creepy hollow 03 - faerie war Read online

  I stare at the black water with suspicion, but I can’t see anything beneath the rippling surface.

  “Come on, here it is,” Jamon says as he disappears into the shadows. I follow him and find a hole in the ground behind a rock. I wonder if this entrance floods when the river rises or if magic keeps the water out.

  Once inside the tunnel, we remove our white cloaks and stuff them into our bags. Jamon leads the way. Torches held by fist-shaped brackets in the tunnel walls light our path, their flames flickering blue and green. A musty smell fills the air, and my boots crunch against wet earth. Perhaps I was right about the flooding thing.

  We come to a fork, and Jamon takes a small piece of paper from his bag and examines it before heading down the left tunnel. It curves and zigzags and heads downward quite steeply until eventually we find ourselves at the edges of civilization. The tunnels are wider, with closed shop doors set into the walls and hundreds of footsteps pressed into the damp ground. Various fae walk past us: dwarves, pixies, and others I can’t identify. Whoever they are, they have one thing in common: They all travel quickly, avoiding each other’s eyes—and ours.

  It’s clear no one feels safe.

  We continue onward—Jamon checks his directions once more—until we come to a tunnel with an aquamarine glow. “This is the one,” Jamon says. I follow him down the tunnel toward a doorway where the glow becomes more intense. Slow, sultry music beckons us. We’re about to step through the doorway when a large man appears, blocking our way. His hair is one color and doesn’t match his eyes, so he can’t be a faerie. Perhaps he’s a halfling of some kind. Half an ogre maybe, judging by his size.

  He speaks, and his voice is so deep I can almost feel it. “Show me your palms,” he commands.

  My fingers clench involuntarily. What’s the ticket to get in here? Marked palms or unmarked? If it’s marked, we’d better get ready to run. I look at Jamon, who nods. We raise our right hands at the same time, like some kind of salute.

  The man steps aside and inclines his head ever so slightly. I let out the breath I was holding and walk forward. This Underground bar is nothing like I imagined it would be. The room is divided by a curvy counter that runs diagonally from one corner to the opposite corner. On one side of the divide is a pool with clear, turquoise water lapping a few inches below the level of the bar. The other side of the divide, the side we’re standing on, looks a lot more like I expected: dry ground, regular bar stools, and some low tables and couches. A bowl of luminous purple liquid with tiny white flowers floating on the surface centers each table.

  There aren’t many people here. A couple on a couch feed each other the white flowers before locking themselves into an inseparable embrace; someone with spiked hair hunches over the dry side of the bar; and two mermaids glide through the pool. Their heads break the surface of the water at the same moment. They rest their arms on the bar and smile at the spiky-haired guy.

  “Is that who we’re here to talk to?” I nod toward the two mermaids.

  “I’m not sure if there’s anyone in particular we’re meant to talk to,” Jamon says. “I don’t know if my dad managed to get a message to anyone.”

  We’re about to walk forward when a girl wearing impossibly high silver heels sashays out of a side door and comes toward us. Her hips sway in time to the music. She tucks her flamingo pink hair behind one ear before saying, “Can I get you anything?”

  When I don’t answer, Jamon says, “Popular place, huh?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” The waitress rolls her eyes as she places one hand on her hip. “Everyone’s hiding since The Destruction. It’s totally boring here now, but since I’m the only one brave enough to come to work, my boss is paying me double not to leave. He figures people will start coming back eventually.” She shrugs. “Hopefully he’s right. Anyway, do you want a drink or what?”

  “Um, you got iced night?” Jamon asks.

  “Yeah.” She turns her uninterested gaze to me.

  I don’t know if I’ve ever ordered anything from a bar in my life. If I have, it must have been an important moment because my brain has chosen to forget it. “Uh, I’ll have the same.” I figure that’s the safest option.

  “Sure.” She spins on her silver heel and heads back to the side room.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve ordered?” Jamon asks as we climb onto a pair of barstools.

  “Nope. But if you can drink it, I can drink it.”

