23. Seaweed Caught in The Tide
23
Seaweed Caught in The Tide
Calliope
C alliope awakes to the sounds of a hungry sky, gentle thunder rolling across the top of the house. Several thoughts fill her head at once: the feeling of Rory’s hand on her waist, his thigh beneath her palm clenching as he pushes the brake, his words from the night before: you didn’t deserve to die.
At the forefront, however, is the smell of Elijah’s blood, an earthy, peppery scent that spurned the step forward—that step that repeats in her mind, Hun leaping up inside of her with a snap of teeth, on a loop, like a scratched vinyl record. She barely realized she had moved until Kane distracted her.
She covers her face with her hands, shame washing over her. A whimper echoes inside of her, vibrates through her joints. She slips into her Mind’s Eye easily, reaching out to hold Hun, burying her face in fur, stroking the horns on either side of her ears. The whimper stills into a purr. “It’s not your fault,” she whispers. “I’m not upset with you.”
She stays like that for several minutes until Hun is coaxed back to her seated position. “I’ll get you some breakfast soon, okay?”
Hun’s ears perk up, tail swishing and she bumps Calliope’s hand with her nose before collapsing into a curled position, head resting on her tail.
Calliope turns to the other matter at hand: the prickly bush that has sprouted up overnight. It’s choking the ground, its spikes growing much too quickly and much too sharp.
Ah, my embarrassment , she thinks, reaching out to finger a wilting leaf. She decides to do some pruning, snapping off unruly branches, extricating prickles embedded in the nearby tree. She spreads her palm against the damaged bark, raw and soft under her skin. When she steps back, the prickly bush is gone and the beginnings of a clematis vine are snaking their way up and around the tree trunk, the plum petals unfolding from bright green shoots.
When she opens her eyes, sunlight suffuses the corners of her bedroom. She stays there for a moment, listening for the sounds of Rory and Kane moving about the house. But the house is silent and, frowning, she rises from bed, changing quickly into a clean dress. She leaves her hair down and it fans out around her shoulders, an impossibly curly mess that almost reminds her of the prickly plant in her Mind’s Eye. Downstairs, she finds Rory and Kane on the back porch talking in low voices. The air is still thick with the threat of rain, but the dappled sunshine seems to be keeping it at bay for now. She stands in the doorway watching the two as their hushed discussion dissolves into barely concealed, yet good natured, bickering.
Kane notices her first. “Good morning,” he says, head twisted to the side.
“Morning.” She steps out onto the porch. “What’s all this?” She points toward a bundle of plants on the table.
Rory hands her a cup of blood. “Rosemary, cowslip, and forget-me-nots.” He holds up a nondescript plastic bottle with clear liquid. “And for our neutral spirits, we have the cheapest vodka the Go-Go had.”
She holds her glass with both hands and takes a sip. “Sorry, I slept so long.”
Rory stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans (the ones with the hole in the knee—must do something about that, she thinks). He tilts his head and a lock of gray streaked hair falls across his forehead. “It’s okay. You needed rest.”
She nods, taking a sip. “Well, I’m up now and ready to help. What can I do?”
Rory consults the list he’s made, Calliope reading over his shoulder.
Piece of object - ?
Minotaur horn powder - LC?
Rosemary - forest - silver knife
Thieves’ oil - LC
Forget-me-not - forest
Poke berries - LC
Cowslip - forest
Adder stone - Kane? Lake?
Purified water - Lake?
Salt
Gum arabic powder
Neutral spirits - Go-Go
“LC is Lyon’s Cross, yes?” She sees Rory’s nod out of the corner of her eye. She bites her lip as she scans the rest of the list, then looks again at the first item. “I can get the first bit right now.”
She moves too quickly for Rory, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. She feels his icy touch against the back of her arm, but she is already out of his grasp.
“It’d be safer to use a representation of the item,” he says, chasing after her, his boots oddly heavy against the stone steps. “You could draw something—”
“It’ll be okay,” she says over her shoulder. She stops on the bottom step and kneels, dipping her hand into the warm water, almost as warm as her. Eyes closed, she focuses on the Ether, a solid, dark presence at her back even as the sun shines down on her face. She slips inside the nothingness easily, frost quickly gathering around her lips. She is there, by the lake, but also there, in the Ether, her limbs cushioned in nothingness. Just as before, the kelpie is a green glow in the distance.
“Hello?” she calls out.
