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  “I… I didn’t know what to do. We’ve been gone for over two days. Two days, gone like that. And… I don’t know.” Isobel was staring down at her hands, frowning. “It all feels like an awful dream. A nightmare. Other than that guy, there didn’t seem to be anybody else to take care of you. I thought… well. I’ve not taken care of anybody since… Jen. There hasn’t been anybody since Jen. Not anybody that mattered. That I… cared about.” Footsteps, hesitant. “Maribel?”

  A coughing sob tore through her, made her convulse. She couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop. Gone. Another sob, a sound coming from her throat like that of a wounded animal, so that even in the heart of her misery she wondered at it. Knees rising up under the covers to her body, hands curled like dead birds between her breasts. Isobel was by her side, sitting on the mattress, hands on her shoulders, one cupping her face even as she turned it away, buried it in her pillow.

  Dead. It came then, that final image. It came, howling out of the darkness, howling with a voice that was all her own, a blend of her screams from that first night and her screams from this last. A skull. Small, delicate, impossible like the diaphanous wings of a moth, as delicate as a paper egg shell, horrendous and shattering and utterly, utterly final.

  Isobel was calling to her, but her voice was drowned out in the rising tide of her grief. It kept building, building, a wave that had no limits, that would wash her away forever. Had she thought to dwell in peace, had she thought that there could be stillness, serenity, silence?

  She was being held, hugged, but it didn’t matter, touched her as much as the mingling of shadows on a wall. Shaking with her guttural sobs, Maribel cried for her daughter. For Sofia, who never knew her name, never knew her mother’s face, the touch of the sun on her skin, life, any part of it, or the whole. Dead.

  “There is a way,” said a voice, familiar and terrible, soft and gentle, “To redress the balance. There is a way to avenge your daughter.”

  Isobel screamed. Clutched Maribel tighter, her arms suddenly as strong as a vise. Maribel opened her eyes, her heart lurching in her chest. The phooka was there. He stood, not quite in the corner of the room, dark like a sooty stain, faded tobacco skin, wispy hair hanging from his mournful goat face, white eyes pitiless and blank as the sun. Isobel was trying to scoot up against the wall, pulling Maribel off the bed, and then, through an act of supreme self-control, stilled herself, stopped. And gaped.

  The phooka bowed his head, took a step forward as if entering the conversation. “Your daughter might be dead,” said the phooka, “But you can punish the one who killed her.”

  “You,” said Maribel, stiff in Isobel’s arms. “You knew. You knew all along.”

  The phooka didn’t respond. It simply stared at her. It’s long, fluted goat ears stuck out horizontally from its head, one of them twitching and then going still.

  “That’s what took us below?” asked Isobel.

  “You knew she was dead, but you took me down there anyway,” said Maribel. And there was more than just grief, she discovered. It seemed as if she was not going to be consigned only to pain. There yet was rage.

  “If I had told you otherwise, would you have listened?” The phooka turned its head to one side, the bronze and brown and long black hairs that drifted down past its sternum from its chin swaying with the movement. “You had to see for yourself. Know it in your heart and blood and bones.”

  “Fuck you,” said Maribel, her voice low and venomous. Isobel was still holding her tightly, holding her against her chest. Maribel ignored her completely. She wanted to hurt it. To wipe that enigmatic and slight smile from its filthy goat head. To break its horns. But. But.

  “There was no one you would have believed,” it said. “You know this is true. Nothing could have stopped you until you faced Kubu itself.”

  Maribel closed her eyes. She was so tired. She was trembling, trembling with strain and exhaustion and pain. Was there not going to be a time to grieve, to be left alone? Isobel tightened her arms about her. She needed to dull the edge of her grief before she could think, do anything else.

  “Revenge,” said the phooka, and the word caused a stir of echoes within her.

  “Revenge?” asked Maribel, opening her eyes once more. She felt dull now, thick. But the word. It resonated.

  “Yes,” said the phooka. “I know a way to bring pain to Kubu. Perhaps to kill it. You can do this, but only you. No other.”

  “Revenge,” said Maribel, to herself.

