“One sip of this will bathe the drooping spirits in delight, beyond the bliss of dreams.”
-John Milton, Comus
London was filthy. Tootles pulled his overcoat closer about him, the fraying wool providing less than adequate insulation from the damp chill that seemed to penetrate not only fabric, but flesh and bone. The night air reeked of decaying fish, underscored by the musty stink of the nearby Thames. Blackfriars Road was hardly reputed to be the sort of place a respectable fellow frequented at night. In the normal course of events the other wards of the Darley household wouldn’t be caught anywhere near this part of London. However, Tootles credited himself as having more daring than the lot of them combined, and during this phase of the moon, there was nowhere he would rather be.
Tendrils of mist coiled about his legs, grasping at him like clawed hands seeking to drag him down into some haunted netherworld. Coming to a corner, he stopped, glancing right and left to assure himself that he was indeed alone, then peered up into the sky. The lack of streetlamps in this area ensured that he would be able to see when the moon rose, despite the fog enveloping the city like a foul vaporous shroud.
No sign, yet. He pressed his back to a brick wall and fumbled in his pocket a moment, chancing darting glances to and fro. Satisfied of his privacy, he withdrew the leather pouch, and poured its contents into his hand. An assortment of oak leaves, twigs, and acorns lay in his palm, the dried husks in danger of disintegrating at the slightest touch.
I’ve let it go for too long...
Again plundering his pocket, he pulled out a fig-shaped phial roughly the size of a walnut. It was half-filled with a strange, shimmering substance, its essence lost somewhere between gas and liquid. Glowing faintly amethyst in the darkness, it slid up the sides of its vessel with an unsettlingly organic motion, as though in response to his yearning. As it coiled about the clouded glass, his mouth went agonizingly dry all the way down into his gullet and he found himself yearning for that half a mouthful with such an intensity it caused tears to prick his eyes.
Lethe...
Even with the phial stoppered stoppered, a powerful, intoxicating aroma drifted towards him; he detected notes of ripe summer fruits, warm spices, petrichor, and freshly washed human skin, combined to such a tantalizing effect that he felt weak in the knees. It brought to mind every childhood comfort and adolescent wish left unfulfilled by the damning progression of time. One taste and all Mortal cares would fade away...
He covered it with his fingers and tore his gaze from the phial, cursing his lack of foresight. This was always the hardest part: the self-denial. Already his limbs were shaking for lack of nourishment, begging for the relief that Lethe alone could give. Mortal food could only sustain him so long, but he was out of gold, and Knochenmark was not renowned for his tolerance. If his timing was off, the consequences didn’t bear consideration.
“Courage lad.” He forced himself to unstopper the bottle. As soon as the scent hit him his knees buckled and a dizzying tide of unreasoning desire threatened to sweep away all his will. His hand lifted the glass to his lips of its own volition.
No, NO!
Before he could down the enchanted draught he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Eye-watering pain combined with the bitter taste brought him back to himself long enough to pour the Lethe out over the bracken. They instantly began to glow, streaks of purple, silver, and electric blue illuminating each line and groove of the leaves. Almost panting with relief, he brought his face closer, gently breathing over the enchanted coals. The moment his breath touched the embers they flared with light, all detail vanishing as their form began to shift.
“By the Wind Moon’s grace, I compel thee, take the form of faery gold...”
A hot tingling sensation danced in his palm and he let out a soft laugh of relief. In his hand lay a pile of gleaming coins, the comforting weight banishing all anxiety. Blowing a few sparks off the faery gold, he tipped it into the wallet and tucked it safely in his pocket. Time was of the essence, now. The Lethe’s Glamour was convincing - even more so than that which came naturally to the Immortal Brethren - but he knew such a small amount wouldn’t last all the way until dawn.
The Lost Boy ducked into a tight passageway behind a decrepit cannery. Piles of refuse and rotting abandoned crates made the going treacherous; Tootles held his breath as he hopped over an oily slick of decomposing herring. There was a sudden blood-curdling shriek and an explosion of movement as a dark grey blur rushed at him from behind the overturned rubbish bins. He leapt backwards and drew his knife, swearing as he fumbled with the hinged blade and dropped it down a grate at his feet. The beast tore past him, a fish head clamped in its jaws.
