An Artificial Night
Page 21

“How old were they?” asked Luna. There was no surprise in her words, only sorrow.
“Jessica is six, and Andy just turned four.”
“Such perfect ages,” said Luna, and closed her eyes. “How many others?”
“Five from Tybalt’s Court,” I said, slowly. “Quentin’s girlfriend, Katie, is missing, too, but I’m not sure whether it’s connected or not. She’s mortal.”
Luna’s answer was a bitter laugh. Shaking her head, she said, “Oh, no. She’s the proof. Without her, this still might be something other than what it is. At least eight in a single night, with two more nights to go? How many haven’t called for help yet? Always take them just before dawn. That leaves the most time before they sound out the alarms.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. That didn’t stop her words from upsetting me.
“Oh, you will, soon enough. Are there any others?”
“Mitch and Stacy’s middle daughter, Karen. She’s eleven. She isn’t missing, but she won’t wake up, no matter what we do. Lily has her now.”
“That should do for the time being.” Spike rattled its thorns again. Luna looked down at it, frowning. “Really?” Her attention swiveled back to me. “What time did she arrive?”
Somehow, I knew which “she” Luna was talking about. “A little bit before dawn.”
“Who?” asked Sylvester.
I sighed, looking down at my partially-eaten pie. “My Fetch.”
Silence fell among the three of us, broken only by the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Even Spike had stopped rattling. When the silence got to be too much, I raised my head and found myself looking into Sylvester’s eyes.
“Really?” he asked, in a dangerously soft voice.
“Really,” I said, swallowing. Forcing a smile, I added, “She said her name was May.”
“October . . .”
“Her Fetch came when he was taking the children from their beds like a farmer taking apples from his tree,” said Luna. Sylvester whipped his head around to stare at her. She met his gaze without flinching. Her expression was more than solemn—it was sad and frightened and wounded, all at once. “He Rides, Sylvester. He Rides, and she’s bound to go following after.”
“Amandine—”
“Isn’t here,” Luna said, quietly. “Hasn’t been here. Won’t be here again anytime soon. Those roots fell on shallow ground, and you know it. Now will you keep him from our gates and let me tell her what she needs to know?”
Sylvester’s expression hardened. The look he turned on Luna was colder than any I’d seen him cast her way. Standing, he crossed to me, pulled me to my feet, and hugged me, almost hard enough to keep me from noticing that he was shaking. Then he released me and strode away down the garden path without a single word. He didn’t look back.
I was staring after him when I felt Luna’s hand on my shoulder, and turned to see her standing next to me. “He needs to warn the Court. It’s his duty and his privilege, because . . . because of who he is.” Her voice faltered. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”
I couldn’t take it anymore: the demand burst out of me, born of fear and frustration. “Oberon’s teeth, Luna, what’s going on?”
“You’ve been to see Lily.” It wasn’t a question. “She told you to ask the moon.”
“Did Spike tell you what color my underpants are today, too?” I scowled. “I have no idea what she was talking about.”
Luna didn’t answer. She just looked at me.
“Oh, damn.” Ask the moon. There were a couple ways to interpret that, and the most obvious—the one I should have thought of first—was ask Luna. She was the only moon I knew who could answer questions. “What’s going on, Luna? What do you mean by ‘He Rides’?”
She sighed. “Toby, if I say challenging him is futile, that you’ll change nothing and only grant the omen you saw this morning power over you . . . if I say you can save your life and your heart by walking away from this, will it matter?”
Part of me—most of me—wanted to say, “Yes, it would matter; please tell me to stay here. If you tell me, I’ll stay.” I didn’t want to go. I’m not a hero; I never have been. I just do what has to be done.
But when you get right down to it, isn’t that the definition of hero?
“No,” I said. “It won’t.”
Sounding resigned, but not surprised, she said, “His name is Blind Michael.”
“Blind Michael?” I frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense. He and his Hunt only harass you if you go into the Berkeley Hills on the full moon. They—”
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.”