At home, I wrapped a dish towel around my hand and dug through the cupboard over the refrigerator, feeling around in the mess of forbidden cutlery for a paring knife. I was shaking, and my fingers skittered over forks and ladles before I found the knife my dad had been using on his apple the other night. The blade was only about three inches long, not particularly sharp. It had a wooden handle, and the finish had started to wear off. I wrapped it in the towel and put it in the pocket of my coat. Then I put up my hood and started for the park.
At the intersection of Carver and Oak, I cut across the grass, past the picnic shelters and the playground. The swings were squeaking to themselves. The park was empty and smoke hung over everything.
On the other side of the baseball diamonds, the dump hill rose dark and hazy through the rain. The ground was swampy with standing water.
I jumped the fence, wading through a tangle of weeds. At the base of the hill, I stuck the knife deep into the loose gravel and the fill. The door was there almost at once, so dull and worn out that it was almost invisible. There was no handle, so I knocked and stepped back. For a second, nothing happened, but then the outline flared from inside, lit with a warm glow. From far away, I heard the sound of bells and was blindsided by a strange feeling of inevitability. The hill had always been there, looming over the park, right there on the other side of the fence. Waiting for me.
When the door swung open, no one was waiting in the entryway. Glass lanterns lit the corridor in two rows. The panes were set in a network of lead, arranged in fancy diamond patterns. When I pushed my way inside, the door swung closed behind me. The knife lay on the floor and I bent and picked it up.
The Lady's hill was nothing like Mayhem. The walls were paneled in dark, polished wood, with an intricately tiled floor and carved baseboards. Everything was clean and symmetrical and shiny. Stained glass windows hung in rectangular alcoves along the hall, the pictures lit from behind with oil lamps. The air smelled nice, like cut grass and spices.
At the end of the hall, there was a little table with a shallow silver dish on it.
A boy stood beside the table, wearing dark blue knee pants and a matching jacket. He looked maybe twelve and was looking up at me, holding out his hand. "Your card, please."
I stared down at him. "Card? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Your calling card. Present your card and I'll announce you."
"I don't have a card. Take me to see the Lady!"
He looked at me a long time. Then he nodded and gestured for me to follow him. "This way." He led me through corridors and doorways into a warm, lamplit room.
There were rugs on the floor and a fire burning in a marble fireplace. All of the furniture was the fussy old-fashioned stuff my mom liked.
A woman sat in a high-backed chair, embroidering a cluster of poisonous-looking flowers onto a piece of cloth. She looked up when I came in. The skin around her eyes was pink, like maybe she'd been crying. When she raised her face to the light, though, I saw that her eyelashes were crusted with something yellow and diseased. She looked young and like she should have been delicately, strikingly beautiful, but it was spoiled by her unhealthy appearance.
"Are you the Lady?" I said, standing in the doorway.
She sat perfectly still, holding the needle out from the cloth and watching me. The front of her dress was a complicated arrangement of creases and folds. Above that was a high fitted collar made of lace. She smiled and it made her look frail. "Is that any way to greet someone?"
Her voice was sweet, but it had an icy undertone that cut through the harmony. Her expression was so peaceful it looked arrogant, and I could feel myself getting angrier. "You burned down my dad's church! Is there a formal greeting for that?"
The Lady set down her embroidery. "It was a necessary evil, I'm afraid. My dear sister has been scampering around like a trained dog, playing jester and fool to people who are already dangerously close to forgetting us. It was time to remind the town what really defines us."
"That's your reason--to put the fear of God into a bunch of people who don't believe you exist? You just destroyed a two-hundred-year-old building! A girl is dead!"
"The fear of God is nothing compared to the fear of tragedy and loss." She tilted her head and smiled. Her teeth were small and even, perfectly white. "But in the main, it benefits us in other ways. After all, the tragedy has turned sweet and brought us a visitor."
At first I thought she was talking about herself in the plural, the way that queens did, but then I looked around. On a big pillow near the writing table, there was a little kid wearing button boots and a white sailor dress. She was playing with a wire birdcage, putting a windup bird inside and taking it back out. She had a wide ribbon tied around her waist. The other end was fastened to the leg of the table.