  I can’t read his smile as he leans forward and waves the two mermaids over. “Hey, girls, I was hoping you could help me with something.”

  They slide beneath the water and resurface in front of us. Water drips from their blue-green hair and lips. Their turquoise eyes sparkle as they giggle. The one with the braid over her shoulder says, “I’m afraid you’re not really our type.”

  Jamon chuckles. “That’s a shame, but fortunately for you, that’s not what I’m after.”

  “What can we help you with then?” The other mermaid crosses her forearms on the counter and rests her chin on them. She stares up at him from beneath her eyelashes. Considering Jamon isn’t her type, she sure is doing a good job of flirting.

  Jamon leans forward and lowers his voice. I know he’s going to get straight to the point; he always does. “We’re looking for allies in the fight against Draven and were wondering if the merpeople would be interested.”

  The mood changes as quickly as if ice cold water has been dumped on the counter. Both girls cast furtive glances around the nearly empty room. “You . . . you can’t say his name here,” the one with the braid whispers. “If someone from their side knew we were talking about him, we’d—”

  “Two iced nights.” Pink hair blocks my vision of the scared mermaids as the waitress leans around me and places two glasses on the bar in front of us. They’re tall and narrow and flare out at the top like trumpets.

  “Thanks,” Jamon says, leaning back and placing a few silvers in the waitress’s hand.

  When the waitress is out of earshot, the braided-hair mermaid says, “Um, you should talk to our father. He’s the owner of this bar. He’ll know what to tell you.” And before Jamon can respond, they sink beneath the water and glide away. They disappear through a dark, round hole in the wall.

  I pick up my glass and examine the midnight blue liquid. Tiny sparkles float in it like stars in a night sky. “You don’t think perhaps you should tread more carefully with a subject that clearly scares everyone?” I ask Jamon.

  “It’s all going to lead to the same question, so why waste time?”

  I shrug before raising the glass to my lips and taking a sip. I swallow, then gasp as liquid colder than frozen metal burns all the way down my throat. I cough. “How can you . . . drink this? It’s horrible.”

  Jamon gives me one of his quirky smiles. “What was it you said? ‘If you can drink it, I can drink it?’”

  The dark liquid is so cold, I can’t even figure out if it has a flavor. I slide the glass across the bar toward Jamon. “Here. It’s all yours.” I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid. I’d rather not lose all feeling in my mouth and throat.

  I watch the hole in the wall as a figure slips through it. Strong arms pull at the water, propelling him quickly from one side of the pool to the other. He surfaces in front of us, aqua-colored features dripping water and a frown already in place. He reaches for something below the bar, then slowly raises his arm and places a harpoon on the counter. His eyes examine the two us, then narrow in on me. With a sigh, I raise my palms to show him my unmarked status.

  “A guardian and a reptiscilla,” he says. “Interesting combination.”

  “Yeah.” Jamon ignores the harpoon and leans forward. “Did your daughters pass on my message?”

  “They did. Sounds like you’re looking to pick a fight with the biggest bully in the forest, and you need friends to help you do it.”

  “We’re not the ones looking for a fight. Draven’s going to come after us one day, and we’ll have to fight
back. It’ll be better for everyone if we stick together and don’t fight alone.”

  The merman nods slowly, his gaze sweeping the room behind us. “We have an agreement with the sirens. If Draven comes after us, they’ll come to our aid, and vice versa.”

  “That’s great. We’ve spoken to the elf and pixie populations that survived The Destruction, and they’ve agreed to fight with us. We were hoping—” Jamon lowers his voice further “—that if we gather enough fae willing to fight, then we won’t have to wait for Draven to come after us. If we make the first move, maybe we can bring him down. Would merpeople and sirens be willing to join us?”

  “I certainly hope so. I’m nowhere near in charge, though, but I can put you in contact with—”

  “I said, get out.” The booming voice of the giant who blocked our way through the door echoes across the room. I swivel in my chair—and see them at the same moment Jamon grabs my wrist and pulls me onto the floor behind the nearest couch.

