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Martin dropped to the ground next to her, heedless of the dirt he’d get on his jeans, and groaned as if he’d been hauling bricks all morning rather than lecturing. There was a splash from the pond as someone raised their head to see who had arrived, then disappeared again.
With nothing new to update him on, they lay there in silence for a few minutes, just breathing. If she were going to “get some” as Glory suggested, Martin made the most sense. He had certainly flirted enough to suggest he’d be open to it if she asked. But every time she thought about asking, something stopped her. Jan didn’t love him, not in that way, and some days she wasn’t even sure that she liked him—Martin was amoral in the real sense of the word, and how could you call someone like that a friend?—but they’d been through enough together, seen each other clearly, and that had created a bond that was somehow more than love or friendship.
Some days, Jan thought that bond was all that got her through each new bit of insanity. She wasn’t willing to risk it just for sex.
And besides, a small, smart voice in her head reminded her Martin was a hopeless flirt, yes, but one who tended to drown his partners. He’d warned her often enough.
Without anything new to talk about from the briefing and not wanting to talk about Tyler, Jan said the first thing that came into her head. “All your lectures, the lessons...does AJ really think they’re needed? I mean, that anyone is going to have to go back there?” The thought sent a cold tremor down her spine. The preters’ home was beautiful in a terrifying way. Massive trees and sunless skies, dragon-sized snakes, and endlessly rolling plains that had led them to the vaguely familiar mountain that housed the preternatural court. No human, no mortal supernatural should ever have to see it, not in real time and not in their dreams.
“No.” Martin plucked a strand of grass and let it flutter out of his fingers, falling to the ground, as he studied the pond where the ripples were slowly fading. “Not unless we have some crazy-brave leman who wants to rescue her lover.”
“Or some crazy-dumb kelpie who thinks he can just march into the preter court and demand answers.”
He looked away from the pond long enough to give her a wry, self-mocking little grin.
“No, AJ doesn’t want to send anyone back there,” he said. “But he doesn’t want what we learned to be forgotten, either. You know that. They’ve been quiet for so long, trapped by the old restrictions, the difficulties in luring people into their grasp, that all we had were folk songs and legends. We need actual information to protect ourselves. Ourselves and humans. Firsthand reporting should last us another couple of generations before it’s out-of-date again,” Jan couldn’t argue with that. Humans only knew preternaturals and supernaturals as fairy tales, children’s stories, not real. They hadn’t been prepared, weren’t prepared for the truth. The weight of knowing kept her from sleeping, filling her dreams with worst-case scenarios and crushing guilt.
He rolled onto his side and studied her. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. It’s just... This morning I woke up, and it was the same as it had been every morning since we got back. That first rush of energy, when everything seemed like it was finally making sense, that we knew what to do, do you remember? It’s gone. I can hear the clock ticking in my head, and we’re getting nowhere.”
Martin started to say something, a faint noise of protest, and let it trail off, unable to muster an argument, because she was right.
“No matter what we do to warn people, there are still going to be idiots who say sure, let’s run off with a stranger, give over our free will—” and she hated the bitterness, the anger that was in her voice but she didn’t have to pretend here “—there will always be enough idiots that they’ll be able to keep opening portals. And we don’t know how they’re doing it or how to close them. I don’t think we can figure it out.”
“Your team...”
“Good people. Smart people.” And never mind that most of them weren’t people at all, not in the human sense, but she’d gotten past that weeks ago. “But this is so far beyond us, it’s like...” Her hands waved in the air, signifying her frustration. “We’ve got theories, but that’s all. And AJ’s plan to find the runaway queen, use her to force them to leave us alone...it was a good idea, but they’ve gotten nowhere, too. AJ said the most recent tip didn’t pan out. We’re out of time, Martin.”
If this new magic the preters were using to open the portals was based on tech, or somehow influenced by it, they needed to understand how in order to stop it. And this morning’s meeting had once again established that they didn’t and couldn’t. Maybe it was a thing only preters could see, could understand. At this point, Jan wasn’t ruling anything out.
The portals were the means, but they weren’t the cause. Preters had always stolen humans, had always meddled, but they’d never hated before, not like this. Jan remembered her contest of wills back Under the Hill, in the other realm, and shivered a little. The preter queen had used knowledge of the portals to flee into this world and disappear, leaving her court and consort behind. That had been what had triggered this new behavior, their anger at this realm—their anger at humans.
