few steps further
.â Unwinter pushed the door, which quivered and scraped its way open, deathly silent.
Outside, fine smears of ash fell from a slumbrous, umbrous sky. Unwinterâs light was either the sere cold shine of a white winter sun, no warmth to be found in its glow, or the bruise-dusk of a blizzard with ice on its back. Black, lace-starred mountains, their sides splashed with fuming, smoking crimson hellholes of dwarven furnace vents or the mouths of greatwyrm dens, reared in serried edges on the horizon. A narrow obsidian walkway led away from the door, the ash soaking into its surface with tiny puffs of clawed steam. A mutter in the distance was the Dreaming Sea, touching even this cold shore. Above, pennants snapped and fluttered on the windâblack cloth, its edges gracefully fringed by moth-chewing.
Wait. Heâs not flying the red flags. Whatâs this?
Gallow followed as Unwinter strode onto the walkway, each step accompanied by that crackling scream of frozen, compressed air. Finally, Unwinter halted, and rounded on him.
Jeremiah tensed. Now they were getting somewhere.
â
I will die,
â Unwinter said, as calmly as if he were ordering an execution or a breakfast. â
But not before I have had my vengeance, Half. Do you understand?
â
Not really
. âHere I am.â He almost added,
Do your worst
, but that was just a step too far, even for a man who didnât give a fuck if he lived or died.
Except if he died, who would play this insane ten-sided game to keep Robin safe?
Unwinterâs lips peeled back from his white, white teeth. The crevices and grooves between them were threaded with crimson, the wide bloody smile of true amusement indistinguishable from a pained grimace. â
Indeed. Look upon my realm, Jeremiah Gallow. Look.
â
He did.
After a long moment, Unwinter spoke again. He told Gallow, softly and calmly, what he wished the Half to do.
Gallow couldnât help himself.
He began to laugh.
KNIFE
10
T he slow dead glare of a desert afternoon cradled a sad, sorry collection of broken-down tin shacks. They looked just like Hooverville shanties, except larger and longer.
Mortals had grown richer even in their poverty, it seemed.
A sign at the mouth of the group announced it as BUENA VISTA TRAILER PARK , but there was no vista, buena or otherwise. Just tired huddled tin cans in a scraped bowl crowded by weeds, gutted cars on blocks or flat tires, sunbleached childrenâs toys scattered in random approximations of yards.
His skin tingled. He lifted his head slightly, and the pressure against every inch of him grew sharper. The instinct of a predator, following invisible clues to his flagging, toothsome prey.
Of course, the fact that heâd taken a scrap of velvet from her ragged coat probably helped, as well. No reason to make instinct work any harder than it had to. He lifted the fabric to his face again, inhaling deeply. Spiced pear, cherries, a russet thread, a wash of deep evening-sky blue. The salt-sweet tang of mortal blood, all mixing together to make up Robin Ragged.
The tugging led him through a tangle of indifferently paved streets, each one more sunscorched and sorry than the last. Blackberry bramble clustered at the edges, their fingers thick and juicy even in this arid waste, free earth seeking to reclaim the blot upon its back. In short, it was just the sort of in-between place a sidhe would be drawn to, though the mortal dwellings were rancid and ramshackle. It would offend a brughnie to see the disrepair, and dryads would sniff at the lack of trees. Pixies might gather in the blackberries on a solstice or equinox, and greenjacks or jennywillows might make their homes in the dandruff of mortal refuse spreading out from the bowl, avoiding the rusted appliances that reeked of cold iron but finding much castoff overgrown furniture acceptable. There would be mortals to fox and misery aplenty to grow drunk upon for any sidhe who
.â Unwinter pushed the door, which quivered and scraped its way open, deathly silent.
Outside, fine smears of ash fell from a slumbrous, umbrous sky. Unwinterâs light was either the sere cold shine of a white winter sun, no warmth to be found in its glow, or the bruise-dusk of a blizzard with ice on its back. Black, lace-starred mountains, their sides splashed with fuming, smoking crimson hellholes of dwarven furnace vents or the mouths of greatwyrm dens, reared in serried edges on the horizon. A narrow obsidian walkway led away from the door, the ash soaking into its surface with tiny puffs of clawed steam. A mutter in the distance was the Dreaming Sea, touching even this cold shore. Above, pennants snapped and fluttered on the windâblack cloth, its edges gracefully fringed by moth-chewing.
Wait. Heâs not flying the red flags. Whatâs this?
Gallow followed as Unwinter strode onto the walkway, each step accompanied by that crackling scream of frozen, compressed air. Finally, Unwinter halted, and rounded on him.
Jeremiah tensed. Now they were getting somewhere.
â
I will die,
â Unwinter said, as calmly as if he were ordering an execution or a breakfast. â
But not before I have had my vengeance, Half. Do you understand?
â
Not really
. âHere I am.â He almost added,
Do your worst
, but that was just a step too far, even for a man who didnât give a fuck if he lived or died.
Except if he died, who would play this insane ten-sided game to keep Robin safe?
Unwinterâs lips peeled back from his white, white teeth. The crevices and grooves between them were threaded with crimson, the wide bloody smile of true amusement indistinguishable from a pained grimace. â
Indeed. Look upon my realm, Jeremiah Gallow. Look.
â
He did.
After a long moment, Unwinter spoke again. He told Gallow, softly and calmly, what he wished the Half to do.
Gallow couldnât help himself.
He began to laugh.
KNIFE
10
T he slow dead glare of a desert afternoon cradled a sad, sorry collection of broken-down tin shacks. They looked just like Hooverville shanties, except larger and longer.
Mortals had grown richer even in their poverty, it seemed.
A sign at the mouth of the group announced it as BUENA VISTA TRAILER PARK , but there was no vista, buena or otherwise. Just tired huddled tin cans in a scraped bowl crowded by weeds, gutted cars on blocks or flat tires, sunbleached childrenâs toys scattered in random approximations of yards.
His skin tingled. He lifted his head slightly, and the pressure against every inch of him grew sharper. The instinct of a predator, following invisible clues to his flagging, toothsome prey.
Of course, the fact that heâd taken a scrap of velvet from her ragged coat probably helped, as well. No reason to make instinct work any harder than it had to. He lifted the fabric to his face again, inhaling deeply. Spiced pear, cherries, a russet thread, a wash of deep evening-sky blue. The salt-sweet tang of mortal blood, all mixing together to make up Robin Ragged.
The tugging led him through a tangle of indifferently paved streets, each one more sunscorched and sorry than the last. Blackberry bramble clustered at the edges, their fingers thick and juicy even in this arid waste, free earth seeking to reclaim the blot upon its back. In short, it was just the sort of in-between place a sidhe would be drawn to, though the mortal dwellings were rancid and ramshackle. It would offend a brughnie to see the disrepair, and dryads would sniff at the lack of trees. Pixies might gather in the blackberries on a solstice or equinox, and greenjacks or jennywillows might make their homes in the dandruff of mortal refuse spreading out from the bowl, avoiding the rusted appliances that reeked of cold iron but finding much castoff overgrown furniture acceptable. There would be mortals to fox and misery aplenty to grow drunk upon for any sidhe who
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