  “No,” said Isobel, “No. Let it go, don’t do this. Maribel. No.”

  “There is a way to hurt Kubu. I don’t offer this as a means to protect future children, or for you to seek justice. I offer this as a way for you to avenge your daughter, to slake your pain. For you to master Kubu, and bring it low.” Maribel gazed at the phooka. So alien, its presence so discordant in her small apartment. And yet. She felt herself growing indifferent to its nature, to its horns and eyes, its voice and flesh. It was a tool. Strange and different, but no more, no less, than that.

  “Tell me,” she said, sitting up. Isobel’s arms fell from her. “Tell me what I must do.”

  Chapter 12

  The oak tree dominated the clearing, sitting on a natural rise with roots flowing and burrowing down from its massive trunk like a flashflood of primordial snakes, a tangled web of angles and hollows that would have to be arduously clambered to approach the trunk itself. A trunk that was as broad as a house, bulging and crevassed, a vast square, a block so weighty and scabrous that it seemed impossible, a rippling broadside of ornery bark and hollows, bulbous growths and whorled patterns cracked deep into its wood. From the crown grew a morass of serpentine branches, extending out, antler-like, in all directions, bare of leaves and begging to be climbed.

  Looking up in awe, Maya doubted any set of parents would have let their child climb it, however; the branches were so labyrinthine that any child that went up would probably never return again.

  Gold and white owls were flitting in, wings beating furiously at the last moment as they landed on the lower branches. They seemed to gleam in the dusk as if with their own light, pale and luminous forms looking down at where she stood beside Kevin. And then movement by the roots, and somebody she recognized appeared, a black furred form, long and graceful.

  “Guillaume!” The fox breezed up onto a particularly elevated elbow of root, and sat there, thick tail wrapping around his legs. Looking down at where Maya stood, he arched one brow, amused and pleased to see her. Or so she hoped.

  “It would seem that you possess more luck than intelligence,” said Guillaume. “I hadn’t thought you would make it this far without me.”

  Maya and Kevin began to walk forward into the glade, and to her surprise Maya saw that the ground was wreathed in thick grass, long tender shoots that spoke of Spring, not Winter. No snow, no crusts of ice.

  “Yes, well,” said Maya, searching for a rejoinder. “I’ve managed to stay alive. And I’m sorry for not listening to you. I shouldn’t have left the path. It’s just that…” She stopped. Kevin was listening with keen attention, trying to watch everybody at once. “I just really miss my parents,” she said at last.

  “You can have mine,” said Kevin.

  Guillaume relented. “No matter. You’ve done passingly well. You are alive, and whole of mind and heart. No mean feat for one who wandered blindly from the path. Your companion?”

  “Name’s Kevin Jones,” said Kevin, stepping forward. “I was buying condoms and cigarettes when she introduced me to her friend Tommy. Nice to meetcha, Mr. Fox.”

  “Guillaume,” said Maya, strangely embarrassed, “That’s his name. He saved me earlier. Or tried to.”

  Kevin gave her a sidelong glance. “You seem to require a lot of saving.” Maya resisted the urge to kick him.

  One of the owls spoke, its voice drifting down to them from the gloom. “We know not why the Green Man chose you, but being his choice, we shall ask that you assist the Seelie Court in a matter o
f import. Already, you are on the path, but whether you shall pursue it to its rightful end is another matter.”

  Maya reached the base of the small rise on which the great tree stood, and stopped, setting her hands on her hips. “Hold on. Why exactly should I help? I mean, the Green Man’s done nothing but cause me trouble so far. He’s ruined everything.”

  “Did he, Maya?” asked Guillaume. “Did he really. Your life was a dream before his arrival, I take it, pleasure and wine, dance and song?”

  “Well, no, but I wasn’t running from things like Tommy,” said Maya.

  “Instead you were dealing with Mrs. Mercedes and her cohorts,” said Guillaume, sounding almost bored. “And what was the name of the man who ran that delightful little place I saved you from?”

  Maya remained quiet. Kevin stepped forward and sat on a root. He let out a contented sigh at being off his feet, and began to leverage one of his boots off.

