Chrysalis Ch16: Secret Places (pt2) (Patreon)

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          tik
          tik
          tik
          She can feel the sound in her bones. It's ever-present, surrounding her, thrumming through her hazy, pain-dulled mind. It's an audible, mechanical click, but it's so much more.
          tik
          The burn on her ankle throbs with it, pulsing in time to the sound. Like everything is synchronised to the same beat.
          tik
          It's time. Slipping away from her.
          Deirdre forces herself back to the surface, her eyelids fluttering, a soft whimper of pain escaping her as she stirs. When she moves her mouth, she’s greeted by an aching, sore pain, but the gag is gone. Someone's taken it. The iron-threaded rope, too.
          Why? The man - Alastor O’Reilly - had made his nature plain.
          Why isn't she dead?
          Deirdre picks herself up, a hitch in her breath as she looks around. The dim, ghostly aura that had shrouded everything since she touched the mirror had dissipated...or perhaps it's simply sunken in and permeated the world around her. There's no way for her to tell.
          tik
          With each click, her ears bounce in a frantic search for the sound's origin. Forward, back, forward again - the clicks are so prevalent, so widespread, and so harmonised against each other that they feel essential, innate. Unchangeable.
          Deirdre looks up, watching a world of spinning gears reaching into the murky distance past what eyes can see. The gears come in all shapes and sizes - little cogs smaller than a thumbprint grind against whirring machines larger than a house. Her eyes widen as she watches pendulums swing above, each moving with the clicks like a metronome. Everything in sight marching to the same beat as her body.

           Aside from the gears and blackness, Deirdre finds mirrors. Clusters of them surrounding her and occupying other distant platforms, dotting the space like islands in a mechanical sea. From where she sits, each seems a shimmering reflection of the world around her, floating in the space with ethereal elegance. But as she turns around, and peers into the nearest pieces, she does not see a terrified, wounded Glaistig.
          Framed against the sleek metal floor like the walls of a skyscraper, Deirdre sees the Market. The crowded throngs, the haggling merchants, the menagerie of life and commerce that has filled it long before Deirdre ever set foot in London. Displayed on full body mirrors, it looks so vibrant that she could simply... step into it.
          So close.
          Her breath hitches.
          Part of her knows it can't be that easy. That this is going to be another game, like Alastor allowing her to run in the first place. But knowing objectively that something's a trick and believing it… those are two different things.
          Different enough that Deirdre throws one terrified glance over her shoulder, before limping to the closest mirror, thrusting her hand out to push through the glass. It's how she got in. Shouldn't she be able to leave the same way?
          At first, Deirdre's hand merely tingles, the pulse of her wrist thumping to the clockwork beat. First her fingers, then her palm, touches a solid wall of nothingness a mere foot away from the world she knows. The feeling spreads over the air like butter over bread. As a drop of water falls in a still pond, the glass turns blurry, its image distorted.
          And the Market swirls away from her as a voice behind calls out.
          "Already trying to leave? Oh, Deirdre. You have yet to enjoy even a sliver of my hospitality." The voice is calm, certain, a scrap of rhythm against the monotonous beat.
          Deirdre jerks her hand out of the mirror with a frightened gasp, whirling fast enough that her head spins and black dots tear at the edges of her vision. They pulse in time to the ticking of the world, shrinking and growing. Shrinking and growing.
          Each cycle seems to make them just a hair larger.
          Deirdre peers at the man through the ink spots. The large, shadowy hood has vanished, replaced by a burgundy leather coat and a ruffled undershirt of bright, blood red. He's an older human, but unlike any older human Deirdre had ever seen. His hair was silvery, but straight and healthy. His face was devoid of wrinkles, sharp and angular, with a jutted chin and fierce eyebrows. Where she expects flabs of fat, she sees only muscle, conspicuous through the clothing.