The portals were the means, but the queen was the missing piece, the trigger and the solution.
“We need to find her,” Jan said. “And we need to find her now.”
Martin rolled over onto his back, looking up at the sky, but his hand reached out and gathered hers, fingers folding together. “So we will,” he said, his confidence unshakeable. “You just have to come up with a clever plan.”
Despite herself, despite or maybe because of the tension stretching her almost too tight to breathe, Jan laughed. And that was why she loved him, because he said things like that and meant them. “Right. I’ll get right on that, then.”
Chapter 2
The Lady Nalith, once queen of the Court Under the Hill and now in chosen exile, was satisfied—finally—with the workman’s efforts. She ran her fingers over the tangle of cords, then along the gleaming rim of the screen, careful not to touch the screen itself; she had no desire to interfere with the display, and even the faintest ghost of her fingertips could do that, she had been told.
“Remarkable,” she said, her voice almost a satisfied purr. “Not even in my old court was there magic of this quality.”
“It’s a plasma display, millions of these tiny cells between the glass,” the human began to say before being cut off by a sharp gesture with her other hand. She did not care what means the creature used. Her concern was not with the conveyance, but what it conveyed.
She stepped away from the screen and seated herself on the love seat, reclining back as though it were a throne, if one far more comfortable than any she had occupied before. On the newly installed screen in front of her, the figures moved and spoke, breaking into music and dance in seemingly random and yet perfect moments.
Opera, one of her new courtiers had told her. This was called opera. She did not understand the things the figures said, the clothes they wore, or the story that was being told, even after all these months of watching, but it did not matter. She could sit and watch and be enthralled by the display on the screen.
It amazed her, still, that in a world where so many were unaware of magic, unable to touch it, they could still create such things, almost carelessly, without notion of what they did. To pull wonder from nothing, beauty from despair, agony from mere thought...
Her consort would have scoffed to call this magic. Her former consort, she amended, eyes narrowing. Unworthy of her. He—all of them, those she’d left behind—had been blind, trapped. Only she could see. This new world, the wonders it provided. All hers now. And she would not share.
She rested her hand, fingers splayed across her chest, feeling the odd flare within. She had been cold for so long, she had almost not recognized the change when it came, had not understood what it was. Had not realized how much she longed for it, she who had longed for nothing before.
Her hold on this world was slight for now, still, but it would grow. Slowly, carefully, her presence a beacon for those who would fill her court, serve her whims. And the fire within her would grow, until it warmed her entirely.
“This is connected to the internetting?” she asked, tilting her head to follow the wires that disappeared into a hole drilled in the wall and from there she knew not where.
“It is.” The human opened his mouth to say something else and then reconsidered, properly gauging her mood. He was enthralled but no fool.
Two human-creatures had come to install this internetting the first day she’d taken possession of the house. She had thought this one amusing and useful, and cast a glamour that he would return. Once he did, she had tightened her hold, binding him to her. He was old but strong, and his eyes were a pale, pale blue that made his skin seem ever paler. His graying hair and lined face should have repelled her, but this, too, in this world, instead fascinated her. Age and weakness...humans accepted them so casually, fought them so fiercely. It fascinated her as much as their creativity did.
In the old days Under the Hill, creative humans had been prized slaves, gems jealously hoarded. They were so fragile, their brilliance so brief, wasted on such short-lived, shortsighted creatures. Still, they were useful, then and now.
“You may sit,” she told the human, noticing that he was still standing by the screen, awaiting her next comment. He nodded, arranging himself on the low cushions by her feet, still tense from her reprimand. Nalith sighed. Fragile and far too sensitive. She let one hand rest on his shoulder to tell him that she was pleased with his work and there was no need to be afraid.
When she was displeased, there would be no question in the matter.
The display on the screen continued, the characters moving about the stage. Their garb was elaborate, even by her standards, their motions large, their voices exquisite. Nalith did not know the story they told but felt herself caught up in their passion to tell it, something inside her twisting and shifting as the action twisted and shifted.
The sensation of being at the whim and control of another disturbed her, even as she craved it, and a frown touched her perfect features. Why was such ability to create given to humans, this power over her moods? How dare they think to move her, to manipulate her in such a way, against her will?
