fey in a park.
It doesn’t have to be a big park. Just a patch of natural earth, with a few trees and bushes scattered about, maybe a little pond, and that’s all they need. I’m told Central Park in New York City has hundreds, maybe thousands of faeries living there, and several trods to the Nevernever, all within its well-groomed perimeter. The tiny park three and a half miles from my house had about a dozen fey of the common variety—piskies, goblins, tree sprites—and no trods that I knew of.
I parked my bike against an old tree near the entrance and gazed around. It wasn’t much of a park, really. There was a picnic bench with a set of peeling monkey bars and an old slide, and a dusty fire pit that hadn’t been used in years. At least, not by humans. But the trees here were old, ancient things—huge oaks and weeping willows—and if you stared very hard between the branches, you sometimes caught flickers of movement not belonging to birds or squirrels.
Leaving the bike, I walked to the edge of the fire pit and looked down. The ashes were cold and gray, days or weeks old, but I had seen two goblins at this pit several weeks ago, roasting some sort of meat over the fire. And there were several piskies and wood sprites living in the oaks, as well. The local fey might not know anything about their creepy, transparent cousins, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.
Crouching, I picked up a flat rock, dusted it off, and set it in the center of the fire pit. Digging through my pack, I pulled out a bottle of honey, stood and drizzled the golden syrup onto the stones. Honey was like ambrosia to the fey; they couldn’t resist the stuff.
Capping the bottle, I tossed it into my pack and waited.
Several minutes passed, which was a surprise to me. I knew the fey frequented this area. I was expecting at least a couple of goblins or piskies to appear. But the night was still, the shadows empty—until there was a soft rustle behind me, the hiss of something moving over the grass.
“You will not find them that way, Ethan Chase.”
I turned, calmly. Rule number two: show no fear when dealing with the Fair Folk. I could have drawn my rattan sticks, and in all honesty I really wanted to, but that might have been taken as a sign of nervousness or unease.
A tall, slight figure stood beneath the weeping willow, watching me through the lacy curtain. As I waited, a slender hand parted the drooping branches and the faery stepped into the open.
It was a dryad, and the weeping willow was probably her tree, for she had the same long green hair and rough, bark-like skin. She was impossibly tall and slender, and swayed slightly on her feet, like a branch in the wind. She observed me with large black eyes, her long hair draped over her body, and slowly shook her head.
“They will not come,” she whispered sadly, glancing at the swirl of honey at my feet. “They have not been here for many nights. At first, it was only one or two that went missing. But now—” she gestured to the empty park “—now there is no one left. Everyone is gone. I am the last.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, you’re the last? Where are all the others?” I gazed around the park, scanning the darkness and shadows, seeing nothing. “What the hell is going on?”
She drifted closer, swaying gently. I was tempted to step back but held my ground.
The dryad tilted her head to one side, lacy hair catching the moonlight as it fell. A large white moth flew out of the curtain and fluttered away into the shadows. “You have questions,” the dryad said, blinking slowly. “I can tell you what you wish to know, but you must do something for me in return.”
“Oh, no.” I did step away then, crossing my arms and glaring at her. “No way. No bargains, no contracts. Find someone else to do your dirty work.”
“Please, Ethan Chase.” The dryad held out an impossibly slender hand, mottled and rough like the trunk of the tree. “As a favor, then. You must go
It doesn’t have to be a big park. Just a patch of natural earth, with a few trees and bushes scattered about, maybe a little pond, and that’s all they need. I’m told Central Park in New York City has hundreds, maybe thousands of faeries living there, and several trods to the Nevernever, all within its well-groomed perimeter. The tiny park three and a half miles from my house had about a dozen fey of the common variety—piskies, goblins, tree sprites—and no trods that I knew of.
I parked my bike against an old tree near the entrance and gazed around. It wasn’t much of a park, really. There was a picnic bench with a set of peeling monkey bars and an old slide, and a dusty fire pit that hadn’t been used in years. At least, not by humans. But the trees here were old, ancient things—huge oaks and weeping willows—and if you stared very hard between the branches, you sometimes caught flickers of movement not belonging to birds or squirrels.
Leaving the bike, I walked to the edge of the fire pit and looked down. The ashes were cold and gray, days or weeks old, but I had seen two goblins at this pit several weeks ago, roasting some sort of meat over the fire. And there were several piskies and wood sprites living in the oaks, as well. The local fey might not know anything about their creepy, transparent cousins, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.
Crouching, I picked up a flat rock, dusted it off, and set it in the center of the fire pit. Digging through my pack, I pulled out a bottle of honey, stood and drizzled the golden syrup onto the stones. Honey was like ambrosia to the fey; they couldn’t resist the stuff.
Capping the bottle, I tossed it into my pack and waited.
Several minutes passed, which was a surprise to me. I knew the fey frequented this area. I was expecting at least a couple of goblins or piskies to appear. But the night was still, the shadows empty—until there was a soft rustle behind me, the hiss of something moving over the grass.
“You will not find them that way, Ethan Chase.”
I turned, calmly. Rule number two: show no fear when dealing with the Fair Folk. I could have drawn my rattan sticks, and in all honesty I really wanted to, but that might have been taken as a sign of nervousness or unease.
A tall, slight figure stood beneath the weeping willow, watching me through the lacy curtain. As I waited, a slender hand parted the drooping branches and the faery stepped into the open.
It was a dryad, and the weeping willow was probably her tree, for she had the same long green hair and rough, bark-like skin. She was impossibly tall and slender, and swayed slightly on her feet, like a branch in the wind. She observed me with large black eyes, her long hair draped over her body, and slowly shook her head.
“They will not come,” she whispered sadly, glancing at the swirl of honey at my feet. “They have not been here for many nights. At first, it was only one or two that went missing. But now—” she gestured to the empty park “—now there is no one left. Everyone is gone. I am the last.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, you’re the last? Where are all the others?” I gazed around the park, scanning the darkness and shadows, seeing nothing. “What the hell is going on?”
She drifted closer, swaying gently. I was tempted to step back but held my ground.
The dryad tilted her head to one side, lacy hair catching the moonlight as it fell. A large white moth flew out of the curtain and fluttered away into the shadows. “You have questions,” the dryad said, blinking slowly. “I can tell you what you wish to know, but you must do something for me in return.”
“Oh, no.” I did step away then, crossing my arms and glaring at her. “No way. No bargains, no contracts. Find someone else to do your dirty work.”
“Please, Ethan Chase.” The dryad held out an impossibly slender hand, mottled and rough like the trunk of the tree. “As a favor, then. You must go
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