          Alastor plays with a chipped tea cup of faded paint and fine porcelain. He places it on the set in front of him with the delicacy of a favourite toy. He’s sitting at a cheap wooden table, large enough for two. Behind him is a cosy kitchen, so antiquated that it looks to Deirdre more like a museum piece than anything she knew at home. The cabinets are dull-coloured plastic, small and pressed together. A floral wallpaper lines the gaps between them. She even sees an icebox in the corner.
          The kitchen itself starts a few metres in front of the table, as if torn from an old dollhouse and enlarged to human size. Alastor presents a warm, confident smile.
          "How's the leg?"
          "How the feck - " Deirdre yelps, her burn screaming in protest at the sudden outcry, before she bites the exclamation back. She freezes where she is, taking in the half-kitchen and its unsettling comforts. Her breathing is laboured and unsteady, but it's coming under her control, more every second.
          She's not dead, and he's set the table for tea. It's not promising, but it's something. This… human… might like his games, but Deirdre's world is alive with game-players. Games always have rules. Her father always told her she was a quick study. Maybe there's a chance.
          "It hurts," Deirdre responds, not moving from her spot. A little tremor rolls up through her leg, as if to emphasise her reply. Her tone is soft and her words softer.
          "Ye… set the table." She folds her arms, tensing her good leg. "That's yer hospitality, is it?"
          "A part of it," Alastor keeps his smile, but his previously statuesque posture breaks as a hand slides into the pocket of his jacket.
          "As is this," he pulls out a long strip of gauze, clumped against his fingers. "It seems iron stings to your kind, creates a pain unlike any other." Something flashes in his eyes beneath the warm expression. "So I’m going to help you. You're invited to tea while I apply this." Deirdre’s muscles tighten at the phrase, ancient magic working its way through her.
          "How polite of ye," she responds, taking a slow, unwilling step forward. He's still being courteous. Formal and correct. That's a problem; it means he knows enough not to break the bonds of hospitality.
          So long as he's a thoughtful host, by laws set down since time immemorial and all the powers that order the fae, she has to remain a thoughtful guest.
          "But surely ye knew about the iron already," she says, her voice crackling as she approaches the chair. He’s even tilted it out for her, like a real gentleman. Deirdre grasps it, pulling it back and half-collapsing into place. "Or ye wouldn't have twined it in that snare. Musta been a lotta trouble."
          She swallows, wondering if she dares an accusation… but boldness isn't the same as discourtesy.
          "What's yer reason for hurting me, Alastor O'Reilly?"
The clockwork continues to tick, its monotonous drone a constant pressure on the margins of her mind. As his name leaves her lips, the roaring whine of an antique, metal kettle bursts into the world. Deirdre can see the steam hiss past her captor. The shrieks are too loud, making her ears throb.
          Did it boil in time with the clockwork?
          Alastor bows his head, a smile still on his lips, as he pushes against the chair and rises.
          "Hold that thought," he says, turning his large back to her as he walks towards the gas stove. He continues to speak as he tends it. "Do you own a lot of jewellery, Ms. O'Donnell?"
          "I don't care for trinkets." Deirdre says, just a hair too quickly. She shifts in the seat, trying to calm herself. The spots grow wider. More aggressive.
          "Look, if it's money or valuables yer after, I can't help with that." Deirdre blinks rapidly, driving the spots as far from her vision as she can. "I’m not a leprechaun. We don’t all have fairy gold to trade away, despite what else ye might have been told."
          "Told?" Alastor chuckles, a forceful sound like a fist to the gut, before turning back towards her. His footsteps thunder across the tiles as he carries the kettle.
          "Nooooo, no. I know you don't have much money, Deirdre. You're just barely scraping by, living among our dregs not two streets from Waterloo, hopping back and forth for dear Ma and Pa in that crowded little home above the bodega." His massive body shrouds her's in shadows as he pours steaming tea into her cup.
