Seanan McGuire - An Artificial Night

“No, you came for yourself. Stupid little hero.” He reached between the cushions of his throne and pulled out my knife, pressing it against Acacia’s unscarred cheek. His smile didn’t waver. “It’s a wonder any of my father’s children—or grandchildren—have survived.”

“Give me back my knife and let her go.”

“Why should I?” He didn’t bother to turn. “Kneel.”

I was on my knees before I realized what he’d said. Hitting the ground opened more cuts on my legs and knees. Swell. We were bantering while I bled to death. “Bite me,” I snarled, forcing myself to stand. It wasn’t easy; my legs kept trying to buckle underneath me.

“Pretty words, but you’re not strong enough. Go die somewhere else.”

“Make me,” I said, gritting my teeth but managing not to fall again. Blood was running into my eyes; I wiped it away with one hand. Then I paused, looking down in disbelief.

My candle was lying near the base of his throne. I hadn’t been able to hear it singing to me under all the fresher blood, but as soon as I saw it, I knew it for my own. That made a certain amount of demented sense: they obviously didn’t clean up much around here, and once I’d thrown it away, it was just trash. I’d given up its protections—but that was then, and this was now. If I could reach it, I might still be able to get out by a candle’s light.

“I’m not going to die,” I said.

“Aren’t you?” He smirked. “A pity. If you won’t die, it’s not worth my time to kill you.” He turned back to Acacia, drawing my knife down the side of her face. Her eyes stayed glassy and unfocused, even as the blood started running down her cheek.

Blood ran down my fingers and along the length of Sylvester’s sword as I leveled it at him, the metal gleaming purple and gold in the firelight. “Leave her alone and fight me!” I shouted. “Be a man, you bastard, not a god! Or are you too afraid? ” My last word rang through the square like a battle cry. It was a challenge he couldn’t ignore after the failure of the Ride.

Blind Michael dropped my knife into Acacia’s lap and stood, sightless eyes narrowed. “Do you really think you can challenge me?” he rumbled. “You, who have turned your heritage aside to live as less than nothing? You’re a fool, October, daughter of Amandine. Have you forgotten your god?”

“I’m more of an atheist, really,” I said.

“I see.” He smiled, extending an empty hand toward me. I thought I heard the Riders around us shout in triumph; then they were gone, voices fading as the mists surged up to block the landscape. “But church is such a quiet, welcoming place. There’s no pain there, little changeling. No death. No need for swords.”

The sword in my hands vanished, swallowed by the mist. I clenched my fingers together, trying to find it, but touched only air. I looked up, furious—and met Blind Michael’s empty eyes. His smile didn’t waver. I couldn’t look away.

“No pain,” he whispered. “No death, no need to fight. Come back, little changeling. Come back to me and be with me forever.”

The whiteness of his eyes expanded, just like his sister’s, and I was drowning. “I’m not yours,” I said, forcing the words out one by one. It was getting hard to move or think, and something in the back of my mind was shouting hosannas, ready to leap back into his arms.

How much of me belonged to him? How much of me was ready to betray the rest? I sucked the inside of my cheek, trying to use the blood I knew was there, but I couldn’t taste anything; his magic was too strong, and he wouldn’t be caught that way twice.

“I don’t want this,” I whispered, aware of how weak I sounded. He took another step toward me and I dropped to my knees, staring up at him. There was no pain this time. Either I’d lost more blood than I thought, or he was just that strong—and either way, the odds were good that I was screwed.

“Why not?” he asked, pressing his hand against my cheek. My vision was struggling to fragment back into the multiplicity of the Ride. I caught fleeting glimpses through other eyes, watching a changeling bleeding to death as she bowed before her lord and master. “You’re lost without me.”

Oh, oak and ash, Luidaeg, Sylvester, Quentin, I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing this time. I thought it was important.

“I’m not … lost …” He was filling the world. There was nothing left but Blind Michael and the mist, and the brief, fractured visions I was stealing from other eyes.

“Oh, but you are,” he said. “You’re lost. You can’t get there or back again; not anymore. Now close your eyes and let me take you home.”

Home? Home. It sounded like a wonderful idea; all I had to do was close my eyes, and he’d take care of everything else. He’d make the world everything it was meant to be. I knew I was bleeding. I knew his home was nothing but enchantment and lies. It still sounded right, and I was so tired …

I lowered my head, shivering. I’d have the strength to try this once; if I failed, all bets were off. “Yes,” I whispered. “Take me home.” Blind Michael straightened and removed his hand from my cheek, confident again now that he’d won me back.

That was what I’d been waiting for.

He stepped away and I lunged, scrabbling in the dust. The ground had no texture; it was just mist. Behind me, he laughed. “What are you doing, little changeling? What are you hoping to find?”

My hand hit something and I grabbed it blindly, hoping. There was a brief, stabbing pain in my forehead as the taste of blood filled my mouth, and then my candle was bursting into flame, bright blue and gleaming like a star through the dissolving mist. Jackpot. I stood and turned to face Blind Michael, wiping the blood out of my eyes with my free hand.

Every visible inch of me was covered in blood, running from the nearly countless cuts covering my body. It was getting harder to focus, and not because of anything that he’d done; the Blood Road demands its tolls. “I will not go with you,” I hissed.

He looked almost frightened. Good for him. Sylvester’s sword was lying in the dust between us; he stepped toward it and I advanced to meet him, the candle held in front of me like a shield. “Do you really think you can threaten me?” he demanded.

It would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t been shaking. “Yes,” I said, and smiled. My mouth tasted of blood, and for once, that was a reassuring thing. As long as I could taste the blood, he couldn’t catch me.

Blind Michael lunged, going for the sword. He was closer than I was, and so I didn’t even try to beat him; I jumped back instead, grabbing my knife from Acacia’s lap. “Come on, Michael. It’s not even a fair fight. You’re older and stronger than I am. Now take me down!”

He clutched Sylvester’s sword, expression telegraphing his unease. When was the last time anything truly frightened him? The Riders were whispering in the darkness, but none of them were stepping forward to help him. He was fighting me alone. “You’re beneath me,” he said, trying to sound confident.

“Doesn’t sound like you believe that,” I said. Baiting him was fun, but I didn’t have time for fun. I relaxed enough to let his borrowed eyes tell him my guard was down, and then lunged.

It’s hard to fight what you can’t see, and Blind Michael couldn’t really see me. He had a hundred borrowed perspectives to use, but he was missing the most important one of all: his own. He swung wildly as I approached, and I didn’t even try to block. The sword hit my upper arm, opening a long, shallow cut between my shoulder and elbow. It was a glancing blow—it hurt, but not badly, and it wasn’t going to be crippling. Good. My own attack depended on him thinking he could win, if only for a moment. He thought he had the upper hand; I could see it in the way he let his blade dip, not bothering to brace for a parry.