Homelands Pt. 09 Ch. 02

Cahill groaned as he swung his legs out of bed. "Because you're a good girl?"

"Nope!" she said, without irony.

"Because you want me to play chess with you?"

"Getting warmer," she said, climbing out of bed herself.

"Could it have something to do with a concertina?"

"Ding ding ding!"

He smiled, willed a shirt into being, and gave himself an instant shower. He hoped his daughter hadn't noticed the stank. "How do you feel about painting?"

She frowned. "Daddy."

"I'm just asking. For tomorrow. Today, concertina."

"Not today. Right now."

"I need coffee first. But yes, after that."

She eyed him warily for a moment, decided that would have to do, turned on a heel, and bolted out of the room. Her red-blonde ponytail bounced wildly behind her. He heard her little feet patter down the stairs like a machine gun as he dragged himself slowly after.

He stopped at the fourth floor, where his daughter waited for him. As did his mother and Regan, who was holding his own concertina.

"No way," Maeve said when she saw him, rounding on Cahill. "He's not playing too." Turning back to her brother, whom she jabbed a finger at as though it were a knife, "You can have your own practice after I'm done!"

Cahill placed a hand on the girl's head. "Oh, come on, sweetie," he said in a tone that stopped just short of pleading. "You both play the same instrument."

And what a coincidence that was.

"Fine. Let him hear how much better I am," Maeve said, hands on her little hips.

Regan smiled.

"You were supposed to be on my side," their daughter said to Caronwyn.

"Honey, there are no sides. And if there were, I wouldn't be on one."

Cahill walked up to her, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her in for a kiss. The soft fabric of her dress felt almost as good as the body beneath it. "Morning."

"Barely," she said with a grin. "Sleep okay?"

He gave her ass a reproachful pinch. It was tempting to do more than that. Plant his palm over a soft cheek and squeeze long and hard. An ass that perfect deserved no less. But while their kids might not notice a quick pinch, they would if he started getting real grabby.

"Suppose you want some coffee?" his mother asked.

"If the price's not too steep."

"On sale," she replied. "Just three kisses."

"Gross," Regan said. "Don't look," he told his sister.

Cahill paid up, and gladly.

"You're gonna catch cooties," Maeve told their mother.

"From your father?" Caronwyn asked.

The girl gave him an appraising look, arms crossed beneath her chest. "I guess he might be safe. It's mostly just boys you have to watch out for."

"Dad's a boy," Regan said, in a voice fit for reminding his sister that water was wet.

"No, he's a man," she said. "When you grow scruffies on your face, we'll know your noculated. But til then, don't you touch me."

Cahill and Caronwyn both laughed at that.

"That's a stupid dress," Regan said before turning his attention back to his grilled cheese sandwich. "Looks like whoever made it was blind."

Maeve's mouth fell open and her eyes bulged. She looked from her brother down to her blue dress. It had asymmetric tiers, a zillion pink sequins, and a big pink bow on one shoulder strap. "It's supposed to look like that!" she said, pulling on one of the tiers.

"That's even stupider."

"Told you that was a word," she said, rounding on her mother.

Caronwyn smiled as she handed Cahill his coffee.

"Anyone seen Gallech or Reilly?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "Why?"

"Just wondering what kind of dreams they had last night, I guess."

His mother shrugged. "Didn't say anything."

Good enough, he supposed.

Maeve climbed up onto a stool beside her brother. "Can I have a bite of your sandwich?"

"Wanna catch cooties?" he asked.

She made a disgusted face. "Nevermind."

Turning on the front burner, Caronwyn said, "How bout I make you your own?"

"Yes please!"

So the children ate sandwiches while Cahill drank his coffee. His mother filled him in on what the others were up to and he sort of listened. Mostly, he lost himself in her beauty. Her big brown eyes, thick red lips, dazzling white teeth, and flawless skin. Her long lashes, full eyebrows, and gorgeous hair. He couldn't believe he was lucky enough to be with her. To be her son. To so much as ever have laid eyes on her.

Afterwards, he took the two of them out into the backyard and began the lesson.

It wasn't as painful as he feared it would be. But that wasn't to say his daughter played any better than she had the last time. He'd just built it up in his mind so much, resisted the idea so thoroughly, that he'd almost expected his ears to bleed.

Regan was good and getting better, not that it really showed. The occasional flash of brilliance came out here and there, but the two of them spent so much time sabotaging each other that even his son's playing sounded pretty bad. Just as he'd find his rhythm, Maeve would make a face at him or throw a pebble, and he'd lose it.

"This was a mistake," Cahill said. He never should have tried teaching them together.