          "Really, I meant to ask if you like wearing jewellery. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings. Fancy little treasures that rich boys like Tiernan could give you." There was a new edge to his voice, a bite in his words. Deirdre seethed a ragged breath.
          "It's not like - " Deirdre jolts like she's been physically struck, the outraged sentence sticking itself to her tongue before she can finish it. Too impolite. She grips at the seat of the chair, trying to control her breathing, staring down at the tea. His hands are so large. Even the kettle seems small in them.
          "I-I'm sure I don't know what ye might be implying." She forces out. The words are raw in her throat. "Except that ye've been following me."
          “We’ve crossed paths on occasion.”
          Deirdre lifts her head, staring defiantly up at him. "And for the record, I haven't asked him for so much as an earring."
          "I never said you did,” Alastor responds. The stream of tea is cut just at the point of the cup’s overflow, and Deirdre's captor sets the kettle down before kneeling to her leg, gauze still in hand.
          "I was just making an observation, pointing out a hypothetical. I didn’t mean to imply anything. That would be quite rude of a host." O'Reilly begins to wrap the gauze across the wound, the fabric brushing the strained nerves.
          "But, thinking about it, I can see why you’d be flustered. I nearly forgot how many stories there are about glastaigs. Claiming they have satyr’s legs, so to speak, that they’re creatures of lust. Stories that claim that they seduce others to steal their wealth."
          He wrapped the bandage tightly across her leg, with such force that a tinge of sore pain shook Deirdre's body. His calm smile turns into a smirk. “I suppose those are stories all glastaigs would like to hide.”
          The chair legs scrape back across the floor as she leans away from him, rasping across the floorboards.
          "That's a slander, that is, and so are those stories," she says, her voice trembling. "I… I don't have to stand for it."
          Deirdre waits half a heartbeat, realising that she's managed to get the entire protest out. Maybe… had Alastor gone too far? Could she make a run for it? Her leg feels steadier, but...
          "Good to know.” Alastor pauses for a moment, the calm smile returning. “Frankly, it’s quite unimportant in the grand scheme of your visit. You see, Deirdre, you have a very important role to play in the war between our peoples. And, in honour of that... I'd like to give you something. Again, not implying anything. All fae love gifts."
          … War?
          "I don't know what yer thinking of." Deirdre swallows. "There's no war. We've both just come from the Market, haven't we? There's no one fighting anyone in there."
          "Really?" Alastor lifts his face to Deirdre's, his smile vanishing, a wild look in his eye. She can almost taste the viciousness leaking from his breath. The clocks tick, and his expression turns to before.
          "That’s an interesting perspective, Deirdre. You should tell me about it after you drink your tea. It would be quite rude to your host if you rejected it."
          He gets up and places himself back in the seat, a hand fiddling through the same jacket pocket as he watches her.
          Waiting.
          Deirdre looks down at the dark liquid. It smells soothing and herbal. The tea reminds her of those forests in Donegal she left so long ago.
          And it looks about as safe as molten lead.
          "That… would be rude indeed..." she says, unsteadily, her hands closing around the cup. A little bit of liquid slops over the edge as she lifts it, running over her fingers. A single drop dangles from the bottom. She looks at him…
          "Just like calling me a whore."
          … and hurls the cup.
          "Argh!" Deirdre hears Alastor roar as he rears back, the momentum sweeping his chair from the table. Deirdre’s own chair tumbles as she bolts from the side. Her wounded leg twinges as she skids over the floor. The tea set rattles from its perch, the sounds of smashing porcelain joining the ever-present tik of a thousand clocks.
          Even injured, Alastor will be too massive for Deirdre to take on unarmed. She scuttles to the far side of the table, eyeing the cabinets and cupboards before her. The closest drawer is crammed with music: rows of CDs are stacked atop each other, and some of the dusty records she scans display artists far older than anything she’s ever heard of. Deirdre bites her lip. The clocks keep ticking. She doesn’t have the time.
