CHAPTER TWO
This is my favorite time of day, Dylan Waverly thought contentedly.
He walked past the lakeside tennis courts, and through the little ornamental orchard, and down to the dock. He was barefoot and wearing a pair of baggy swim-trunks with the Resort’s logo embroidered on one leg, and had a rolled towel draped across his shoulders. Anybody who glimpsed him would only see one of the Resort’s young lifeguards heading down to the water for a slightly-unauthorized swim. Lake Endor, of course, was “swim at your own risk” after sunset, and very large and very hungry carp discouraged anyone inclined to flout the policy. Of course a carp encounter wasn’t fatal, but the nips were painful.
The sun had set hours ago, and the night sky was bright with stars. Dylan watched as the security lights across the lake clicked off, leaving only faint indoor lights shining in one or two of the cabins on the row, and knew from that it was just ten o’clock.
He’d been in Issachar County since the early spring, and was glad to have found a good excuse for staying. While Dylan had no actual need to work—the kenning of gold might be a Seleighe gift, not a Selkie one, but he could have plucked wealth to last a mortal lifetime from the ocean floor—he liked people, and liked being among mortals. And he was wise enough to know that strangers—no matter who—or what—they were—required reasons to be where they were. An excuse, if you chose to see it that way. Or (as Dylan saw it), a beguiling story to tell. So when he’d seen the Resort, he’d known he wanted to work there. Selkies had always been friends and helpers to mortals, after all. It was why they’d resisted going Underhill.
It was true there was a Portal in the lake, but as far as he could tell it had been sealed, like so many others since the Courts had gone Underhill generations ago. It wasn’t the Portal that had drawn him to Lake Endor, but the quiet beauty of the lake itself. Of all the inland bodies of water he had encountered since making his escape from the Sea and his home, this was the one that had called out the loudest to him. And once he’d seen it, there was no question of whether or not he would stay. He would have found an excuse, even if he’d had to go treasure-hunting and buy himself camping gear to live in the forest. His kind were used to rough accommodations, after all. He was more used to not sleeping in a bed than having one.
But getting a job was the most practical solution to remaining, at least for now.
Getting a job in Endor had taken a certain amount of ingenuity. Little towns like Endor weren’t quick to warm up to outsiders—especially ones who couldn’t give a good account of where they’d been before and why they’d come here. It had been pure luck he’d overheard the conversation in the Endor diner that led him to apply for a job as a mechanic at the Resort. The Resort hired most of its staff from Endor and the surrounding towns. Many of its employees had worked summers here for years; the Resort was a “family” resort in more ways than one. He didn’t want to take a job from someone who had earned it, or who needed it, but after he’d been in Endor for a while, he’d figured out a way to be not only useful to the Resort, but needed by it.
For he had . . . skills. Skills he’d learned from some Seleighe folk and their mortal allies that he’d taken a liking to as a pup, and who had in turn taken a liking to him. They’d taught him a very great deal, not only about the engines that made human motorcars run, but about engines and contraptions in general. Skills that one only needed to demonstrate, and, even with all the certifications available, did not need to show a license or a degree to persuade people that said skills were real and reliable.
Mortal engines had fascinated him all his life, and his people had no fear of or aversion to Cold Iron. A skilled mechanic willing to accept a few months’ employment rather than a steady job, and who could also double as a lifeguard (and who was charming enough to be sought after as a dance partner most evenings, he admitted modestly), had been able to convince the Resort’s owners to hire him. The nearest mechanic was at Hidden, and as a result, when anything happened to any of the jet skis or the emergency generators, or any other thing that needed a motor or merely had complicated innards, it could be days or a week or even more before the thing was set to rights. He must have seemed like a gift from heaven to the Resort owners. Especially as he didn’t ask much, and made no questions about “benefits.” Not that he needed anything of the sort. He never got sick, his teeth and eyes were perfect, and whatever would he do with a “retirement fund” anyway?
He gave good service for his hire. It was a point of honor for him, and always had been. (What honor you have left, he thought somberly.) And his job was fascinating. Being the Resort’s mechanic-at-large meant he was in charge of everything that went out on the lake under power, including the boats the guests brought with them, and anything with a motor that helped to run the resort. Even when something was working, he still enjoyed tinkering with it to make it run better.
The lake was too small for the larger craft common at oceanside marinas, although he probably could have worked on things that large as well. Anything over thirty feet would be as cramped in Lake Endor as an ocean liner in a bathtub. Most of the boats were used by single fishermen; though the lake had been used for water skiing in years gone by (so he’d been told), the sport seemed to have gone out of fashion lately, probably because the endlessly-creative mortals had designed new toys for their enjoyment. These days, the Resort maintained a dozen jet skis for the use of guests, plus two (outfitted with rescue platforms) to be used for lake rescue—a good thing, since without them Dylan probably couldn’t have convinced Jaymie Maham and her husband to hire him.
Technically the Resort wasn’t liable for what happened on the lake itself, and it was rare for individual swimmers to get into trouble, but there was always somebody keeping an eye out from the high tower. Hence, the rescue-skis. Most of the common trouble came from one of the small boats tipping over, or from one of the powerboats—or the jet skis—running out of gas. So part of Dylan’s job was to make sure that anything preventable was prevented.