Without warning, Maeve threw her instrument on the ground. Then she stomped on it a few times, causing it to make sounds that were only slightly less discordant than any she'd coaxed out of it up until then. "Music is stupid," she said. "Boys are stupid." And with that, she stormed off.

"That," Regan said, holding his hand up for a high five, "was awesome."

Cahill frowned. "I meant it was a bad idea to try a joint lesson."

His son looked ashamed. But then he eyed the broken instrument and said, "But I'm not the only one who was glad to see her do that, right?"

"Come on," he said, wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulders. "Let's go apologize."

"For what?"

"What do you think?"

Regan kicked the ground hard enough to tear up a clod of dirt and grass. "I didn't need to make faces at her and stuff, but I'm not gonna tell her she wasn't so bad."

With a thought, Cahill repaired the damage his son had done to the yard. Then he spotted the hydrangea bush and summoned a large pink bloom. It zipped across the yard, placing itself in his hand. "Give her this," he said, giving the flower to his son, "tell her you're sorry, and kiss her on the cheek. That'll absolve you, far as I'm concerned. Don't bother explaining what you're sorry for or why. I've a feeling she won't ask anyway."

"Eww. Do I have to kiss her?"

"You worried about cooties?"

"If I said yes, would it matter?" Cahill replied with a grin. "Fiiiiine," Regan said.

They found her sitting at the counter of the fourth floor kitchenette, with her colored pencils, sketchpad, and a giant bowl of ice cream. With sprinkles, syrup, and gummy bears.

His son did as instructed. A bit reluctantly, but he did. And, as expected, that left Maeve too stunned to speak. She just rubbed her cheek and stared numbly at her brother as he walked away, heading to his room.

"I'm sorry too, baby," Cahill said, planting a kiss atop her head. He noticed that she'd been drawing two figures, one tall and one short, getting burned at the stake. At least, he thought the shapes around them were the beginnings of flame. "For the record, my mistake was letting Regan crash your private lesson. Not giving you another shot."

"Yeah?" she asked.

Cahill nodded.

Though Maeve had her back took it, the paper cleared itself. All her hurried but evocative markings disappearing. "Can we try again? With a different instrument?"

"If you'd like," he said. "Maybe the flute?"

A pensive look came over her pretty little face. "Naaah," she said at last. "Music's stupid anyway." She turned back around, picked up a yellow pencil, and began filling the sky with a bright sun. "I wanna start painting."

Cahill plucked one of the gummy bears out of her sundae. "You got it."

#

"It's not that. Your face is too well known," Aeife told her sweet prince, pressing a hand to his cheek. The softness greeted her palm surprised her, as it always did. She almost expected to cut herself on his sharp cheekbone. "We've talked about this."

Indeed, they had. But not since she'd all but accused him of betraying them. Of working behind their backs to give his bitch of a mother access to their fair city.

Still, her touch seemed to be reassurance enough for him. He nodded, kissed the top of her head, and turned to her knights. "Take good care of her."

As if any harm might befall her in Savannah. Their presence was purely symbolic. The mortals expected to see a former queen accompanied by an honor guard, so that was what they'd see. Hardly anyone but Cahill wore their fey forms around the house with any frequency, but they all did when they went into the city.

The boys had other forms. Gallech sometimes appeared as an elf, while Reilly was fond of sheathing himself in fake fairy fire. Not the proper sort that Oberon put to such effective use, but cold, beautiful illusions. Whenever they accompanied her, though, they dressed as the knights Titania had called Red and Black. Which was only fitting, after all. Any weapon the bitch forged for herself, Aeife would one day claim as her own.

And what weapons they made.

Their lacquered armor and helms owed more to modern fantasy art than European history. Or so she assumed, despite never having set foot in any world but Faerie and the Dreaming. As stylized and impractical as their defenses were, their weapons were even crazier. Had the two of them been mortal, and had their weapons consisted of steel and leather and wood, they'd have had no hope of wielding them effectively. Or perhaps at all. But her grandsons were fey, and their arms mostly glamour. Gallech's great sword could slice through boulders as readily as thin air, and she'd once seen Reilly free a mortal from under a car after a traffic accident by cleaving the sedan in twain with that double-headed axe.

She wondered how Titania felt about losing her last hold over the two of them. Smoke was probably fuming out from her nostrils and beneath her feet.

"They will," she told Oberon.

Gallech turned to look at her. She imagined something like a smug smile might lurk beneath the steel-that-wasn't-really-steel. He'd been a little dazed and confused when he woke up that morning, but he'd been starting to remind her of his old self since. Had he said, "Well, one of us will. Don't know what use this guy here is, though," while jerking a thumb at his cousin, it would not have surprised her at all.