          Deirdre puts all her weight into the next drawer, crammed so fully with knick-knacks that it seems stuck in place. She frantically scans the rubbish. Bottle caps with rusting rims, an army of broken tea cup handles. Feather pens with dull tips, empty inkwells, shards of yellowed paper. Deirdre nearly hurdles herself into the stove in her mad dash.
          Finally. The third drawer reveals its treasure: spoons, forks, and knives, each from a different time and maker. Unlike the other drawers, every mismatched piece of silverware is placed as delicately as the tea set.
          Deirdre snatches up the closest knife, her fingers closing around the polished, wooden handle. It's heavier than it has any right to be, but she lifts it all the same. Deirdre turns around, a three inch blade between her and her captor. Alastor is already on his feet, a hand balancing on a table drenched in hot liquid.
          "Where's the bloody door!?" Deirdre yells - but before he can answer, she's lunging forward.

          tik      tik         tik             tik

          Time slows down with each frantic step on injured legs. Deirdre holds the blade like a javelin, aiming squarely for Alastor’s heart. Fury builds in her as she looks at his face, his shoulders. Alastor’s grin is wide, his eyes vile. And a stride too late, Deirdre realises…
          Not a single drop of tea has touched him.
          The blade stops, quivering, in midair. The shock of it runs up her arm, like she's slammed into a brick wall.
          A chuckle leaves Alastor’s lips as Deirdre freezes in place. Her body is still leaning into the knife, desperately hoping that her willpower alone will carry the blade to his flesh.
          "Curious. You chose that knife?" Deirdre watches deep brown eyes follow the blade as she pulls back, the loss of momentum sending her tumbling to the floor.
          Alastor follows in slow strides. "The others usually pick sharper ones."
          Deirdre's mind frantically stitches together what's happening. The hospitality laws still apply, but she knows they shouldn't. Surely he's taken it too far, surely this stupid magic wouldn't be her death.
          Deirdre bleats, a desperate, furious yell, throwing her body back at Alastor, primed to slam the blade into his shoe. Again, her body freezes in midair, floating a second too long, before she rockets back.
          "As a host, it would be courteous of me to assist you." Alastor’s grin seems to grow by the second as he places his hands on the cabinet drawer. The wood creaks under the force of his grip. "Here. I’ll give you more time to look."
          He pulls at the drawer so ferociously that the wood tears from its hinges. Deirdre watches it arc over her head, crashing near the table with a resounding thump. Its contents flutter into the air, little lights glistening against dozens of floating glass shards.
          Deirdre drops the knife.
          And all the cabinet’s silverware clatter across the floor.
          In the blink of an eye, Deirdre's up on her knees, scooping the knife up again, clumsily pawing at the handle as she shoves as much of the scattered silverware into her hands as she can. The pieces dig into her palms, sticking out of her fists at awkward, uncomfortable angles.
          "This- this can't be h-hospitality-" She gasps out, struggling to wedge a new fork into her grasp without dropping the old. Deirdre looks up, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, her hands still working busily amidst the mess of utensils.
          "... Why are ye doing this to me?!"
          Alastor breaks into laughter, proud and jovial, a deep sound that bounces off the ticking clocks. He slowly places a boot on the nearest spoon, waiting for the girl to jump at his feet. Deirdre bites her lip as she tries to blink away the tears, urging her trembling body to fight back the compulsion.
          His laughter only grows louder when she fails. Deirdre begins to claw at the spoon with every free bit of space left in her hands, pecking away at what Alastor has so firmly pinned.
          Trapped just like her.
          "My dear, sweet, foolish little Deirdre." His voice is practised, like an actor reciting his soliloquy for the hundredth time. "I already told you. We are at war."
          Deirdre's efforts to nab the piece of silver are broken when Alastor seizes her shoulders and slams her into the floor, his chest towering over her bruised legs. Her wounds howl in renewed pain as he presses his weight into her, her body still thrusting in every direction for scattered bits of cutlery. Alastor places a single hand on her chest, pushing her down while he searches his pockets.