And the Resort will close for the season in September, and what will you do then, Dylan, me lad? You can’t go on drifting from place to place forever. Your own people and the Farraige Olc are hunting you, and sooner or later they’ll find you. And then . . .
But he shook his head, banishing the familiar litany of fault with a rueful sigh. He didn’t have a better answer now than he’d had a year ago: stay, be caught, and see everyone and everything he loved destroyed? Or run away, and delay that inevitability for as long as he could? Mayhap he could find a place for the winter tinkering on the fishing boats on the Gulf, or down in the Keys. People living as close to the edge as the Gulf fishermen did were grateful for someone who would make repairs for the sake of a bed and a meal and a bit of spending money. And there were many in the Keys who were as much on the run from their lives as he was from his.
The lights from the Resort shone in the lake in front of him, and even down at the water’s edge Dylan could hear recorded music coming from the hotel’s ballroom. The Resort kept later hours than the Tourist Camp did, partly from the advantage of having a more reliable electric supply (and a hefty set of backup generators in case of a summer storm) and partly because of its guests. Even though the same families had been coming to “The Endor” for generations, expectations had changed.
Everything is always changing here in the World Above, Dylan thought broodingly. I wonder: if we had been willing to change, too, would this whole catastrophe ever have happened?
In the 1930s, the Resort had put in one of the earliest phone lines in Issachar County. In the 2000s, it was limited Wi-Fi, which meant that there were also Wi-Fi hotspots in town, enough for texting and email (to the glee of the townies). But from its first season, the Resort had offered dancing every night. In the old days, it had been ragtime and ballroom and a full orchestra. Then it had been swing and a live band: now there was live music only on weekends in July and August, and for the rest of the week patrons made do with a DJ and his records—a DJ who doubled as one of the cooks, because everyone here did more than one job.
Today was a Monday—it was disco on Mondays—and the ballroom would close down in another hour. Most of the action at the Resort was indoors after sunset; the tennis courts weren’t lighted for nighttime play, and the lifeguards at the two pools went off duty at six. And it got mortal chill here of an evening, chill enough to discourage wandering about at night unless you had a good reason to. Even though the pools stayed open until 9:30, it was mostly the older teens who used them after the dinner hour, and the late swimmers usually weren’t a rowdy crowd. Never mind how silly it is to have two swimming pools when there’s a whole lake right here. Mortals are a silly lot in general. That’s why you are on the run and here in the first place. . . .
Dylan made an annoyed face at falling right back into the same brooding thoughts so quickly. It all came down to mortals and their never-ending history of making poor choices. It wouldn’t have mattered whether or not he had been chosen as Champion or some other, the outcome for his people would have been just the same, because the Farraige Olc wouldn’t compromise and the Mhuir Chéasta wouldn’t stop trying to convince them.
Go for a swim, why don’t you? And stop fretting about what you can’t change, he told himself firmly.
Dylan walked out on the dock and balanced on the very end. He dropped the towel and dove smoothly into the lake.
Where the man dove in, a seal surfaced. If there had been anyone to observe it, upon first glance they would have remarked that it was an exceptionally fine specimen of Halichoerus grypus atlantica, the Atlantic grey seal—at least before they took a second look and began shaking their heads in confusion. Even worse if that imaginary watcher and hypothetical amateur naturalist recognized him for what he really was, or more likely was one of the mortals who could see through a millstone better than most.
Not a seal at all . . . but a Selkie.
Dylan bristled his whiskers happily as he dove for the lake bottom, twisting this way and that in pursuit of startled fish. It was play rather than any need to hunt; Dylan was happy to take his meals properly cooked, thank you very much, and carp were filthy things, muddy tasting. But he enjoyed giving the carp as much of a fright as they gave to mortal swimmers.
Oh, it was wonderful to be able to swim in his rightful shape. And the water was—all things considered—almost pristine.
Now don’t start thinking like that again! That’s what you came here to get away from, isn’t it?
Dylan surfaced in the shadow of the diving platform at the center of the lake and hung motionless in the water, only his nose and the top of his head above it. It was a lifetime’s habit of caution that kept him hidden. Since before mortalkind had found fire and language and the inspiration to shape tools from reeds and stone and clay, it had shared its world with more races than it knew. For millennia, mortals had shared their world first unknowingly, then knowingly—then unknowingly again. But in that brief span of centuries, once the other races became myths, and when they had thought themselves alone upon the earth, mortals had changed. They had changed the world. And those who had become myths realized that mortals could no longer share the world with those Elder Cousins whose presence they had once taken for granted.
Not peacefully, anyway.
To stay in the World Above would have been to cause them harm, and the Seleighe Sidhe could not bear such a thought, for they loved their mortal cousins, and, truth be told, were empowered by mortal creativity. There had been a long period of strife between Dark Court and Light, but in the end, except for a very, very few, both Seleighe and Unseleighe Courts had departed for Underhill, along with their myriad courtiers and pets and allies.
At least . . . those of the land.
Even in those days in centuries past, when (so it seemed) all the earth was trampled underfoot by mortals, the sea had remained an unknown country. Mortal ships were frail and few, easily blown from their true courses and lost. There seemed no reason for the Sea-Folk to follow their landlubbing brethren Underhill.