  “Fine,” said Maya. “Things weren’t going so well.” An image came to her then, of Meimei stepping into view as Chang leaned into her in the dark hallway. Meimei looking for a long moment, and then backing away, out of sight. “Things weren’t going very well at all,” she said. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Help us,” said one of the owls. It was hard to tell which one spoke.

  “With what?” asked Maya. “I don’t seem to know anything about anything here. I’ve got no clue how all this works, or what to do. How am I supposed to help?”

  “Words,” said a new voice, a different voice, deep and steeped and whorled with ancient power, “Can only take you so far. If you wish to learn, then step closer.”

  “Who said that?” asked Maya, looking about. Then to Guillaume, “Who was that?”

  Guillaume stood, slinked down from the knobbly root to where she stood, circled her and then paused as he came back round. “Old Man Oak,” he said.

  “Old Man…?” asked Maya, looking up at the great tree. A tree like none she had seen before, and which she had somehow dismissed during her conversation with the fox. “The tree spoke?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said that deep voice, that old voice, part groan, part sigh. “But trees don’t speak. I do.” Maya looked, and saw the old man. Stoop shouldered, black skin so wrinkled it seemed that it could never have once been smooth, bald and hawk nosed, he sat at the base of the trunk, ensconced within a loop of root, barrel chested for all his age and with eyes of singular power. Had he been there all along? Impossible to tell.

  Kevin sat still, eyes wide. Maya half hoped for a joke, something to break the sudden tension, but nothing came. They were waiting. Forcing herself to take a breath, she began to climb the slight hill, gripping the old roots, heaving herself up till she scrabbled over the last ridge and was before the old man.

  “A little light,” he said, and raised his hand, opening it palm up. A pale green luminescence suffused the air, the kind of green a young leaf might become when sunlight poured onto it from above. The green lightened to a soft yellow, became a gentle white radiance, and the area about the base of the great tree was lit.

  Old Man Oak wasn’t black, she saw, but a rich, nut brown. The whites of his eyes were a soft, mellow amber, and his irises gold. Completely bald, his ears overlarge, he was immobile, rooted to the spot, his great arms resting on his knees, his feet hidden in the dark depths between the roots.

  “In Summer I am crowned in green, in the Autumn, with red. But the Winter Solstice draws near, and I am bereft of crowns of any sort. A hard time is upon us, young lady, one that comes every year with the departure of the sun. But this year something different stirs. Something that has not manifested on these shores in some time. The Queen of Air and Darkness approaches.”

  Maya shivered at the name, without knowing why. It was in Old Man Oak’s intonations, perhaps. The strange awe and fear that had crept into his voice.

  “The Queen of Air and what?” called up Kevin from where he sat below. Then he let out a cry as he was unceremoniously dumped on the ground by a wiggle of the root on which he sat.

  “Who is that?” asked Maya.

  “The Queen of the Unseelie Court. Their mistress, though she loves them not, loves nothing, and that is why she is so terrible. I, and those about you here, belong to the Seelie Court, though it has not always been that way; we have been known to switch allegiance when times and circumstance dictate. But for now, we rank ourselves amongst her foes.”

  “Oh,” said Maya, sitting down carefully on a root as thick as her thigh. “So Tim Tom Tot and Guillaume and yourself are of the Seelie Court? Tommy Rawhead—is he Unseelie?”

  “Aye,” said the old man, nodding his head slowly. “Rawhead is always of that court. Some never make the change, some cannot by their very nature.”

  “I think I’ll be avoiding the Unseelie Court, then,” said Maya.

  Guillaume approached, “A wise decision, but one that is not always an option. Would that it were so easy.”

  “When one side rises in prominence, the other must match them in strength less the balance be lost.” Old Man Oak sounded tired, the words themselves having the ring of prophesy. “And the Unseelie Court fast gains power. One of their number actively courts a mortal to ascend to the Dark Throne, seeking to nurture in her that which will make her his Queen. Should he succeed, then this city and land will fall under her shadow.”

  “Oh,” said Maya again, blinking and trying to understand. “What of… the Green Man? Is he Seelie? Can’t he fight her?”