It feels like a lifetime before she hears the kelpie’s reply, a soft whisper of a thousand voices, a hundred years of spirits stolen by the kelpie’s voracious appetite. The green light becomes stronger, gaining in strength as it approaches, and the creature slowly solidifies in front of her, the darkness siphoning away from the green light until there is a horse standing in front of her.
The horse is a little taller than her, with a smooth dark coat that ripples with emerald green energy. A swath of dark coarse hair trickles down between its ears, stark against its milky-white eyes that glow softly in the darkness of the Ether. The horse blinks at her, tail swishing back and forth like seaweed caught in the tide. The kelpie’s hooves are backwards, but it steps forward with a smooth gait, the expected clopping of its hooves muffled by the nothingness. Nose, eyes, and ears point straight at Calliope as it sniffs in interest at her. She feels a puff of its breath, cold and sweet-smelling, hit her face.
Who are you? asks the kelpie. As it speaks, the voice strains down into a single note. Feminine, but old.
“I’m Calliope. Who are you?”
You may call me Effie , the kelpie replies.
“I’m sorry about your bridle.” Calliope takes a step forward. “I would like to help you find it.”
Effie moves again, meeting Calliope with a nose bump against her cheek. Calliope flinches but doesn’t step away. You smell weird , Effie says. Why should I trust you?
“Because we are both born of magic. My fangs can’t change that any more than you can change…well, you’re a shapeshifter, I suppose you can change a lot about yourself. But we can’t change blood.”
Effie huffs again, nostrils flaring. I suppose you’re right, Fanged Witch.
“Will you let me help you?”
Effie pauses, sending another puff of air toward her face, as if she can smell Calliope’s trustworthiness. Then, she stamps her front foot with a shake of her head. Yes. Thank you.
“When did you last see your bridle?”
Effie’s head turns to the side, as if in thought. I awoke in the Lake after a storm that tore the waters to and fro.
“So, it wasn’t stolen? Just lost in the storm?”
Effie looks down and paws at the nothingness. No, not stolen. Lost in a storm that I should have been able to weather.
Calliope frowns, struck by the sadness in Effie’s voice. Tentatively, she reaches out to stroke the side of her neck with the back of her hand. The horse replies with a nudge of her own, and Calliope feels the tension release from her body. Effie lowers her head, tilting to the side, moon-white eyes half closed.
“What went wrong?” Calliope asks softly. “If you want to talk about it, of course.”
My mate is wounded , replies Effie, ears pricked forward suddenly, nostrils flaring as if, even now, she is searching for her mate’s scent. I had wandered away from the herd when I felt their call. The storm had already begun. I was desperate to return, and I still am, but cannot move until my bridle is found. Do you understand, Fanged Witch?
Calliope nods. “Yes. I understand.”
You would do the same for your mate , says Effie.
Calliope agrees. “If I knew my mate was injured, I would do whatever it took to help them, even if it meant putting myself in harm’s way.” Calliope fingers a strand of Effie’s mane. “And I think I have a way to help you get back to yours.”
* * *
When she blinks back into the present, it’s to see Rory’s concerned eyes, silver in the late-afternoon light. She moves slowly, limbs stiff from kneeling for an indeterminate amount of time. The ice lining her shoulders breaks off and shatters against the stone steps .
“See,” says Kane from his perch on Rory’s shoulder, “I told you she’d be fine.”
“You were…gone. It’s been hours.” His eyes rove over her even as he brushes ice crystals from her arms. “You’re shivering.”
The corner of her mouth ticks up briefly. “I’ll warm up quickly, trust me.” She wipes at her forehead, already slick with melting ice.
“What happened? Where did you go?”
“The Ether. I spoke to the kelpie. Her name is Effie. She agreed to let me take three hairs from her—but only three.”
There is a crack of lightning overhead as the lake begins to bubble. Rory jumps, pulling Calliope closer to him. Kane flaps his wings, readying to fly away. The water begins to recede from the steps, clearing a small stone landing previously hidden, slick with algae.
The water stills for a suspended moment of silence. Then, a nose breaks the surface. The nostrils flare, testing the air, and then the rest of the horse emerges from the lake. Effie pulls herself up onto the small stone landing, her backward hooves belying her Fae heritage. She brings with her a shower of water that forces Calliope and Rory to retreat farther up the stairs. Kane pushes away from Rory’s shoulder, flapping erratically in the air above them until landing on the porch railing.
Rory pulls Calliope back, and she is flush against his chest. His fingers dig into her waist as he clutches at her dress. She’s surprised he hasn’t picked her up and carried her away back into the house, though she can feel the strength and tension in his arms.