Oh, they had withdrawn from mortal view. Sightings of Selkies, and swan-mays, and phoukas became first rare, then legend. Merfolk and nisse vanished from the surface of the sea, rusalka from marshes, lorelei from the rivers, kelpie and nixies, sirens and Lamiae, merrows and spaewives and all the thousand races of the ocean became wonder tales told at fanciful mortal firesides.
No one had expected mortal kind to claim the seas as well.
And not just to claim them, but poison them.
Dylan dove deep into the cool pure darkness of the lake, but even here there was evidence of mortal carelessness. In daylight, he would have been able to see the bright glitter of thoughtless trash—lost sunglasses, discarded tin and aluminum cans, glass bottles—that littered the lake bottom like out of place seashells, drifting until they clustered about the sealed and invisible Portal at the deepest part of the lake. In the darkness, Dylan could only sense their presence, though he could no longer sense the Portal itself.
He shot out of the water with a leap and reentered it with a loud reckless splash (more proof, if anyone heard, that Endora the Lake Endor Serpent really existed) then swam quietly back to the dock. In human form once more, he sat on its edge, dangling his feet in the water.
It looks clean. It tastes . . . Almost clean . . .
But it wasn’t.
And Mother Ocean was in far worse shape. All her far-flung limbs were connected—throw a bottle into the waters off Japan and eventually it would wash up on the shores of Seattle. Dump oil—or worse—into those waters, and everything in its path would die, whether it breathed water or not.
For centuries, as mortal kind had increased its numbers, building bigger and better ships, harvesting more of the sea’s bounty, using it as a dumping ground for their wastes, the problem had slowly been getting worse—and then the worsening had stopped being slow. Mortals had used Mother Ocean as a vast garbage dump for centuries, thinking they could do so forever, and the ocean’s children had sickened and died of mortal carelessness. Whole areas of the ocean had been poisoned, everyone who lived there slain by World Above poisons, and the damage—both its speed and its severity—had become more than the Mhuir Chéasta, the Sea’s Children, could undo. It had driven Dylan’s people and their allies from their accustomed places, and they had begun to speak of following their terrestrial brethren Underhill at last.
Some of them had, anyway.
Others had wanted to stay, to fight, to punish the mortals for the destruction they’d caused. The arguments had driven the Mhuir Chéasta so far apart that one name would no longer do for all of Mother Ocean’s children. The Farraige Olc—those who named themselves the ocean’s vengeance—said that the only answer to the mortals’ destruction of their home was war. Nobody in either group intended to stay in a world so toxic it no longer welcomed them. The Farraige Olc were perfectly willing to withdraw to Underhill—so long as mortal kind was first punished for its reckless cruelty.
There would be no winning such a war, Dylan thought sadly. He shook his head. And I can’t think of any way to stop it.
The two factions were unwilling to fight and unwilling to compromise. At last they had agreed there was only one fair way to settle the matter. Two champions, one from each side, to fight, and let battle decide what words could not. And the winning side to win all. It seemed simple and civilized enough, Dylan thought bitterly. Better than war among ourselves. And a fair and even chance of sparing the mortalfolk entirely.
Until the Mhuir Chéasta realized that what had seemed like a peaceful compromise was in fact only a cruel and desperate trick.
Because the Farraige Olc chose a Great Leviathan, the one called Tiamat, as their Champion. And our side chose . . .
Me.
The rules had been set long before each side’s Champion had been announced, and they were as binding as two untrusting coalitions could make them. Neither Champion could withdraw. Neither could appoint someone else in their place, nor have someone else appointed. Should either Champion die before the contest, and so be unable to appear . . .
Well, it would be a very good idea if they did not, and so Dylan had been (unwillingly) bound to Tiamat, with a binding that would last until they met upon the challenge ground. If one died outside the Arena, so did the other, and two new Champions would be chosen.
There was no possible way for Dylan to win against one of the ocean’s Great Old Ones, even if he’d been willing to fight and kill. There seemed to be no way out of the battle, the Mhuir Chéasta’s loss, the war to follow. And no way—no time—to seek a different solution. Even if he killed himself—which he was most certainly not willing to do—another two Champions would be chosen, and there was nothing and no one that the Mhuir Chéasta could produce that was as terrible as what the Farraige Olc had in their ranks. It had never been a fair fight, though the Mhuir Chéasta had naively thought it so.
But Dylan had realized that the Farraige Olc had vowed peace until the outcome of the Champions’ combat, and that promise bound them just as all the other promises did. And so he’d fled. From his people, from the sea itself, all the way to this little lake in the New World. This little lake and its coincidental Portal—I would swear by Ocean Herself that there was not one here when I was being taught the where and the why of the things.
He touched the talisman he wore about his neck. It was a teardrop-shaped piece of clear pale amber about the length of his thumb, with a silver band running along the sides and twisting up to form a loop for the cord on which he wore it. The band was engraved with symbols, or perhaps they were only scratches in metal that was both soft and old. Knotted in the dark leather cord were four more items: to the left of the amber drop, a piece of polished abalone shell and a small gold disk with a hole in the center. To the right, a shark’s tooth and a lump of polished red coral. The whole of it was one of the Greater Magicks, Gift of the greater Seleighe for some long-forgotten deed, set into his family’s keeping since the ancient days: whoever wore it could not be seen, sensed, tracked by any form of kenning or sorcery or even mortal Bardcraft. While it was worn, the wearer was invisible to all the folk of magic.
