An Artificial Night
Page 23
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“I’m not supposed to come over until tomorrow, Luidaeg.” That was where my courage failed me—or tried to. I closed my eyes, saying, “This isn’t about me coming over, at least not like that. I need your help.”
She was silent long enough that I was afraid she’d hung up. Then, quietly, she asked, “Why? You know I promised to kill you after last time.” Was it my imagination, or was there regret in her words?
“I know.”
“And you still want my help. Why are you that stupid?”
The moment of truth. “Because Luna Torquill gave me a message for you.” If Luna was wrong about asking the Luidaeg for help, I was a dead woman. I wondered vaguely whether I’d have time to call the night-haunts before she could get to me. They’d be pleased to hear of my impending death; they did me a favor not long ago, and from what I’ve seen, they’re fond of visceral paybacks.
“A message from Luna?” She sounded interested despite herself. “What is it?”
“He Rides,” I said, and waited. The next words had to be hers.
“How many children?” she asked, after a long pause. Resignation hung heavy in those words.
“At least eight. Maybe more.”
“Damn it!” Her voice rose in a shriek. I heard things shattering behind her, but couldn’t tell whether she was throwing them or whether they were breaking out of sympathy. “Damn it damn it damn it—why the fuck is she sending you to me?”
“Because she thought you might be able to help.” Because it takes darkness to understand darkness.
She sounded heartbroken when she spoke again. “Why me? Why can’t you people just leave me alone?”
“Because we need you, Luidaeg. Because I need you.”
She caught her breath and held it for a moment. Then, slowly, she said, “I can help.”
“I know,” I lied. I hadn’t known. I’d hoped. After what Luna said to me, hoping seemed like the best course of action I had.
“I don’t come cheap. You’re willing to give me a blank check?”
I winced. “Yes. I am.”
“You’re still an idiot,” she said and laughed, low and bitter. “It’s good to know some things never change. You’re at Shadowed Hills?”
“Yes.”
“Hang up and get over here before I change my mind. I need you to do exactly what I tell you to. Can you handle that?”
“I think so.”
“You’d better know so, or we’re finished before we start. Leave now. Don’t go home. Once you’re on the road, don’t stop, don’t look back. Have you eaten today?”
“Not much. I’ve had about half an egg, some home fries, two bites of blackberry pie, three cups of coffee, and some tea at Lily’s.”
“I can work around that. Get your ass over here.”
The line went dead. I hung up and turned toward my car, massaging my throbbing temple with the palm of my hand. I didn’t look back—something that became increasingly difficult as I got into the car and pulled out of the parking lot. I eventually decided that “don’t look back” was a literal command, and I’d be fine as long as I didn’t actually turn my head to see what was behind me. It was a cheat, but it was the best I had.
The drive to the Luidaeg’s took more than an hour and a half, thanks to that famous San Francisco traffic. She lives next to the docks; it’s not easy to get there even when the tourists aren’t out in force. Fill the streets with idiots who want to see Pier 39 “one more time,” and you’re lucky if you can get anywhere near the water without getting stuck in stop-and-go traffic. My headache had developed into a full-grown migraine by the time I reached her neighborhood.
The brightly colored tourist traps gave way to crumbling, half-decayed buildings that looked like they were longing for an excuse to collapse. They pressed in on each other, creating a corridor of close-set looming walls. The air stank like stale water and rotting fish. I’ve gotten used to it—visiting frequently makes it easier to bear—but that didn’t keep me from wondering how she could live with it every day. I guess the answer is simple. The Luidaeg was born to the marsh and fen, the places where land and sea meet, mate, and destroy one another. She lived there still.
Spike huddled in my lap, watching the landscape and occasionally letting out a small, frightened whine. Judging by its reactions, it knew who we were visiting, and it didn’t approve. It doesn’t like the Luidaeg. It never has.
“It’s all right, Spike,” I said. “She’s not likely to rip off your head and show it to you.” That pleasure was reserved for me.
I slowed as the Luidaeg’s building came into view on the left. It was a heap of crumbling brickwork and peeling paint that looked like it was going to collapse any day. I think she’s the only tenant—at least, I hope she is. No one should live that way unless it’s by choice. I pulled into the first available space. Whimpering, Spike followed me out of the car. I couldn’t reassure it. Hell, I couldn’t even reassure myself.
The Luidaeg’s door was set deep in the shadows, sheltered by a rickety fire escape. The frame was darkened and warped by years of neglect. There were no wards; she didn’t need them. Raising one hand, I knocked.
“It’s open!”
Great, a self-service portal to hell. Just what I always wanted.
The door swung silently open when I turned the knob; the Luidaeg likes special effects, not clichés. I stepped inside and choked, trying not to gag on the mixed smells of seaweed, mold, and rotting fish. The dark hallway was filled with clutter and half-seen obstacles; a light flickered at the other end, very far away. Spike flattened itself against my ankles before climbing my side to huddle on my shoulder. Giving it what I hoped was a reassuring pat, I began picking my way through the garbage on the floor. Things moved in the darkness near the walls, scuttling and hissing, and I was suddenly glad my night vision isn’t as good as my mother’s. Spike hissed. I stroked its head with one hand and kept walking.
The Luidaeg was in the kitchen, rummaging through a water-stained cardboard box. Gas lamps filled the room with a shifting, unsettling glow. She looked up as I entered, asking, “Did you look back?”