  “Guardians,” he whispers. “Marked guardians.”

  I nod. I saw the wrist and palm of the guy who was leaning casually in the doorway. I hold my breath, wondering how many friends he has with him and hoping they won’t be interested enough in a dying bar to spend any time here. The dull thump of a heavy body hitting the floor kills that hope like a fist squashing a sprite. I peek around the edge of the couch and see the passed-out form of the giant.

  Crap.

  I jerk my head back behind the couch. I didn’t see how many guardians there were, but they’re definitely not leaving. I hear the sound of multiple pairs of footsteps entering the bar. They come to a stop, and I imagine the guardians looking around. They’re probably trying to decide whether the few unmarked patrons in this bar are worth the effort. Or perhaps they’re thinking how ridiculously easy this is going to be for them.

  A single pair of footsteps moves toward the bar—toward the couch we’re hiding behind. We creep around to the side, beneath the stuffed arm of the couch. I catch a glimpse of a male figure. Tall. Long, black coat. Dark hair with blue-black streaks. I duck down and watch through the legs of a low table. He takes slow, purposeful strides toward the bar. His black boots are heavy against the ground, filling the room with an ominous thud. Thud. Thud. Chunky metal buckles reflect the room’s turquoise glow, and when he comes to a halt, I can see a twisting pattern of thorns engraved into the metal.

  He stops in front of the bar. Everyone in the room must surely be holding their breath. The couple on a couch somewhere, the spiky-haired dude, the merman who owns this place, the pink-haired waitress.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” the merman says.

  “We’re not looking for any.” The guardian’s voice is low and non-threatening. Which somehow seems a whole lot more threatening than if he’d shouted. “We’re off duty. We heard about a place down here. A place where . . . our kind like to hang out. Have some fun. Relax when we’re not busy marking people.” He lets out a low chuckle. “You know what place I’m talking about?”

  A pause. And then, “You must mean Titan’s Tavern,” the merman says. “Go left out of here, make another left, and go past the crystal stream.”

  Silence again. I’m still holding my breath, waiting to see if this guardian is about to laugh his ass off and then attack. And that harpoon would be as useful as a toothpick against him, which means I’d have to jump out and get involved. And while I might be a match for him if it were only the two of us, I know I could never take down a whole group of guardians.

  “Thanks,” the guardian says. His boots scrape the floor as he turns and strides away. Other footsteps join his, growing quieter as the group leaves the bar.

  I feel Jamon relax beside me. “That was close. I didn’t think we were going to make it out of here unmarked.”

  *

  A couple of hours later, Jamon and I slip quietly back through the tunnels. We walk as fast as we can without breaking into a run, which would no doubt be suspicious to any passersby. We make it back to the river without incident. Before venturing out into the winter world above ground, we retrieve our cloaks and pull them back on.

  “That didn’t go too badly,” I say as we climb up the river bank and into the snowy forest. Puffs of condensation form in front of my mouth when I speak.

  “Yeah, a meeting with the merpeople’s leaders is exactly what I was hoping for, but I didn’t know if we’d get it. My dad will be pleased.”

  “Do you want to send him a message now? Let him know?”

  “Hmm.” Jamon pats his pocket. “I didn’t bring my amber. I could send him a message the other way, though. I guess he’ll want to know now, even though the meeting’s only next week.” Jamon opens his hand and starts writing words onto his palm with his finger. Some reptiscillas use amber like faeries do—although they write with their fingers instead of a stylus—but most do what Jamon is doing now. When he finishes writing, he brings his hand up to his face. He blows gently across his open palm, and black shapes that look like smoky words rise from it. They twist and curl and disappear into the air.

  “You still need to teach me how to do that,” I say.

  He winks. “Reptiscillan secret.” He flips his cloak’s hood up over his head. “Oh, can you do that spell where you cover my footsteps? I don’t want anyone to track us.”

  I raise an eyebrow. He rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll teach you the messaging spell when we get back.”