And Dylan had stolen it. If nobody could find him, nobody could make him fight. If there was no combat, and the Farraige Olc broke their truce, the Mhuir Chéasta could appeal to Oberon, and the Lord of the Sidhe would settle matters . . . conclusively.
But just as the talisman shielded him, it blinded him. In exchange for its protection, Dylan could no longer sense magic or the presence of magical folk. He might stand in the middle of Queen Amphitrite’s own deep ocean bower, or between the pillars of King Poseidon’s own temple, and neither sense nor scent any of the Sea People. He could see and hear them, of course, if they stood before him, but to magical senses, they were gone.
He’d bought peace for the Mhuir Chéasta—or at least a breathing space—with his own exile.
A sudden silence—as loud in its own way as a clap of thunder—told Dylan that the dancing was over for the evening. Enough brooding, he told himself, getting to his feet. And this time I really mean it. I’ve done all I can to help. Now I just have to . . . not get found. By either side.
The sunlight woke Olivia so early in the morning that there were wisps of mist still clinging to the bases of the trees and everything was covered in dew. She gingerly poked a foot out from beneath the blankets and sucked air through her teeth at the chill. She hoped it was warmer inside, but she sure as heck wouldn’t find out if she stayed here. She cocooned herself in her blankets as she rummaged through her suitcase. She shivered as she pulled on a sweatshirt over her pajamas and then wrapped herself in her bathrobe—a garment that was fine for preserving modesty in places with central heating, but which fell woefully short of usefulness when faced with an alpine summer morning.
Stuffing her feet into her ice cold slippers, Olivia sorted hurriedly through her suitcases to find an outfit for the day. Something with a lot of layers because “summer—lakeside—vacation” didn’t exactly scream “bring your winter coat,” and she was going to have to make up for that lapse somehow. Of course, judging by yesterday, it would be a lot warmer later, and she didn’t want to look completely ridiculous.
She picked out a (ha, ha) camp shirt in bright florals and paired it with a pair of cropped jeans in sage denim. Over the shirt went a boxy cropped cardigan with big faux-antler toggles, knitted of brown-bag-colored yarn so thick you could do macramé with it. The cardigan was over-embroidered in a geranium-red yarn with arrows and squiggly lines that were (allegedly) Native American trail signs, and her favorite pair of all-terrain sandals. Lilly Pulitzer rides again, she quipped silently, catching sight of her reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror.
By the time Olivia finished dressing and brushing her teeth, she’d decided that all her uncertainties and doubts from yesterday had just been the effect of her being tired and everything being strange. Now, looking at Lake Endor after a full night’s sleep and the chance to be alone with her thoughts for a while, it was clear that all her apprehension and misgivings yesterday had been caused by nothing more than a long day of travel and a bad mood. In the light of morning, well . . . the air was crisp and clean, the lake was beautiful, the cabins were quaint, the resort on the far shore was mysterious, and visiting the town of Endor would be an adventure. And sleeping outside had been—nice. Way nicer than she had expected. Especially since the screens kept the bugs away. She realized that she felt more awake and alert this morning than she had in a long, long time. As if that gray fog that held her for so long had been banished.
Nothing happened during the morning to diminish her mood of good cheer. Blake was back from his morning swim and he and Mr. Weber were cheerfully discussing the fishing prospects and the upcoming Fourth of July barbeque. Even the boys were reasonably quiet (and, not, she was relieved to discover, going to be included in today’s visit to Endor). Since Mrs. Weber was still in bed, Olivia pitched in to make breakfast, and once she’d washed the dishes (there was no hope of expecting either Noah or Mason to do it), she, Blake, and Mr. Weber piled into the minivan.
The narrow road was more crowded today. Or maybe it was just the time of day, because it was just now about nine a.m., and clearly nobody wanted to waste a moment of this beautiful day. Mr. Weber drove much more circumspectly today, and the van shared the road with children, dogs, bicyclists, and hikers. On the way in to Endor—it was about three miles; walking distance if not for the fact they would need the van to transport their supplies—Mr. Weber talked about Blake’s athletic future. Blake almost never talked about his swimming career, but now Olivia learned that he had a chance at a spot on the American team in the next Summer Olympics, and maybe even a chance at a medal. Blake shared an embarrassed glance with Olivia and changed the subject to the Endor Resort.
Or, to put it more accurately, The Fabulous Lake Endor Resort Hotel.
Apparently it was famous, at least if you lived anywhere around here. It was over a century old, one of the last great resort hotels of a kind that had used to be everywhere in the Adirondacks—the sort of place where (before air conditioning), whole families had come to spend their summers to escape the sweltering heat of the cities.
“It closes for the winter, of course,” Blake said. “Lake Endor isn’t anywhere near any of the good ski trails, and it’s too pricey for the hunters, so when the season’s over, that’s it. I’d thought about maybe getting a summer job over there this year—you know, lifeguard or something, but—”
“But your career is too important to fritter away on something like that when you should be training,” Mr. Weber interrupted in a firm voice. “It’s not as if you need the money. You’re destined for greatness, Blake. You shouldn’t waste your time on anything that doesn’t move you forward—”
Boy, if Mia could only hear this, Olivia thought. She was always saying that Blake got everything his own way, both at home and at school, but right now it looked like Blake didn’t have much freedom at all. His father seemed to have planned out Blake’s life for years to come. Olivia couldn’t even begin to imagine what that would be like. She wasn’t even entirely sure her parents had any idea she was going to Long Beach before the applications and demand for fees arrived.
