Darklands (Deadtown #4)

“It doesn’t matter,” Dad said, speaking to me, not the demon. “My time was up that night. One way or the other, my life would have come to an end. If not the way it happened, then I would have fallen down the stairs and broken my neck, or had a heart attack, or…or gotten hit by lightning. Whatever.” With his thumb, he wiped the tears that spilled from my eyes. “I was proud to die defending you. I couldn’t imagine a better death.”

I threw my arms around him.

“Aw, crap,” muttered Butterfly. It flew up into the air, and then dived back into my gut. The impact stung. The demon burrowed into my intestines and stayed there, quiet and unmoving.

Dad hugged me back. Then he and I continued along the road. “You can’t let anyone see that Eidolon,” he said after a bit. “The penalty for bringing a demon into the Darklands is death.”

That surprised me. “In the realm of the dead? How can death be a penalty here?”

“Even shades can die. The magic bleeds away, and the spirit disperses. There’s nothing left.”

“I’ll be careful.” If I could get my hands on some bronze, I’d finally kill that damn Eidolon. Until then, I’d use Tina’s technique to starve it. “It’s not much of a demon, anyway. Likes to dress up in frilly pink underwear.”

Dad’s eyebrows went up at that, then he laughed. Butterfly sulked in my gut.

We walked in silence for several minutes. In my mind, I was reliving the night my father died, trying to understand it as he did. I couldn’t see his death as a good thing, but my memories hurt a little less.

And there was one thing I could tell my father. Something I’d been wanting to say, dreaming of saying, for years. But now it was true. “I killed it, Dad. I killed the Destroyer.”

“You did?”

“Split its damn head in two.”

Dad smiled broadly. “That’s my girl. So tell me about it.”

As we walked through the Darklands together, I did. I showed him the place on my arm where the Hellion had marked me, explained how the mark had almost gotten the better of me. But despite the demon mark’s power, I killed the Hellion that had put it there. Dad’s death had not gone unavenged. As I told the story, the guilt inside me shrank and shriveled. It wasn’t gone, but it was now tiny, a speck. For the first time in ten years, it almost felt like something I might be able to live with.

WE PASSED A FEW PEOPLE AS WE WALKED ALONG THE ROAD. Some stared at my white clothes. One or two offered me food from bags or baskets they carried. Most averted their eyes.

From what I could tell, most residents of the Darklands wore gray or brown. Dad nodded toward a woman in a long, pearl-gray dress. “Remember I told you that clothing color shows status? Light hues, like that gray, indicate newcomers,” he said. “I’d say that woman hasn’t been here more than a couple of weeks. The longer she stays here, though, the more her dress will darken.”

“What about colors? I saw a man wearing green.” He’d been carrying a bow and arrows, and his green tunic made me think of Robin Hood.

“Most shades are simply waiting around until the magic decides it’s time for them to move on. Those are the ones dressed in gray and brown. Colors mean the magic has chosen you to do a job in the Darklands. Green is for warriors. Sooner or later—if not on the road, then in Tywyll for sure—you’ll see folks wearing red. Red is the color of Keepers, those who tend to various aspects of the realm. There are Forest Keepers, Magic Keepers, Soul Keepers, Cauldron Keepers…” He glanced down at his own tunic. “When I first arrived, my clothes were blue. That’s for members of Lord Arawn’s court.”

“You were in the court?”

“For years. Caretaker of the royal library. A dream job for a bookworm like me, except for the fact that I didn’t want to be here.” He fingered the hem of his sleeve. “This very outfit used to be pale blue. Your mother would’ve called it robin’s-egg. One day, I noticed my tunic had darkened a little. It was like finding my first gray hair. Later, it became more of a slate blue and then, with time, slate turned into navy, which turned into an inky blue so dark it might as well have been black. That’s when I left.” He glanced at me sidelong. “I may have taken a few books and things along with me.”

“What would have happened if you’d stayed? Would Arawn have forced you to be reincarnated?”

“No need. As the colors darken, the pull of the cauldrons grows stronger. I moved to the farthest edge of the Wood, as far away from Tywyll as I could get. It was better there; I barely felt a thing. Had to keep a low profile, though. Soul Keepers patrol the Wood looking for avoiders. When they find one, they escort the shade to Tywyll. Once they get there, the pull of the cauldrons takes over.” A shadow crossed his face. Then he shook his head and smiled. “Those bright-red clothes are not very practical for hunting down rogue shades. I could spot a Soul Keeper patrol from half a mile away and slip quietly back to my hideout.”