  I give him my sweetest smile. “In that case, I’d be happy to cover your tracks.” Being able to lift myself and walk on top of the snow means I leave barely a hint of brushed snow behind me. Jamon’s great big footprints, however, are a glaring giveaway. I crouch down and spread my hands over the indentations in the snow. With whispered words, I coax the surrounding snow to start refilling the holes. I move my hands away and stand. The holes keep filling slowly. “That should do it,” I say. If I keep part of my mind focused while we walk, the footprints will keep filling themselves.

  “Thanks.” Jamon sets off, and I walk beside him. I tuck my hands under my arms to keep them warm. Magic could do the job, but I don’t want to lose the strands of power I’m already holding onto. Multitasking has its limits. Silence is our companion once again, which gives my mind space to wander over the stark beauty of the forest. The white frosting on blackened trees glitters beneath the moon’s soft blue glow.

  A shadow swoops over us, and a nighttime creature chirps.

  What the . . .

  “Stop,” I say quietly, touching Jamon’s arm. “Did you see that?”

  He nods, looking up at the bare branches around us. “And did you hear that noise?”

  “Yeah. But I thought everything was dead here. No creatures, nothing.”

  “So did I,” he says, turning slowly on the spot.

  My fingers prickle. I tense, waiting for someone or something to jump out at us. Perhaps we passed beneath a sensor and Draven’s guards have come for us. Perhaps we—

  “Stop where you are!”

  I drop immediately to the ground and scoot behind the nearest tree. I look back and see Jamon frozen, camouflage magic spreading rapidly across his body until he looks like nothing more than air, snow, and shadows.

  With my back against the tree, I hear someone chuckle and say, “I can see you. Well, I can see your outline. It’s a good disguise, but not good enough.”

  I twist my neck and lean slowly to the side until I can just see past the tree. Four guardians in dark blue uniforms stand with arrows and blades pointed at Jamon. The one in front is the dark-haired guy who spoke with the merman owner of the Underground bar. The other three must be the companions I couldn’t see while hiding behind the couch.

  “Look, we’re not interested in hurting anyone,” the dark-haired guy says, “so why don’t we put away our weapons, you drop the transparency act, and we all have a civilized conversation.”

  A civilized conversation, my butt. They’ll probably mark Jamon as soon as they get hold of him.
I pull my white cloak tighter, making sure the hood covers my head, then creep away in a wide circle.

  “Okay, look, I’ll put my weapon away first,” the guardian says. Through the spindly trees, I see the bow and arrow’s glow disappear. I continue sneaking around them, my feet barely touching the snow as I keep myself elevated. Finally, as the front guardian holds both hands up and urges Jamon to show himself, I stop directly behind them.

  “We’ve all put our weapons away,” the girl in the group says. But I can see a knife strapped to her thigh, so I don’t trust her.

  The guardian in front lowers his hands and takes a few steps toward Jamon.

  I raise my hands and find my favorite weapon blazing in my grasp. “Stop right there!” They spin around so quickly I almost miss the movement itself. One second their backs are facing me, and the next thing I know I’ve got four sets of glowing weapons pointed at me. “I know you’re lying,” I say, “and there’s no way you’re taking either of us without a fight.”

  The dark-haired guy pushes past his companions, his weapon vanishing in an instant. He stares intently at me, as though trying to see past the shadow of my hood. He comes closer, slowly, step by step. I can see his blue eyes and the shock on his face.

  “I said stop!” I yell. What is wrong with this guy? Does he want an arrow through his neck? My fingers twitch, split seconds away from releasing the—

  “Violet,” he whispers, and my hand jerks in surprise. The arrow sails past his ear, but only because he flinches out of the way. “Flipping . . . You just shot at me!” He looks horrified, but he doesn’t back away. “Violet. It’s you, isn’t it?”

  A shiver electrifies my skin. He knows my name. He knows me. But he’s marked. He’s on the other side now. As much as I want to ask him a zillion questions, it isn’t worth it to end up as Draven’s slave.

  So I stand firm and say, “Stay back or I’ll shoot you again.” He’s getting way too close. He could reach out and touch my hand if he wanted to.