She had come to this world because she thought the skill would come to her here, away from that barren hill. But even here, in this fecund place, the final spark eluded her still, and that fact kindled her irritation once again.
“My lady?”
The hesitant, piping voice came from the doorway. The slight, rough-skinned figure kowtowed from where it lingered in the doorway, attempting to gain her attention but put off by her frown. She did not even bother to glare, trusting that someone else would remove it, and went back to contemplating the screen.
A faint noise confirmed her trust as another of the creatures came by, grabbing the brownie by the elbow and hauling him off down the hallway, their bare feet scuffing on the burgundy-and-blue rug. This time, her morning time, her observation of the gifts this world had to offer, was not to be interrupted. The court knew this.
Once distracted, however, her attention could not quite return to the performance, the beauty in front of her marred by her thoughts.
Perhaps she was surrounding herself with the wrong sorts. The thought occurred to her, glistening like a diamond. She called this a court, yes, but it was still a paltry shadow of what she once commanded; how could it expect to inspire? How could she burn brightly without the proper fuel?
Nalith considered that, the faint lines of her face easing. Yes. Of course. She had called the miserable little gnomes to her first, playing on their sense of dissatisfaction, the rumble of rebellion in their bellies, but while she used them, she did not trust them—they were too similar to the courtiers she had known, miserable, conniving creatures, too eager to consider their needs rather than her own.
And then the brownies had come. Wiser than gnomes, more civilized, understanding that their role was to serve and hers to reward. They had been the ones to find the first house, establishing the household, while she’d taken the pulse of this world, settled herself more comfortably and set out her lures, slowly drawing in others.
Once made aware of her presence, the creatures who lived here, the supernaturals, fell to her glamour, wooed by the magics inherent in her skin, her voice, her touch. She made them no promises. She was the promise: a way to break from the bonds that had held them down for so long, a chance to change the stagnant ordering of their world and become something more. She saw their ambitions and used them.
There were her human toys, yes, but supernaturals made up the bulk of her court. That had seemed proper, at first. She had thought it was the world itself, the too-bright sun and trees that did not speak. But now, now Nalith understood with a sharp clarity that humans were what made this world different from her own. Fierce and hot as the sun, as dumb as the trees, but powerful in their own way. Filled with a magic that Under the Hill had only been borrowing, for too long.
Just as they could be used to open portals, they could open this door for her, too. Be the soil in which her own ambitions could grow.
Nalith narrowed her eyes, staring at the display on the screen without truly seeing it. This world would give her what she wanted, or she would take it.
* * *
“Are you mad?” the second supernatural seethed, still pulling his companion away from where Herself rested. His fingers dug into the thin, muscled arm, not letting the other shake free.
“Cam, let me go. She needs to know—”
“She needs to know whatever she chooses to know. Learn your place, Alex, or you’ll lose it. And more besides.”
They were speaking in low voices, having learned already that whispers carried through the house and to Her ears. Brownies were used to moving silently through the world, doing what needed to be done, but they had no experience with the likes of Her before this.
Alex still thought it was important to share his news, but Cam was right: you learned how to deal with the queen, or you lost everything. Alex stopped trying to go back and let the other brownie drag him through the kitchen, down the bare wooden stairs to the basement.
The court’s House wasn’t anything particularly grand—a nine-room, three-story Colonial set on the rise of the hill overlooking the center of town, which meant that they were within steps of the main street, such as it was. Brownies tended to like small towns, but this one was tiny even by their standards. Still, it had suited Herself’s demands: large enough space, few neighbors to intrude, access to cable television and the internet, and owners who could be easily driven away, so that Herself could take possession without fuss.
The building had been run-down when they’d found it. Now the walls were freshly painted, the kitchen updated, and hand-woven rugs laid in every room under exquisite furniture delivered by workers who’d entered cautiously and left with a glazed look in their eyes. The newest, most shiny tech kept Nalith well entertained with music, movies, and television, while the walls were lined with bookcases—some of which had been there when she’d arrived and the others added on. There was no pattern or rationale to the collections; whatever caught her attention or fancy was added, glanced at, and then either devoured or ignored.
