Watermark

By E. Catherine Tobler

Pip, a kelpie sent to our world as punishment, is forced into a human form. But she cannot even recall her crime—there are only fragments in her memory: a dead girl, a frozen lake, a heart taken. Welcomed by other fae, she discovers the fairy realm itself is disappearing. Their enigmatic leader believes Pip can save Otherworld—but she senses she cannot fully trust him. As she unravels the truth, she knows she can reclaim her true nature, but the human world may be the cost . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Masque Books
• Release date: Sep 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781607015130

E. Catherine Tobler

E. Catherine Tobler's work has been nominated for the Sturgeon Award. Her short fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and others.

Book preview

WATERMARK

E. Catherine Tobler

For the monsters under the bridges.

Copyright © 2014 by E. Catherine Tobler.

Cover art by awesomeshotz/123RF Stock Photo.

Cover design by Rana Lagupa.

Ebook design by Neil Clarke.

ISBN: 978-1-60701-513-0

Masque Books

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Masque Books is an imprint of Prime Books

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CHAPTER ONE

Time did not exist within the stone tower’s walls, nor across the blooming fields that spread outward from its base, nor over the rocky hills which rose from these fields, nor to the sea beyond the fields that tongued sugar sands into submission. Time did not exist, even though one might note changes that only its passage could bring: the bearded emerald moss and clustered gray barnacles dotting the stones, salt-crusted waterlines giving proof of water’s long-ago trespass.

Within the tower, the oaken floor was likewise ageless, unmarked by any footstep, though countless feet had crossed it. Countless feet stood upon it even now, clad in gleaming plate-armor sabatons and greaves, scuffed leather boots, sandals made of summer’s sweetest: white lily tongues, pink peony ruffles, the bruise of grape hyacinth. My own feet—feet, not my normal hooves—were bare, stripped as the rest of me had been. I would have normally taken great delight in ten chilled toes, in the delicate metatarsals and extensors wrapping the core of an ankle, but now iron cuffs bound me at ankle and wrist alike. I thought the iron would burn through my flesh, straight into to my bones where it would crack them and boil the marrow. While time had no tangible meaning within Otherworld, I could mark the passage of time by the scars the iron was making on my flesh. Time was but an idea to guide humans through their lives, not we fae. But time was now having its way with me—stinging me as surely as the irons.

The standing figures that ringed me faded at mid-calf, details lost under the ceaseless shimmer of a clear hot light, the way stars are lost when the sun eclipses the night. This light came from no natural source or construct; it simply was, as it had always been. The heart of Otherworld, some called it—the color of Her pulse, the warmth of Her heart. I, a creature of night and water, had no love of this light, no matter that it was part of my world. Being Unseelie, I was drawn to its opposite, to the cold shadows permeating the places most did not dare go. Chained to the floor, there was no escape from the light. They didn’t mean for there to be.

None of my kind stood here as witness. Or, if they did, they were well hidden from my light-tearing eyes, held back by the fiery pain that held me at wrist and ankle. I could not reach out and sense them as I might ordinarily—another facet of the punishment. Of those gathered, only one moved. Only one spoke. It was a male voice: baritone, even, certain. I knew the voice, but could place no name to the person. Even then, my memory was sliding away. Was being taken.

Do you deny these actions?

I had not listened to the Minister’s list, but presumed it to be the same: my so-called crimes enumerated in grisly detail.

Did you mention how sweet her heart was against my tongue, Minister? Don’t leave that out.

A kelpie drawing someone into her lake should not have been a crime. We needed to eat, and what sweeter fare than innocent human flesh? Was it a crime for a flower to turn its face to the sun and throw its neighbor into shade? Was it a crime for the sea to suck sand into its tide and carry it far from the shore, into the depths where shadow swallowed all light? This was nature, even for the fae, even in Otherworld.

I do not deny them.

I could not.

In the space of a breath, the tower vanished. The interminable light was eclipsed by shadow, and the heat from the iron chains disappeared. Relief came with my second breath—no tower, no light, no accursed iron—but my third breath brought agony. I fell as if from a great height, plunging into icy waters that should have been welcoming, but instead engulfed and smothered. My element was water—I was kelpie—and kelpies did not drown. But drown was what I began to do.

