Seanan McGuire - Rosemary and Rue

Golden Gate Park swears fealty to no Lord. It may look like one huge holding from outside, but it’s not; it’s more like a coral reef of tiny fiefdoms, scattered through the landscape like secret stars. Most of the park’s power is in the doors it hides. If I could reach one of those doors before my strength gave out, I might be okay. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. And if I didn’t make it to one of those doors, and I was lucky, I’d collapse where my body wouldn’t be found until the night-haunts had finished with me.

Of course, the odds were better that I’d be handing some mortal fool a corpse with pointed ears, leaving the survivors to handle all questions that came next. Faerie’s managed to stay hidden this long on nothing but sheer chance, and chance can’t last forever.

The taste of roses was rising in my throat, overwhelming the acrid taste of blood. “Sorry, Evening,” I whispered. There are some things even promises can’t do. Dimly, I wondered what would happen when the blood stopped. Would it hurt? Or would I just go to sleep? So many questions, so little time before shock and blood loss made them academic.

The tang of incense undercut the taste of blood and roses, catching my attention. I was halfway down the side of a small hill before I realized I’d left the pavement, and my feet went out from under me, losing their purchase on the slick grass. I slid the rest of the way. At least there was no more pain: I was somewhere comfortably past pain, where nothing really mattered anymore. I knew there was something I needed to do, but I was starting to lose track of what it was. The smell of incense was getting stronger, beckoning me forward. I looked up and froze.

I was sprawled in front of a stylized Oriental gateway. It was mostly hidden by leafy trees and climbing ferns, but that didn’t matter; I knew it. I could have been dead and still known that gate. It haunted my dreams.

The Japanese Tea Gardens.

After everything that happened there, I would have been happier trusting myself to the hospitality of Blind Michael’s Hunt on a full moon night with no candle to guide me home. But even as I pushed myself upright, I knew the choice wasn’t mine. You can’t afford to be picky when you’re bleeding to death, and it would make perfect sense for me to die in the Tea Gardens. I’d failed to do it once before. Might as well get it right this time.

I picked myself unsteadily up and staggered toward the admissions booth. My left arm was dangling uselessly, and I fumbled to keep my balance as I dug my right hand into the pocket of my jeans. There was nothing there but squashed mushrooms and bloody lint. I’d thrown the last of my change in the fare box on the bus, not bothering to check to see how much I was paying. Too late now. It’s rude to trick your way into someone else’s knowe, but I was out of options and out of time. If I couldn’t pay, I’d just have to make my way inside another way.

The woman at the gate blinked, eyes widening at the state of my clothes. She was blonde, with feathered hair and a brain that was probably equally feathered, but I could see traces of faerie blood in the shape of her eyes and the way she held her head. That was probably why she’d been hired, even if the blood wasn’t strong enough to make her anything more than mortal. The fae that live in Golden Gate Park look out for their own.

This woman’s heritage was a small blessing to me; it would make her more susceptible. Even if I couldn’t convince her I wasn’t what she thought I was, I should be able to enchant her long enough for me to get into the Tea Gardens. Lily might not be able to help me, but she was the most likely of a very slim set of options. At least I knew that if I got onto her land, I could die in peace.

Biting my tongue, I whispered the first three lines of “The Owl and the Pussycat” under my breath, and stumbled as the iron wound in my shoulder burst from distant numbness into bright new pain. I caught myself on the edge of the booth, taking a deep, unsteady breath, and handed my bloody lint and mushrooms to the woman behind the counter.

It almost wasn’t enough. What little power I had was starting to fade as I slipped in and out of full consciousness. She frowned before squinting at the contents of her palm, seeming to see through my hasty illusion.

Coins, I thought, as firmly as I could. You don’t see anything but coins. It’s exact change. Her frown deepened before resolving into a sunny smile. She dropped the mushrooms into her register.

“Welcome to the Japanese Tea Gardens! Have a nice day,” she said, radiating that odd brand of insincerity that seems bred into gatekeepers of all types. I forced myself to smile and half walked, half staggered onward. It had been a great day for petty thievery—between the gatekeeper and the toll taker, there were at least two people who’d be coming up with short registers at the end of the day. Of course, I’d been rewarded for my tricks with an iron gunshot wound. Who says there’s no such thing as karma?

The paths through the Japanese Tea Gardens are made of narrow, weathered planks. Trees and beds of flowers surround them, occasionally yielding to rock gardens or shallow stretches of water. Bridges punctuate the landscape, some arching up at angles that actually require stairs. It takes a pretty good sense of balance to make it through the Tea Gardens without falling, even if you avoid the bridges. At the moment, balance wasn’t something I had a large supply of. The paths were slippery with water and decay, and the lack of traction nearly knocked me over half a dozen times before I managed to get out of sight of the front gate.

At the base of the moon bridge I gave up, sitting down in a patch of ferns. The movement just made me dizzier, throwing the world into a kaleidoscope dance of water, blood, and shadows. I shuddered, falling forward, and caught myself with my good arm before I could pitch face-first into the water. My reflection rippled in front of me, giving me a clear picture of the situation. My illusions were entirely gone—any tourist coming down the path would find themselves looking at more than they had bargained for—and blood caked my lips and hair, soaking my sweater almost to the waist.

I looked into my own eyes, and knew I was going to die.

One of the koi surfaced to stare at me, breaking my reflection into countless ripples. I looked down at it, almost smiling as I reached out to stroke its head with my numb left hand. It didn’t shy away from the gesture. “Hey, remember me?” I whispered. “Did you miss me? I think . . . I think I may be staying this time ...” The fish sank back below the surface, leaving my fingers dangling in the water. Faint rings of red rippled out from where they touched.

I didn’t even feel my face hitting the pond. Everything was darkness, glorious darkness and the final, perfect absence of pain. It was done, all of it, the running and the fighting and the pain. After everything that I’d gone through, it was finally over, and this time, the waters would carry me home.

“TOBY, DON’T BE DEAD, don’t be dead.” It sounded almost like Tybalt’s voice, too distorted and far away to really tell. Water was soaking through my sweater, plastering my hair down against my cheeks; my eyelids were heavy. Too heavy to bother opening. I leaned into the arms that were holding me up and let myself go limp, falling back down into the darkness.

Time passed. How much, I couldn’t say; I only knew that I was rising toward consciousness, and I fought that ascent with everything I had. Waking held pain and duty and too many questions, while sleep held only peace, and the shadows of sunlight on the water. I was done. Sleep was all I wanted now.