Ep. 6: Lady of the Dusk
Dark as Dawn, Bright as Night, a novel
DARK AS DAWN, BRIGHT AS NIGHT is a dark fantasy novel serialized in seventeen episodes. This is Episode Six.
New to the story? START HERE.
Previously: Ten follows Blythe to the edge of Hesper’s land. When he makes his way on alone, he’s surprised by what he finds there.
Up ahead: Hesper listens to what Ten has to say, but has a proposition of her own to make.
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HESPER
The human lying on my beach is repulsive.
Not because of the sweat and blood. I’ve seen far worse.
Not even because he’s injured several of my cankers, although that has done little to endear him to me.
No, it’s the stench of the Dawn that rolls off him in sickening waves that turns my stomach. I should kill him now, be done with this intrusion. But corpses are difficult to explain away.
There are many things I can appreciate about the modern age, but dispensing one’s own justice was much easier in my own time. Yes, it often had unintended consequences, but when faced with an intruder that’s injured your pets and has clearly consorted with your sworn enemy, a swift kill is often called for. Luckily for him, I’ve learned to abide by contemporary laws.
More or less.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” I say. “I need the truth, laid out calmly and clearly, or my cankers here can easily finish the job they started. Understand?”
He nods and wipes canker blood out of his eyes, his chest still heaving from the chase.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Tennyson Ellis, but I go by Ten.”
Of course he does. It’s a ridiculous nickname, but Tennyson Ellis doesn’t exactly inspire fear or admiration. And though he’s seen better days, there’s something about this man that reeks of excess testosterone—a tendency toward dominance. A faded Alpha.
“Why are you here, Tennyson Ellis?”
He pauses. I can see him evaluating the best way to explain himself. When he reaches a decision, it’s with a tired resignation that surprises me. For someone who fought so hard to survive my cankers, he doesn’t seem ready to continue the struggle with me.
“Blythe sent me.”
Blythe. The name makes my skin itch with loathing.
I should have known. Why else would this common bit of meat smell of the Dawn so strongly that it overpowers his own human excretions, fragrant though they are? He must see the disgust written on my face because he seems to gather himself and then speaks again.
“I know you and Blythe aren’t friends,” he says holding up his hands as if to calm me down. “I apologize for dropping in on you unannounced. I’m a little new to your world, so I’ve left it up to Blythe to lead the way. I can see that wasn’t the smartest choice. But I think if we’d called to make an appointment, you’d probably have refused.”
I allow him a slight nod, and he continues.
“I’m not great at pretending. I’m a man of action. Fighting, killing,” he sweeps a hand over my cankers which still stand, hackles raised, teeth bared, ready to end him at my slightest signal, wounded though they may be. He meets my eye and has the good grace to appear abashed.
“Sorry I hurt your dogs,” he adds.
“They aren’t dogs.”
“Yeah,” he says almost to himself. “Didn’t think so.”
For a moment, he seems so lost, so artless, and out of his element that I almost feel sorry for him, the fool. But if Blythe has already sunk her claws into him, then I need to remain wary.
“Why are you here?”
He pauses, considering, I suppose, how best to phrase whatever absurd ideas Blythe has fed him. I think about taking the opportunity to tell him to remove himself from the premises forthwith, but truth be told, I’m curious. What could Blythe want that this man could offer?
“To make a deal,” he says, leveling his gaze.
His breathing has finally slowed, and for a moment, steeped in moonlight and fog as we are, I can see him as he was sometime ago in his short human life. There’s a fierceness to him, a seriousness too. The kind of man who makes threats and follows through on them.
Unfortunately for him, threats don’t work well with me. I may look human. Indeed, I once was, long, long ago. But I’ve been something more for centuries. The kind of something that doesn’t place much stock in the sad attempts at intimidation made towards me over the years. Dread and terror are as much a part of the Dusk as peace and quiet. And the Dusk is my home; it’s difficult to fear something that’s woven into the very fabric of my existence.
