Chapter Three
The problem wasn’t the fence itself, but the spell woven into it. It was a cloak designed to shield the property from intruders’ eyes and to raise an alarm at the presence of unwanted guests. It was fairly standard--at least for the Fey, which was who had set it up long ago.
John hadn’t been sure of that on hearing that first, elusive note. He’d known it was elemental magic—there was no misjudging that—but it could have been Druid. Should have been, really, because true Fey magic was rare on Earth these days. But then, Druid wasn’t all that common anymore, either, at least not in the Circle’s backyard.
But no, it was Fey, chiming away like strings of tiny bells all along the length of the fence. But also jangling, discordant, and off tune in a dozen places, and here and there making some truly frightening sounds. But not half so much as what was coming from the other side.
John blocked that out for the moment, and just listened to the fence for a while.
Unlike human magic, which decayed quickly after the death or departure of the spell caster, the Fey variety lived on. Literally, in this case, as it had bound itself to the flowers, the trees, the earth, drawing the strength to continue from their living energy. But without anyone to direct it, it gone a bit…off. Grown wild and cheeky over the centuries, but lonely, too, which was why it was so pathetically glad to have someone to talk to.
For his part, John was rather grateful it was here, since he was out of practice and the problem further in was intimidating the hell out of him. But this was a happy, silly little thing, and bound to wood, thankfully, which was always easy. Anything that had once been alive and growing was, the cells fusing with the magic like notes from an instrument accompanied by a human voice.
He cleared his throat, feeling a little strange. How long had it been since he sang a song for something important, for something other than calling the woolen fibers in his socks to knit back together? He couldn’t remember. Of course, he’d sung spells frequently as a boy, taught by the Fey who’d come to look him over because any Fey blood gives a claim. One negated, in his part, by the demon blood no Fey line would have.
But they had been beautiful, those laughing faces, so unlike any he’d expected. Stories were told of them, dread stories of deceit and treachery and murder. And some of those stories were true. But they left out the dancing and the laughter and the generosity of creatures who had spent a summer with him, singing to him, teaching him, even though one look had told them they wouldn’t be taking him home.
They’d been regretful, because he picked up the old ways so easily, astounding the Druids he met thereafter, whose magic had once derived from the same source. He’d been good at theirs, as well, since it was merely a mixture of two he already knew, two different strands of his heritage. But it had surprised them, since almost all of their adepts were women.
John had often wondered about that. It wasn’t that men couldn’t do the spells—the difference between humans was, after all, fairly small, and in any case, it had never prevented male Fey from mastering their magic. It had never prevented him, and his Fey blood was miniscule. But most men could not. The Corps could not, leading to their contempt and fear of a magic they didn’t understand, a magic that whispered instead of roared.
John eyed the fence.
And then he sang to it, in the old language, because he’d never spell-sung in any other. Sang the songs the golden ones had taught him, some of the words of which he didn’t even understand. But he knew most of them, and he felt the rest in his bones. And it seemed that he hadn’t lost the knack, after all, because all the broken pieces of the fence happily listened when he sang about getting in line, coming back to true, behaving themselves. And soon it was all nice and solid again, with a tinkling melody twining merrily about the posts.
John patted it absently. So much for the easy part.
A gate in the fence opened effortlessly under his hand, but he didn’t walk through, unsure if he wanted to open this particular can of worms. If the situation was what he thought it was, it could be dangerous—would be, really—and he didn’t owe the house, or its owner, anything. This wasn’t his business, he told himself; wasn’t his problem.
Just like a half-wild demon child hadn’t been the Fey’s.
Yet they had stayed, and helped him, and taught him the magic that had saved his neck more than once. And whatever Fey blood was coursing through his veins wouldn’t let him leave with that debt unpaid. At least, he assumed that was why his feet were carrying him up a winding garden path that materialized like mist as he trod on it. He certainly hadn’t told them to do it, he thought testily, and then he saw the house.
And suffice it to say, the estate agent’s book had been somewhat…out of date.
What emerged from the mist was a queer, lopsided thing, late medieval by the look of it. Two story, with wattle and daub walls and heavy shutters closed against the sun. And it was completely overrun with plant life.
Grass had turned the sloping roof into a recreation of Jonas’ hairstyle, only in green. Heavy vines had eaten into the walls, to the point that it looked like the house had veins coursing under its skin. And, most disturbingly, a forest of half-dead apple trees had crowded next to the foundation, so numerous that their almost bare branches still managed to block most of the sun. Yet they were strangely orderly, like parishioners in a church.
Or mourners at a funeral, John thought grimly.
He moved cautiously forward.
The place was utterly, deathly quiet. No birds called, no small animals scurried for cover; even the burbling fence was no longer audible. It was like stepping into an alien world, and not one happy to see him. John had the distinct impression that the door would have been locked against him, if an apple tree’s roots hadn’t propped it into a perpetually open position. He edged around the frame, careful not to touch it, careful not to touch anything.
It was dark inside, to the point that he could make out little past the swirling motes of dust disturbed by his careful entry. He started to call light to him, but some instinct told him that it would be a very bad idea. There was magic here already, magic in droves, tingling through the soles of his feet, crawling over his skin, boiling in the very air before his face, like an unseen, potent liquor that he drew into his lungs with every breath. He almost immediately felt giddy with it, reckless.
And that, he thought vaguely, would be an even worse idea.
He forced himself to get a grip and to look around. And after a moment, that became easier as his vision adjusted. There was light, and not only from the door. A few stray rays had somehow made it through the undergrowth and shutters both, spearing the darkness here and there in crisscrossing beams. It was enough.
It was more than enough, he thought in wonder, staring at huge old vines, some bigger around than his leg, that tangled on the walls and drooped down from the ceiling, and at the forest of roots sprouting up from between the floorboards, threatening to trip him with every step. Together, they’d pulled the room, which had once been a kitchen judging from the fireplace and shattered pots, so out of whack that it looked almost round. That was odd, but not particularly disturbing.
No, the disturbing part was welded to the middle of the kitchen floor.
John approached cautiously, awe and fear and shock running in equal parts through his veins, despite the fact that he’d known what he would find. Known what had to be here to explain the surfeit of magic that had no place to go, and no way to die. He knelt on what remained of the floorboards, which had once been oak but which were now…something Other.
He didn’t touch it. The very idea made his skin crawl, although he’d technically seen worse. At least, he’d seen things that were supposed to be worse, although at this very moment and at this very time, he couldn’t actually think of any. Because blood and gore and even death were natural, and there was nothing natural about this.
What lay in the darkness under its shroud of leaves was in th
e shape of a man. It wasn’t one—it never had been—although at one time it had been flesh and bone instead of wood, and muscle and sinew instead of ropy vines, although a casual onlooker might be forgiven for not noticing the change. The oak had pushed up from the floor in an exact replica of once noble features; the tiny vines spreading around it perfectly mimicked flowing hair. Even the pattern--ironically leaves and vines--on a long dissolved coat had been scrupulously reproduced, as if carved by a loving hand out of wood.
But no sculptor had done this. There were no chisel marks on this masterpiece, and even the greatest of sculptors can’t make the rings and swirls in wood conform to their vision. A living being had lain here once, who knew how many centuries ago, in exactly this manner.
And unless John was very much mistaken, he lay here still.