“Damn it all!” He kicked a broken box after the retreating cat. Heart pounding, he removed his hat and mopped at the cold perspiration on his brow.
Come on, Tootles. Pull yourself together, Bucko.
Spanning the width of the alley was an iron gate reaching almost twice his height, a corroded padlock firmly holding it in place. Tootles never did quite get the knack of lock-picking; far too tricky and time-consuming, as far as he was concerned. Taking stock of his surroundings once more, he shifted some of the crates, checking for rot until he found one that he was satisfied could bear his weight. For once he was grateful to be so undersized for his age. He stepped onto the crate and jumped to catch the top rung, hoisting himself upwards. After a moment’s struggle, he heaved himself up and over the gate, landing on his toes. He broke into a jog, taking several more twists and turns, including passing through the cellar of a burnt-out pub, then he emerged by the river facing Blackfriars Bridge. In the shadows cast by the flickering street lamps the area seemed haunted and Tootles wished it was merely trickery of an overwrought mind. Anything could happen on a Full Moon, even in April.
A group of vagrants stood around a rubbish bin, warming chilled hands over a fire. Slowing to a leisurely stroll, he lowered his face and turned up his collar, but the worn wool had long lost its stiffness, flopping over feebly. One of the figures by the fire looked up as Tootles passed. From the front he saw an aging sailor, shaggy grey-streaked hair framing a weathered face, old before his time. However, a passing glimpse from the corner of his eye gave him a thrill of alarm as the sailor’s eyes flickered, their entire surfaces turning an unsettling wolf-like amber in the firelight, their tiny pupils trained on him with a hungry intensity. In the second it took him to look away, the sailor lowered his face and coughed into a filthy bandaged hand. Shivering, Tootles couldn’t but wonder if the wrapping was there protect an injury or to conceal inhuman claws. It was no great novelty to find Immortals congregating around the ghost roads.
He slid down an embankment, coming to a large, domed drainage pipe below the bridge, its entrance tall enough to admit a stooped human. A stream of musty water steadily trickled through the ornate wrought iron grate and into the Thames. Eager to get belowground, he gripped the cold ironwork and threw his weight against the right side of the dome. There was a low grinding sound as the grate shifted inch by inch until it was open far enough for him to squeeze through. Wincing as rough stonework scraped the back of his head, he stumbled the rest of the way into the tunnel. Another few tugs and the barrier shut behind him, leaving him crouched in the dark.
He knew there was no point in waiting for his eyes to adjust; dark as it was outside, the blackness inside the tunnel was absolute. Kneeling, he felt around the cold, dirty water, trying to not to imagine what he might come in contact with. His hand closed on a smooth, elongated object, one end covered in a slick substance that he prayed was algae.
“Please be a pipe...” He stood and banged the object five times on the roof of the tunnel. The resulting echo was like the knell of a giant bell. After the ringing in his ears subsided he strained to pick up the slightest sound. For a few minutes there was nothing but the muted trickling of water around his boots, reminding him uncomfortably of the hole in his sole; then he heard a faint, answering gong in the distance. A weak pinprick of light appeared, betraying how incredibly deep the tunnel went, growing steadily stronger and larger. Tootles stood up as straight as he could, fists at his sides. The orange light swung side-to-side like a pendulum as it approached him. From where he stood, he could now see that the light was indeed a lantern, its shape vaguely reminiscent of an onion. Instead of being affixed to a pole, it was suspended from a crude harness, fashioned from leather and willow branches. The harness itself was worn by a goblin with a squashed face, a torn, flattened snout, and large, ragged ears protruding from either side of its bald head. The creature had no neck to speak of, its back hunched as a gargoyle. It stopped in front of him and snorted by way of greeting, spitting a glob of spittle on the scuffed toe of Tootles’ boot.
“Brought us a nibble, ’ave you?”
Tootles followed the squat creature’s gaze to the object in his hand. “No... I-- UGH!” He dropped what was now identifiable as a femur, shaking his hand as though he’d been stung. “I-I-I mean...”
The goblin regarded him with contempt, its clear nictitating membrane blinking up and down in an unnervingly crocodilian way. Loosening his shirt collar, Tootles adopted a breezy tone, though his high-pitched giggle betrayed his nerves. “T-that, that... that was all mine -- big eater, drove my mother to distraction... Twas a tidy nosh, but... I’m all finished now.”
