The older children chosen to accompany us slipped out of the shadows in groups of one and two, dressed in shredded finery that accented the strange twists and curves of their bodies. They crossed the field, finding their horses and mounting in silence. Most of them had obviously done it before. How did they get so strange? What was going to happen to me?
The Centaur trotted over to stand by my horse, the web-fingered Piskie riding sidesaddle on his back. They were still nude, but now had ropes of red and gold silk knotted in their hair.
“Today we Ride,” said the Piskie, pleasantly. “Some of us will be Riders; some will not. Some will only change a little and return to the hall. This will be my fifth Ride.” I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. She seemed to take my silence for fear, because she smiled. “You’ll Ride only once, but He promises us it will hurt.”
Giggling, the Centaur turned and cantered back to the throng of mounted children, taking her with him. They were happy. Lucky them.
And the Riders came. They were mounted on their twisted horses, armed and armored, and the difference between them and the children was as great as the difference between mountains and sand. They were more than lost; they’d gone willingly. One of them raised a horn, sounding three sharp notes, and Acacia rode out of the darkness, sitting as straight as the trees that were her children.
Willow branches were tangled in her hair, and under her cloak, she wore the same yellow and green rags as I’d been dressed in. The look she gave me was full of weary sorrow, but it wasn’t entirely without relief. She’d be free after the night’s work was done. Her horse was the color of new-cut wood, with a mane and tail that mixed all the reds, greens, and golds of autumn.
She rode to the front of the gathering, stopping with a crack as sharp and sudden as a branch breaking. Looking over us, she asked, “Who rides here?”
“Blind Michael’s Hunt, that sweeps the night,” called the Riders, in perfect unison.
“Who Rides here?” The stress was subtle, but it was there.
“The children who would join us; the children we have won, bargained for, and stolen.”
“Who do you ride for?”
“Blind Michael, who leads and loves us.”
“Who do you Ride for?”
“For the Hunt itself. The Hunt and the Ride and the night.”
Acacia shuddered, looking disgusted. I was fairly sure that wasn’t a part of the script. “Then you Ride tonight, and your lord rides with you.” She pulled her horse to rein, merging into the throng, and I saw her look toward me as she added, “May Oberon help you all.”
Blind Michael rode out of the same darkness, which suddenly seemed much darker. His armor was made of ivory and bone, polished mirror-bright, and his horse was vast and black with hooves of steel. I tried to tell myself that it was just an illusion, that he was nothing but another Firstborn, but it was too late. The glory of him slammed into me, and I was His.
He pulled His horse to a stop in front of us, smiling benevolently. I wanted to run to Him and bow, begging for His love, His attention—His blessing. Part of me knew it was nothing but an enchantment, but that didn’t matter. He was my god, as ancient and terrible as the sky, and I was His to abuse as He saw fit. I still couldn’t move, and that tiny, dying part of me was glad. He’d have my fealty soon enough. I didn’t have to give it to him before he took it from me.
“My children,” He rumbled, “lend me your eyes.” His words were my commandments. I closed my eyes, murmuring the incantation they taught me while I waited in the mist. I felt my vision fragment, and when I opened my eyes, I was looking at a remade world. Every member of the Hunt saw through my eyes, and I saw through theirs. Blind Michael was true to His name, but He’d found a way around His lack of sight: He saw through His children. All of us.
“And now, my children, now we Ride,” He said, and smiled, spreading the darkness in front of Him like a curtain as He turned His horse and urged it to a gallop. The Riders followed, dragging the captive children. They pushed their way past me, and I found myself falling back toward the rear of the herd. My thoughts cleared as Blind Michael drew farther away, giving my much-abused common sense a chance to scream. He wasn’t a god. He was a madman.
I didn’t have much control over my own body, but I might have enough to throw myself from the horse. If I fell hard enough, they’d have to leave me; I’d have until he Rode again to try to get away. I tensed, preparing to fall—and a passing Rider placed his hand on my back, urging me onward. It was too late. All my chances to escape were gone, blown out just like my candle. Game over.
The Ride made its way into darkness, flashes of the landscape flickering around us like Christmas lights. We weren’t riding in a real place. We were moving between the human world and the Summerlands, occasionally breaking out of the dark and into places I remembered. The docks flashed by, neon and tourists and the smell of salt; a cobwebbed forest filled with shifting faerie lights; the Castro, blaring dance music and the throng of bodies. The scenes shifted quickly, fading before there was time to sort one from the other.
My fractured vision magnified the strangeness of the landscape, the shared perspectives making it feel like I was watching the world through a prism. The individual viewpoints melted together as we Rode, making the world into something deeper and wilder than anything I’d seen before. It wasn’t natural yet, but I knew that it would be, when the Ride was done and Blind Michael took me as his bride. Oberon help me. We were nearing the end of our journey; I could feel it in the air, and every step we took brought me a little closer to being His. If I was already lost, why was I still so afraid?
We flickered back into the mortal world, racing down a street I knew: the road through the center of Golden Gate Park, flanked by jogging trails and tangled foliage. Pixies flashed past, pinpoints of light that did nothing to break the darkness. I’d never seen a night like this before. It was too unreal and half-drawn for the human world, too solid and bitter for Faerie. I’d never seen a night like this … but I’d never ridden with a mad Firstborn before, either. This was Blind Michael’s world.
The air got thick and hazy as we ran along the road, and we slowed. I braced myself, waiting for the darkness to return. We’d passed through more than half of the Bay Area; we had to be almost done, ready to finish our descent into the night.
The first Riders were almost to the crossroads when white light blazed ahead of us, reaching past the tops of the dark-tipped trees and drawing a circle around the center of the street. Blind Michael’s horse reared in terror. “Halt!” he shouted, and the Ride came to an uneven stop. I had no idea how to make Katie stop, and so she did it on her own, stumbling over her hooves, eyes wide and frightened. I wanted to lean forward to comfort her, but I couldn’t. All I could do was stare into the light.
The Riders looked as lost as I felt, pushing and snarling at each other as they queued up behind their lord. They were too frightened for this to be a part of the ritual. This was something new.
A voice from behind the light shouted, “For I will ride the milk-white steed, the nearest to the town! Because I was an earthly knight, they give me that renown!”
It took me a moment to realize why I knew those words. I’d always spoken them myself, or heard them sung, usually in my mother’s sweetly discordant voice as she coaxed me to sleep. Knowing the words didn’t make them make sense. Why was someone reciting the ballad of Tam Lin? Old Scottish fairy tales aren’t typical reading material for Halloween—of course. It was Halloween, the night for Rides and sacrifices, and Tam Lin ended with a faerie Ride on Halloween night. It was meant to be a sacrifice. It turned into a rescue.
Most people believe it’s just a story, but it’s not, quite; it happened a long time ago, before the Burning Times began. The Ride that was interrupted that night resulted in the loss of Queen Maeve and heralded the fall of the old Courts. I’ve never understood why my mother chose that song as her lullaby, our world began dying the night that ballad began. Janet waited for Maeve’s Ride at the crossroads, standing in the center of a circle cast for her protection. She was clever, she was careful, and she won the man who betrayed us all. Could the speaker be coming to stop this Ride the way Janet stopped that one? So who were they stopping it for?
“First let pass the black steeds, and then let past the brown,” the voice chanted. There was no arguing with that voice. The children around me were raising their heads, shivering and confused. “Quick run to the milk-white steed and pull the Rider
