The Dark Thorn Read Free

slowly leave, Al on his drug-addicted friend’s shoulder, their horrific night erased and their eyes glazed as though they had just been hypnotized.
    Richard wished he could be more like them.

 

    With dawn lighting overcast skies and his arm throbbing feverishly, Richard unlocked the door to Old World Tales and entered the bookstore on silent, uninvited feet.
    No alarms screamed, no warnings sounded. Instead the old-fashioned bell tinkled in welcome as he closed the door. Richard adjusted to the dark; the store had not changed in his absence. Two windows displayed antique volumes, their wares cloaked behind sable blinds during closed hours. On the right, a counter supported the register; to his left, plush chairs surrounded a table bearing a chessboard. Rows of oak shelves vanished to the rear of the store, holding thousands of books. At the back of the shop, a set of stairs ventured to the owner’s hidden apartment above.
    An open cage hung from the ceiling. Within, Arrow Jack rested peacefully upon his perch, the merlin asleep despite the intrusion.
    The familiar odor of smoked tobacco lingered, comforting and haunting at the same time.
    He suddenly hated how weak he felt in returning once again.
    “You should have come earlier,” a familiar dry voice whispered.
    Richard froze, suddenly unsure. All but invisible in the darkness, the faint outline of a figure shifted in one of the chairs. White light suddenly flared, blinding for a moment, before the table lamp revealed an old man with a short white beard clinging to a face lined by age. Icy blue eyes bore into Richard’s own, the gaze weighted from a man privy to all, but who shared none himself. In his hand he cradled an unlit pipe carved with swirling runes, an affectation Richard knew was never far from its bearer.
    “I couldn’t come earlier, Merle,” Richard stated. “Work to be done.”
    “I know,” the other said. “You do realize, though, wounds notwithstanding, the role you fulfill cannot be done if you are dead.”
    A wave of intense annoyance crested within Richard.
    “Maybe you should stop trying to control the world.”
    Myrddin Emrys tamped fresh tobacco from a purse into the bowl of his pipe and lit it. The odor of cherry and vanilla intensified.
    “It was genuine care, Richard.”
    “You knew I would come here tonight.”
    “I suspected,” Merle said, pulling on his pipe and emitting a cloud of smoke. “And I knew I must be ready. Some things are more important than a warm bed, even at this hour.” He gestured at one of the chairs. “Please, Richard, long months have passed since we last spoke. Sit with me.”
    Richard nearly balked at the invitation; he wished to receive aid for his arm and nothing more. He instead took a seat across from the bookstore owner, a chess match in mid-play between them.
    “What came through?”
    “A cait sith,” Richard said. “Killed it. But not before three fairies slipped by.”
    “Hmm, fairies,” Merle said. “Mischievous creatures.”
    “The cait sith was a decoy.”
    Merle frowned. “How so?”
    Richard explained what had transpired hours earlier in the ruins of Old Seattle. Merle did not interrupt but smoked his pipe dead while listening, intent on the knight and what he related.
    “The war between the fey and the Word of the Church has ever been rife with passion and thoughtlessness, and each new battle begins without clear indication of who has renewed it. Even in the most peaceful of decades, one grievance gives rise to retaliation,” Merle said finally, shaking his head. “The cait sith’s pronouncement against the Church cannot be ignored. It is apparent the fairies are the aggressors here in some larger plot.”
    “Three fairies are barely an annoyance,” Richard said. “Hell, the crows in Pioneer Square will probably eat them before they cause harm.”
    “True,” Merle said. “But even the smallest creature can be a pain in the ass.”
    Richard had to concede the point. In