“Quite sensible, carryin’ vittles, wot with th’weather we’ve been ’avin’.” The faintest note of sarcasm entered the goblin’s croaking voice. “Master’s been waitin’.”
“O-Oh, has he?” That was never good. Patience wasn’t Knochenmark’s defining characteristic, by any means.
The toad-like eyes watched him flatly. There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence, then Tootles continued, “Then I suppose you should... lead the way.”
“Best not waste ’is time,” the tips of its translucent ears twitched.
“I assure you, I have his gold, and more.”
A sneer was his answer.
He tried again. “He won’t be disappointed--”
“Coulda brought sumfink f’r me,” it hinted, nudging his belly with a claw. Tootles swallowed and leaned back as far as he could without outright recoiling. “S’cold work, leadin’ daft coneys down ’ere,” the goblin assessed him as though selecting a leg of mutton in a butcher’s shop. “An’ there en’t as many o’ you as there used t’be...”
Tootles’ round eyes slid to the filthy bone he’d dropped. “W-well, that’s something I’ll have to take into consideration, of course. Arrangements to be made... Quality is crucial, I find...” The goblin’s lips twisted into what may have been a dark smirk, his protruding lower incisors gleaming in the light. Realizing he was in danger of babbling like a ninny, Tootles made a little walking motion with his fingers, then pointed past his guide. “H-However, mustn’t keep our employer waiting. Moonlight’s a-wasting, a-after all.”
The goblin hopped to turn around and led the way with a peculiar rolling gait, leaning heavily on its arms for balance. Tootles hurried to keep up, his feet splashing in the fetid water. Little variations in the musty air gave him the sense of possible side-tunnels, but the goblin’s lantern didn’t illuminate far enough for him to confirm this. He suspected that even if he returned to explore during the light of day, any side passages wouldn’t still be there.
They came to a stop in front of a brick wall, its crumbling mortar dotted by slime moulds and slow-creeping snails. His guide pushed off his long arms, propelling itself into a tunnel above their heads. Craning his head around, Tootles could just make out the orange glow above him, the goblin’s black silhouette scuttling up the narrow tube like a bulbous spider. He shuddered, wondering how many London chimneys held similar nasty specimens. There was the slow groan of scraping stone as it moved some kind of covering.
“Mind yer ’ead!”
Tootles leapt back as the goblin dropped down the tunnel and landed solidly in front of him. Now that its body was no longer blocking the chute, a narrow beam of moonlight filtered down to them. The goblin removed what Tootles identified as a battered silver serving platter from a sling on its warty back, spitting once on its surface and giving it a quick rub. Angling it under the light, it sent the beam reflecting onto the brick barrier. The pale light revealed a crudely carved circular design - perhaps a crest or a seal, which depicted some unholy hybrid of boar, staghorn beetle, and bear, goring a Seelie hunter. Then the barrier glowed the same jack-o-lantern orange as the lantern and dissolved, revealing a yawning passage leading deeper into the earth. Unlike the man-made tunnel Tootles was leaving, this one was so large it could better be described as a hall; its scale was equal to any stately manor house in England. Stretching high above him the walls met in an inverted V, forming a Lancet Arch. To Tootles, it gave the impression that they were entering a subterranean cathedral -- but where he was going, he knew better than to hope for grace. He entered the hall after his odd companion, no longer dependent on its harness for light as the passage was illuminated at intervals by more lanterns set into the root systems veining the walls. It was impossible for Tootles to guess how far they were underground; time and distance ceased to hold their meaning in the Otherworld. A faint echo of dripping water punctuated the near silence; the only other sounds were that of the goblin’s shuffling footsteps and his own shallow breathing. Though the tunnel felt as old as time itself, it smelled of freshly churned earth intermingling with a rancid stench that reminded him of raw sewage and putrefaction. Clumps of fungi, some bioluminescent, jutted out of the wall; many were being fed on by more snails, though unlike their counterparts in the other tunnel, these had as many as six eyes suspended on stalks. His foot caught on something soft and he stumbled, stifling a small cry. He pressed himself against the wall to make way for an earthworm the size of a jack russell terrier inching itself along the hard-packed floor.
