Chapter 9

Dáire had been a man once. Tall, lean, dark hair too long, green eyes too rich. What lived in his skin could still pass for him at first glance, until that glance lingered. The changes were subtle as if the creature inside him still shaped him. His brow was thicker than his forehead supported, nose a little flatter in its transformation into slits. Upper jaw top-heavy with more teeth than it could support, the lower unable to fully close around the thick extra canines he now possessed. Nothing about his face matched what Icarus’s animal instinct said it should.

He was broad-shouldered and muscular in a way that looked forced upon him--lumpy, misshapen, born of speed instead of deliberation. The man was taller than Icarus expected. He stood a head or so above most, but Dáire was a little over eye level to him. Skin pale, blotchy, covered in a lace of grey veins that pulsed with a faint perversion of light in time with whatever remained of his heart.

Icarus kept his eyes fixed on the creature, watching the unnatural shine in them. There was no iris or pupil, just an ink-black marble set in gray-veined sclera. In his periphery, he saw the perversion of its hands. Elongated fingers tipped with nails twice the length of any man’s he had ever seen--an ombre of white fading into a rotten brown-black. The way the lamplight bounced off of them whispered of their sharpness. 

Dáire straightened, then bent into a crouch. He snarled and scanned his opponent in haste. Calculating, he stepped back. His head cocked one way, then another, examining the priest poised before him. Thin, bloodless lips curved into a vicious predator’s grin and he straightened again to his full height. One of his disfigured hands reached and flexed towards the dark alley beside them. 

When it spoke, its voice came in a discordant whine. Two tones locked in combat, strangling each other in his speech, “The boy would like to play with swords? Then we shall play with swords.”

Icarus adjusted his grip. Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Shadows. Undulating and writhing like snakes trapped in a bag. They reached and stretched into the creature’s hand, reforming and reshaping until Dáire had the shape of them he wanted. 

A lightless black sword. Straight-edged, cross-hilted, all its edges blurred where it touched the low lamplight. The creature shifted its stance into one Icarus did not know, but the threat of it was clear. It spoke again, making his ears ring.

“I have learned the art of blades for hundreds of years,” it moved, testing the edge of the perimeter. “Let us see if you might say the same.”

The abhartach launched itself at him, a striking adder. Icarus half expected the shadow blade to pass right through his until the two met in a blocking arc. Metal sang, sigils flared, and Icarus shoved hard. Dáire ground his sword when he withdrew, sparking the metal. He carried the momentum into a backhanded swing that met Icarus’s defenses again. He pressured the priest forward in a hail of fluid strikes--one after another, step after step, shoving him closer and closer to the edge of the salt ring. 

Icarus counted his steps--one, two, three, four--and ducked a hard vertical slash, darting to the side away from the edge. Dáire hissed and came for him again, a never-ending hurricane of motion. Icarus blocked again and again, stuck in a defensive loop. His arms burned furiously, a dull ache setting into his thighs as he absorbed blow after blow. He grit his teeth and pulled a hand off the hilt, flexing his palm. Blue flames coiled and he thrust the barely-formed handful of fire towards the creature. 

It scorched across Dáire’s middle and he let out a howl of surprise. It created an opening the span of two breaths. Icarus did not waste it. He rolled his wrist in an upward slash, carrying the motion into a backhanded arc. Dáire parried, Icarus spun and feinted before lashing a thrust towards him. Metal met papery flesh that parted around the thing’s shoulder. The sigils steamed, threads of ghostly blue-white light rising and straining towards their target. 

Dáire brought his sword of shadows down like a hammer against the flat of Icarus’s enchanted blade. The force of it jerked the priest nearly to his knees, tearing it free from the bloodless muscle. Dáire’s hand shot out to chase the blow, knife-sharp nails raking towards his face. Icarus dodged--barely--and felt the sting when his skin opened along his cheek. He followed the dodge into a roll in an attempt to regain his footing. 

The abhartach chuckled. The sound came out alien, something pulled out of a rift torn in the concept of noise. Its posture straightened, shoulders shrugging out tension, head rolling as if warming up for the next match. Icarus rose to his feet and kept his guard in front of him. He took a moment to glance outside the circle, seeking Maren at its edges. 

Her face was tight, drawn, glittering with sweat even in the dim light along the street. Her hands moved in a complex series of twists and patterns, then something seemed to fight back and forced her sigil to unravel. He had never really understood how it worked for her. Now, however, was not the best time to wonder. 

He flicked his attention back to the creature with a scowl, “Don’t tell me you’re tiring out already, old man.”

To his surprise, it gave him a throaty laugh that felt bizarre and genuine. It actually found him amusing. That was disconcerting. “You are a lad of impertinent countenance. I do so enjoy a spritely human.”

Icarus was very sure of the grim implication of “enjoy” in this context. Dáire lifted its hand and examined the nails it had raked across his face. To emphasize the point, a too-long tongue--thick, charcoal, a grayscale abomination of what should be a blood-flush appendage--lazily cleaned blood off. 