Water that should have embraced me instead overwhelmed me, rushing into my open mouth, into my lungs and gut. Once I would have taken nourishment from such an assault, but now the water stole my breath. I could not see, nor was there anything to hold to.

It had been this way for every single person I had charmed into my lake and pulled under the clouded violet waters. This is what they had known. In my true form, I would have taken comfort in the cold dark, but in this new body, I knew only fear—running like a needle through my flesh, barely keeping me together. It had been like this for her too, of course, the small girl I had drawn under, the small girl whose life I had drained.

My human form sank like a thrown stone, feet sucked down to the lake’s muddy bottom, long slick fingers of reed wrapping my waist. What little breath I had exploded outward in a torrent of bubbles, through long hair that was no longer black but so pale as to be white, as though the water had erased every drop of color.

The muck at the bottom of the lake spread over me, gobbling toes, ankles, calves. I watched this with a disconnected fascination until I remembered these feet and legs were my own. There should have been glossy hooves, four slim legs made for running—but knowing this didn’t make it so, didn’t explain their absence.

Minister, what have you done to me?

I kicked hard, the way a horse might, and the lakebed physically recoiled. Clouds of silt bloomed in the already murky water. The reed fingers snapped apart and I stroked my way to the surface, breaking through with a shuddering sob. I coughed, bringing up a steady torrent of muck as I fought my way to the muddied bank. There, I dug my fingers into the mud and pulled, but could not haul myself far. There wasn’t enough air, or strength in my limbs, so I flopped much like a fish, pressing cheek into mire, blinking water from my eyes. In the scant light of the pre-dawn, an unmoving girl slowly came into focus. She lay within arm’s reach of me on the shore.

The girl was thin-limbed, tangled in weeds, a length of decorative blue fabric, and a coat. Her ebon hair spread around her neck, sodden and tangled with a chain of gold. The dress that clung to her beneath fabric and coat was the red of old blood, her coat colored like clay. The bare feet that peeked out were spiderwebbed with stark veins. Her mouth was small, purpled lips parted as if asking for a kiss. I leaned in closer, but whatever glamour the girl had held was long gone, her lips like ice. She should have tasted like almonds, smooth where teeth had split the meat apart, and full of sweet, drinkable energy. How I knew this was beyond me. I thought backward, remembering a bright space where I had been—

Been what? As I fought to reach the memory, it skipped out of my unsteady grip and slid away, and I could only watch it slither into shadow. The memory of the bright space burned when I thought on it, so I withdrew, even if it was all I could remember. To not think of the one thing you knew with certainty? I shivered in the cold mud, not understanding.

And the girl? Had I dragged her into my lake? A glance over the shimmering water and the rolling mountains beyond it told me this was not my lake. For all I knew, my lake might be a world away—or just over those mountains. I only knew these things as I thought about the water and tasted it against my chilled lips. Otherwise, the knowledge fell from my grasp. The moment I looked away and noticed something new, the status of the lake became uncertain again. Could this be home and I would never know it? I looked at the water pearled upon my skin and knew again this lake was not mine.

I tried to cling to that thought even as I reached for the dead girl. The cold dampness that crept into my bones was familiar, yet in this form it was too cold, too wet. While she was as wet as I, she was at least clothed. I fumbled with the overly large coat she wore, working her arms free so that I could wrap my now softly rounded body into the heavy, soaked wool. I knew wool, wool came from sheep… but I should be sleek angles, not shapely curves…

These thoughts also skittered away as quickly as they had come.

The appearance of a vehicle boasting bright crimson and indigo lights on its roof jolted me into motion. The need to get away from the light was overwhelming, because the light brought the unending pain, the pain of—I looked at the lines marking my wrists and didn’t know. Didn’t know, wasn’t certain I wanted to, and nausea rolled through me. I pushed myself to standing and lurched into a mass of bushes, water flooding from beneath the fall of the coat to erase my footprints on the muddy shore. My legs were like rubber forced into sudden motion and they were but two. Two, and there should have been four, and this knowledge drew a ragged sob from me. I wasn’t supposed to be a girl. I was a kel—

The word dissolved in my mouth.