“Budge along, Grub.” Croaked his companion, the membrane again flicking over its bulging eyes.
Tootles regained himself as the glistening creature undulated along the floor, bits of moist soil clinging to its mucousy sides. “I don’t think it can go very quickly...”
The goblin’s jowls quivered. “Not ’im.”
“... Everyone’s a critic,” Tootles muttered, quickening his pace. Even at only about three-and-a-half to four feet high, he knew that the goblin’s strong hands could easily rip his own limbs off. The foul smell intensified and he noted that the lanterns were set further and further apart the deeper they went, signalling that they were getting close to their destination. Knochenmark had no love of light. Shoving one hand in his pocket, he squeezed the purse and took courage from the weight. He continued on until at last they entered a wide, octagonal chamber where, surrounded by all manner of Solitary Faeries, sat a massive Ogre.
Tootles froze. No matter how many times he encountered Knochenmark, the sight of the enormous predator never failed to incite raw fear.
The size of a large bear, Knochenmark’s form was only humanoid in the roughest sense of the word. His wide face was dominated by the curved mandibles of a staghorn beetle; at least three gold hoops hanging from his pierced lower lip, the central pendant resembling a coin stamped with the same crest that had marked the entrance to his lair. Ram’s horns curled from either side of his head, framed by a long curtain of lank, dark hair. The Ogre’s eyes, heavy-lidded and fathomless, regarded the assembly with a deceptive air of calm. His skin was a deep shade of plum, every inch of visible flesh marked with tattoos. It was rumoured that concentrated Lethe had been used in the ink; certainly no mundane pigment could attain the effect of gleaming from darkest indigo to iridescent green.
The cavernous room was filled with countless nightmarish creatures -- more goblins, of course, but mingling with these were hollow-backed skogsrås, amorphous ghasts, pookas, hooting ballybogs, ghouls, gnomes -- even a faun, which upon the human’s arrival, leered up from gnawing on a piece of raw meat that bore a disturbing resemblance to a severed hand. Misshapen hobs, piskies, and gwyllion danced in a ring, their shadows creating eerie shapes which at times moved completely out-of-synch with the creatures casting them.
Praying that his trembling limbs wouldn’t give way, Tootles shoved his hands deeper in his coat pockets. Despite the confusion of movement, sound, and stomach-turning odors, he kept his eyes on Knochenmark.
The Ogre gave no indication he had even noticed the boy’s presence, but Tootles knew better than to be fooled by his apparent disinterest. Though Solitary Faeries were bound to their environment rather than any one Court, Knochenmark was regarded as something of an anathema, for he had always had a love of playing the nobleman in open defiance of his species’ comparably low status in the Otherworld. He was untroubled with which Court held sway over the land surrounding his Lair; as far as he was concerned, wherever he dwelt, he was Lord and Master, and none were fool enough to dispute him. His caprice was never to be confused with vulnerability or senility. Knochenmark didn’t suffer fools, and his wrath, when provoked, was legendary. Solitary Faeries of all make and mind came to him when they needed protection, relics, or Glamour; like any Mortal crime lord, he provided what was required for those who fell under his influence... though if one was unable to afford his prices, the consequences were severe.
Tootles had first encountered Knochenmark during what was meant to be a meeting with the Changeling who was selling him Lethe, and the incident was far from congenial. The Ogre had shown up to the agreed contact point with the Changeling’s head in hand, informing Tootles that the former dealer had intruded on his territory, and that he would now be reporting to him for the Faery Elixir. The sight of the sunken-eyed head had more than quashed any protestations Tootles might have made to the arrangement. Since then he had entered series of uneasy negotiations with the Ogre. At first, he thought he could merely avoid the boundaries of Knochenmark’s cantrev, but a series of reminders in the form of cat entrails smeared across his flat’s doorstep had quickly convinced him of otherwise.
Knochenmark sat half reclined on a chair that may have been pilfered from a Monastery in the long-forgotten past, a bearhide thrown over the heavy wood to serve as cushioning for his frame. He observed the gathering with an aristocratic languor, an effect only further enhanced by the high ruffled collar of his midnight blue coat. A raven-haired bergsrå lay at his feet with her head on his knee, her beauteous countenance devoid of expression as she watched a pair of Rusalki bicker over the sodden body of a drowned man.
