A middle-aged man with short curly hair and an overstuffed messenger bag stood near the windows. As Kaye walked in, the man started to speak. But instead of sounds, copper coins fell from his lips to clatter and roll on the worn wooden floorboards.
Luis put his hand on the man's arm. "Did you do what I told you?" he asked, bending to pick up the pennies. "I know the metal tastes like blood, but you just got to do it.”
The man nodded and gestured wildly to his mouth.
"I told you, the cure was to eat your words. That means every single coin that came out of your mouth. You're telling me you did that?”
This time the man hesitated.
"You spent some, didn't you? Please, please tell me that you didn't go to CoinStar or some stupid shit like that.”
"Ugh," the man said, and pennies scattered.
"Go find the rest. It's the only way you're going to be cured." Luis crossed his arms over his chest, lean muscles showing through the thin fabric of his T-shirt and along his bare arms. "And no more deals with the folk.”
There were so many things Kaye didn't know about faeries.
The man looked like he wanted to say something, probably that he didn't appreciate being ordered around by some gangster, but he merely nodded as he took out his wallet. After counting out a stack of twenties, he gathered the coins on the floor and departed without a sign of thanks.
Luis tapped the bills against the palm of one hand as he turned to Kaye. "I told you to stay out of sight.”
"Something's happening to me," Kaye said. "My glamour's not working so good.”
Luis groaned. "You're telling me that he was looking at a green girl with wings?”
"No," she said. "It's just that it seems so much harder to keep up.”
"The iron in the city sucks up faerie magic quick," he said with a sigh. "That's why faeries don't live here if they have a choice. Only the exiled ones, the ones that can't go back to their own courts for whatever reason.”
"So why don't they join another court?" Kaye asked.
"Some do, I guess. But that's dangerous business—the other court's as likely to kill them as take them in. So they live here and let the iron eat away at them." He sighed again. "If you really need it, there's Nevermore—a potion—staves off the iron sickness. I can't get you any right now—”
"Nevermore?" Kaye asked. "Like 'quoth the raven'?”
"That's what my brother calls it." Luis shifted uncomfortably, smoothing back his braids. "In humans it bestows glamour—makes us almost like faeries. Gets us high. You're never supposed to use it more than once a day or more than two days in a row or more than a single pinch at a time. Never. More. Don't let your friend near it.”
"Oh. Okay." Kaye thought of Dave's haunted eyes and blackened mouth.
"Good. You ready to go?" Luis asked.
Kaye nodded. "One more question—have you ever heard of a curse where whatever someone touches withers?”
Luis nodded. "It's a King Midas variation. Whatever you touch turns to—fill in the blank. Gold. Shit. Jelly doughnuts. It's a pretty powerful curse." He frowned. "You'd have to be young and rash and really pissed off to toss all that power at a mortal.”
"So the King Midas—you know how to cure it?”
He frowned. "Salt water. King Midas walked out into a brackish river and let it wash away his curse. The ocean would be better, but it's basically the same principle. Anything with salt.”
Corny walked into the room, yawning hugely. "What's going on?”
"So, Neil," Luis said, his eyes going to Corny's gloves. "What happen? She curse you by accident?”
Corny looked blank for a moment, like the nickname had thrown him completely. Then his eyes narrowed. "Nope," he said. "I got cursed on purpose."
Chapter 7
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Aftermath"
Snow fell lightly around the abandoned Untermeyer estate, dusting the dirt and dead grass with white. The remains of the old fire-blackened mansion showed through the bare branches. A vast fireplace stood like a tower, overgrown with dead vines. Underneath what remained of a slate roof, the gentry of the Unseelie Court had hastily prepared camp. Roiben sat on a low couch and watched as Ethine entered his chambers. She moved gracefully, feet seeming to only lightly touch the ground.
He had composed himself, and when one of his folk's clawed hands happened to push her, causing her to stumble as she crossed the threshold, he only looked up as though annoyed by her clumsiness. Beside him were bowls of fruit, brought cold from dark caverns; cordials of clover and nettle; and tiny bird hearts still glossy with blood. He bit into a grape, not minding the crack of seeds against his teeth.
"Ethine. Be welcome.”