heroes.

The Luidaeg has lived in San Francisco for a century or more, and familiarity has bred a certain degree of contempt. You can spend your whole life in this city and never see her; fae parents use her as a threat for kids who won’t mind their manners or eat their vegetables. Some people think she’s dead, or just gone, but I know the truth. She’s real, she’s dangerous, and she’s the single crankiest person I’ve ever met.

The first time we met, we played a game of questions that ended with her in my debt by a single answer. She swore she’d kill me when that question was asked, and I believed her. I kept her in my debt as long as I could, but circumstances conspired to cost me my last question … and she didn’t kill me, largely, I think, because I didn’t poke at her. I showed up on her doorstep a month afterward, and she demanded to know where the hell I’d been. I started visiting again. We played lots of chess, and I didn’t ask for anything. I’d almost stopped flinching every time she raised her voice. And now it was time to bring it all back.

The park was empty. I went down the hill at a run, not particularly caring who saw me. I was dressed idiotically but I looked human, and that was what mattered. People can justify almost anything as long as it doesn’t come equipped with pointy ears.

My car was just a few yards from the phone. I dropped Spike on the hood and trotted over to grab the receiver, not checking for a dial tone before dialing the numbers in a clockwise spiral. “Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean.” A sharp pain shot through my forehead, telling me the spell was cast. In magic, it’s not the words that matter, but the belief behind them. I believed the Luidaeg would hear me.

The line filled with hissing and the click of relays being established between networks that had no real reasons to meet. The hiss faded, replaced by the sound of a distant heartbeat. The Luidaeg is obsessively fond of sound effects. I keep thinking one day I’ll call her and wind up hearing bongo drums and Tarzan yells. The heartbeat cut off in midthrob, replaced by silence. I started wondering whether she’d changed the number. Can you change a number that doesn’t technically exist? The spell was obviously working, but that didn’t mean it had to connect me to the Luidaeg.

I was about to hang up when the line shrieked and a familiar voice demanded, “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Luidaeg, it’s Toby.”

“What the hell are you doing on my phone? Did you forget the bagels again?”

“I’m not supposed to come over until tomorrow, Luidaeg.” That was where my courage failed me—or tried to.