There was a slight scraping as the goblin that had led Tootles to the chamber shuffled forward, bowing until his chin touched the stone floor. “Master, the ’uman scum is ’ere t’make payment.”
Knochenmark sat in silence, examining his hands, which, aside from the curved claws, were so well-manicured they could have been mistaken for human. “I don’t recall summoning the Mortal.”
A stab of renewed anxiety lanced Tootles’ gut. His eyes darted to the goblin still hugging the floor.
“’E says you won’t be disappointed, again...” The goblin said slowly.
Tootles raged inwardly; the nasty little git was surely hoping Knochenmark would rip out his spleen.
One brow lifted infinitesimally and Knochenmark waved him on. Jaw still skimming the ground, the goblin scuttled backwards to where Tootles stood by the wall; he sharply smacked his knees. “Off y’go, Coney.”
Good Lord. He could swear that Knochenmark got bigger with every meeting. Tootles smoothed back his sweaty hair before moving forward as confidently as he could, giving such a florid bow that several growls and hisses of amusement were heard, instantly quelled as Knochenmark held up a finger. The only sound that persisted was the snapping of bones as the faun continued to chew on the hand.
“Your Magnificence.” Tootles adopted an ingratiating smile.
“Save your boot-licking, Mortal. Tell me, what Moon is this? Surely even you are not insensible to the passage of Time.”
Tootles licked his lips. “I b’lieve that’d be the Wind Moon, Milord.”
“Ah. So the gnat does know,” Knochenmark straightened slightly. Tootles was uncomfortably reminded of a tiger staring down a deer. “Then surely you are aware that with late payments, interest must be collected.”
All eyes trained on Tootles as the bergsrå’s pale lips barely turned up at the corners. The room suddenly seemed stifling. He loosened his collar, sweat running down the back of his neck. “I do, Lord. I can cover that as well...”
“Whether you can or cannot, I will have my recompense,” he stated coldly. Tootles fought to swallow down his rising panic as Knochenmark rose with surprising grace, dwarfing every Immortal present. “Follow.”
Drained of all forced joviality, the Lost Boy followed his host into another passage, this one paved by enormous blocks of bluestone. Privately he speculated that it may have been created by humans long ago before it had been sealed off from the world above; surely it was far older than any megalithic site in Britain. The velvet hem of Knochenmark’s coat dragged along the floor as he led the boy down several winding passages. Eventually the hall widened then opened into an unearthly courtyard. At first Tootles believed they had somehow found their way aboveground again before it dawned on him that he was in a gigantic cavern. Though he had been into various branches of the Otherworld countless times, the alien beauty of this place took his breath away; he couldn’t begin to guess as to its origins.
Behind the courtyard Tootles could see a lake, its waters lit aquamarine by the phosphorescent algae covering the rocks and the massive columns surrounding its perimeter. A shimmering mist hung over the still surface, lending the cavern a surreal, dreamlike quality. Farther out, where the water was presumably deepest, he could make out a dark mass, but the vapours around it were too thick for him to decide if it was some vessel or beast. A soft slapping sound echoed towards them and Tootles thought he glimpsed a ghostly female arm disappear into the water, leaving only a few ripples, which soon dissipated to nothing. He prayed he wouldn’t have to approach its dark shore. Clusters of crystals created a subterranean garden while clumps of twisted, glowing mushrooms lined the way to a low dias. Craning his neck to look around, his attention was held by an elegant marble fountain; the central statue was a many-necked hydra, each open mouth forming a spout. The basin was bone dry.
“Behold, my Sanctum.” Noting the human’s perplexed frown, Knochenmark gestured for him to examine the fount for himself. “From the realm you Mortals call Greece.”
Tootles wasn’t keen on getting closer; knowing Knochenmark it was meant to circulate the blood of those who reneged on their contracts. As though reading his mind, the Ogre let out a huff of laughter, his mandibles clacking. “Get on, you craven wretch. I’m the only threat you need fear in this place.”