“Here we are!” Blake said, just a bit too loudly.
The town of Endor would have been a one-horse town only if any self-respecting horse was willing to be caught dead in it. Olivia had gotten a glimpse as they’d driven through yesterday, and it didn’t look any bigger—or more modern—today.
Main Street was about three blocks long; a pharmacy and soda fountain (which at least sounded like it might be fun to check out), hardware store, tiny grocery store, barbershop . . . pretty boring, and of course nothing like a Starbuck’s or even a McDonald’s. Almost as an afterthought, there was a diner (one of the old kind made from a railroad car), a post office, the Association Library, and—weirdly—a couple of antiques stores. But maybe that was a thing out here. Several hundred yards past the tiny library, Olivia could see the gas station they’d passed on the way in, and next to it a weather-beaten tin sign with a bus line logo on it hanging above a forlorn wooden bench under a metal awning. Rounding out Main Street were the shops offering items that proclaimed Endor’s primary function outside of the summer season: gun shop, taxidermy shop, wild-game butcher. (Clearly there was no reason to come to this part of the universe unless you hunted, fished, or really liked to swim.)
If there was ever a reason to do well in school and get good grades in college, it would be to not have to spend the rest of your life in a place like this, Olivia thought, but despite that, Endor had a kind of bizarre charm. As if in coming here, she’d stepped into the Land of Long Ago and found herself to be a time-traveling tourist.
She took advantage of the sudden appearance on her phone of a public Wi-Fi network to text her mom. Here safe. No cell at camp. Wi-Fi in town. She waited, as Mr. Weber negotiated the traffic and got a reply that made her roll her eyes. No cell good for you.
Thanks Mom.
Mr. Weber had slowed down to a crawl as soon as they reached the outskirts of Endor, and now he turned right on the side-street just before the post office. Another, narrower, street ran back up along the backs of the shops, most of which had back doors, and on the opposite side of the street was a large graveled lot backed by a row of houses. The lot seemed to be where everyone with business in town parked; it was already half-full of cars and trucks, most with local plates and several years old. Among them, a few still-glossy cars with out of state plates stood out like tropical birds.
“Time to make sure we don’t all starve,” Mr. Weber said pleasantly, getting out of the van. “Got your list?”
“Yes, Mom,” Blake said, rolling his eyes. “And it’s not like I can’t find you. I can even text you. C’mon,” he added, opening the back door and taking Olivia’s arm. “He shops like it’s a time trial. We’d better get moving,” he said as he helped her out.
“I saw the Wi-Fi,” Olivia said, getting out of the van. “How good is it?” She had a brief vision of reprieve. Maybe she could find a spot at the camp where her phone would reach the network?
“Not good, it runs off copper,” Blake corrected. “The bandwidth is crap, the latency is awful, the network is underpowered, and there’s no actual cell service. You can text, but don’t expect data.” He flourished his list and headed for the Main Street.
Couldn’t you have told me about that before you dragged me here? Olivia thought uncharitably, following him.
The fact that it was a Saturday probably explained the number of people on the streets, because the town of Endor didn’t really look like a place that had ever known the meaning of the word “bustle,” nor was it really a proper tourist trap. The entire town was obliviously functional, as if nobody here knew there was a resort across the lake and a campground just up the road. No boutiques, no trendy eateries with outside seating, no quaint little snack shops. Aside from the antique shops, no real recreational shopping at all, which seemed a little weird. Clearly the Resort attracted tourists. She had only to look around. So why wasn’t there anything to cater to them?
Maybe because they’re only here for three or four months in the year, and then what would you live on the rest of the time?
The vacationers were easy to tell from the locals, partly by their clothes, partly by the way they stood in the middle of the street, oblivious to traffic, as if they had nowhere they needed to be and everything around them had been arranged for their entertainment. Most of Olivia’s attention was on Blake, who alternated striding along as if he’d forgotten she was here (or that they were in a hurry) with stopping to give her a guided tour to the wonders of Endor that Olivia didn’t really want.
And, of course, to greet all of his summer friends.
“It’s dead here most of the time, so— Hey, Scotty!” Blake stopped yet again to hail another acquaintance. It seemed as if he knew everyone in town, as if he’d lived here all his life instead of only visiting for a few weeks each year. Everyone seemed to know his name, and he knew theirs. Why didn’t you think of that, Olivia? Were you really dumb enough to think you’d be able to have him all to yourself this summer? Blake makes friends everywhere he goes. Between his swimming workouts and catching up with his friends, you’ll probably see less of him than you did during the school year.
Oh, well. At least the lake is pretty.
But even though Blake stopped to greet all of his summer friends, and to exchange a few “in joke” comments, he didn’t introduce Olivia to any of them. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel grateful or uneasy. On the one hand, trying to make polite conversation with total strangers always made her feel horribly awkward. On the other hand . . . well, she felt almost invisible, and she wasn’t sure she liked that either.
It wouldn’t be any different if you were back in Sacramento, she reminded herself. Everyone loves Blake Weber.
“Mandy, yo!” Almost as if he could read her mind, Blake grabbed her arm and started pulling her forward. “You’ve got to meet Mandy! We just about grew up together. Hey! Mandy, this is Ollie.”