Icarus made a noise in disgust, “You don’t bathe often enough for that.”

The monster stiffened. So did Icarus. It stared at its fingertips as if listening to something they said in confidence. Its eyes widened, mouth arcing in what passed for a grimace of surprise. It turned its head towards him and examined him as if it had not quite seen him until that moment. 

Icarus adjusted his grip. His heart was suddenly audible in his ears. He glanced at Maren again, uncertain and unwilling to let it show. The way it watched him made his skin ripple in discomfort. It was seeing something he could not, observing a new factor that was not there before. 

It moved with blinding speed, so fast it dawned on Icarus how much it had been toying with him thus far. Irritation flared white hot before it died just as suddenly. He gasped in surprise when its face was directly in front of his. 

He threw himself back over the edge of the salt line with a second to spare. Dáire’s face was level with his, as close as the thing could get it against the barrier a toe’s width between them. Its nostrils flared, inhaling him. Icarus decided he did not enjoy being inhaled by a fae demon or whatever this thing was. 

Its face was a mask of concentration before it straightened again, shadowy sword tip dropped toward the stones. It reached towards the barrier and tapped it. Magic crackled and arced from the place it touched like lightning along the horizon, “Blood of the Deceiver.”

Icarus froze and lowered his sword, his voice barely above a whisper, “What did you say?”

The abhartach took a step back to get a better look at the priest. His appraisal was sharp, simmering with what could be rage or respect depending on what he found, “You are not him. But you carry him in you. You are of his blood.” Dáire bared sharp teeth, “Tell me where he hides and I will spare you.”

“What are you talking about?” His pulse was thunder in his ears, “Do you mean… do you mean Daedalus?”

Dáire growled and slammed a fist into the barrier, sending muted blue light spiderwebbing outward, “Speak no more of the cursed Deceiver! Tell me where he is and I will spare you, violent Father.”

“Icarus,” Maren warned from across the circle, her concentration frayed when she split her attention and the blue threads in front of her shuddered. “Do not engage him.”

He ignored her, “What of him? What do you mean by Deceiver?”

The once-man growled low in its chest and pointed the tip of the sword at the priest, “The son of the Deceiver speaks lies as his father did. We will not entreat with you. Tell me where he is!”

Icarus could not think. Twice in as many weeks his father’s name had left the mouths of fae. Not in fifteen years had he heard Daedalus’s name spoken so often since the investigation closed. It was not a coincidence, he was not foolish enough to believe in those. His hands were numb, he was too aware of his breathing. He calculated the risks before he replied. 

“I don’t know where he is,” he tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. “Why are you looking for him?”

It laughed, low and throaty and wrong, “I do not hunt the Deceiver, but if I happen upon him or his kin I am keen to extract a toll of revenge.”

“Why?” Icarus knew better than to speak to these things, but his head was foggy and spinning. He thought of his fruitless board, that pointless box from Father Reed, the bodach that taunted him in the end. All of it had resulted in helpless nothingness. No clues, no information, no forward momentum. Until now. Maybe. 

It studied him, frowning over its parted mouth. He could sense it gauging him, testing his sincerity. Then, unfortunately, it smiled. Vicious, violent, full of menace. It chuckled grimly, “The son does not know the father. Interesting.”

“Speak plainly!” Icarus snapped. His patience with whatever games were afoot in his father’s ghostly footprints had long since worn thin. He brandished his sword and let the sigils burn a little brighter, “Speak and I will make your death swift and painless.”

The thing waved a dismissive hand and shook its head, “You are as a gnat to a bull, priest. Step beyond your cowardly salt and I shall show you your insignificance.”

It stepped back towards the center of the salt circle and spread its arms wide. Blood boiled in Icarus’s veins. Heat crept along the back of his neck, radiating out of his stampeding heart. He clenched his teeth so hard he tasted iron. 

Pale God above, I am so fucking tired of this.

Dáire turned away, as though no longer perceiving Icarus as a threat to be concerned with. It made the rage and fury worse. As it paced the edges of the ring, a strangled cry so human it startled him out of his fugue. He honed in on its source. 

Eilonwy. 

He had forgotten about her. Now she stood at the edge of the circle--too close for his comfort for a person untrained in exorcism magics. She covered her mouth, eyes wide in terror. She trembled so violently he could see her fiery red curls tumbling free of their ribbon. The monster stared at her, a flicker of something like recognition in it. Its face contorted, the twisting, unmolded shape of it seemed to writhe as if in conversation with the thing living inside it.

She managed to find her voice enough to lower her hands, “What have you done to my brother?”

It exhaled hard and let out a low rumble from its chest, “I have done nothing which was not invited.”

“Invited?” Her expression shifted from terror to revelation, “Dáire asked you for this?”

“Dáire invited me. It seems he felt the power I might give him was worth the sacrifice,” it bared its teeth in a smile and studied her a few moments longer. 