The Lost Boy circled the fountain, admiring the way the hydra necks curved and entwined to create the impression of a chrysanthemum blossom. “Simply stunning, exquisite...” He chanced furtive glances at his host; Knochenmark’s gaze never wavered. Tootles had the creeping suspicion that this was some kind of test; he was well acquainted with the Immortal Brethren’s love of testing any Mortals unfortunate enough to attract their notice.
“Very well, enough of your fawning. Why did you come, then? I know better than to believe it was the pricking of your conscience.”
“I’m here to pay my debts, Milord.”
Knochenmark scoffed. “In gold or flesh? I’ll have one or the other -- and the latter will be as welcome to me as any other currency.”
“I-I assure you, that won’t be necessary,” Tootles withdrew the coin purse, tossing it to the Ogre, who caught it one-handed. He struggled to breathe evenly as Knochenmark poured the contents out. His expression was unreadable as he counted out the payment, pressing a claw into the soft gold. By now the boy’s heart was pounding so hard he could swear it was audible all the way in Mortal London.
Please, please let the Glamour hold...
It was his boldest and most foolish gamble yet.
Knochenmark was silent for a long moment before he looked up, closing his hand over the gold. “Had a bit of luck, did we?”
Tootles almost sagged with relief. “A man’s ship is bound to come in sometime, Milord,” he said modestly, shrugging one shoulder.
“This will cover your debt, if only just.”
His head turned quickly. “Wait, what? I-I thought--”
“Prices have risen,” his host smoothly replied. “Supply and demand… Surely you understand basic economics.”
Tootles was only able to stare, mouth agape. He hadn’t counted on that.
“Of course, it’s only natural that you should wish to celebrate,” the Ogre’s deep-set eyes glittered as he turned to the Fountain, setting the faery gold on the edge of the basin. Tootles cursed inwardly.
Put it away, away and out of sight!
He could tarry no longer. There was no way of knowing how long he had been out of the Mortal Sphere, and if that enchantment wore off… “Oh, n-no, that won’t be necessary--”
“Who spoke of necessity?”
Tootles could have kicked himself; Slightly’s warnings seemed to echo mockingly in his subconscious. Damn him! He could get out of this yet, no matter what that preachy fool might say. “No one, no one, Master Knochenmark -- but now that I’ve completed my errand, I really should be on my way.”
“You would refuse my hospitality?” The question was asked so mildly that it sent chills down his spine.
Softly, softly does it...
“Not at all, no, Sire! But I honoured my debts and wouldn’t dream of incurring further--”
“Tell me, Mortal… how much Lethe have you left?”
He stopped short; all vivacity fell from him. “I... haven’t...”
“The need must be unbearable.” There was no sympathy in that voice, only cruel amusement as he pondered the human’s suffering.
It was like a knife to his pride, but Tootles blurted out, “I didn’t bring enough gold to purchase my next draught.”
“Easily dealt with. I’ll extend your credit and you’ll pay on the next Moon.”
Panic began to set in. His friends were right; he’d never break this cycle. “Lord Knochenmark, generous as you are, I am determined--”
“You’ll be tearing your own flesh off by the Dark of the Moon. Unless...” Knochenmark’s voice took on a subtle edge. “You’ve taken to another source for your Elixir.”
Tootles’ hands went ice cold. “I’d never--”
“That’s it, isn’t it? You thought to buy my patience only to slink off to some back-alley hobgoblin--”
His voice cracked. “No -- I swear it!”
“So now you trifle with my intelligence? Upon my honour, Mortal rat, you have a genius for inflicting insult at every turn,” Knochenmark gained height as he faced Tootles, who cowered back against a pillar, holding up his arms in anticipation of a blow. The Ogre turned abruptly to the fountain and uttered a harsh word, almost a cough. Tootles watched with growing distress as the individual scales on the Hydra’s many necks rippled. It turned each set of its eyes on its master. Knochenmark tenderly ran one claw over the Hydra’s central head, causing the marble beast to quiver before it threw each neck back, opening its mouths wide as jets of violet Lethe spewed in shimmering arcs, which flowed into the basin below. The Lethe’s heady aroma filled the cave; as the fountain’s pool filled with Elixir, its mesmerizing glow lit up the entire cavern, sending constellations glittering across the stone ceiling in dazzling displays. Tootles didn’t feel the tears streaming down his cheeks as he turned hollow eyes on the fountain, nor was he aware of Knochenmark pressing a flask into his hand. Every fibre of his being was screaming for release from his torment; he may have been screaming too, for all he knew.