I wish he’d stop calling me that, Olivia thought with a silent wince. No matter how many times she told him she preferred Livy, or even Olivia, all he said was: You’ll always be Ollie to me.
Mandy Phillips was a girl about their age. It was clear that she was a local rather than a visitor. She had sun bleached brown hair and blue eyes, and was dressed more formally than most of the people Olivia had seen so far, in a white button-down shirt and a denim skirt.
“Hey, Blake,” Mandy said, coming to a stop. “And . . . ‘Ollie’?”
“Olivia,” Olivia said almost inaudibly.
Blake pulled Mandy into a casual hug. “We just got up here last night. Supply run! You coming to the barbeque? What’ve you been up to?”
Mandy eased herself out of the hug, a bright smile pasted on her face. “Oh, you know, Blake. Nothing much changes around here. Better get going. My shift at the diner starts in less than five minutes. Nice to meet you, Olivia.” She raised her hand in a half wave and hurried off.
“She’s great,” Blake said. “Hey, did I ever tell you about the time she and I—Oh, wait! Dave! Hey, Dave!” Blake bounded up the steps into the drugstore.
Olivia didn’t follow. Through the plate glass window, she could see Dave and Blake pounding each other on the back and laughing. She turned to look back in the direction Mandy had gone, but didn’t see her.
He’s excited to be here. That’s all. He isn’t ignoring you on purpose.
Why had she thought things would be any different here than they were back home? She’d thought that up here it would just be the two of them, that there could be more of those moments when he focused entirely on her—the moments, she’d come to realize, that were all that mattered to her anymore. The moments she would do anything to have, because they were like a breath of air in a room where she was slowly and silently suffocating. But nothing had changed. Blake was the star attraction, the center of attention anywhere he went. Olivia Poole was his invisible satellite—one that never quite managed to drift away.
He loves you, she told herself fiercely. He wouldn’t have invited you to spend the summer here with him if he didn’t love you.
Blinking back sudden tears, she forced herself to study the storefronts across the street, her back resolutely turned toward the drug store. If Blake noticed her crying, he’d just make a big noisy joke about it. He knew she hated being teased, but he told her she looked so cute when he did that it was irresistible.
Focus, Livy.
Antique store. I wonder who buys antiques around here, or is it just a fancy name for a junk shop? Might be worth poking around in it. Bakery. And pizza parlor, it looks like. Mushroom pepperoni cupcakes, yum. Laundromat. I didn’t see a washer in the cabin; I wonder if everybody does their laundry here? Or do they just toss their clothes in the lake? I’ve got my driver’s license . . . if the Webers will let me use their van I could volunteer to do the laundry here. That way it wouldn’t look like I was just hanging around the cabin all the time.
All you ever do is run away, she told her inner monologue sharply. That’s all you’re good for.
With a sigh, she turned back to the drugstore to follow Blake inside.
The “pharmacy and soda fountain” was light-years away from the California Walgreens Olivia was used to. The back of the store was the “soda fountain” part; its wall taken up with an enormous plate glass mirror, in front of which was a marble-topped counter and a line of red-upholstered stools. A chalkboard menu offered such delights as the “Endora Sundae” (which apparently contained a full half gallon of ice cream and was free if you could finish it), plus malts and coolers and even egg crèmes. It was like something out of a fifties musical.
The actual pharmacy counter was off to the right. The rest of the store was pretty tame—the usual shelves of stuff you could find in most so-called drugstores, there just were only one or two brands of everything, so two or three “departments” were all squished together on a single set of shelves. Except for the camping stuff. There were more shelves of bug spray and insecticides and even sun screen than she was used to seeing, and a big display of charcoal briquettes fought for floor space with stacks of twelve-packs of every member of the Coke and Pepsi families. Everything about the place practically screamed “You Are On Vacation.”
But everything was just a little off, a little fake. Everything seemed a little smaller than normal, or a little greyer. Dull. That was it. Everything here—despite the chrome soda-fountain—seemed just a little dulled.
Or maybe it was her.
“Help you find something, young lady?”
She turned around quickly, startled. The man behind the register smiled. He was old enough to be the owner; he wore a name tag that said “Bob Myers, Pharmacist.”
“No,” she said quickly, looking around at the same time. “No, I’m with—”
But Blake wasn’t here.
She scanned the store again quickly. Shelves of stuff. Soda fountain. Pharmacy. Cash register flanked by spinner racks of maps and brochures. But she and the clerk were the only ones here, except for somebody’s mom, kids in tow, inspecting the display of sun lotion as if there was going to be a quiz later.
She knew Blake hadn’t come past her out onto the sidewalk. He and “Dave” must have gone out through the back—at least she hoped so.
Well, if worst comes to worst I can walk back to the lake, after all.
Feeling she needed to explain her presence here, Olivia grabbed a couple of items at random—a pack of gum, and a little brochure with a Nessie-type monster on the cover and the words LAKE ENDOR MONSTER at the top—and set them on the counter.
“Just these, thanks.”
As her purchase was rung up she said hesitantly:
“A friend of mine came in here and . . .”
“Oh!” Mr. Myers said, bagging her items. “Blake Weber? He went out through the back. A lot of folks just use this place as a shortcut, no use shouting at the rain. Your first time visiting the lake?”
