Seanan McGuire - An Artificial Night

“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.”

“I never said it would be easy.”

“I know.” I thought about adding “but I don’t understand,” and decided against it. I wanted her to help me. Pissing her off would be a bad idea.

She put her hands on her hips, eyeing me. I waited. Never rush anyone who’s personally witnessed continental drift.

The Luidaeg doesn’t use glamours to make herself look human; she’s a natural shapeshifter, and she’s as human as she wants to be. Freckles and a peeling tan warred for dominance over her features, and a piece of electrical tape barely held her oily black curls in a rough ponytail. She was wearing stained coveralls and heavy dock boots, leaving her arms and upper chest bare. She could have been in her late teens or early twenties. There was nothing fae about her, and that was scary as hell. She’s Firstborn and incredibly powerful, but she can hide so well I’d never see her coming. There are a lot of things I’d rather face than the Luidaeg on a bad day. Like Godzilla.

“Did Luna tell you what was going on?”

“Some.” I found a reasonably clean spot on the counter and leaned against it, trying to ignore the cockroaches scuttling away. “She said Blind Michael was riding because he needed new members for his Hunt.”

“Pretty much.” She snagged one of the larger roaches and popped it into her mouth. I winced. Swallowing, she continued, “He Rides once a century. Before that happens, he sends his Huntsmen to bring him suitable children. They find the kids, catch them, and bring them to him.”

“Why children?”

“Because they’re young enough to become his.” She shook her head. “He can’t have a Hunt without Riders.”

“Why haven’t we killed him?” I blurted and instantly regretted it. Blind Michael was the Luidaeg’s brother; her sisters died at the hands of Titania’s children a long time ago, and she’s never forgiven Titania’s line for their deaths. Considering my own heritage, reminding her that Firstborn can be killed didn’t seem like the best possible idea.

She narrowed her eyes, pupils thinning to serpentine slits. “It’s been tried. Once it was even tried by my sisters and I—we belong to Maeve, but that doesn’t make us monsters. Remember that, child of Oberon: even we can tell the difference.”

The Daoine Sidhe are claimed by Titania, not Oberon. This didn’t seem like the right time to point that out. “Why didn’t it work?”

“Because there are rules, and they weren’t followed.”

I frowned, reaching up to stroke Spike. It huddled against my neck, whining. “What do you mean?”

“Have you ever seen Blind Michael?”

Blind Michael was part of the local landscape. Everyone knew his name, everyone had seen his Hunt riding the Berkeley Hills in search of prey. Smart people kept their distance; if you weren’t careful, you might end up on the wrong end of their spears. I’d seen Hunt leaders, and I’d seen Hunters. Had I ever seen their lord? “I don’t know. I think so?”

“You haven’t. You’d know. Blind Michael doesn’t leave his lands, because as long as he stays there the rules protect him, and he’s safe. That’s why my sisters and I couldn’t kill him. You can’t hunt him in his own halls, you can’t follow him into his own darkness.”

“But I’ve seen his Hunt.”

“They ride when the fancy strikes them. He Rides only when there are children to be claimed. He’s vulnerable one night out of every hundred years—the odds are against you. No one stops him.”

“I will,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel.

The Luidaeg shook her head. “This isn’t another crazy changeling, Toby. This is Blind Michael. He’s stronger than I am. I couldn’t stop him. What makes you think you can?”

“Nothing,” I said, with complete honesty. It pays not to lie to the Luidaeg. She might take offense and rip off one of your limbs. “I’m probably going to die horribly.”