Perhaps he’s afraid of moving too quickly and scaring the kelpie?
Unlike Rory, Calliope isn’t worried. She had explained it all to Effie, who humbly agreed to provide whatever was needed. The Fae may be fickle, but they honor agreements, as her grandma taught her.
“Hello, Effie,” she says, reaching out to touch the slick-wet mane cascading down the horse’s neck and ignoring Rory’s sound of protest. His grip on her tightens.
In the light of day, Effie’s eyes are a pale gray, though her coat remains jet black. Her nostrils flare again, then her lips curl up, exposing her teeth in something akin to a greeting. “Effie, this is my—friend, Rory.” Calliope hopes Rory doesn’t notice how she stuttered over the word friend. Is that what he is? As much as she likes the feel of the word on her tongue, it is foreign, ill-fitting. She points to Kane, still perched on the porch railing. “And this handsome fella is Kane.”
Effie lets out a puff of indistinct sound, shaking her head from side to side. Water flings off her, spraying Calliope in the face. She laughs, wiping at her eyes. “Do you remember what I told you about the location spell?”
Effie bumps Calliope’s shoulder with her nose and lowers her head, neck arched. Calliope plucks three strands of hair from Effie’s mane, then leans her forehead against the solid mass of the horse. Rory’s grip is even tighter. “Thank you for trusting me,” she whispers.
Effie lowers herself back into the lake with a surprising amount of grace, her slip beneath the water nearly silent.
“That was…” Rory finally loosens his grip. He runs his hand through his hair.
“Beautiful?” supplies Calliope.
“Terrifying. One bite, Calliope, and you’d be dead.”
“She won’t bite me though. We’re helping—”
“You think the Fae give a damn if you’re helping them?” He’s standing on the step just above her, and with his height, he towers over her. “They’re not noble creatures. They’ll flip on anyone in a heartbeat.”
“I don’t think—”
“Fuck, Calliope. You can’t—”
“Excuse me?” Her voice is low and steady, and it steals whatever he had been about to say. She moves up, so that they are on the same step. His gray eyes look dark, stormy. Her eyes feel like bright, hardened gemstones. “You saved my life and I will concede to you in all things vampire, but that doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do. I am an adult. A person. Not an animal to be commanded.” She can feel the Ether at her back, supporting her, rallying for her. Her fingers are slick with frost. Even Hun has perked up, fur on edge. “I have stayed here at your behest and I will continue to stay here until we help Effie. It would behoove you to remember that there is nothing else keeping me from leaving. You should not presume upon my obedience.”
A lie , her heart immediately reminds her. There is something else keeping her. There are two things, in fact, though one has only just begun to take root inside of her. Even as she stands in front of Rory, now, supported by anger and indignation, she feels the tendril of a moonflower vine still treading its way through the soil of her Mind’s Eye.
But what’s really keeping her at Graeme House, of course, is the relative safety it offers, both from the prying questions of law enforcement and the sulfurous magic of her husband’s trade. She knows, with a certainty she feels inside of her bones, that he is still alive. And he’s not one to let go of his witch so easily.
Rory’s jaw clenches and unclenches. She wonders what he’s thinking, what he sees when he looks at her. A foolishly young vampire? A witch with magic crackling at her fingertips? More like, he sees something in between. A weak halfling with a permanent fever.
The look in his eyes has gone dark, and then a split second later, they are soft. Open. It’s like she can see into his mind, for a brief moment, and what she sees spurns that moonflower to continue on its journey.
He nods, the movement stiff—curt, but not reluctant. Respectful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” In the full light of the afternoon, he looks even more tired, the shadows etched in thick smudges beneath his eyes. She can see the worried lines around his mouth, too, the ones that are usually hidden by poor lighting and the stubble that graces his chin. A gentle breeze lifts a shock of gray hair that’s fallen against his forehead.
Her lack of reply grows heavy between them and his frown deepens. She wills herself to speak, but her chest is tight with something she isn’t sure she’s brave enough to say out loud just yet.
He drops his head to his chest; it’s a subtle declaration, but it hits her like a knight kneeling before his lady. “Forgive me?”
The steely anger inside of her finally breaks apart. She brushes the lock of hair out of his eyes, her touch bringing his gaze up to meet hers. “Of course,” she says. Her fingers ghost over the rough stubble on his jaw. “Always,” she adds, so softly, it might have just been the wind.