And, yet.
It’s been a while since my cankers have gotten this kind of exercise. I doubt the human would have made it to my doorstep if they were in top form. But I must begrudgingly admit to myself that I’m impressed he made it this far. And it’s been an age since anything exciting like this has happened.
The business of making ghosts is fine. Necessary even. But centuries spent at the same task tends to drain it of import.
“I’m willing to hear more,” I say. “But not out here. Get up. Follow me.”
I whistle, two short, soft notes, and those cankers that are able surround the human as he stands and limps forward. I glance back at the others. They’re hurt, but the ground here, suffused as it is by shades, will heal them.
I twist my fingers, forming a complicated knot in the air, peeling back the layers of rock and sand around the injured cankers so they sink down into the welcoming dark. I reverse the gesture, and the ground slides over them. I see the man’s face, already pale in the cool light of the moon, blanch, but he stays quiet and limps onward.
We wind our way up the side of the bluff. It takes longer than usual because the human is more seriously injured than I had first assumed. His legs seem to have taken the worst of it, and as he struggles up the switchbacks, I can see fresh blood welling up from his wounds.
The cankers nearest him sniff the air and salivate. I give them a warning whistle. They lick their chops but make no attempt to snap at our guest. Fresh meat is a delicacy for them. They mainly feed on carrion, the carcasses of animals more often finding their way underground. Occasionally, they may snap up a mole or some other subterranean creature. But most of the animals know to stay away by now.
We round the last switchback and he stumbles, almost falls, but manages to right himself, a grimace of pain twisting his features. He’s tough. I’ll give him that.
Indeed this Tennyson Ellis recalls the fighters my people were famous for creating once upon a time. They were a proud, bold people, before modernity made them soft.
Looking at this man now fills me with a strange sensation. Melancholy, maybe. An odd sense of longing. I let it sit there within me for a moment before folding it up and locking it away in that box buried deep in my heart like a splinter.
The box that holds my past.
My humanity.
“Go inside,” I say with unexpected animosity. Memories of that long-ago life have a way of unsettling me. I take a deep breath. Gather myself. “I’ll see to those gashes,” I say, my usual composure returning.
I stand by the open glass doorway. He seems hesitant to come in, or perhaps he’s just wary of getting too close to me. But after a breath’s pause, he hobbles forward, the cankers slipping quietly back down the path.
I follow after him and slide the door closed. He stands rooted to the floor, gazing about him as blood drips down his leg, making a crimson puddle on my hardwood.
“There’s a utility room just down the hall at the far side of this living area,” I say, eyeing the blood. “I can take care of your wounds there.”
He catches the hint and uses a fold of his torn pants to mop up what blood he can, but the effort of bending over makes him grab at his side, and he stifles a yell. I step over to him and gently lift the hem of his shirt. A deep, rough gouge runs across his ribs, and up close, I can see that his shirt is soaked with blood where he’s held it against himself, applying pressure to staunch the bleeding.
“Never mind. Don’t worry about the blood,” I say, worried now that I’ll have a corpse on my hands whether I want it or not. “Just lie down here.”
He gladly obliges, dropping to his knees and then his back, a series of grunts and quiet whimpers accompanying his descent. I kneel down, lift up his shirt once more, and peel away his trembling hands from the raw-edged wound.
With my fingers, I trace the air, feeling for the shades woven into the tapestry of my home. When I concentrate, I can see them—a web of darkness that I’ve knit from a multitude of splintered spirits, each one a shining obsidian thread waiting to be plucked or sewn, pieces of creation or destruction as needed.
Most often, I only need to reach out and touch them, their silky lengths twining between my fingers, responding to my push and pull. I never tire of feeling them—the filaments of my reality.
I find a lovely one and pinch it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s thick and strong, and I guide it over and through the man’s skin. He scowls, but more out of the strangeness of the sensation than because of any pain, I imagine. A few more passes, and I manage to close the skin, only the slightest sheen of iridescent black belying my work.