It was harder to say whether Reilly was back to normal. He'd been broody all day. But then, that was the old Reilly, so that could almost be seen as a good sign.

Wings sprouted from her back and her body began to glow. Hovering a few inches off the ground, she led her grandsons around the side of the house and out the gate.

They gradually picked up followers as they made their way to the great oak tree at the center of town. In ones and twos, they came, until it looked like she was leading a little parade. So it went every week. Fairy Godmother made their problems go away.

Sometimes, she even solved them.

But only when there was nothing for them to learn by living with them. Alleviating unnecessary suffering was one thing. And doling out advice they needed to hear from an authoritative source before they'd follow through on their own intuitions, she could do all day. But fostering foolishness and unnecessary risk-taking was quite another story. If she mended every broken bone or broken heart, she'd soon find the pleas for aid unending.

"It's my leg," the first man said.

"And how did you break it?" Aeife asked.

"He left me for a teenager," said a woman in her thirties.

"What sorts of things did you argue over?"

"Doctor says its not opahable," a pale-faced child.

"You've come to the right place."

Some she cheered, some she consoled, and some she chided. Some she healed, some she held, and some she harried away. Same as it ever was.

Until the second hour, when she started to notice a recurring theme. One she'd not heard before, but understood immediately. All too well.

"Nightmares," a young boy said.

"He won't sleep," a mother. "Says the hounds'll get him."

"When I woke, my leg was bleeding," a girl. "It's better now, though."

The first saddened Aeife. The second brought anger. By the third, fourth, fifth, she was getting chills. Sometimes, she forgot how powerful her opponent was. Allowed the depth of her loathing to color her perception. She had to remember that there was a reason Titania had ruled Faerie for so long. Why none besides her had ever offered more than token resistance. It took incredible power to enter so many dreams in one night. Especially with the time differences. She'd figured that a night here was not quite forty minutes in the Dreaming, and little more than one minute in Faerie. Titania would have had to burn frightening amounts of energy to accomplish such a feat.

So. Fuming it was, then.

"Drink this tonight before bed," she told the boy in her lap, as she had the others before him, handing him a tincture. "It's sour because of the vinegar, but it'll bring sweet dreams." She tapped him on the tip of his nose. "Drink it all down. Nevermind the taste."

He smiled, kissed her on the cheek, then ran over to his mother.

A few hours later, the last of the crowd finally left. No fewer had left relieved than in the past, but she was concerned. It took a lot out of her to produce the dream tincture on the spot like that. And it wasn't nearly as effective as what she'd done to her grandsons. The minds of those who drank it would be more difficult to enter than other mortal minds. But it wouldn't be impossible for someone of Titania's strength to do so. In the short term, she'd likely avoid those Aeife had helped, choosing others instead. What good was that?

Even if they could supply the whole city with the same tincture, and that would be no small effort, it might not do much. Perhaps a dozen children would be hunted in their dreams each night, rather than two or three. Soon enough, they'd all refuse to sleep.

Assuming she continued to settle for mortal prey.

Which she wouldn't.

No, there was message there. Titania had lashed out in anger, yes, but not blindly. The bitch wanted Aeife and her clan to know what she was capable of, and how determined she was to hurt them. Their own children would be next. Tinctures would help, but not enough.

"We can't let this continue," Aeife told her grandsons.

"What are you going to do about it?" Gallech asked.

The web surrounding the city was meant to keep people out, not it. She could pass through it effortlessly. Take the hunt to the bitch herself.

"Kill her," she said. "Again."

Gallech took his helmet off. "Are you sure that's a good---no!"

She had no time to see what had caused him to cry out like that. Something cut her down like lightning felling a tree. She didn't see the blow, but she sure felt it.

All the air went out of her as she hit the ground. When her senses started to return, all they brought her was white-hot pain. Tears filled her eyes.

Cold. She was so cold.

Why were pretty little flashes of light falling all around her? Lightning bugs? Was it raining? What was that sound? Steel on steel?

With a loud thud, a hunk of metal crashed into the grass beside her. A motorcycle, maybe? No. A man. Most of one, anyway. In red metal clothes. How strange was that? And what was that stuff spraying out of the hole where his head should be? It looked ridiculous. And it was going to make a mess.

Aeife tried to sit up, but her legs did not respond. And then, for some reason, she wondered why they even should. It wasn't like she had any, after all. Not anymore.

In a fleeting moment of clarity, she sealed the gaping hole where her hips should have been and set in motion what would be a long recovery process. Then she blacked out.