"Do you like her?" said the Lady. "She is such a sweet thing."
The girl was maybe two or three, with hazel eyes and small, even teeth. She smiled up at me, and one cheek dimpled so deep I could have gotten my finger stuck in it.
I sucked in my breath. She wasn't how I remembered, but I knew her. Through all the bows and the ruffles, I knew her. She was human. I'd seen her every week in the church parking lot or playing tag with Tate on the lawn in front of the Sunday school. Natalie Stewart sat on the floor, looking at me over the top of the cage.
She waved the clockwork bird, and the Lady reached down, touching Natalie's hair, patting her cheek.
I remembered what my mom had said about sitting on a cushion at the Lady's feet. Natalie was so clean that she looked artificial. "So, she's like your doll?"
That made the Lady laugh, hiding her mouth with her hand. "I do love a pretty child, don't you? And she complements the room." She gestured around us. "As you can see, I am a great lover of beauty."
The walls were covered with glass display cases holding seashells and pressed flowers. The biggest case hung over the back of a velvet sofa. It was full of dead butterflies on tiny brass tacks. Two of the walls were lined with built-in shelves, like a library, but there were no books. Instead, there were birds--robins and jays, mostly--and a huge stuffed crow with orange glass eyes.
While I looked around at all the butterflies and birds, the Lady sat at her table, watching my face. Then she stood up and turned her back on me.
"Please, sit," she said, gesturing to a chair by the fireplace. "Sit and warm yourself."
I sat down on the edge of the high-backed chair, leaning forward a little. My jacket was wet and I was dripping on the upholstery.
Natalie put down the cage and came as close as the knotted ribbon would let her.
The Lady smiled. "And what does one say to our guest?"
Natalie tucked her chin and didn't look at me. "How do you do?" she said, rocking back on her heels.
When she rocked forward again, she held out a hand, offering me a crumpled ribbon with a little charm strung on it. When I reached for it, she dropped the ribbon into my hand. Then she smiled and backed away, tugging a handful of hair across her mouth and sucking on it.
The Lady stood very still, staring off at nothing with her hand at her throat. She kept touching a carved oval on a velvet band, brushing the profile with one finger.
Then she turned to look at me. When she smiled, it looked savage. "My sister used to be a war goddess. Or didn't she tell you? She used to sit at the ford with an ash branch in her hand and a crow's wing tied in her hair. She watched as armies crossed the river and chose who and in what order they would die. And then she let herself be ruined, like everyone lets themselves be ruined, shrunken down to fit the visions of the ignorant. All except me."
"I don't understand. Why do you care so much what people think about the Morrigan?"
"No one is immune to disbelief. Their weakening faith can destroy us all." She turned and looked me full in the face, biting down on the word all. Her eyes were dark and bloodshot, caked yellow with infection. "We have always gloried in our strength and our power, even when it made us monsters. But now, they diminish us in their stories, making us spirits and sprites. Trivial people, bent on mischief, petty in their dealings. Petty and spiteful and powerless." She raised her head and looked me straight in the face. "I assure you, Mr. Doyle, I am not powerless."
I didn't say anything. She might look sick and frail, but in that moment, she also looked unbelievably cruel.
"We are changing," she said. "They've ruined my sister and robbed her of her power. We're a fabular people, defined by the whims of their lore and their tales. They have always told us what we are."
"Why stay here, then, if it's so bad? Why stick around and wait for them to ruin you?"
"The town is bound to us. From the earliest days, we've helped them where we could, and they've helped us."
"By help, do you mean blood?"
The Lady drew herself up. "We are entitled to payment for the assistance we provide. We gave them prosperity. We made them what they are--the finest, the most fortunate hamlet in the region, and in turn, they remembered us as tall and proud and fearsome. Their belief has been enough to keep us whole."