Knochenmark watched impassively as the human released a strangled whimper, throwing himself on all fours as he scrambled for the basin. Just as Tootles was about to plunge his head in the waters he felt a crushing pain in his leg as Knochenmark trod down on him viciously. The boy howled, clutching at the rim of the fountain as the bone in his leg was strained dangerously close to breaking.
“Drink from the flask, you dog. You think I would let you contaminate the Fount with your Mortal filth?” He laughed as he seized the back of Tootles’ neck, nails pricking his skin as he easily hauled him away from the fountain. Completely insensible in the presence of the Elixir’s intoxicating magic, Tootles was only capable of groaning in response.
“By the Spheres, you are pathetic. Even the blind worms have more gumption.” The Ogre stooped down to grasp his hand, then pulled Tootles’ head back and tipped the flask back into his mouth, only stepping off his leg once the draught was swallowed. The Lethe hit Tootles like liquid electricity, the searing pain in his leg vanishing in a trice. It was the most fantastic confusion of senses, heightened immeasurably -- the environment around him was cast into vivid, wondrous detail. Pain, cold, fatigue, sorrow, and fear became as distant memories to him -- mere shadows of a life he could hardly recall. Knochenmark released him, viewing him with the same detached contempt he had previously shown. Mortal frailty would never cease to disgust him. Tootles leapt up like a jack-in-the-box, apple-green eyes alight with unnatural brightness as the Faery addressed him.
“You’ll pay upon the next Moon. Expect Sabiel to meet you during Witching Hour outside Saint Giles’ Church; the cemetery, mind you, not the building.”
“Tip-top, grand, not a worry!” He chirped, saluting the supplier as he capered about, delighting in the giddy sense of power and security. “What-hey! This leg feels marvelous--”
Knochenmark turned back to the fountain. “Find your own way out; the Moon has passed her zenith. I’m no Mortal’s nursemaid.”
Testing his weight on the leg, he gave an experimental bounce. “I’ll be back with more gold, never fear.”
“I will require a ten percent increase.”
But Tootles was already gone, legging it down the same tunnel that brought him to the courtyard.
Tootles you clever lad, I told you things would work out!
He congratulated himself as he nearly danced with glee, imagining the foolish Ogre’s face when he realized he had been duped by his own Lethe. Even Faery Kindred couldn’t see through an enchantment wrought by the Draught of Hypnos. He passed the entrance to the room where he had first approached Knochenmark, pausing to pull a face at the goblin’s backside as it swatted at a tiny flying light that kept swooping at its eyes. Sniggering behind his hand, he pranced up the hallway where he had encountered the large worm
Fools, fools, and more fools.
He had just passed the portal between Knochenmark’s Hall and the Mortal side of the tunnel when he heard an earth-shattering roar of rage. The faery gold must have reverted back to its true form. With Lethe still strong in his veins, all Tootles could feel was annoyance that his little joke had already been spoiled. The Lost Boy sped along the slick passage, the bridge quaking around him as bits of mortar and slime fell from the roof. He could hear countless feet tearing through the side tunnels around him, growing closer and closer every moment. Despite his laboured breathing he cackled as though taking part in a game of follow-the-leader. Let them run!
The Ogre’s thunderous voice echoed all around him, seeming to issue from the bridge itself. “THIEF! By every drop of Lethe to pass your lying tongue, I place a Debtor’s Curse upon you! Your death will come after unspeakable torment, your flesh rent and mind consumed by darkness itself! Perish forsaken, cast upon the mercies of they that have none!”
“Yahhh, y’silly bugger!” Tootles howled, putting on another burst of speed. Then he felt it -- like ropes snagging about his legs, the Curse struck him. His vision briefly doubled; disoriented, he straightened again, the horrid sensation passing. Lethe was stronger than a mere Curse. He resumed running. In the distance he could see the iron grate; all he needed to do was push it shut behind him and there would be no way the Immortals had any hope of pursuing him through that opening. His breath came out in gasps between the uncontrollable laughter, which abruptly rose in a shriek as a slick of algae sent both feet shooting out from under him. The boy slid at breakneck speed into the iron barrier, ramming it open as he shot out onto the bank below. Momentarily stunned, he gave his head a shake, noting with dissatisfaction that he had knocked the grate wide open. Cold air stinging his cheeks signalled that the Lethe’s euphoric stage was already passing, replaced with steadily growing fear. Damn his luck!
