Roadside Magic (23 page)

T
he Dreaming Sea touches all shores.

They did not know it, the small group gathered at the bonfire. Driftwood burned colorful, spit-sparking, and Timmo the Greek had a guitar. Acacia, who worked the ring-tosses, drew her shawl a little tighter. The carnival had closed for the night, Leo had locked the gates himself and given them all a breather. He was in his trailer counting what money they’d managed to bring in on a weekday, and the Ferris wheel was darkened. Some of the lights remained, stars at the top of the bluff.

Joey puffed on a Swisher Sweet and coughed; Marylou pounded him on the back. Guster, broad shoulders straining at his red-checked flannel—he wore it even down south in the worst of the summer circuit—cracked a bit of driftwood in his large capable hands and threw both pieces onto the flames. A burst of sparks went up, and Rick produced a bottle of whiskey.

The Greek picked out a popular tune, one the carnies had put different words to. Guster sang, and so did Acacia, her high, sweet soprano giving the filthy words lilting beauty they perhaps didn’t deserve. Marylou passed out the chicken salad sandwiches she’d brought.

Instead of taking one, though, Rick stood up, peering at the sea. “What the fuck is that?”

Acacia rolled her eyes. “How much of that have you had?”

“No, it’s a dog.” Joey set his Swisher aside to fill his mouth with chicken salad. Marylou made it with little celery bits, but other than that, it was really good.

“Dog, hell. It’s the size of a horse.” The Greek stood too, stuffing a sandwich half into his mouth and licking at his fingers.

“You’re disgusting.” Acacia sighed, took a hit off the whiskey, and peered at the water. “Huh. It
is
a dog. Look at that.”

The pale shape darted into the surf, retreated. Did it again.

“Is it playing fetch?”

“At night?”

“Fishing?”

“It’s huge. Look at that.”

“Weird. Maybe it has rabies?”

“Thanks for that awesome thought, Timmo.”

“It’s caught something.”

“What?”

“Jesus Christ,” Joey half-choked, spraying sandwich crumbs. “It’s a person!”

They ran for the edge of the earth, and the dog—it was a real monster, probably a Great Dane—leapt into the silver surf again. The water was oddly warm for early spring, but none of them noticed, because the shape was a person, a dark human log rolling amid spume, salt, and sand. It was Acacia who plunged into the water and dragged it closer, the Greek hopping from foot to foot at the very edge of the bubbling brine. Marylou grabbed Acacia’s collar as the girl almost went under, her work-roughened hand scraping against soft nape under curling hair, and Guster grabbed Marylou to brace her. Getting closer, Rick got the woman’s feet—it was a woman, they could see that now, pale and with a mass
of curling hair—and they staggered up onto the sand. The dog danced, making low grinding noises, but it didn’t bite or attack.

They carried her to the fire; Joey who turned her onto her side and thumped her back. Acacia shoved him aside, bent and sealed her mouth over the woman’s blue lips. Exhaled, hard, fingers clamped on the woman’s nose, and Acacia straightened to take a breath.

Amazingly, the woman retched. A jet of seawater burst out of nose and mouth, sinking into the sand. She curled up, coughing still more, and Guster grabbed his work coat. “Get her near the fire!”

She wore black, heavy velvet like Matilda the fortune-teller. She produced an amazing quantity of water with each coughing spasm, and when they ended she drew in heaving, tortuous breaths. The fire snapped and crackled, and if it suddenly gave a much richer golden light, none of them noticed. The dog pressed close, nosing the woman’s face as she struggled to breathe. Her hand came up, dead white, and wound in its damp fur. It folded down and began licking her cheeks, almost frantically.

“Is she townie?” Marylou, hugging herself and shivering. The picnic basket had been kicked almost-sideways; Acacia rescued it and stood near the fire, wringing out her long hair.

“Dunno. She doesn’t look townie.” Guster, solid and phlegmatic as usual, tossed another hunk of driftwood on the fire.

“Can you hear me?” Joey, awkwardly patting at the woman’s hand. “You’re safe now, you’re okay.”

The rasping, choked sound might have been a laugh. She retched again and clung to the dog, who whined low in his chest.

“We should take her uphill.” Marylou, ever practical. She glanced at the ocean, as if it might vomit up another castaway. “Leo will want to know.”

“Should call the cops,” Rick piped up. “An ambulance, at least.”

The woman shook her head, erupting into motion; the dog growled. Joey let out a surprised little cry and snatched his hand back.

She had deep-blue eyes, and even under the sand, with kelp caught in her draggled hair and her lips livid with drowning cold, she was . . . pretty.

More than pretty.

She coughed, propping herself against the dog. “No . . . cops.” A husky, almost-ruined voice. “No ambulance. No.”

“Easy there.” Guster squatted, making his bulk smaller. If he felt the chill, it didn’t show. “You almost drowned. Just take it easy.”

“No ambulance.” She coughed again, and retched, a deep racking sound. “No. Hide. Hide me.”

“Oh, shit.” Marylou sighed. “Not another one.”

Acacia tensed, but she said nothing. Joey glanced from the woman to Acacia, and back.

“You wanted for something?” Rick wrinkled his nose. “Huh?”

She shook her head. “No.” Little tracers of steam rose from her cheeks, from the tattered velvet. Underneath, flashes of blue. She still had her shoes on, too—high-quality heels, black and covered with sand. “Not a . . . a criminal.” More coughing, and when she took her fist away from her mouth Marylou glimpsed bright red on her wrinkled-wet white fingers.

Maybe it was that tinge of scarlet that made her decide. “Gus. You want to help me carry her up the hill? And you, ma’am, is your dog friendly?”