But it wasn't enough. The roofs leaked, the topsoil was washing away in the rain, the rust had settled in, and now Gentry was coming down in pieces. She was pale, red around the eyes, and they needed blood and worship to survive.
I shook my head. "You take kids away from their families, and you kill them. Are you saying that everyone should just sit back and let it happen?"
"We are as much a part of this town as they are--vital to their way of life. And they love us for it."
I stared into the fire, shaking my head. "That's not true. They don't love or need us. They hate us."
The Lady made a breathless little noise, almost a laugh. "People are very disingenuous, dear. They talk and arrange meetings and generally make a great to-do. Do you know how one can tell which of the chorus are sincere?"
Her smile was cold. She could have been made of wax or porcelain like a doll, but her eyes were wicked and bright. "The ones who are sincere leave. The others sink their roots in this quiet town and wring their hands and bemoan the loss of their children, and all the while, they take their payment, and they keep the town and they feed it, just like they've always done."
Her eyes were dark and awful. I had an idea that she never stopped smiling.
"So, killing kids isn't something you do because you're morally bankrupt psychopaths, but more like a public service." My voice was hard and that made me feel braver. "You're doing it for everyone, right? Not just to feed yourselves, but for the town because the town needs devastated parents and dead kids. And hell, might as well burn their churches down as long as you're at it."
"Yes," the Lady said, very calmly. "Their blood is their blood and when they honor me with it, I receive it and then give that power back to them. I make them prosper." She reached up and tried to touch my face. "Just accept it, dear. Everyone else has."
I pulled away, twisting out of her reach. "If you're just going to go around bleeding the town, why bother with the church at all? Why make them suffer if you're going to take their blood anyway?"
"Because my wretched goblin of a sister has fallen well outside the bounds of my authority, allowing her fiends to show themselves in the streets at every opportunity. Her cavalier regard for prudence might seem precious now, but it undermines us all. They won't be joyful enough to give her what she wants if they're looking to their own tragedy."
"So you're punishing her."
The Lady smiled and her mouth was beautiful and cruel. "I only want us to be amicable, to reach a compromise. But if she refuses to see reason, then there's nothing I can do and she must be punished. Will you tell her so when next you see her? Tell her all this could have been avoided."
"I'm not your messenger. I work for the Morrigan, and it's not my job to tell her what she's doing wrong."
The Lady smiled, eyes downcast. "Oh, my naive darling, the Morrigan doesn't command you. You're a creature of free agency who came to me tonight of your own accord. She would have held you back had she been able. On occasion, you might dally in her pitiful circus, but your will is your own."
"At least your sister cares about something besides herself. She saved my life, so stop talking about her like she's so beneath you."
"She is beneath me. She has no pride and no dignity. She sends her creatures out to dance like monkeys and degrade themselves before the town."
"And so you decided to hate her?"
The Lady shook her head, looking off toward Natalie. "She lied and deceived me. She stole a child from my house and brought it home. She defied me and threatened us with discovery. She nearly destroyed the town."
"She thought it was disgusting to keep kids as toys and pets, and she's right. What are you going to do with your new toy? Pin her on a corkboard and then show everyone your collection and talk about how pretty she is?"
"This little imp? Nothing so significant. She'll go to the earth like all the rest, completely unremarkable."
"She doesn't have to be remarkable to matter. She's a kid with a family. She's someone's sister."
"Just so. And now she's nothing. She'll go to the unholy ground in the hour before dawn as All Souls' passes into a forgotten saint's day, and she'll die for the renewal of the town."
"And that's all it takes to make you happy? You kill little kids, then go home and wait until it's time to do it all again? What the hell kind of existence is that?"
The Lady raised her head, looking off at something in the distance. "They used to honor us with warriors." She glanced over at Natalie, like the idea of using something so powerless disgusted her. "And now we've been reduced to sprites and goblins, and only the slaughter of the weak keeps us alive."
I backed away from her. The room was full of glass-eyed birds and dead butterflies and big, old-fashioned furniture. All these things were very clear, like they were the only things that had ever happened in my life.