Icarus seized the moment of distraction and stepped inside the barrier. He sprinted and launched himself at the creature. He slashed wildly and felt the blade bite into dead flesh. He threw a hand towards the monster and drops of faefire landed in a blistering hail on its skin. It snarled and grabbed his wrist, yanking hard, and kicked his feet out from under him. Icarus let out a cry when it twisted just at the edge of breaking bone. It slashed once, angry and unfocused. The shadow blade carved deep into Icarus’s shoulder and he howled at the sear of pain.

“Maren!” 

The abhartach let out an inhuman sound from a mouth that opened too wide, even for its offensive jaws. It held him at its mercy and whirled back to Eilonwy, eyes alight, “What would your mother say about all of this, little maiden?”

Despite the pain in his captive wrist, Icarus managed to look at the young woman. This was all going so terribly awry. And where the fuck was Maren’s sigilwork?

Everything happened in a matter of seconds. Recognition. Fear. Confusion. Outrage. 

Eilonwy’s eyes shifted to Icarus for just a split second. A moment. Enough. He saw the movement like a premonition. Her foot moved. Subtle, shielded by her heavy skirts. She reached out with the toe of her sturdy shoes. 

Then--to his horror--she scuffed the salt. 

Icarus let out a roar caught between words and sound. He thrashed his sword towards the monster, cutting deep into its thigh. It drove the thing to one knee, both of them tumbling sideways onto the cobblestones. 

Maren cried out, “Icarus, now!”

She cast the intricate, winding sigil like a net of blue light into the broken circle. It seared into the stonework. Icarus wrenched his arm free and scrambled when the thing clawed furiously for him. Blue threads rose up from the stone in tendrils of light and snared its arms, wrapped around its middle, its throat, its legs. The sword of shadows evaporated when the abhartach clawed at the magic choking its airway. It made a strangled sound when the sigil drew taut and forced its arms to its sides. 

Chest heaving, shoulder throbbing, Icarus got to his feet. He turned his face to the clouded night sky overhead and closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Maren grunted, straining as she wrapped the other end of the threads around her wrists. Her heels dug into the uneven ground while the abhartach struggled against her hold.

“Do it, Icarus! For God’s sake, I had to improvise! It won’t hold!” She shouted. 

He ignored the pain and hefted his sword into one hand, looming over the restrained creature thrashing on its knees. He studied its broken, irregular face with a sneer, “Why did you call my father the Deceiver?”

“We don’t have time for this!” Maren screamed at him and tried to recenter her hold. 

The abhartach snapped its teeth at him and glared, its voice a rasp against its bonds, “Because he deceives.”

“How?”

“If you want answers, priest,” it spat the word at him, “you shall not get them from me. Ask the Inquisitor your ilk love so much.” Icarus’s face must have betrayed his ignorance. It let out a hoarse laugh, “I do not answer to you the way your Order’s chained dog does. Kill me and be done. You will have no more.”

True to its word, it went silent and Icarus knew he would not get anything else from it. His mouth twisted in frustration. So many secrets. So much obscurity. So many half-truths and obfuscation. So much of his father and so few answers. 

Before Maren could cry out again, Icarus raised his sword and sliced into the neck of the thing that had once been Dáire Callahan. Metal cleaved through muscle and bone, hitching once at the vertebrae. Its body stiffened. Head--severed at the shoulders--hit the ground with a hollow thump. The rest of it followed. 

Maren gasped and the sigil’s light evaporated in a white-blue mist. She doubled over, hands on her knees, and gulped in air like a desert would rain. He stared down at the collapsed, headless corpse. Its otherworldly features faded back into the man he once was. No blood poured from the wound, just flesh and bone that looked as though it had died some time ago. He was not really looking at Dáire, though. His attention was fixed someplace in the middle distance, lost in his own anger and swirling maelstrom of thoughts. 

Startled out of his contemplation, Icarus whirled on Eilonwy. 

Only to find nothing. She was gone.

He opened his mouth, the sound of his scolding caught in his throat and replaced with something perplexed. He turned to Maren. She stared down the darkened road for a moment, then met his eyes with a shrug. He looked back one more time and blinked like that might give him clarity. He sheathed his sword and went to his fellow heretic priest, offering a hand when she straightened. Of course, she declined. 

“I don’t know exactly how,” he stared into the dark, “but I feel like we’ve just been played.”

She rolled her shoulders with a thoughtful nod, “I’d be inclined, Father Icarus, to agree.”

I just finished Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay and am currently going on deep deeeep dives. The book was written in the 1960s and takes place at a girl's boarding school in Australia in the year 1900. The girls go on a picnic to, you guessed it, Hanging Rock and three of them disappear without a trace.

The story is slow and odd and unsettling but most importantly, it is unresolved. The book is only about 200 pages and I highly recommend reading it before looking into the ending but the author did in fact write one in her original draft. Her editors told her to leave it out and it left us with an unsettling story I will be thinking about for a long time.

Once you read it and you're curious...you can actually read the unpublished final chapter online or in certain published editions. It's bizarre to say the least.

If you want a sticky slow summer read filled with gorgeous nature, some dark humor, and some haunting scenes, I recommend!

Has anyone else read this classic? Have you read the original ending?