The shade will slide loose to rejoin the others here once this man is fully healed. It won’t take long. An element of the human spirit, once so integral to life, tends to encourage quick healing.
I turn my attention to the long gash on his leg, select another shade, weave the muscle together before finishing with the skin. I take a moment to admire my work. It’s been a while since I’ve made use of my weaving like this, but it’s not something easily forgotten. The man’s skin looks whole, and his color has improved.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
He sits up slowly, presses his hand into the place just below his ribs that was a gaping tear only moments before. He runs a few experimental fingers down the length of his leg, then brings it underneath him and pushes up to a stand. I see no trace of pain in his face now.
“Fine,” he says, genuine amazement giving him a childish look before he remembers himself and the stolid adult returns. “Thank you. I know you didn’t owe me that.”
He turns around, taking in the pale wood of the floor, the pristine white of my couches and the ecru rug. Dirt, sand, and blood surround him—a little storm of humanity in the sanctuary I’ve built.
“Should I take off my boots?” he says, his sheepish tone betraying the futility of such a gesture.
“Take everything off,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Everything. You’re filthy. Those clothes are unsalvageable. Take them off and leave them there. I’ll find you something to wear.”
He seems reluctant. The modesty of humans today is still strange to me, even after all this time. We all know what lies beneath our clothes, but we must act as though we aren’t interested in it, as though the body and all its parts don't exist.
“Undress,” I say. “I’ll be back.”
I wait to make sure he’ll comply. Grudgingly, he pulls at his belt. I give him a little nod, then turn and head for the side stairs that wind in a tight spiral to the second story. In the closet of a spare bedroom is a selection of simple black shirts and pants I’ve woven for the occasional client who may need a bed and a change of clothes to complete the shade-making process. I grab the outfit and return to the living area.
He’s there in his underwear. The man is strong, I notice, but with a thickness to his face and torso brought on by too many days spent nursing a bottle. Yet he’s not displeasing to look at, even so. I pass him the clothes and he puts them on quickly.
“Come sit,” I say when he’s done, and settle myself on one of the large, overstuffed chairs that overlooks the lake. He sits in the one opposite but doesn’t relax back into its soft folds. Instead, he perches near the edge, hands on his knees and fingers flexed as though ready at any moment to leap up in self-defense or to make an escape.
“Relax,” I say. “You’re making me nervous.”
“You’ll forgive me if the past hour has left me a bit on edge,” he replies, but I see him release some of the tension in his shoulders and neck—not enough to look at ease—but at least he no longer looks poised to attack.
“Certainly,” I say, inclining my head. “It’s been an exciting evening for us all. And still, I’m not sure why you’ve graced us with your presence beyond your desire to ‘make a deal.’”
I pause, waiting for him to speak. But the silence stretches overlong as he avoids my eye and fidgets, plucking at the folds of his borrowed pants with nervous fingers. The silence is fine by me. I have all the time in the world. Almost. I can wait. Experience has taught me it often pays to make your opponent move first. And anyone who comes here with the name Blythe on their lips is most definitely an opponent.
I tilt my head in the other direction. Cross my arms. Take a moment to soak him in. Late forties, I’d guess. The shadow of black hair under a healthy smattering of silver. Grey-blue eyes, the color of a Pacific Northwest sky. Tall. Broad. Haggard, but with an undeniable attractiveness written into the set of his jaw, the turn of his shoulders. There’s real confidence there. Even if it’s been shaken.
“A deal,” he finally says, but it sounds like he’s muttering more to himself than to me. And then, more loudly, “I came to offer a trade.”
“Interesting,” I say, and tap my fingers against my folded arms. “I do appreciate a good trade. Bartering is a lost art these days. Elaborate.”
“I understand you have a certain…skill. That people come to you, desperate people. And you make them into ghosts.”