The basement, however, had been left alone, and it was there that the two brownies fled, closing the door softly behind them. The cool stone walls and cement floor were bare and soothing, the lights dim enough to ease their eyes, and the furnishings comfortable and patched as brownies preferred.
The basement belonged to the lower court; it was known to their lady but never entered by her, the one place where they could relax, discuss, and decompress from the pressure of waiting upon their queen.
The gnomes were not allowed in the basement, by common decision.
Other than their nine-member troop and the gnomes, there were eleven supernaturals serving in this court at the moment, not including those she had sent out into the world to scout for and protect her interests. Three of those others were taking their ease in the basement already: a lupin whose eyes Cam didn’t trust and two six-legged yōkai who rarely spoke but were hard workers and fierce fighters. The yōkai were settled in the corner, their legs tucked under them, while the lupin was sprawled on the sofa, an open beer can in one hand.
“Seriously? What were you thinking, to interrupt her?” The argument between the two brownies had continued all the way down the stairs “Have you lost your mind?”
“All right, you made your point.” They came when she called, not the other way around. “But word’s come in from the old house, from the ones who stayed behind,” Alex said, his voice agitated. “They came, the Wolf’s pack, and tossed everything, looking for her. Looking for her. She needs to know!”
The Wolf had cost them the first House they had established for Herself. He had sent his people into the area, sniffing around, asking questions, raising suspicions. Making it too dangerous to stay, although none of them would dare gainsay Herself’s claim that she was simply bored of the surroundings. If he were heading this way...
This house was more secure, isolated, more her Herself’s liking. But they needed other options, orbiting courts to enhance her standing in the eyes of others, places where Herself could go if there was trouble. That was the plan they had laid out carefully, one strand at a time, as only brownies knew how to plan. Here, then elsewhere, building in Her name.
Brownies kept house; that was what they did. That was not, however, all they did, and it did not mean they thought small—or that they were always subservient.
“Court opens at noon,” the lupin said, his gaze more alert than his body language would suggest. “You’ll tell her then, and be able to tell her that we have it dealt with. Do we have it dealt with?”
Alex drew himself up as far as his slight frame was capable, and his tasseled ears twitched indignantly. “Of course. All they found was an enclave of supers, bonded together against the cold, cruel world.” A brownie wasn’t good at sarcasm, but he gave it his best shot. “There was no way the Wolf’s sniffers could follow us here.”
The lupin bared its teeth at the nickname but did not contradict the name. There were many lupin, running with many different packs; there was only one Wolf. Even before this, he’d had a reputation.
The Wolf had a reputation, but he did not have power. None of them did.
No one in this court had any illusions; the preter queen was not kind, she was not gentle, and she in no way loved them. But it was their nature to survive, all of them, and she radiated power the likes of which had not walked this world in ages. The supernaturals gathered there had cast their lot with hers, wherever it led, and if that meant turning on their kin...it would not be the first time in their history.
Most of their kind could not be bothered to lift their heads from the daily drudge, intent on holding whatever remained of their past glory or merely trying not to fade away entirely. Meanwhile, the humans, as humans were prone, saw nothing of what happened under their noses. Even the few in the lady’s court, pampered pets who did nothing to serve, had been claimed by her rather than coming of their own accord.
The Wolf alone had resisted, rousing others, attempting to marshal a defense. It was doomed to fail but could cause problems until then. They would not doubt Nalith, but the court would be wary of challengers, wary of dangers to her rule.
“If he found that, he could find this house, too,” Alex said, still worried. “It was one thing when they were hunting down the others—that served our purposes, as well. But he’s sniffing for her now, and if his claws reach here...”
“She is stronger now,” Cam said. “She had been in residence there only a few weeks, not long enough to sink her magic into the walls, set up defenses. This court grows, her power grows, and strengthens.
“But the Wolf—” Alex started to say.
“The Wolf will come to her the same as we did, drawn to her strength, and she will decide then what to do with him.” The thought made Cam’s ears twitch again, although this time his mouth shaped into a smirk. Their lady did not take kindly to those who challenged her.
“She’s already thought of it,” one of the yōkai said, finally entering the conversation. “Herself don’t leave a thing to chance. She wants this world, so she has a plan. We work it right, we play smart, we’re there when she wins. If we don’t screw it up.”
On that, all five could agree. Nalith had a plan; all they had to do was follow her decrees and be rewarded for it.
