THAT WHICH SINGS Excerpt
I DID IT I PUBLISHED A BOOK
THAT WHICH SINGS is finally, finally here. Available in ebook, paperback, and hardcover formats on Amazon. For those of you who are curious about this punk-rock fairy tale, please enjoy this excerpt from chapter one:
“Hello, Little Thief,” says the voice. The first she ever heard in Elphame.
Nes’ fingers dig into the sack she just set down, talons longing to curl around their prey. But she is not the hunter. She cannot be the hunter. She is the prey, always.
Slowly, she turns to meet the creature she last saw half-carved in walnut. And there before her is Call in the Dark, more lovely than any sculpture, more cruel than any blade.
In the night, the aes sídhe was little more than a shadow, but under the dappled sunlight there is a shimmer of violet and gold to her skin, a spark of cobalt in her eyes. She wears red deeper than roses and blood, a slumbering mink around her neck, and a bright, hungry smile. This is the smile that greeted Nes that night, those are the slender hands that first thrust her into the tree and later pulled her loose, this is the scent of musk and wine she caught before all sense was lost to her.
Part of her is nine again, wondering how a monster could be so beautiful, and part of her is sixteen and just as hungry for vengeance as the fae. And all of her is very, very frightened.
“Hello,” she says. Don’t say I’m not a thief. That’s rude, and it counts as a lie. And for that matter, don’t say I’m not little. That counts too, no matter how tall you are.
Call in the Dark studies her. It is impossible not to study the faerie in kind—the silky black fur running along the ridges of her ears and ending in tufts at the points, the sheen of her spearhead nails that clink like glass, the smolder of the crimson star on her brow.
Keep your eyes down, Nes reminds herself, but it’s no use.
“How you have grown,” says Call in the Dark. “Not in wisdom, of course, but all the same you have exceeded my expectations.”
Nes really must seem vulnerable today. It’s been a long time since one of them gave her a backhanded compliment as if it could elicit a nervous, instinctual thanks.
“How much longer, do you suppose, will you continue to come here?”
Eyes down. “Until the day I die.”
It is an honest answer. There will be no retirement for her. Like Fin, Nes has already decided never to have children. She isn’t about to subject another human being to this miserable bargain. It wouldn’t be right. Only Colquhouns who bear the gift are bound by the rules of the pact, and while it has faded here and there the only way to ensure she does not pass this curse on is to make certain she is the last of her line. Fin will retire, and she will fully take on the responsibility of the market until she dies, most likely as a consequence of her own foolishness.
She was surprised to learn this is not the default reaction, that scattered across the world branches of her family tree stubbornly grow on. Despite the risks, despite knowing the burden under which they place their children, they keep on having them. Fin says it’s human nature. Nes says it’s not hers, so what does that make her? He says a smartass.
Call in the Dark tilts her head. “I think you may be right.” She smiles, fangs bare and savage and lovely. “But take heart, Little Thief. You may live for some time after your last visit.”
Nes bristles, feeling herself instinctually coiling like a cat about to pounce, like she did half a second before punching Sam Pizzanato in his smug face, like she did for years afterwards at the slightest provocation from another kid. Like she did back when fighting was an option.
Back then, it was all fury. Now it’s more than half fear. The only thing worse than failing and dying is failing and not dying.
Behind her, she hears a deliberate drum of fingers against the table. Fin, taking the risk of calling attention to himself to tell her to get a grip.
Deep breaths, she reminds herself, forcing her shoulders back and her hands open. Eyes down. She gives the faerie a slow nod, as gracious as she can manage, not trusting herself to speak. Be boring, Fin always tells her. It’s your best shot at being left alone.
But Nes, for all her many flaws, has always struggled with boring, and Call in the Dark is not done playing.
“How strange it will be,” says the faerie, “to come here the day there is no Colquhoun present. It has been too long. Not since your great-grandfather came to the country beyond our gate has this place been free of your family.” The mink wrapped around her neck wakes, raising its head. She absently scratches it under the chin and it twists so her nails go behind its ear instead. Her mouth curls into a pretty moue as she adds, “And yet, should we cleanse this place of that rot, it will abide elsewhere.”
Words press at Nes’ lips. We’re only here because you make us come here. You wouldn’t have to “cleanse” jack shit if you didn’t feel the need to draw out your vengeance for generations. We have never been free of you. But she chokes them back down, focuses on maintaining the humiliatingly demure, subservient posture Fin drilled into her.
There is a far-away note in the faerie’s voice now; she seems to have almost forgotten Nes. “I worry this pact has done more harm than good. I worry that the rape of Light Through the Rapids will defile the world for centuries yet.” The mink yawns, lowering its head as the faerie’s hand falls to her side. “I worry that our single chance for justice has evaded us, that the progenitor of this evil never paid for it in full and all we have done is allowed it to endure.”
More deep breaths. Nes doesn’t believe they actually do anything, but sometimes they’re all she has. At least they give her something else to focus on. Let the faeries speak. Let them get bored. Let them walk away.
A breeze picks up. Call in the Dark’s hair reaches out to the mortal girl before her. “The trouble is this: Had we pulled up the evil by its roots, we could never have undone its planting.” Her hand, too, reaches, and the pads of her fingers hover just beneath Nes’ chin, coaxing her face up.
Nes meets the aes sídhe’s eyes. It is impossible not to think of the points of the nails so close to her throat, so eager to rip it open. The scent of musk and wine is heavy on the air.
Gently, the faerie asks, “Child, do you worry as I do? Do you worry justice itself is futile?”
Fin does not allow Nes to bring her iron knife—or any of her knives, for that matter—to the market. This is not because of the bargain. It is because he thinks she will make better decisions without it. She has to admit he has a point. If she had her knife in hand now, she isn’t sure what she would do. Maybe use it, maybe give the faerie something better to worry about, maybe show her real justice.
But she is unarmed, and so does not, cannot retaliate. This is a bit of vengeance on its own, not to give the aes sídhe what they want. It is the only sort available to her.
“Always,” she says. There is nothing else she can say.
Call in the Dark smiles. “Good.” She turns, the movement sending her red skirts swirling around her ankles, and walks off towards a stall which is either a tent of fine grey silk or thick, near-solid mist.
It should be a relief. It still feels like defeat as Nes turns away, back to the table and Fin. Her hands are shaking. Damn it all, her hands are shaking, and it’s only just begun.