Glimpsing the reflection of eye-shine barreling toward him from the darkness, he hauled himself to his feet and sprinted in the other direction. There was no time to close the tunnel behind him; he’d have to rely on speed and wit, now. Street after street passed by in a blur; invigorated by the Elixir he raced further and further into the city, his heart giving a leap as he spotted the high gate from earlier that evening. He was unsure how close his pursuers were, but another iron barrier would certainly hamper them. Knochenmark and his cronies couldn’t pursue him indefinitely with dawn approaching to close the Gateways.
Tootles hopped onto an overturned rubbish bin and launched himself at the top of the structure, catching himself a moment to look back. While he couldn’t see any Immortals, he could hear a rapidly approaching riot of screeches and snarls. One heel slipped on the wet metal. His whole body swayed dangerously back and forth as he tried to correct himself. A bent spike lining the top bar caught his trouser leg, causing him to teeter backwards with a jolt of despair.
“No-no-no-no-no-n--!” He snatched at the gate but missed, falling heavily to the unforgiving cobblestones below. Long seconds ticked by while he lay there quite helplessly, his narrow chest struggling to suck in a lungful of damp air. Dimly, he was aware that he was wasting precious time, but movement was currently impossible. Suppose he’d broken something? No, he had to get up!
Oh, but not just yet...
Cracking his eyes open, he stared dazedly at the fog-obscured sky, fingers of mist slowly sailing overhead like evanescent waves in a star-strewn sea. Fatigue settled over his chilled body and he felt his eyelids growing heavy. A shift in the mist revealed the setting Full Moon, distant and serene. After a moment, a strange object caught his attention. Was that an owl, in this part of the London? It wasn’t moving like any bird...
Wincing a bit, he propped himself up on his elbows, squinting up into the sky. He stared for a minute, uncomprehending, then his eyes widened, pupils contracting with horrified recognition. A mast, and rigging -- then he heard it: the faint creaking of timbers, like a ship at sea...
“Saints and ministers of grace...” The fog rolled in once more and Tootles sprang to his feet, adrenaline surging through his limbs as he raced down the alley. His eyes flicked left and right as he ran clumsily down the confusing network of paths, animal terror speeding him on. Nothing compared to this fear; it blinded him to all thought but one: Get out of sight, hidden, anywhere -- even Knochenmark’s wrath would be a blessing in comparison.
He rounded a corner, coming to a tall hedgerow of holly surrounding a little wooded park. There was a narrow parting in the underbrush, hardly large enough to admit a fox, but the desperate boy seized his opportunity and dove for it. Wriggling like a dog escaping its yard, he pushed through the opening, popping out the other side. A short distance away he spotted what looked like a drainage ditch winding towards a small wood. Perfect. He hopped down into the path and hastened on at a crouch. Tootles found himself in a grove of oak trees, their close-growing limbs providing the ideal screen from the sky above. Panting feverishly, he half crawled, half staggered to get under the thick foliage, finally throwing himself down among one giant’s roots. Sucking in gulps of air, he chanced a glance up, but the sky was entirely hidden.
Could he have imagined it all? No, he had heard the groaning of the vessel...
He let his head fall back, cushioned by the moss and leaf-litter carpeting the ground. Screwing his eyes shut, he lay there for an indeterminate length of time, listening for any sign of his pursuers. Nothing. As his breathing slowly regulated, he clutched at himself to check that he really had escaped with all of his extremities attached. He had, indeed.
Tootles me lad, someone up there’s on your side.
He could rest there for the night and go back to his flat in the morning. Another light breeze sent a flurry of leaf litter towards him, catching in his tangled hair. His eyes opened as one dancing dandelion seed gently tickled his nose. There was a soft sighing sound, both like and unlike the wind. Every muscle in his body went rigid as he shifted his gaze beyond the trees. His eyes were drawn to a patch of forest where the darkest mass of shadows seemed to converge. The blackness rippled, revealing a grinning set of pearl-like teeth.