“V-very. If
you
are.” She shivered, and the dog—funny, but its eyes looked a little like hers, though only Joey noticed—went back to licking at her with its incredibly long, incredibly pink tongue. “Ugh, stop it.”

The dog wriggled. Its tail thumped the sand, flinging up a fan of tiny particles.

“Okay then.” Marylou bent down to peer at the woman’s face. “Gus?”

He rose, slowly, and sighed. “Leo ain’t gonna like this.”

“She’s a mermaid,” Joey said, suddenly, with utter certainty.

“I am not,” the woman retorted hotly, in that scraped voice. It was painful to hear the words rasp, and to hear the awful sounds she made when she coughed.

“No siren would admit it, would she.” Timmo laughed, but sobered quickly when Marylou shot him a look. He picked up his guitar. “I’ll help.”

“Me too.” Acacia finished wringing out her hair, picked up the picnic basket, and pushed it into Joey’s hands. “You carry this. Leo can’t be an asshole with everyone watching.”

“You’re such an optimist.” Rick began pouring sand on the fire. “We didn’t even get to sing ‘Kumbayah.’ Shit.”

The woman lapsed into silence and was only semiconscious when Marylou and Guster got her on her feet. The dog shook sand over all of them and pranced ahead, as if he knew the way up the hill and into the maze of carnival trailers.

She was bird-thin, and too hot through the wet, steaming velvet. Marylou began muttering about pneumonia and getting some acetaminophen, Joey cadged another half sandwich from the basket and started trying to coax the dog to eat, Guster kept stolidly plodding—he would do anything Marylou asked, really—and Acacia ran ahead, fleet and sure even in the darkness. The fire began to gasp and struggle, but Rick kept at it until only coals remained and decided it was good enough. Their voices had receded, and he didn’t like being alone.

Normally, he didn’t mind. But for some odd reason, he was almost certain he was being watched.

S
ummerhome was a poked anthill, roiling. Gallow stopped at the top of a rise, panting, his hand clapped against his armored side as if it hurt. It didn’t, not yet, and his strength was returning. The dwarven healer had done his work well.

You shall find your maiden in a white tower
. Well, there were towers and towers, through all the sideways realms. Who knew, or could guess, which one now held Robin? Puck had vanished, and was no doubt searching for her at this very moment. What would he do when he found her? What hold did the Fatherless have on the Ragged? He’d brought her to Summer, perhaps she felt a debt.

That wasn’t the real question, though. The question was how Summer had gotten hold of her in the first fucking place. As soon as he thought about it, Jeremiah had the answer.

Crenn
. The bastard had probably tricked her, or dragged her, or . . .

“
Hist!
” A low fierce whisper, a broad-shouldered shape. “Gallow, this way!”

He peered into the gloaming. Night had fallen with a vengeance, and riders with torches were spreading from Summerhome.
There was a twitch against Jeremiah’s throat—the locket on its gold chain, tugging sharply. In the distance, a silvery hunting-horn cried out. Not one of Unwinter’s, but dangerous all the same.

“You.” The marks tingled, prickled fiercely. “What do
you
want?”

Puck shook his head, droplets melting from his hair. “Does it matter?”

“Did you find Robin?”

A fraction of a heartbeat’s pause. “Not yet. The bird has flown.”

Great
. What the fuck did
that
mean? Had Robin escaped the tower, or did Puck realize there were many of them, and Summer had not given him enough to track her? “What do you expect
me
to do?”
I’m kind of busy at the moment
.

Hoofbeats, and the stars of torches. They were getting closer. He had to find an exit.

“Gallow-my-glass, I will find her, and you will help.” The sapling he stood near shivered, either because of the flatness of his tone—or maybe Puck Goodfellow was trembling. “Can you find her, by track or Sympathy?”

Gallow regarded him, narrowly. “Why? What is your purpose where Robin’s concerned?”

“Call me her god
father
.” Puck’s giggle spiraled up into a gruesome chuckle. “Can you find her, or not?”

I’m weak, even though the lightfoot hasn’t deserted me. I’m fast and I’m canny, but they’ll find me unless I get the hell out of Summer.
“If I said I could?”

“Then I’ll help you.”

“And if not?”

“I might leave you to make your own way.”

Comforting
. He took a single step toward the clump of
bushes. “Whenever you start asking after Robin Ragged, Goodfellow, chaos follows. What is she, to you?”

“A girl who should respect her elders, and a sidhe whose voice delights me. One last time, Glass-the-Gallow, hunted of both Courts, will you aid me in finding my wayward daughter?”

Daughter?
Jeremiah’s mouth closed with a snap. Puck had claimed her as kin before Unwinter, too. Maybe that hadn’t been a half-lie or a figure of speech.

With the Fatherless, it was always difficult to tell.
Oh, for God’s sake
. What other choice did he have, though? “I will,” he said heavily. “I need a quiet place to think, Puck.”

“Come along, and quickly.” The boy held out his slim brown hand, and Gallow took it. There was something else nagging him, and now that his head was clearer he realized what had been bothering him all along.

Where’s his knife, and his pipes?

Puck’s chin lifted, his irises firing in the gloom. He exhaled, softly, past his sharp white teeth. “Do you hear that?”

Jeremiah shuddered. In the distance, the ultrasonic cry of silver huntwhistles lifted. Unwinter was not hunting in Summer, but since her borders were so frayed, the sound would rub through, like knives whispering across thick paper.

I have four days. Maybe less, if the antidote stops working.

Jeremiah Gallow took Puck Goodfellow’s hand. A sharp tug, a stumble as if he were stepping down into another room, and the hole in the Veil closed behind them just as Summer knights armored in silver, their elfhorses caparisoned in Summer’s green, crashed through the thicket, their torches casting a cold, glaring light.