Dreams and Shadows Read online

  Knocks stood expressionless before their jeers and calls for his execution. Inside he felt a rage greater than any he’d ever known, but at the same time he drew power from the intense emotional suffering surrounding him. This crowd was terror stricken and they were letting their emotions get the best of them. It was in this moment that Knocks first glimpsed his destiny, when he first knew where his true talents lay. He looked over at Meinrad. “No.”

  The roar of the crowd dulled to mere murmurs.

  “I don’t believe you’ll be allowed a choice in the matter,” said Ruadhri. “You are an abomination, a slap to the face of this court. And now you have a chance to do your duty.”

  “How long have you been doing this?” asked Knocks.

  “Longer than we would like to admit,” answered Meinrad.

  “Are there rules?”

  Ruadhri and Meinrad exchanged glances. The crowd looked around. Then all eyes fell upon Dithers. “Yes, there are, actually,” said Meinrad.

  It was as Knocks suspected. He looked at Meinrad. “You yourself said that I was poisoned by my mother’s vanity. A Sidhe’s vanity. Why punish me for the sin of my parents?” Then he looked at Dithers. “I didn’t lose Ewan.” He raised an arm and pointed an outstretched finger. “He did.”

  “No!” cried Dithers. “I didn’t lose him!”

  “Yes, you did,” said Knocks.

  “No! You all stood here! You all saw! We all let him go! We all failed!”

  “It was the agreement. You swore to protect the child or take his place. I was there. In your arms when you did it. It is time to uphold that oath.”

  Everyone looked at Meinrad. Meinrad closed his eyes, solemnly nodding. “The boy speaks the truth.”

  “No! Noooooo!” Dithers tried to run, but the fairies around him closed ranks, boxing him in.

  For a moment he considered leaping into the trees, but imagined the whole of the court hunting him through the woods, running him down only to throw him atop the altar anyway. He knew his life was forfeit; that was the deal. And as the hands reached in and took hold of him, he struggled and flailed, but only so much as his instincts would allow.

  Deep down, he knew that this was the only way it was going to end.

  Knocks smiled. He could taste the fear, not only in Dithers but in every other fairy around him. They saw what he had just done. Not only had he eluded death, but he had done so after they had demanded it. If there was one thing they all knew about changelings, it was that they could never forget. More than any other, this night would haunt them. They all knew it. And Knocks savored the rich flavor of that.

  He watched, satisfied, as the fairies threw Dithers atop the altar and King Ruadhri approached with the knife. All was once again silent, save for Dithers’s struggling grunts.

  Then a laugh rang out in the night—a single, cackling bellow of a bray, the likes of which only one creature in the world could make. Coyote.

  He stood hunched over, wheezing, gasping for breath between loud guffaws and hysterical hollers. Coyote straightened up, trying very hard to get the words out. “Prophecy,” he said between laughs, “always has a way of working itself out in the end.” He shook his head, looking directly at Dithers. “This is what the hunt was telling you.” Then he turned around, still laughing, and walked off in fits, following the boys and the djinn into the wildwood, calling out behind him, “This is what the hunt was telling all of you.”

  Dithers knew now that this was true. He looked out into the crowd, and despite the dozens gathered together, he saw only one: the fractured, deformed, spitting image of the boy he had cared so deeply for—morbidly smiling back at him. Enjoying it all. He looked up, saw the glint of a raised knife, and let out a howl that shattered the night.

  COLBY AND EWAN jumped, startled by the sound, the distant screech like a drowning cat in a burlap sack, clawing at the last few seconds of air. They kept walking, pretending they couldn’t hear it.

  “They’ve made their decision,” said Yashar grimly.

  The boys still walked hand in hand, heartbroken. “Colby?” asked Ewan. “Why did they want to kill me?”

  “They have to sacrifice a fairy or the Devil will take one of them. So they made you a fairy to save themselves.”

  “So I’m a fairy now? For real?” he asked.