Sometimes I think the Luidaeg never ends a conversation; she just puts them on hold until you come back into range. “No,” I said. “And if you think that was easy at rush hour, you’re nuts.”
She was silent long enough that I was afraid she’d hung up. Then, quietly, she asked, “Why? You know I promised to kill you after last time.” Was it my imagination, or was there regret in her words?
“I know.”
“And you still want my help. Why are you that stupid?”
The moment of truth. “Because Luna Torquill gave me a message for you.” If Luna was wrong about asking the Luidaeg for help, I was a dead woman. I wondered vaguely whether I’d have time to call the night-haunts before she could get to me. They’d be pleased to hear of my impending death; they did me a favor not long ago, and from what I’ve seen, they’re fond of visceral paybacks.
“A message from Luna?” She sounded interested despite herself. “What is it?”
“He Rides,” I said, and waited. The next words had to be hers.
“How many children?” she asked, after a long pause. Resignation hung heavy in those words.
“At least eight. Maybe more.”
“Damn it!” Her voice rose in a shriek. I heard things shattering behind her, but couldn’t tell whether she was throwing them or whether they were breaking out of sympathy. “Damn it damn it damn it—why the fuck is she sending you to me?”
“Because she thought you might be able to help.” Because it takes darkness to understand darkness.
She sounded heartbroken when she spoke again. “Why me? Why can’t you people just leave me alone?”
“Because we need you, Luidaeg. Because I need you.”
She caught her breath and held it for a moment. Then, slowly, she said, “I can help.”
“I know,” I lied. I hadn’t known. I’d hoped. After what Luna said to me, hoping seemed like the best course of action I had.
“I don’t come cheap. You’re willing to give me a blank check?”
I winced. “Yes. I am.”
“You’re still an idiot,” she said and laughed, low and bitter. “It’s good to know some things never change. You’re at Shadowed Hills?”
“Yes.”
“Hang up and get over here before I change my mind. I need you to do exactly what I tell you to. Can you handle that?”
“I think so.”
“You’d better know so, or we’re finished before we start. Leave now. Don’t go home. Once you’re on the road, don’t stop, don’t look back. Have you eaten today?”
“Not much. I’ve had about half an egg, some home fries, two bites of blackberry pie, three cups of coffee, and some tea at Lily’s.”
“I can work around that. Get your ass over here.”
The line went dead. I hung up and turned toward my car, massaging my throbbing temple with the palm of my hand. I didn’t look back—something that became increasingly difficult as I got into the car and pulled out of the parking lot. I eventually decided that “don’t look back” was a literal command, and I’d be fine as long as I didn’t actually turn my head to see what was behind me. It was a cheat, but it was the best I had.
The drive to the Luidaeg’s took more than an hour and a half, thanks to that famous San Francisco traffic. She lives next to the docks; it’s not easy to get there even when the tourists aren’t out in force. Fill the streets with idiots who want to see Pier 39 “one more time,” and you’re lucky if you can get anywhere near the water without getting stuck in stop-and-go traffic. My headache had developed into a full-grown migraine by the time I reached her neighborhood.
The brightly colored tourist traps gave way to crumbling, half-decayed buildings that looked like they were longing for an excuse to collapse. They pressed in on each other, creating a corridor of close-set looming walls. The air stank like stale water and rotting fish. I’ve gotten used to it—visiting frequently makes it easier to bear—but that didn’t keep me from wondering how she could live with it every day. I guess the answer is simple. The Luidaeg was born to the marsh and fen, the places where land and sea meet, mate, and destroy one another. She lived there still.
Spike huddled in my lap, watching the landscape and occasionally letting out a small, frightened whine. Judging by its reactions, it knew who we were visiting, and it didn’t approve. It doesn’t like the Luidaeg. It never has.
“It’s all right, Spike,” I said. “She’s not likely to rip off your head and show it to you.” That pleasure was reserved for me.
I slowed as the Luidaeg’s building came into view on the left. It was a heap of crumbling brickwork and peeling paint that looked like it was going to collapse any day. I think she’s the only tenant—at least, I hope she is. No one should live that way unless it’s by choice. I pulled into the first available space. Whimpering, Spike followed me out of the car. I couldn’t reassure it. Hell, I couldn’t even reassure myself.
The Luidaeg’s door was set deep in the shadows, sheltered by a rickety fire escape. The frame was darkened and warped by years of neglect. There were no wards; she didn’t need them. Raising one hand, I knocked.
“It’s open!”
Great, a self-service portal to hell. Just what I always wanted.
The door swung silently open when I turned the knob; the Luidaeg likes special effects, not clichés. I stepped inside and choked, trying not to gag on the mixed smells of seaweed, mold, and rotting fish. The dark hallway was filled with clutter and half-seen obstacles; a light flickered at the other end, very far away. Spike flattened itself against my ankles before climbing my side to huddle on my shoulder. Giving it what I hoped was a reassuring pat, I began picking my way through the garbage on the floor. Things moved in the darkness near the walls, scuttling and hissing, and I was suddenly glad my night vision isn’t as good as my mother’s. Spike hissed. I stroked its head with one hand and kept walking.
The Luidaeg was in the kitchen, rummaging through a water-stained cardboard box. Gas lamps filled the room with a shifting, unsettling glow. She looked up as I entered, asking, “Did you look back?”
Sometimes I think the Luidaeg never ends a conversation; she just puts them on hold until you come back into range. “No,” I said. “And if you think that was easy at rush hour, you’re nuts.”
