Page 40 of The Brightest Fell

“One drop of blood for each of you,” said the Luidaeg. “That’s why your magic works the way it does. That’s why it’s so all-or-nothing. Because you’ve never had the size to master anything larger. My mother made you to make herself happy, and you did your jobs very well.”

“Sorry, but I wasn’t there,” said Poppy, with what sounded like genuine regret. “I didn’t start for generations after that.”

“Doesn’t matter. You still get the credit for making my mother smile. I’ll be right back.” The Luidaeg walked out of the room, heading for the kitchen.

I knew what came after the kitchen. Usually, it was a lot of blood, and we hadn’t even gotten to the question of August’s candle yet. I turned to Poppy.

“If you want to change your mind, this is when you run,” I said. “Take your magic back, return to your real size, and fly away as fast as you can, because when the Luidaeg makes a bargain, you pay what she asks of you. Do you understand?”

“We owe him,” she said gravely. “The whole colony, we owe him. I wouldn’t even have been living long enough for you to save if not for Simon. How can I repay you for what you’ve done if I don’t start with the repayment of him?”

I didn’t have an answer for that. I wasn’t sure there was one.

Footsteps from the hall told me that the Luidaeg was returning before she stepped into the room. It didn’t matter that we didn’t have an answer, because there was no longer time.

“We like to talk about the Firstborn and the Three like there was always a clear chain of creation through Faerie, even though five minutes in the real world will tell you there wasn’t.” The Luidaeg walked to the middle of the room, stopping when she reached the coffee table. She knelt, placing three objects atop it: a shallow bowl made from an abalone shell, a long bone needle, and a glass flask filled with something that twisted and swirled like captive moonlight. “Maeve created pixies with no Firstborn to call their own. Acacia gave birth to the Blodynbryd, and when they cut their hair, rose goblins are sown. The Selkies were born in slaughter, the Raven-mays in sacrifice. Sometimes the rules break. Poppy.”

“Yes?” said Poppy, in a hushed voice.

“Do you agree to pay whatever I ask in exchange for my removing the magic your people placed in the body of Simon Torquill? Do you understand that I am the sea witch, the mother of nightmares, and once I have taken what I want from you, you may never be able to buy it back, no matter how hard you try?”

“Yes,” said Poppy.

The Luidaeg looked at her gravely. “Do you understand that I cannot refuse you, but I cannot give this to you for free?”

“Yes,” said Poppy, more confidently.

“Then here we go. Toby, put Simon on the couch and step away.”

“Right.” I walked over to the couch and rolled Simon’s sleeping form onto the cushion. I didn’t think I’d broken him. It was hard to tell, with him refusing to wake up.

“Quentin, go stand against the wall,” said the Luidaeg.

He looked startled. “Why?”

“Because I said so.” She grinned, showing a mouthful of viciously pointed teeth. “Move.”

Quentin moved. I moved to stand next to him. When the Luidaeg needed me to bleed, she’d call me. She always did.

“Mother didn’t leave room for anything but herself when she made the pixies. That’s part of why you’re so small. She was never good at allowing things to become complicated. Poppy, give me your hand.”

Poppy, not yet aware of the danger of listening to the Luidaeg when she said that sort of thing, stuck out her hand. The Luidaeg picked up the bone needle and drove it into the tip of Poppy’s index finger.

The oversized pixie yelped and tried to jump back. The Luidaeg grabbed her wrist before she could, moving it so that her fingertips were positioned above the shell bowl.

“You promised,” said the Luidaeg, and squeezed.

Poppy didn’t bleed. Instead, something as thick and viscous as maple syrup began dripping from her finger—assuming maple syrup was bright orange and glowed like it was radioactive. She made a soft squeaking sound, half surprise and half dismay. Her wings rustled, but they didn’t chime.

“Keep your hand exactly where it is,” said the Luidaeg, and let go of Poppy’s wrist. She reached for the glass flask, pulling out the stopper. The smell of blood wafted from the silvery contents. It was . . . thin, diffuse, impossible to identify, except in the sense that I knew I couldn’t identify it. Whatever it was, it was something I had never encountered before.

“I don’t feel good,” said Poppy. The glow from her skin was starting to dim, leaving her pink and pale, save for the high spots of hectic color in her cheeks.

“Drink this,” said the Luidaeg, forcing the flask into her other hand. “You’ll feel better.”

Poppy looked grateful, too innocent or too confused to sense a trap when one was springing shut on her—or maybe she just didn’t care. Maybe she had already accepted that this was going to happen, and saw no sense in fighting. Whatever her reasons, she raised the flask to her lips and drank its contents without hesitation, gulping them down in three long mouthfuls.

Her eyes widened. Her jaw went slack. The flask fell from her fingers and landed on the floor with a sound like a single bell chiming. The stream of orange light was falling faster and faster, until it should have overflowed the shallow bowl. Somehow, the bowl seemed to keep expanding, growing broader, deeper, becoming wide enough to hold every drop.