We took a break at midday. Or that’s the time Dad said it was. I couldn’t tell. The light here never changed. There was no source for it, no shadows cast. The diffuse half-light touched everything the same.

“That’s why they call it the Darklands,” Dad explained, “even though it’s not really dark here. It’s more like there’s no discernible light source.”

We rested under a tree, both of us leaning against the trunk. Dad used his dagger to peel an apple and cut it in slices. I wasn’t hungry. I counted that as a good thing, since I didn’t know how long I’d have to go without food.

A figure appeared on the road, moving in our direction. This man seemed to be having trouble walking. He staggered along, zig-zagging from one side of the road to the other. I nudged my father, and he craned to see what I was looking at.

The man approached us. In the distance, his tunic had looked gray. Now I could see it was made up of thin stripes: black like Dad’s clothes, white like mine. It was like the magic couldn’t decide whether he was a trespasser or due for reincarnation. Either way, this man clearly didn’t belong here.

He held out his hands, and I thought there was something familiar about his face, the bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Help me,” he said. “I…I think I’m lost.”

Dad’s hand froze halfway to carrying a slice of apple to his mouth. Slowly, like he was fighting the movement, he held out the slice to the man. He pressed his lips together, but the words came out, anyway, each syllable ripped from his throat. “Would you…like…something…to eat?”

The man stared at the apple. I was sure I’d met him before. “I don’t…I don’t feel right,” he said. “Maybe some food…” He reached out.

“No!” I knocked the piece of apple from Dad’s hand. I remembered where I’d seen the man. His name was Ferris Mackey, and he’d been a cab driver in Boston. He was one of the murder victims whose life force had gone into Pryce. “Mack,” I said, “you don’t belong here.”

“I know,” Mack said, staring at the apple slice. Ants swarmed to investigate it where it lay in the dirt of the road. “I can’t find my cab.”

“He’s a spirit,” I whispered to my father. “One of the spirits that came in with Pryce.” Dad nodded his understanding.

“Don’t eat anything, all right?” I said. “Not until you, um…”

“Not until you find your cab,” Dad finished.

Mack looked up sharply, his eyes hopeful under his bushy brows. “Do you know where it is?”

“It’s in the Black,” Dad said, standing.

“The Black? Never heard of it. You mean Blackstone Street, over by the North End?”

“It’s more like the Sumner Tunnel,” Dad said, putting an arm around Mack’s shoulders and turning him in the direction we’d come. “Kind of dark.”

“Why the hell would I leave my cab in the Sumner Tunnel?” Mack was indignant.

“It broke down,” I said, getting to my feet. “Don’t you remember?”

“I remember a crash, I think, and…” Mack shrugged. “I’m not sure. You’re right, though,” he said to Dad. “It got real dark then.”

“Just follow this road,” Dad said, pointing, “as far as it goes. Keep going until it’s night. Then you’ll find where you’re supposed to be.”

“Follow the road until it’s night. Got it, thanks.” He peered ahead, judging the distance. Dad clapped him on the back, and he started trudging away.

“And don’t eat anything until you get there!” I shouted after him.

He waved a hand in acknowledgment and kept going.

Dad and I turned in the other direction and set out again, too. “Mack was a world-class jerk in life,” I said. “He was a bigot and proud of it. I rode in his cab once and was ready to smack him after the first block. But he didn’t deserve to die.” I turned and looked at Mack’s receding figure. “Will he be able to find the Black?”

“If he stays on the road, yes. It goes right to the border. He’ll feel its pull as he gets closer. There are Soul Keepers there to help him, too. When he finds his way to the edge of the Wood, his magical body will dissolve and his spirit will fly up into the Black.”

“And he’ll pass into the light?”

Dad nodded. “We call it the Beyond.”

I was glad. Mack wasn’t one of my favorite people, but he’d looked so lost and confused wandering through the Darklands, a place he was never meant to be. Even a bigoted jerk should be able to enter that beautiful light and find out what awaited him in the Beyond.

And he’d gotten away from Pryce. “Mab said that the spirits Myrddin bound to Pryce might peel away from him here. So Mack showed us two things: that Pryce has been on this road and that he’s weaker than he was when he entered the Darklands.”