The Lady went across to the table and picked up a little brass bell. When she rang it, the sound was high and clear.
Then she sat down, looking at me steadily. "This meeting has gone on long enough, sir. I thank you for your company and bear you no ill will, but I can't take back the destruction of the church or give you what you want. The Cutter will escort you out."
I remembered what the Morrigan had said about the Cutter. For one second, I could almost picture him--a massive silhouette, huge and hulking. Then it was gone. Instead, there was just the image of a woman. She lay on her back in a pool of murky water, face mangled, arms strapped to her sides.
"No," I said, already knowing that the word didn't matter but needing to say it. "I'm not leaving her here. She's little, she's just a kid."
"It's no use arguing," the Lady said. "I won't cede her to you willingly, and you can't stand against the Cutter. None of us can."
I tried to think what a brave person would do. What Tate would do. But Natalie was her family, and I was underground with a woman who emptied entire lakes and then dumped them in her sister's living room when she was feeling particularly vindictive. Who called up endless rain and burned down buildings just to make sure that no one forgot her. Compared to her, I was useless.
When the door swung in, Natalie cringed, shrinking against the Lady's skirt and holding on to her birdcage. The Cutter stood in the doorway. He was thin, taller than the Lady. He could have been her brother. He had the same dark hair, the same watery, diseased look around his eyes.
Everything about him was familiar in flashes--the black coat, the thin, colorless mouth, the bones in his face--all vague and uneasy, like something from a dream.
He touched his forehead, even though he wasn't wearing a hat.
When I looked at him, I remembered being small, just the right size to fit in the crook of his elbow. He was creeping into the bedroom, taking the rightful baby out of its crib, closing the window. Leaving me behind. He was the only thing I remembered from a life before Gentry.
The Lady rose from her chair, giving him a wide path, and he watched her back away. His eyes were sharp and narrow.
When the Lady spoke, she was looking away from him. "Show our guest out if you please, sir."
The Cutter smiled--a strange, empty smile--and bowed to me, and then I smelled the smell that was seeping out of his skin. He smelled toxic, reeking with iron. I could feel my heartbeat--not just in my chest, but in my arms and hands and throat.
The Lady had covered her face with a handkerchief, and my question wasn't so much curiosity as numb confusion. "What is he?"
She looked at me over the lacy edge of her handkerchief and her answer was muffled. "A sadist and a masochist. He endures tremendous suffering because it pleases him to see the suffering of others."
The Cutter didn't look particularly miserable or suffering. His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, but he moved quickly. "Come along," he said in a hoarse whisper, and grabbed me by the arm.
As he pulled me out into the hall, I looked back. The last thing I saw was Tate's sister, settling back down onto her pillow, hugging her birdcage.
Then the fumes washed over me and I staggered. The Cutter held me steady, digging his fingers into my arm. His expression was polite, like a gentleman in a movie about people who rode around in carriages, but his voice was deep and rough and should have belonged to someone else.
"Easy does it," he said. "You're all right."
With his hand on my arm, he led me along the hall.
"Tell me, cousin, how's the weather up in the park tonight? I thought it smelled like rain."
When I didn't answer, he gave me a little shake and tightened his grip, dragging me along by the elbow with his coat flapping behind him. "Don't go faint on me now or I'll have to slap the sense back into you. Maybe you think I haven't a care for what happens up ground, but God help me, I love that town. The Lady, she pines after the old days, but tribes and villages can't match the hospitality we've seen here."
I concentrated on putting one foot after the other, keeping myself upright and my eyes on the floor in front of me.
"Let me tell you a story," he said. "A story about us and about the people who live just above us. It was a miserable, desperate time, and they looked to us for salvation. Cousin, we had more blood than any hill's ever had in a single year. We bled their lambkins on all the old feast days--Imbolc and Beltane and Lammas--and on every holy day." He smiled over his shoulder, showing small, even teeth, but his gums were raw and infected looking. "There are a lot of holy days, cousin."
"In the Depression," I said. My voice sounded thick and disjointed.
"The what?"
