“To the Ride—”
“—the Hunt—”
“—to where the darkness waits—”
“He’ll take us home.” This last was from the Roane, who popped his thumb into his mouth as he finished speaking. His fangs fit neatly around it, barely grazing the skin, although the blood from where he’d bitten his own lip made that difficult to see.
“How long have you all been here?” I asked, keeping my shoulders pressed against the wall. I’d been distracted by their seeming innocence once, and I wasn’t going to risk doing it again. In this place, innocence could kill.
The answers came from all around, called out too quickly for me to see who made each one. “A long time.”
“Long time.”
“Many new children.”
“I was new once.”
“We were all new once.”
The Piskie hugged herself, saying, “Sometimes He comes and picks one of us, even when there aren’t any new ones. He takes us away to join Him, and we never come back here again.”
“Where is here?” Children like to talk—even monster children. If I could keep them talking, they might tell me something I needed to know.
“Home,” said a voice from the back of the crowd. The Piskie scowled over her shoulder before looking toward me again, eyes narrowed.
“The Children’s Hall,” she said. “It’s where we wait. You’ll wait, too, if you’re a Rider.”
“And if I’m not?” I was certain I wouldn’t like the answer.
“If you’re not a Rider, you’re ridden,” said the Centaur, smiling thinly. “You won’t come back here, if you’re ridden. You’ll go to the stables, and do your waiting there.”
That didn’t sound promising. “What—” A heavy grinding filled the air as the flame of my candle turned a brilliant white, blazing up another foot. The children stepped back, laughing, suddenly at ease. “What the hell?”
“You’ll understand now,” said the Piskie, through her laughter.
And everything changed. The walls of the Children’s Hall dropped away, transforming the shattered ballroom into a clearing ringed by warped, almost menacing trees. Riders lurked in the shadows of their branches. The candle flame abruptly dwindled to a tiny blue spark, and just as abruptly the children were upon me, pinching and shoving as they surrounded me on all sides. They pulled me back when I tried to break away, jeering at my distress.
A deep voice rumbled in the distance, drowning out the voices of the children: “Send me the intruder. Let her be seen.”
Still laughing, the children pushed me forward, and I saw Blind Michael.
He was tall—no, he was more than tall; he filled the sky. His arms were tree trunks, and his feet were the roots of the earth, and standing in front of him, I was less than nothing. I was dust and dry leaves skittering across the sky, and my only hope was that he would open those arms and let me hide under them until the world ended. His smile was the smile of a benevolent god, kind and merciful and willing to forgive all my sins. Only his eyes broke the illusion of peace: they were milky white, like ice or marble, and seemed almost as cold. I snapped back to myself for a moment, almost remembering who I was and why I was there; for that instant, I knew what I was looking for.
And then the glamour slammed back over me in a wave of glory, and He was my entire world. The children moved out of the way as I stepped forward, letting me pass. I wasn’t theirs to torment anymore—I belonged to our mutual god, and I was His and His alone. I was barely breathing as I realized the magnitude of my devotion. I would live for Him. I would die for Him. I would kill in the name of His glory …
A sudden wind whipped through my hair, snarling it around my face as the candle blazed white again. The air was abruptly filled with the sharp, ashy stink of burning hair. I jerked the candle away from myself, ready to throw it aside—I didn’t need it anymore, I was home—when a thin line of wax blew free and spattered on my lip, filling my mouth with the taste of blood.
There wasn’t much blood in the wax, but there was enough to let me break the glamour he was throwing over me. Blind Michael wasn’t a god; he was just a man sitting on a throne carved from old wood and decorated with yellowing bones. He couldn’t block the sky if he tried. Oak and ash, what had I been about to do?
I sucked in a breath, almost choking on the taste of burned hair, and said, “No.” My head was pounding, but there wasn’t time to deal with that now. I could have a migraine later, when it was safe to collapse. “I’m not yours. You don’t get to take me that easily.”
“Don’t I?” he rumbled, and his magic rolled over me again. For a moment, His voice was the shaking of mountains. The moment passed, and the glamour passed with it; it’s harder to catch someone after they’ve escaped you once, even if they only made that escape by accident. Thank Oberon. “I am older than you can dream, child. All things are easy to me.”
“Actually, I doubt that,” I said. When there’s nowhere left to run, take refuge in cockiness. “I dream some pretty old dreams.”
“Do you?” His illusions were gone, and I could see him properly now. He was tall and thin, with skin streaked white and tan like ash bark, amber-colored hair, and ears that were forked like a stag’s horns. Just another fae lord, no less strange than the Luidaeg and maybe stronger than she, but not the world wearing flesh. He wasn’t a god, and I was glad. I can handle purebloods and Firstborn. I can’t handle gods.
“I want my kids back,” I said, keeping my voice steady. Even if he wasn’t a god, the Luidaeg was afraid of him, and I respected that. I respected getting out alive even more. “Give them to me, and I’ll go.”
“Your ‘kids’? You seek playmates? Come now, the best games are here. The best toys are here.” He dipped a hand behind himself, pulling out a crystal globe with a yellow swallowtail butterfly trapped inside it. The butterfly was frantic, beating its wings against the glass. “Stay.”
“I can’t,” I said, with level courtesy. “I have a job to do.”
“They thrust you into service so young? Poor thing, you’ve forgotten how to play. I can teach you. Stay.”
“No.”
“Well, then. If you’re so set—which of my new friends are ‘your kids’?”
“Stacy and Mitch Brown’s children. The children of the Court of Cats.” I paused, remembering Raj, and added, “The Hob, Helen. They’re my responsibility, and I’m not leaving without them. Give them to me, and let us go.”
Blind Michael laughed, sounding honestly amused as he tucked the crystal sphere away behind him. “Why should I?”
Good question. “Because I’m asking so nicely?”
“You’re in my lands, little girl. Why should I let you go, much less let you take any of my new family?” He kept turning his head, like he was seeing me from multiple angles. I glanced to the right and saw that the children on that side were watching me intently; they weren’t looking at their lord all. The Riders, on the other hand, were only looking at Blind Michael—I might as well not have been there. Interesting.
“Because I’m under your sister’s protection.” I held up my candle. The flame had died back to a glowing ember, but it was still burning. I tried to take comfort in that. “The Luidaeg promised me passage.”
“And passage you have had. Passage through my lands and through my consort’s wood. Now you are come to me. My pretty sister cannot guarantee your safety in my Court.”
Damn. “Because it’s no fun for you if you don’t let us go?”
“Hmmm. Almost a point, child—but you aren’t a child, are you?” He leaned forward, frowning. “You’re not mine. You should be. What are you, little girl that isn’t mine?”
“I’m here under your sister’s guardianship. Nothing else about me matters. Now let me go, and let me take my kids. You admit that I’m not yours.”
His frown deepened for an instant, becoming cold and puzzled. “You’re Amandine’s daughter, aren’t you? You are. I can smell it on you. Why are you
“For my kids,” I repeated. I could worry about how he knew my mother later.
“Take them,” he countered. “Play a game with me, and save them if you can.”