          "Even if our leaders sell us out, even if we all pretend to live in peace. You and I are combatants, London and the Market our battlefields. What are you, Deirdre?"
          Alastor clutches her hood and uses it to thrash her back and forth, her vision blurring from the heavy motions. The impact knocks Deirdre's left hand open. She wails as a dozen spoons and forks sprinkle onto the floor, her hand jolting out to snatch them back up.
          "Exactly. Like the rest of your putrid kind, you've forgotten. You're a child snatcher, a slaver of humans. You are a monster in a cute girl’s mask, hiding the emptiness in your heart where kindness and compassion should reign. You swindle our language, you steal our culture, and you rob and hunt our most vulnerable like parasites feeding from our cities."
          "I've never hurt anyone!" Deirdre wails, feeling blindly for the silverware. The hood's half-twisted around her face. She can't see. She can barely breathe. The ticking is all around her, stabbing into her ears.
          "I-I swear! Not once!" she sobs. Her right hand is full to bursting with utensils. She lifts it up, shielding her face from the massive form looming over her.
          "I was just having a drink!"
          "It's rude to tell lies to your host!" Alastor snatches a wad of her hood and roughly pulls back as far as it can go. Deirdre continues to flail as she feels air touch the skin of her chest. His voice has lost its calm; cold, icy fury burns in its place.
          "That's what all monsters do. They lie, they seduce, they swindle! Dirty tricks to ensnare us!" Alastor's hand reaches back for his pocket, pulling something Deirdre can't see in her feckless dive for a rogue fork. Alastor’s breath is heavy, ragged.
          "Do you think I didn't see you stare at those towers, where your wealthy reap what my people sow? Do you think I didn’t see the way you watch that stupid stag, Tiernan, and dream of the day you could have his power!!?? We both know where that power comes from, Deirdre. Bodies, names, souls! Everything you fae are comes from us. Your worlds are built on our backs, your bodies sustained by our flesh!"
          Deirdre manages a single glance at his hand. Within its palm is a large, intricate emerald, sparkling against the many glasses. It was set in an intricate gold inlay, with no chains to hold it in place. Her eyes widen in terror as she watches tiny needles peel around the enclosure like some strange, jewelled beetle.
          Alastor catches her eye for an instant and smiles again as he plunges the needles into her chest.
          There's a flash of pain, but only for an instant. It's replaced by a creeping numbness, spreading across her skin like an oil slick on a pond. Deirdre coughs.
          It comes out as a half-audible wheeze.
          "Wh… what..."
          The numbness fades. What it leaves behind is… cold. Not the sharp tang of iron, but the chill of empty concrete halls, the cold of a barren field beneath a winter sky. Absence. The slow march of frost, set to the clock’s beat.
          "...What's h-happening?" she whispers, her hands tightening helplessly around the silverware.
          "What? You don't like that feeling?" Alastor rose back up to his knees, his smile beaming over the chilling woman. "You don't like having pieces bled from you, drip by drip? Funny. That's what you've done to us. For millennia."
          Alastor grabs a rogue spoon near his leg, holding it up to look into his face. Refraction from the glass makes it dance in otherworldly light.
          "I've spent a long time thinking of how I will win this war, how I will end your kind's plague once and for all. And I realised, Deirdre... that in order to conquer a monster, you must first become a reflection of it." His head turned to watch the constellations of mirrors around them.
          "I am giving you an inkling of the terror you've inflicted on humanity. Your kind has fed from us since the dawn of time."
          tik
          His face turns back to hers.
          tik
          His smile is brighter than ever.
          tik
          His eyes are devoid of warmth.
          tik

          "Now, it's humanity's turn to feed from you."

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Thanks for reading!

The next chapter is set to post Friday August 5th!  
So be sure to check back then to read
Ch17: Blood in the Market (pt1)

See you then!