* * *
Above, in her courtroom, Nalith smiled. The longer she stayed in one place, the more it became hers, stretching her awareness into the very structure. The wood and stone, the water rushing through the pipes, even the wiring that hummed, but most of all Nalith felt the creatures moving through her court, doing her bidding and anticipating her needs, from the kitchen to the upstairs chambers, out into the yard where the ragged, raging gnomes built their nests, down into the cool earth of the cellar. They were odd and ragtag, these creatures, kin and yet not her own, but they contained the spark she had been searching for, each one of them. Hunger, a desire to be more than they were, to achieve more.
Even in this world, that spark was too rare, too useful a thing to be dismissed, even in lesser creatures. Her fingers stretched out as though to touch that warmth and then curled against the arm of her chair, reminded once again that it was not a thing she could hold.
Not yet, anyway. What might not be possible, here and now, to one such as her, now that Nalith knew what she had been lacking?
Letting awareness of her creatures fade, she watched the figures on the screen, but her thoughts were sidetracked, remembering.
Her consort, not beloved but familiar, combed the hair of his pet and then sent it off to fetch breakfast. He stretched, content with himself, his position, his place within the universe.
She studied him, the too-familiar lines of his face and body, then turned away, hungry for something other than food. She did not understand it. A restlessness possessed her, turning her from her usual pleasures and satisfactions. Perhaps if she had a pet of her own, it would ease this mood. There were humans in the court, of course, but none of them were hers, none had been hers for years, since...she could not remember when. It had sung. She remembered that. Long ago. Too long, perhaps. Since long before this restlessness had taken hold of her, the sense that something had changed, without her knowing, without her permission. She resented it, but she could not resist it.
The antechamber had a window that opened to the air, looking out over the plains. A storm moved across the distance, blue-black clouds filled with occasional flashes of silver. Rare but not unheard of, not so unusual as to warrant note. The distant rumble of thunder carried across empty space, and she felt it again, that sense that something was different, changed. It had begun nearly two seasons past, a shake and a click inside her, like doors opening and shutting.
None of the others felt it. She alone—she, who was queen.
It had to do with humans, she thought for the first time. Humans, and the spark they carried, that made the court crave their presence. But how or why... Humans had no place in this realm, save what she gave them. They were nothing. How could they influence her so?
And then the storm came, rare lightning striking the windowsill where she rested her fingers, making her jerk back in surprise, she who was never surprised, never taken off guard. The touch shivered through her, and an answer came as though drawn by her own will, that touch of power spanning two worlds, spanning and binding them in her hands.
She hadn’t understood then. But she had known the answer rested elsewhere—in the land of humans.
She had begun planning, that moment.
The display in front of her ended, the words at the end scrolling too quickly to read. Nalith tried to hold the emotions the story had stirred in her, keeping them close. It was no use. No matter how she immersed herself, how much she took in, the feelings never lasted, leaving her aware of the emptiness once again.
She had not been queen when last they made incursions to the other realm. In truth, she barely remembered it save for the busy flow of adults through the court and new pets after. There had been a girl child who’d sung sweetly, until the notes went flat and the words faded, leaving the girl silent. No matter how Nalith had ordered the girl to sing, the human could not remember the tunes. Too long Under the Hill, too long to remember.
That had been when Nalith had begun to understand that terrible delicacy, that human gift. The court created nothing. No dance, no music, no songs or stories. They stole from the lips of lesser creatures, made them perform over and over until the color faded and the sounds fled, and all that remained was rote and routine. Dead sounds, dull movements.
Humans could create, but only here, in this realm. Taken too long from it, they faded. And so it must be this place, this realm and not humans themselves, that was so filled with creation; if she owned it, she would own that, too. The desire drove her, beyond all reason. And then the storm had come and shown her the way.
A noise broke her from her reverie. Annoyed, she turned to glare at the doorway. The figure there—scrawny, with a red cap pulled close around its head, and fingers twitching as though it never knew quite what to pick up next—was showing signs of having been there awhile.
Once it saw that she had seen it, the brownie bucked and groveled until she sighed with irritation. And yet, the film had ended, and there were things that required her attention. And it had tried to speak with her before; she remembered that. She picked up the remote controlling device and muted the sound. “Go on, Cam.” She was reasonably sure it was Cam.