  Colby looked up at Yashar for the answer. Yashar nodded. “Yes. For now.”

  “Oh,” said Ewan, sadly. “I thought it would be . . . different.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE LAST MINUTES OF CHILDHOOD

  It was after dark and the only light was a nearby flickering streetlamp that buzzed like a bug zapper every time it went out. Yashar, Colby, and Ewan stood on the steps of the children’s shelter, Ewan dressed like a Dickensian urchin, a note from an imaginary mother pinned to his clothes. The details were cruel, involving all manner of drugs and abuse, but the story was necessary in case Ewan ever slipped up and mentioned monsters or fairies or his time in the woods; child psychiatrists were fond of metaphor and archetypes.

  “Why can’t I come with you?” asked Ewan.

  Yashar looked coldly at Colby and nodded. Colby nodded back. “Yashar says where we’re going, you won’t be welcome.”

  “Because I’m a fairy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about you?”

  “They’re not so picky about wizards.”

  “Oh.” Ewan frowned. “I’ve never been alone before.”

  “I know, but I’ll come back and visit you every chance I get.”

  Ewan looked down at the ground, scuffing his feet. Colby looked at Yashar, neither knowing what to say. Then Colby smiled. “You won’t be alone.” He stripped off his backpack, unzipping the flap, and pulled out Mr. Bearston. The bear was even more of a mess now than when it had first gone on the journey—dirty, frayed, and a bit worn down. But there was a look in his remaining eye, as if he’d seen something. Something wonderful. Something frightening. Something to believe in. At least, that’s how Mr. Bearston looked to Colby. He didn’t need him anymore; Ewan did.

  Colby looked down at the bear in his arms, speaking plainly to it. “You have a very important job to do, Mr. Bearston. Our friend Ewan needs you to watch out for him. Can you do that for me?” With a single hand he made the bear nod. “Very good, sir. Go to work.” He handed the bear to Ewan, who took it in both arms with an immediate hug. “He’ll look after you now.”

  “Thank you.” Ewan stepped forward, throwing his arms around Colby’s neck, Mr. Bearston still dangling from one hand.

  “You’ll come back for me?”

  “I always do.”

  “Bye, Colby.”

  “Good-bye, Ewan.”

  With that, Colby pulled away, nodded to Yashar, and gave a quick wave before walking off. Ewan stood sadly on the steps, watching his friend disappear around the building. Then he turned and made his own way into the shelter, ready to tell the lie that Yashar had prepared for him.

  “SO WILL HE remember anything?” asked Colby.

  “Only music,” said Yashar.

  “Why music?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Will he remember me?”

  “If you keep your promise to visit him, though he probably won’t remember where you met.”

  “Oh,” said Colby, letting out a deep sigh.

  “You will keep your promise, won’t you?” asked Yashar.

  “Of course I will!” he said excitedly. “Ewan and I will be best friends forever.”

  “I know you will. You’re a good friend.”

  The two walked in silence for a moment. Then Colby spoke up again. “Yashar?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are we going home now?”

  “Why would we go home, Colby? You haven’t seen everything yet.”

  “
Oh,” he said. “Do I have to?”

  Yashar nodded as if there was no debate. “It was your wish,” he said, “and you made me promise. So yes.”

  “Would you hold my hand?”

  “The whole way,” said Yashar. “The whole way.”

  Yashar took Colby’s hand in his, and the two walked into the night, away from the first of their many adventures together. And while they did, in fact, go on many more adventures—taking them to many other great and terrible places—this was not where this adventure truly ended for Colby Stevens; for just as all little boys must grow bigger, so too must their problems.

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  UNDERSTANDING THE NATURE OF THE SUPERNATURAL

  An essay by Dr. Thaddeus Ray, Ph.D., from his book The Everything You Cannot See

  All matter is energy. To fully understand the supernatural creature, you must first fully grasp this simple, scientific principle. Every component of the universe is composed of the same basic building blocks. Take apart a person, a tree, a drop of water, and a ray of sunlight and you will find many of the same parts. The differences between them are derived from how they are assembled and how fast they vibrate. Simple concept, complex execution. The same is true with the world of preternatural beings and events.