“I, um . . . there’s a monster in the lake?” she asked, indicating the booklet she’d just bought.
“Some say,” Mr. Myers said, with a conspiratorial grin. “Never seen her myself. She likes to come out when you summer folks are gone. Endora, I mean. Don’t you worry. She’s never eaten anybody yet.”
Probably because she doesn’t exist. Olivia smiled politely and took her bag and her change. “Thanks.”
“Any time. Be sure to stop in again. Best ice cream in the county—and if you finish an ‘Endora,’ it’s free.”
“Thanks,” Olivia said again. Ugh. Half a gallon of ice cream all at once? Gross. She turned toward the back of the store, and this time she saw the little corridor that clearly led to the back door. She hurried toward it, trying to look purposeful.
I am officially in the Twilight Zone. Or Pleasantville. Or Hell.
A palace stood upon the ocean floor, surrounded by the warm soft dimness of the shallows of a southern sea. Though it possessed tall stately pillars of crystal and coral and pearl and gold, carpets of colored sands and glistening shell, and walls of drifting sea-grass, no one who walked upon the land would recognize it for what it was—in the unlikely event such a surface-dweller stumbled upon it. In the truest sense, it was not a palace at all, for no sovereign reigned here. It was a place that had been built by folk who had no need of stairs, or floors, or sturdy barricades to withstand the raging elements, just as they had no need of kings and queens, councils or parliaments. Nor was it a temple, by the most exacting definition, for this folk had no need of such. Their temple was the whole world through which they moved, from these bright sunlit waters near the surface to the abyssal depths where not even light dared to venture.
But at times there were questions to be decided, promises to be made, appointments to be kept—and when those times came, it was to this place that the Mhuir Chéasta and the Farraige Olc came.
Once they had been one folk, their races and their interests as various and several as the sea herself. There had never been a war within the ranks of the Mhuir Chéasta, for their world was vast, and few of their kind had any taste for war.
Things had changed.
Was it the poison the Mortalkind flung so profligately into our waters? Or was the true poison within our hearts, that so many of us so quickly seized upon the opportunity to deal out harm for harm? Aighaire, leader of the Mhuir Chéasta in a time so debased that there was need of leaders and wars, awaited her counterpart in the place appointed for that meeting. Her thoughts turned, as they so often did in these days, not upon the battle to come, but on the failures of love and trust that had brought them to battle.
Aighaire looked harmless enough, were there anyone here to see. Mortals would wonder at the presence of a grey seal so far from its ancestral waters—or perhaps one of the Mortalfolk with the eyes to see would look upon her and see only a young woman, her short sealskin tunic pale as seafoam, and her long hair, drifting like sea-grass, just as pale. Neither seeming was wholly true. Neither seal nor woman, Aighaire was both and neither. She had lived for many centuries and given birth to numerous children.
So many of them dead, and my Dylan, my lastborn and dearest, oath-foresworn and wandering. Nor can I find it in my heart to truly blame him for his oath breaking and dishonor, for these are times unlike any the Folk have ever known. The grief—the shame—she would soon conceal from the Farraige Olc was plain in her eyes.
Once our beliefs did not divide us. It is true that vengeance is a fine thing, and that some of our peoples have held it dear as far back into the Long Ago as anyone can remember. But not us. Blood for blood, a child for a child—these are cruel transactions, and never have the Selkie-kind engaged in them. But even among those who do, never have they called for a vengeance to strike down every member of a folk. . . .
Aighaire did not have long to spend alone with her unhappy thoughts, for her Farraige Olc counterpart was exactingly punctual. Abruptly the waters grew dark and turbid, the bright fish scuttled into hiding, and even the swift shadowy predators of the waters found business elsewhere, for there was no profit to be had in outfacing an enemy so overwhelmingly powerful. Even the water seemed to cool as the Farraige Olc approached.
Ocras and Aighaire had met countless times, trying to find a way to peace, or if not to peace, at least to the most harmless path, yet never, in all their meetings, had either warmed to the other. Aighaire was a Selkie, creature of shorelines and bright sands, child of a race that loved music and laughter, song and play. The speaker for the Farraige Olc was a Ceirean, a long shadow of spines and fangs, a creature of depths and darkness. Her wide tripartite jaws gaped open, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth, as she spoke.
“Well, air-breather? I have come at the time appointed. Where is the Champion you have promised to produce? My people grow restless.”
Aighaire regarded the envoy before her with calm dark eyes. “Then they must grow restless, Lady Ocras,” Aighaire replied, her whole body shrugging. “Prince Dylan is not here.”
“You cannot delay a decision forever by hiding your Champion,” Ocras hissed, the spines on her flanks flaring with her rage.
“Bad decisions are best delayed,” Aighaire answered. “Do you think I believe Prince Dylan can defeat Tiamat?”
Ocras seemed to smile, though her flanged jaws did not easily lend themselves to such an expression. “You should have been wiser when you bound yourself to that bargain, air-breather. Your child shall meet our Champion, and he shall die. And then, by the pact of your own weaving, we shall be free to punish Mortalkind as it deserves. Why do you not see the justice in this—you who have lost so much more than any of us? Where now are your islands, your villages, the soft coastal waters where you used to play?”
“All things change,” Aighaire answered softly. “Turn the seas red with blood, and you will not turn back time. Nor will you win anything for the Farraige Olc save attention you do not truly desire.”