I stumbled into the bushes and crumpled to my knees, forcing myself to be quiet as two men approached the dead girl. They both wore some type of uniform, and their hands were strangely smooth—no, their hands were covered with tight gloves. One spoke into a box on his shoulder. It crackled back at him. They kneeled close to the dead girl. One touched her throat while the other looked around the lake, looked at the shoreline, and then to the bushes hiding me. I withdrew from his sight, sinking into shadows that welcomed me as a sister. A leaf lapped against my cheek, like a familiar hand, drawing me further into the clustered gloom. They must not find me—they would bring the light and the light would hurt, the light would draw the weight of iron against my skin and into my bones.

The thought of iron made me retch, so I forced it to the back of my mind as I crawled through the bushes toward the street. Everything stood cloaked in early morning quiet. Except for birdsong, I didn’t hear anything until I found the known noise of a river nearby. I pressed my hands to the street and could feel the water coursing beneath it. The river meandered beneath and beside the tree-lined street, old bridges of wood and stone often arching over, allowing access to the flowing water.

The water’s song anchored me the longer I focused on it, gave me a bearing to come back to. This place was strange, but the water was home no matter where I found myself. I did not know the darkened buildings I passed on my walk, but I knew the ribbon of river, the way it slid past stones and carried fish unseen by human eyes. I knew the river would reach the lake, the lake with the dead girl whose coat, though wet, had begun to warm me. I buttoned it now with hands that were clumsy and shaking and not my own, even if they now somehow were.

The scent of fresh bread rose above that of the river. This scent, much like the river, held a recognition that made me want to cry. Instead, I forced myself into motion again. I wanted to sink both into the river (even if my experience with the lake had shown water was no friend) and the smell of that bread. Something inside me, beyond the hunger pressing its teeth against my belly, told me bread would make everything more bearable. Up the length of the street, all the buildings stood in shadow but for one: it glowed with light—light that repelled me even as the scent of bread drew me closer.

A small grassy area scattered with wooden tables and dotted with aspens bordered the lighted shop. The light that spilled from the shop doors and windows left gleaming squares of light upon the grass; I trod the outskirts of these squares, easily keeping to the shadows between the quivering trees. Nearing the building, I crouched and peered through the window glass. People moved in and out of the light within. I crept nearer, so close my breath fogged the glass, so close the reflection of my eyes framed the entire scene inside.

Some of the patrons looked as if they had not slept. Some sat in front of bright square screens, while others conversed over papers printed with words and images. A man stood behind the long counter that bisected the main room, and something about him was known to me, but even he was obscured in my mind, hazy. He was a sliver of glass beneath a fingernail: a vague pain but only when I pressed upon it. If I ignored it, he became much like all else in front of me; I did not know exactly who he was.

Miss?

I startled at the voice, so close to my ear. I looked up to find a man standing not three steps away and he, like the men at the lake, wore a shirt decorated with a badge and patches. Unlike the dead girl on the bank, this man fairly seethed with energy and glamour. Was he glowing? I drew my hands down from the windowsill, itching to touch him and drag him to the river. Pull him under and suck him dry.

W-was . . .  I stumbled over my words, uncertain of them. It was as if I couldn’t find the right ones. His eyes took me in, wet and dripping and wrapped in a coat that was not of this time or place. He appeared to know me from that alone, his mouth tipping up in a gentle smile.

Let’s get you inside and warmed up. Looks like you were caught in the storm. He extended a hand to me, but I didn’t move. One touch and his hand would stick to me, I thought, but couldn’t explain it.

My bare toes curled into the ground. Did he know me?

Come on. Finn has hot coffee and food too if you’re hungry after the journey.

Journey. I pondered that word as the man touched me. His hand slid over my shoulder and it wasn’t right—his hand shouldn’t have been able to move. He should have been stuck like a bug in tar, but I wasn’t certain where that knowledge came from.