  When scientists sit down to calculate the mass of the universe, their math always comes up with giant holes, empty voids where other numbers should be. So there become required elements that must exist to match their theories. They conjure concepts like dark matter, dark energy, and a dozen other names and phrases yet uncoined. While some might ascribe the error to the theory itself, there is another possibility: that there is a form of currently immeasurable mass or energy out there—a particle or particles that obey their own laws and react in their own, distinct ways to every other particle in the universe. Particles we have no way of detecting or measuring. I call one such particle, and the energy it creates, dreamstuff.

  Dreamstuff is the essence of consciousness, the particle of soul. Everything self-aware contains some amount of it. Like any form of energy or mass, it obeys its own rules and can be found in varying degrees throughout the universe. Here on earth it collects and flows in concentrated amounts through what are most commonly referred to as ley lines. Like any free-flowing substance, it often collects in small pools, tributaries, and even lake-size offshoots where it may swirl about indefinitely before it is either absorbed by other elements or returned to the flow. That is not to say that there isn’t dreamstuff all around you even as you read this, but that the concentrations are nowhere near that of ley line intersection points or a pooled collection.

  It is thought that the unborn absorb this energy throughout their mother’s pregnancy and on through early childhood until they’ve collected enough to achieve self-awareness, assembling a soul of their own. At some undetermined point before their birth, they accumulate enough to be able to exist free of the womb, but not quite enough to retain memories. Most theories point to a person’s first memory as the moment they achieved true awareness and completed their soul. Those who study this process refer to this variant energy as soulstuff. Thus we mortal creatures are a combination of standard matter and dreamstuff. Just as there are manifestations of matter that contain no consciousness, like rocks, trees, and the lower forms, could it not also be that there are manifestations that are none but consciousness?

  So what is a supernatural being? It is a being comprised almost entirely of dreamstuff. Simply put, it is what happens when dreamstuff collects into a form, much like humans are comprised almost entirely of water. Each creature is created by the governing principles under which this form of energy and matter operates.

  As dreamstuff collects in an area, that area begins to take on properties governed by the sentient inhabitants of the region. If they are a peaceful, nature-loving population, the odds are good that the dreamstuff will enhance the natural beauty of the area and produce creatures that are as playful, helpful, and as delightful as the locals, ultimately enhancing those emotions in the population and thus feeding off that particular brand of dreamstuff. If, however, they are fearful, warlike, or particularly bloodthirsty, the odds are they will find themselves surrounded by monsters that prey upon those very emotions.

  The stronger the concentration of dreamstuff, the more readily creatures can be pulled from it. Particularly rich regions can bring into being a creature from a single nightmare, its traits the product of a single man’s imagination, while starved or blighted areas might require the belief of an entire population to produce a single, weak being. Either way, the powers, abilities, and weaknesses of any such creature lie wholly within the belief in those traits. For example, stories of inside-out clothing warding off certain fairies aren’t so much that fairy’s aversion to the practice as much as a specific population’s aversion, which is then acquired by the spirit in question. However, sometimes only those who believe that wearing their clothing in such a fashion would ward them off actually do so. Things get exponentially trickier when taking into account that these beings possess psyches of their own (one might argue that they are actually nothing but psyche) and their own belief of such things might be able to affect their own form and traits, thus explaining the differing levels of potential manifestation among the more intelligent species.