I hear the accusation in his voice. I’ve made a shade of one of his loved ones, no doubt. It’s happened time and time again, despite everything in the contracts. Disgruntled survivors powered by grief, anxious to undo what can’t be undone.
“I don’t make ghosts, Mr. Ellis.”
“Call me Ten.”
“I’d very much prefer not to,” I say, but I can see the gleam of righteous anger flickering in his eyes and decide I’d rather avoid any more excitement tonight if at all possible.
I sigh, then speak. “But you’re right to insist on being called what you wish, Ten. I, more than most, know the power and purpose of names.” I clear my throat, shift in my seat, then continue. “I don’t make ghosts—at least not the kind that you know from your Halloween stories. I make shades, or, to put a finer point on it, I reveal them.”
I watch his face for an indication that he understands, but it remains blank. “Blythe didn’t explain it to you?”
“Some,” Ten says, “but honestly, I’m barely staying afloat here. A few days ago, I was drunk on my couch, trying to escape reality. I was miserable, but at least I knew what to expect.”
“Understood,” I say, nodding. “There’s more to the world than most understand. More darkness. More light. And they’re not always what you would assume.”
“I’ve stopped making assumptions,” Ten says.
“Good man,” I reply. “That might be the first rule of coming to terms with the Dusk, and the Dawn, for that matter. And, just so we’re clear from the start, I tell my clients everything they need to know. They sign the contract; they give me their full consent. If the afterlife doesn’t live up to their expectations, well, expectations, like assumptions, are best left for the living.”
He nods, runs a hand through his hair. I notice the tension has crept back into his jaw. He’s stopped fiddling with his pants and now his fingers dig into his knees. When he speaks, his voice is calm, but it’s the calm of a predator circling.
“And these consenting, contract-signing clients include children?”
Shit. This is why I have rules. No suicides. No substitutions or secret deals. And definitely, no children.
But. Rules are meant to be broken, and, Dusk knows, I’ve broken a few over the years. I know exactly who he’s talking about now.
“You know Mae,” I say.
“She was my daughter,” he growls, and now the flicker of anger has grown into a full-fledged flame.
“Right,” I breathe.
Double shit.
“Listen,” I begin, but I pause, unsure how to continue. Family relationships have always been fraught for me. What do I say to this man? The truth, I suppose. Lies have never served me well.
“Ten,” I begin again, eyeing his heaving chest and tensed stance. “I have a rule about shading children. Believe it or not, I was a child once, and though it was a very long time ago, I remember well what it feels like to be unable to speak for yourself and decide your own destiny. But I’m also not perfect—far from it, honestly. Blame it on the Dusk. It’s beautiful, but a little cruel, you know?”
“No,” he hisses.
This is going well.
“Well,” I continue, “all of that is to say that when she walked in, your wife, I presume. Ellen, or Elena was it? No, something with an ‘H.”
“Helena,” he whispers, and I know my time is short for explanations. I don’t owe him anything, really. But as always, I’d prefer to avoid a corpse. His, not mine, obviously.
“Helena,” I say. “When she walked in here with your daughter’s name on her lips, with her blood—”
At that, Ten is up off his chair. I rise to meet him in the same instant. He’s chilling, full of power, ruled by his rage. Still, he is no match for me. I raise my hands, draw a few shades from the air, moving my fingers in practiced motions.
He’s forced back into his seat in a matter of seconds, hands and legs secured, mouth sealed shut by invisible restraints. He doesn’t try to struggle. Maybe he’s still tired from his encounter with the cankers earlier in the evening. But more likely, I think, he knows when to hold back and bide his time until he can exact his vengeance.
A warrior, and a smart one at that.
“I need three things to make a shade,” I say, my voice calm, controlled. “Name, blood, passion. The earthly bounds. Together with clay from my mountain,” here I gesture behind me, indicating the craggy peak at the back of the house, “and a little bit of the Dusk itself, I fashion a votary, a statue or sorts, that anchors a shade to me. Once a client dies, their shade is mine.”