You passing through?

We rounded the corner of the building, into the spill of light that came from the front doors. I drew back from it, even though it didn’t burn me the way I thought it should have.

N-no? Was I passing through? I couldn’t say.

New resident, then. He wore a smile as he reached for the door handle and pulled it open. Haven must’ve lost you.

He led me into the intoxicating bread-scent of the room, my bare feet slipping against the wood floor. As the door whispered shut, the walls of the place closed around me. How like the tower— What tower? I thought, and it felt as if every bit of air would be squeezed from my body. I glanced back at the doors, but this man stood between them and me; by the look on his face, he didn’t mean to let me past him.

It’s gonna be all right, he kept murmuring as he guided me to the counter. He pulled out a stool and I sat, the water-soaked coat squelching into the cushion beneath me.

Outside was better than inside, I thought as I stared at row upon row of bread loaves lining the shelves behind the counter. A machine gurgled with a sludgy, fragrant liquid, and another with hot water, and while the scent of the place seeped into me and nearly calmed me, the walls crowded me. There wasn’t enough air.

You drag this one out of the river, Jase?

I looked up at the sound of the voice. It was a voice that didn’t come from these parts, a voice from a land that was colder. As with the lake, how I knew this escaped me. If it was memory, I held tight to it before it escaped me again. He was tall and looked as if he were made of bread baked to a golden glow—though someone had nearly let his hair get burnt on the ends. Beyond the sleeves of his shirt, black lines swirled down his arms, coalescing into images the longer I looked. There were faces and whorls of cloud, rays of light that made me flinch, and words I could not read. His eyes were brown sugar as they watched me, his mouth a twist of candy, warm and supple.

But behind that—

Another image slammed into me, hard and violent. He was candy on the outside, but shatter that sweetness and he was something else. The cool of an eternal night swept over his shoulders, pouring like free-flowing ink over the skin it had once been trapped inside. Its tendrils reached for me, but I didn’t recoil. If I touched it, I would stick. I knew this the same strange way I knew my own skin should, if touched, hold people fast. Yet mine did not. I sucked in a hard breath.

He was watching me through narrowed eyes. The sugar of them had burned into molasses.

Outside your window, the one called Jase said, and nodded his head to the window in question. I looked and could see the smudge of my breath against the pane, lingering like a ghost.

I didn’t do anything other than look, I said, uncertain what they meant to do with me. The interest and anger in the bread man’s eyes, coupled with the press of the walls all around, was disconcerting and made me squirm on the wet seat.

The bread man blinked, and his eyes shifted back to their clear, warm brown. I could see the darkness a layer down and thought I could reach it if I really wanted to. Reach it and draw it back out of him.

Croissant, sweet creamed coffee, and a towel. Or two. He nodded and turned away from me, busying himself with breads, cups, towels. He walked down the length of the counter, every step easy, and beyond the curve of a case holding frosted cakes the man bent his head to a woman standing there.

Are you keeping me here? I asked the question of Jase. Looking at him was easier than watching the bready one. He made me uneasy, because there was that sense of knowing—even if, when I looked away, it evaporated.

Jase’s brows shot up. No, ma’am? You . . .  He trailed off, as if he was considering what he was about to say. Haven lost me, but there was something else. You needed assistance, he said, and every word was so careful. Soaking wet, barefoot, in a coat that plainly isn’t yours. His mouth pressed into a line at that. I’m sorry. I’m Jason. Officer Jason Grant. Only meant to help, but I know . . . 

Whatever he knew, he didn’t tell me. His voice trailed off and that feeling closed over me again. The desire to touch him and pull him underwater.

I extended a hand to him. I could feel the river running behind the bakery, over stones that had grown mossy coats, and some part of me knew I could get him there if need be. Only one person in this room might be able to stop me—but he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t, because he understood. He knew I was hungry for things beyond—what had he called it?—croissants and sweet creamed coffee.

Jason’s hand slid against mine and squeezed my fingers—he didn’t stick. I stared at the hands