  Just as all flesh must consume flesh, food to live, all beings of dreamstuff must similarly feed upon dreamstuff. Helpful fairies such as brownies or the Heinzelmännchen of Germany appear to feed upon the goodwill and joy of those they help, consuming the positive energy and converting it into the dreamstuff they need. Some feed in a passive way, while others, like the Leanan Sidhe, act more directly to siphon the energy they need to live. Likewise, those creatures that prey upon fear and agony must work in some way to generate those emotions if they cannot find a place populated by those already experiencing them. Particularly clever or lucky creatures often make homes in places where the suffering they feed upon is readily generated, like hospitals, prisons, or (history permitting) death camps.

  Primitive creatures, like vampires or the Black Annis, must consume the energy directly from flesh or blood. Lacking the ability to simply feed off ambient energy, they often have to take every drop of blood or consume a body down to the bones to get enough nourishment to last them until their next meal, which tends to be far more often than those creatures operating at higher levels, thus putting them at far greater risk of discovery. These beasts often find themselves destroyed by careful mortals or, sometimes, other supernatural creatures looking to draw as little attention to themselves as possible.

  All supernatural creatures are formed in belief. They are shaped by it, they are compelled by it, and they will be forever bound to it. Without belief they would not exist. Once a man not only understands this immutable fact, but embraces it, he will find that all supernatural creatures are but an extension of his own will. The biggest danger to a creature living beyond the veil isn’t being forgotten, rather, it is being discovered by the man who has somehow stumbled upon this rather unfortunate natural law. This makes man a very dangerous species to tangle with, and history is filled with encounters between such witchcraft or wizardry against local supernatural populations, to the detriment of both parties.

  Magic and miracles are but the psyche’s manipulation of ambient dreamstuff and the exertion of will upon it to change one thing into another. When a thousand people traipse up a hill that they consider to be a holy place (in fact a dreamstuff-rich environment), and their holy symbols become transmuted from one substance into another (like plastic into gold), just as they believed it would, is it the will of some greater being? Or does their combined sense of will projected upon the surrounding energies cause the transmutation, just as applying fire in just the right manner to a substance can change it from one thing into another?

  Men who fully understand these principles, armed with both belief a
nd understanding and backed up by a sufficient amount of ambient dreamstuff, we call magicians, wizards, warlocks, witches, or holy men. The practices of these people, as varied in their rituals and results as are supernatural creatures themselves, are simple concepts with complex execution. Once you grasp that, there is no manner of manipulation that will ever be truly foreign to you and no creature you cannot understand on a basic level.

  Of course, this knowledge makes these things no less dangerous, any more than understanding the inner workings of a lion will protect you from the grip of its jaws. Rather, you have endangered yourself just for daring to understand them. There are things that go bump in the night, and many of them prefer to be known as no more than that.

  Be wary, be vigilant. For few of us practitioners die of natural causes, and most of us die young.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE YOUNG MAN COLBY STEVENS

  There was no such thing as destiny, and no such thing as prophecy; there was only matter slamming into other matter like two toy trucks in the hands of a child. There was no rhyme or reason, no grand scheme to it all—just shiny new things rapidly becoming broken, battered, and old by comparison. Since childhood, Colby Stevens had convinced himself that Yashar had chosen him for a reason. That he had made his wishes for a reason. That he had saved Ewan from the clutches of Hell for a reason. But it was now apparent to him that nothing actually happens for a reason. Shit just happens, and there wasn’t a reason for any of it.

  By the age of twenty-two most people think they’ve seen the world, convinced they’ve lived a lifetime already, having been gifted some arcane knowledge to impart. But by twenty-two Colby had seen the world. He did have knowledge to impart. But there was no one to tell, no one who would believe him.

  Colby Stevens was a broken man, a shiny toy battered beyond recognition, whose spark had long since faded and whose new-toy smell had given way to the dank sweat of fear. He was no longer the wide-eyed child keen to see it all. Rather, he was particularly eager to crawl into the hole he had found for himself to hide, hoping never to see anything new again. Nothing would have felt luckier than the doldrums of normalcy—a quiet hobby, a wife, a street without angels perched upon ledges or fading ghosts wandering in and out of his sight.