that part covered, but given the situation, I’m going to let someone know where I am. I’m a feminist; I’m not an idiot. And … no cell service. Naturally.”
A pipe clanged ahead. When I went still, Aunika looked at me and said, “Now what?”
“You didn’t hear …”
Her expression told me I didn’t need to finish that sentence. I started forward, only to catch the whisper of voices. When asked if she heard them, she screwed up her face.
“Shit, you really are crazy, aren’t you?”
I was about to answer when another voice came, speaking a language I didn’t recognize, but loud enough that there was no way Aunika wouldn’t hear. A shadowy figure slid past ahead. When she didn’t see that, I cursed under my breath.
“What now?” she said.
“Nothing. Just … ignore me.”
“I’m trying to. Really, really trying to.”
She resumed walking. I caught snatches of voices and saw more streaks of movement as a vision encroached on the world of the living. That was
not
a good omen. It meant I was teetering on the edge of a full-blown vision.
Not now. Please, not now.
I kept my eyes open, as I mentally recited Dickinson’s “There Is Another Sky,” but stopped short because, well, there was another place here, another world, and I was desperately trying to stayout of it. I switched to Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gently into That Good Night,” which seemed thematically appropriate. The voices faded, and I stayed firmly in these subterranean tunnels, my penlight beam shining on Aunika’s back.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
I nodded, and she peered at me, as if not quite convinced. “I’m being quiet,” I said. “It
is
a strain.”
She shook her head. “The exit is just ahead. I’ll go up first. Keep the light down and let me make sure it’s clear.”
We reached another ladder, this one wooden and not nearly as sturdy. As she pushed open the hatch, I moved to the bottom, partly to defend her but also to race up that ladder if she tried to lock me in. But she only went through the hatch and then shone her light around before motioning for me to follow.
We came out in a different building. The night wind whistled through holes in the stonework. That gave me pause. Every abandoned place I’ve been in lately has spelled fae trouble. But when I looked around, all I saw was a cavernous room with rotting crates and barrels and holes in the roof.
I got about five steps, following Aunika, when I heard the voice again, louder now, a man saying, “Put it over there,” and another man, with a younger voice, replying in the other language, which I now recognized as Gaelic.
The first man snapped, “You’re in America now. Speak American,” and the young man said, “It is called English.”
A smack, as if the older man had slapped him. “Don’t be smart, you mug. You want to go downstairs, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I would very much like to go downstairs.”
The older man chortled. “I bet you would. Then do as you’re told. Finish loading those barrels in the cart and haul them to the wharf. We’ve got about three hours of night left.”
“But it is only midnight.”
“And we’ve only paid the coppers to look the other way until three. Now dry up and move!”
Bottles clinked. Prohibition? The conversation and the slang suggested it, but why the hell would I be getting visions of Prohibition-era smugglers? When I see past events, they’re fae memories, locked deep in my brain and poked by my environment.
“We go this way,” Aunika whispered, pointing. “And then run across to the building next door. That should get us far enough—”
I cut her short with an impatient wave.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to …” She trailed off as she heard what I had—the sound of actual movement, like a footstep on old concrete.
I pinpointed where the noise came from and took a slow step in reverse. Then another. Backing toward the wall, because there was no place to
A pipe clanged ahead. When I went still, Aunika looked at me and said, “Now what?”
“You didn’t hear …”
Her expression told me I didn’t need to finish that sentence. I started forward, only to catch the whisper of voices. When asked if she heard them, she screwed up her face.
“Shit, you really are crazy, aren’t you?”
I was about to answer when another voice came, speaking a language I didn’t recognize, but loud enough that there was no way Aunika wouldn’t hear. A shadowy figure slid past ahead. When she didn’t see that, I cursed under my breath.
“What now?” she said.
“Nothing. Just … ignore me.”
“I’m trying to. Really, really trying to.”
She resumed walking. I caught snatches of voices and saw more streaks of movement as a vision encroached on the world of the living. That was
not
a good omen. It meant I was teetering on the edge of a full-blown vision.
Not now. Please, not now.
I kept my eyes open, as I mentally recited Dickinson’s “There Is Another Sky,” but stopped short because, well, there was another place here, another world, and I was desperately trying to stayout of it. I switched to Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gently into That Good Night,” which seemed thematically appropriate. The voices faded, and I stayed firmly in these subterranean tunnels, my penlight beam shining on Aunika’s back.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
I nodded, and she peered at me, as if not quite convinced. “I’m being quiet,” I said. “It
is
a strain.”
She shook her head. “The exit is just ahead. I’ll go up first. Keep the light down and let me make sure it’s clear.”
We reached another ladder, this one wooden and not nearly as sturdy. As she pushed open the hatch, I moved to the bottom, partly to defend her but also to race up that ladder if she tried to lock me in. But she only went through the hatch and then shone her light around before motioning for me to follow.
We came out in a different building. The night wind whistled through holes in the stonework. That gave me pause. Every abandoned place I’ve been in lately has spelled fae trouble. But when I looked around, all I saw was a cavernous room with rotting crates and barrels and holes in the roof.
I got about five steps, following Aunika, when I heard the voice again, louder now, a man saying, “Put it over there,” and another man, with a younger voice, replying in the other language, which I now recognized as Gaelic.
The first man snapped, “You’re in America now. Speak American,” and the young man said, “It is called English.”
A smack, as if the older man had slapped him. “Don’t be smart, you mug. You want to go downstairs, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I would very much like to go downstairs.”
The older man chortled. “I bet you would. Then do as you’re told. Finish loading those barrels in the cart and haul them to the wharf. We’ve got about three hours of night left.”
“But it is only midnight.”
“And we’ve only paid the coppers to look the other way until three. Now dry up and move!”
Bottles clinked. Prohibition? The conversation and the slang suggested it, but why the hell would I be getting visions of Prohibition-era smugglers? When I see past events, they’re fae memories, locked deep in my brain and poked by my environment.
“We go this way,” Aunika whispered, pointing. “And then run across to the building next door. That should get us far enough—”
I cut her short with an impatient wave.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to …” She trailed off as she heard what I had—the sound of actual movement, like a footstep on old concrete.
I pinpointed where the noise came from and took a slow step in reverse. Then another. Backing toward the wall, because there was no place to
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