  “The Green Man is a power of the Seelie Court,” said Old Man Oak, “But not one that will martial itself to directly contest our foes. At best, he will but tangentially set events in motion, such as bringing you into our sphere. Powerful but frivolous, sufficiently capricious, he comes and goes as he will, we cannot count on him.”

  “Well, okay. But there is a way to stop the Queen from coming?”

  “Aye,” said Old Man Oak. He leaned back, eyelids lowering. “The one who maneuvers for her return will guide her to an item of power. Should she be sufficiently become the Queen when she reaches it, she shall take it up, and in doing so fully manifest her dark destiny. It is a sword, older than most, a symbol and object of power both. Should this blade fall into the hands of the Unseelie Court, than it shall be as Caladcholg, and all shall be lost for as long as it amuses the Queen to remain herself.”

  Maya rubbed the base of her palms into her eyes. “So what you’re saying is I need to get this sword? Before the Unseelie Court gets it. Without it, they’re stuck?”

  “Yes,” said Guillaume. “Precisely. Only a mortal hand can pluck it from its resting place. None of our kind can do so.”

  “A sword?” asked Kevin. He had crept up while they spoke, and now squatted on the far side of the root on which Maya sat. “For real? Well, cool. Where’s it at? We’ll catch a cab and go get it right now.”

  Old Man Oak turned his head slowly to stare at Kevin. The weight of his gaze was heavy, ponderous, and carried with it a knowledge gained by centuries of living, of feeling endless rains and bursts of sunlight upon his leaves and trunk. His golden eyes were dolorous, and Maya felt sorry for Kevin for having drawn it. Until she saw Kevin grin, and all her pity vanished.

  “The sword rests within the House of Asterion,” said Guillaume, voice soft in the pale nimbus of light about them. “The House itself has innumerable doors, and its entrances can be found anywhere and everywhere. The blade’s guardian resides within. No fae of either court can enter. No mere mortal can find the way in. Only those who straddle both worlds in a partnership as old as time can enter, and only through them may the blade be retrieved.”

  “The House of Asterion,” said Maya. “Do you know where one of the doors are?”

  “Hmmm,” rumbled Old Man Oak. “Not as such. But we can equip you with a key, and, by turning the right corner, you might find yourself within Asterion’s home without your knowing you had crossed the threshold.”

  “Okay. And… we
ll. If I do this—if I fetch this sword, stop it from falling into the hands of the Unseelie Court—can you promise me something?” Maya paused, suddenly nervous as impossible and immortal eyes trained on her. Heart suddenly thudding, she wondered how much she dared ask for. “Can you make the Green Man give me back my voice? And to…” She stopped. Looked into Old Man Oak’s golden eyes, and then down at Guillaume’s clever, expressive face. Did she really wish to leave this world? Never see such creatures again? Return to the toil and drudgery of her old world? Suddenly, she didn’t know. “And to come have a normal conversation with me?” she amended lamely. “Because honestly. Ridiculous.”

  “We can ask him,” said Old Man Oak, slowly bowing his head. “It can be done.”

  “Who are we racing against?” asked Kevin.

  Maya turned around to stare at him. His eyes were dancing. “Are you going to come with me?”

  He shrugged, an energetic ripple of his scrawny shoulders. “Hell yeah. Talking trees, magic swords, flying elephants, the fate of the world in the balance? Hell yeah.”

  Maya slowly shook her head. “Didn’t you see that razor Tommy was carrying? And there are worse things out there. This isn’t a game.”

  “I know!” said Kevin. “This is all seriously messed up. But then, you haven’t met Rhonda. Who just learned about Susie. So.” He paused, and then shrugged philosophically. “I’m probably safer out here with you, if you know what I mean.”

  Maya shook her head again. “You’re crazy.” He grinned, and she turned back to Old Man Oak. “But I guess he has a point. Who’s the competition?”

  Old Man Oak nodded. “Look,” he said, and extended a long, withered finger to point at a pool of water that had gathered in a hollow amidst the roots. “Look deep, and learn.”