I pace before him, slow and deliberate. He glares at me, all fire and wrath, but beneath that storm, he’s a shattered thing, shining all the brighter for it. That, more than anything, draws me to him—the faceted gleam of a pieced-together essence. I stop in front of him, kneel down, touch his knees. He doesn’t move, doesn’t try to shake my hands from him.
“When Helena brought Mae’s bounds to me, I knew they were special. Some of her was human, yes. But the rest. The rest was something I hadn’t experienced in centuries. The taste of Mae’s name on my lips, the smell of her blood, and if all that wasn’t enough, the damn glass fairy. She’s of the Sluagh.”
I see his brows knit together in confusion. He has no idea what I’m talking about. I raise my fingers to his face, run one along his lips, removing the thread keeping him quiet.
We stay like that, me crouched before him, one hand to his knee, fingers just brushing his face. Him bound before me, his gaze still burning.
He blinks and looks away. I stand and continue pacing, but the moment has left me shaken. It’s been an age since I’ve felt that kind of heat. I’ve been so long used to the cool of the shade that the sudden feeling, warm and intense and human, reaches deep inside me, finding places I thought lost long ago to the Dusk.
“What is the Sluagh?” he says, his voice husky.
I stop at the wall of windows facing the lake. Just now, the water is little more than a slick of black against the velvet night. The moon is hanging high, silver-white and lovely. There’s another smaller light, too, colder and crueler than the moon could ever be, although it shines bright orange in the dark: the window in Blythe’s cabin.
When she first built that place, I should have locked her inside and burned that cabin to the ground, then sent my cankers to feast on her charred bones. But as surely as dawn follows dusk, we’re locked together for eternity in a never-ending nightmare made of souls and shades.
So what if I’d wanted to tip the balance in my favor just a bit with that girl?
His girl.
Mae.
“The Sluagh would have loved a night like tonight,” I say, my back still to him. “Near enough to Samhain for the border between worlds to be more veil than wall. The sky clear, the air crisp, the atmosphere a black river of night to ride.”
He says nothing. I glance at him, try to read his expression, gauge his reaction, but Ten’s face is a mask. I continue, betting on his receptiveness to the unbelievable.
“The Sluagh. Also called the host. They came to the human world to hunt, seeking to make more of their kind. Men, women, children—all of them feared the Sluagh, dousing their fires to huddle mute and shivering in their dark hovels, scared to draw the host’s attention.
Even in my time, there were still those who believed, and I was perhaps first and foremost among them. I always prayed that they would come for me. Take me away from my miserable world, make me one of them.”
“I don’t understand,” he says.
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” I whisper, more to the night than to him. I return to my chair before the fire and watch the flames leap and dance. I try a different tack.
“Did you ever feel like your Mae wasn’t really yours?” He draws in a sharp breath, loud in the silence of the great room. The sound draws my gaze from the fire. “Yes, I thought you might.”
“It’s like the closer I held her, the farther away she got from me,” he says, and the sadness in his face would break my heart if that bleak emotion wasn’t the thing keeping the withered bit of muscle inside my chest beating.
“It will be little comfort to you, I’m afraid, but you should know there was nothing you could have done. Once the Host decided she was theirs, she was theirs.”
“But now she’s yours,” he says, and the anger is creeping back into his voice.
“She belongs to the Dusk,” I say. “Maybe more than even I do.”
“She needs me,” he says.
“No,” I reply, “not anymore.”
“I want her back,” he says, voice cracking. “My family—” He swallows, looks away, before continuing in a hoarse whisper. “I want her back.”
“You can’t have her back,” I say, then pause. I’m struck, suddenly, by an idea. It’s audacious and could go wrong in so many ways. But audacity is a small price to pay for vengeance.