“Oberon is far away, and neither the Bright Court nor the Dark care about the folk of the sea,” Ocras answered sneeringly. “Sister, we do not even ask you to help us in our vengeance. Concede the victory, let the binding spell be undone. I swear to you by the Sea Mother, the Farraige Olc will pursue no quarrel with your folk. Go where you choose. Sister, you can yet save your son.”
“And what would I save him for, if you mean to break the world?” Aighaire answered quietly. “When you have made your war, you will lose it, and win or lose, you will have nothing you desire—and much you would desperately have sought to avoid.”
“Empty words!” Lady Ocras lashed her body through the water as if she struck at prey. “We must fight the landfolk—or die! There is no third choice. Produce your Champion!”
“I cannot,” Aighaire answered. “And since I cannot, there is no combat. Your own oath binds you to peace until that day.”
“That day will not be delayed forever, air-breather,” the Ceirean growled. “If you will not produce him, the Farraige Olc will find him. And the sea will fatten on your tears in that hour.”
“Empty words will not summon our Champion, nor will they release either of us from the oath both our peoples have sworn,” Aighaire answered steadily. “Go and say to those whom you serve that we bargained with you in good faith, though you did not deal fairly with us, and until the day our Champions meet, we are both bound by our bargain,”
For a moment it seemed that the dark serpent would strike, and rend the small silken body in its great jaws. But the people of the sea, whether Farraige Olc or Mhuir Chéasta, had once been one folk, despite their myriad of shapes. And the oaths both peoples had sworn were too powerful to be set aside in a moment’s rage.
“Until that day, then,” Ocras said at last. “And in that day, remember: I offered you peace.” With a lashing of its great body, it turned away, thrusting itself fiercely into the dark cold depths of the deeper waters.
Slowly, Aighaire rose to the surface to breathe. She could pretend to others that the course of action her son had taken did not grieve her, but she could not lie to herself. Even though she understood the desperation that had driven him to it, his flight solved nothing. If the Farraige Olc thought of somehow ending Tiamat’s life—
Oh Blessed Danu, mother of the waves, let them not think of that!
If Dylan died before meeting Tiamat in combat, Tiamat would die as well.
With both Champions dead, the war would begin.
Let my son’s name be oathbreaker and coward, let it be bitter in the mouths of my people for a thousand years, but let the Farraige Olc not think of that!
Eventually Olivia figured out that Blake and Mr. Weber didn’t need her, she could see the parking lot from the diner, and she could get to the van long before they could possibly finish loading it. So she took a seat inside, up near the front where she had a good view of the van and . . . took out her phone and stared at it.
Blake had been right; she watched in a sort of stunned disbelief as the webpage for her email loaded literally a line of pixels at a time. It hadn’t even cleared the top border when someone came up beside her and gently cleared her throat.
She looked up. It was Mandy, the girl Blake had introduced her to. “There’s no point—” she said, nodding at the phone. “It’ll take an hour for a page to load.”
Olivia sighed, and went back to “home.” “I feel like an addict that needs a fix,” she admitted.
Mandy nodded, not without sympathy. “Most people coming here do. We’re too far out for fiber, we haven’t got cable either, and too many hills for cell. What can I get you?”
Belatedly, Olivia scanned the menu. “Uh—iced tea, and can I have BLT without the bacon?”
She was sure that Mandy would make a wisecrack, but she said nothing. “Tomato sandwich, check. I’d put pepper, fresh basil and oregano on that if I were you.”
She smiled at the unexpected helpfulness. “That sounds great, thanks!”
Mandy smiled a little back, and went off to place the order. Olivia went back to watching the van. Mr. Weber came out of the butcher’s with a heavy box, put it in the van, and left. Mandy came back with the sandwich and tea, but had to hurry off to another customer. Olivia looked after her a little wistfully as she bit into the sandwich.
She seems nice. I mean really nice. Like, she got me whole grain bread which I forgot to ask for, and she suggested the basil and oregano. Mandy seemed like the kind of person she’d like to be friends with. Except that she works, so she probably doesn’t have any time off during the day, and I don’t want to try walking here at night. . . .
Usually whenever anyone associated with the Webers came to the diner, Mandy and the cook made sure that whatever they asked for was mediocre at best. But Olivia had looked so wistful . . . and so totally unlike anyone she would have associated with Blake Weber, that Mandy had felt a sudden surge of sympathy for her. It was pretty obvious from the way she’d scanned the menu with a little dismay, and then asked for a BLT without the bacon, that the poor girl was probably a vegan or a vegetarian. Which made sense if she was from California, like Blake.
She’s going to half starve with the Webers, Mandy’d thought with sympathy. PBJs for breakfast, lunch and dinner does not a balanced diet make. And out of that sympathy, she’d suggested some of Grams’ fresh herbs, and had ordered the sandwich on whole grain, figuring that was what the girl would want.
The smile of thanks she got when she brought the sandwich and the tea was almost worth more than the tip.
She’d wanted to go back and talk to her a little, for one thing, to find out why someone who was a decent human being was being dragged around by Blake of the Lake, but she got busy, and when she looked up again, the girl was gone.
Well, she’s going to get bored out there on the campground. Hopefully she’ll come back when I’m not slammed. She seems nice.
Way too nice for Blake Weber.