"In the Great Depression, you took that blood from the town. You took their children and they blamed it on Kellan Caury. They hanged him out on Heath Road for stealing kids."
The Cutter stopped walking and turned to face me. Then he grinned--a wide, leering grin that took over his whole face. "Oh, Caury did it, all right. Make no mistake. He took them."
The smell that came off him when he talked was thick and scummy, like flaking rust and old blood. I yanked my arm out of his hand and leaned against the painted wallpaper. "What are you talking about? He wasn't a kidnapper. He just wanted to live a normal life."
The Cutter laughed. "Sure. Sure, he wanted to live peaceful and idyllic, tending his shop and stargazing with his girl. And we wanted something else. We get what we want."
For the first time, I looked at the Cutter--really looked at him. His face was symmetrical, with a straight nose, a sharp chin and jaw, but the tightness around his eyes made him look hollow and vacant.
Except for the pack of rotten girls, people in the slag heap seemed healthy. They were strange and sometimes ugly, but their faces were painless and their eyes were clear. The Cutter looked contagious. I took short, shallow breaths. My vision was starting to tunnel, and I couldn't do anything to stop it.
He grabbed my arm again and gave me a hard shake. "Stay with me, cousin. We're almost to the door."
"How did you get it--what you wanted from him?"
"Caury? That was simple. He had a sweet, pious girl that played piano in the church on Sundays and didn't mind much that he was a right oddity. Maybe he didn't start out begging to do our work, but he was willing enough in the end." The Cutter's voice sounded eager suddenly. "By the time I got through, that little tart was half what she'd been before, and he'd have done anything just to see that she didn't lose any more fingers."
I felt light-headed, sick in waves. "The way I heard it, you didn't kill him. It was the sheriff, the deputies--they got together a lynch mob."
The Cutter shook his head. "Oh, we killed him. Make no mistake. The town came for him, but we were the ones who killed him. They delivered him down to the killing ground, and maybe they didn't even really know why, but they got him there all right. They bludgeoned him first, beat him in the street like a dog, but there was still enough life in him to scream."
"You murdered one of your own people."
He was pulling me along, winding through hallways with fancy carved baseboards and painted wallpaper. We turned a corner and I was back in the entryway, with its smooth floor and its elegant wood-paneled walls. Everything seemed to blur and swim.
The Cutter unlatched the door and pushed it open. "Get along to your little friends, then."
On the other side, I could smell dead leaves and fresh air. I needed to be out in the park, out where I could breathe, but Tate's sister was tied to a fancy plush armchair and I turned to face the Cutter with the room tilting all around me. "What if I don't?"
He stood beside the door, straight and perfect like people in the court were supposed to be perfect, but his mouth was thin and the purple shadows under his cheekbones made his face look like a skull. "You will because I tell you to, and if you don't, then you can get along to hell. You might be fine and good and fair, cousin, but you're no cousin of mine."
His hand hit me between my shoulders then and he shoved me in the direction of Gentry and the outside world.
I stumbled into the drizzle and landed on my hands and knees, leaves cold and slick between my spread fingers. Behind me, the door swung shut and melted back into the shadows.
I got to my feet, gasping and coughing, and started across the park. At the corner of Carver Street, though, I stopped. I stood in the wavering halo of a streetlight, looking at the charm that Natalie had given me. The ribbon was sticky and frayed and the charm was nothing but a zipper pull, made of pink plastic and shaped like a teddy bear.
I crossed the grass to the solitary picnic table where Roswell and I had sat the night before and collapsed on the bench to think.
I was exhausted. My lungs ached and my clothes smelled like smoke, my dad's church was gone, and Natalie Stewart wasn't dead, but she was about to be.
I wanted to turn invisible, to disappear. I wanted to lie down and sink into the ground. That way, I wouldn't have to feel or think. I could be earth, roots, grass. Nothing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I took it out to see who was calling. Emma. I knew I should answer, at least tell her where I was and that I was okay, but the conversation seemed impossible. I stared at the phone, at her name glowing on the screen. Then I turned it off.