Vengeance for me and for all those devoured by the false gods of the Dawn.
“There’s no way to bring Mae back,” I say again. “But there might be another way to save her.”
His eyes slide back to meet mine again. “I think I’ve heard this story before,” he growls. “From Blythe. The barter remember. I never told you what the offer is.”
“Fine, Ten Ellis,” I say, willing to bide my time a bit longer, “what does Blythe think she can tempt me with?”
“A one-for-one trade,” he says. “Me for Mae.”
I start to roll my eyes, but he continues.
“And-and special bounds,” he stammers out, as if struggling to remember the exact terms Blythe had given him. “Bounds that tie you to the Dawn.”
I laugh, right into his face, unable to believe the sheer gall of it. “New bounds?” I manage once I can breathe again. “To the Dawn? Why would I want to join the creatures that have scorned me for so long”
My mirth fades as I fully realize the implications of Blythe’s offer. “At one time, yes, I would have gladly accepted. But now? After so many years why would I wish to give up all that I have made of myself to the ones that refused my cry for help? And after I showed them nothing but devotion as a human?”
He stays silent. I can tell he doesn’t know how to answer. Finally, he seems to come to some kind of internal resolution.
“Look,” he says, “honestly, neither you nor Blythe seem like you have Mae’s best interests at heart. You said Mae’s tied to you, right? Call her here. Blythe did it, but I only had a few minutes, and I didn’t know then what I know now. Let me talk to her. Let me ask what she wants.”
“Mae doesn’t respond to my calls,” I respond. “She doesn’t trust me.”
“Little wonder,” Ten mutters.
“Stupid creature,” I snarl. “You believed in that bitch Blythe enough to risk your life. But she is of the Dawn and those of the Dawn know nothing but how to use and how to devour.”
Ten’s gaze hardens again in response to my tone. He seems ready to argue, but I carry on, incensed by the power the Dawn always seems to have over humans that are too willing to believe that walking toward the light and away from the dark is always the right answer.
“Do you know what happens after Blythe crosses the souls and shades she finds,” I say after I regain some of my normal composure. “Do you know that her brethren back in the Dawn consume them? Eat them and hunger for more?
His mouth twists into a grim line. “Blythe left that part out.”
“And you run and do her bidding like one of my cankers,” I sneer.
“It’s hard to know which of you sadists to believe.”
I can feel my ire rise once again. A younger version of me would have killed him on the spot. But centuries living is the Dusk have, if not mellowed me, then taught me the benefits of patience.
“You’re right, of course” I say. “There’s no reason you should believe either of us. But the fact remains, if we worked together, Mae might learn to set aside her sense of betrayal and realize the power at her disposal.”
“And what then?” Ten asks.
“A new world,” I breathe. “A new world where we tip the scales in our favor. A world where the Dawn is humbled, eliminated even. They have grown fat on the countless diessences the warden has gathered for them over a thousand years or more.
“They go on about balance, but there has never been equilibrium between us. What they really want is for things to return to how they were before me. For what am I to them but an interloper? An inconvenience to be dealt with. They refuse to recognize my right to exist. And after all, I want to see the Dawn brought low. I want them to answer to the Dusk for once.”
I come to kneel before him again, my hands returning to his knees. Looking into his eyes I think I see the same blaze that keeps up a slow burn in my chest, like maybe he recognizes the connection we share despite his misgivings.
“You understand, don’t you?” I ask, and reach up to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “You know what it’s like to fight, not only to prove yourself, but to save the ones you love.”
He doesn’t answer. But I can see the answer written in the lines of his face. I wait for a breath, studying him.
“Follow me,” I say, finally. I work the air with my fingers and the invisible bindings around Ten’s feet and wrists release.
“Follow me, and let’s see what we can accomplish together.”
It’s a privilege to share my work with you! Thank you for taking the time to read the sixth episode of DARK AS DAWN, BRIGHT AT NIGHT.
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