Spell Bound

  Archers Beach #6

  Sharon Lee

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  Spell Bound

  Archers Beach Number 6

  © 2016 by Sharon Lee

  Pinbeam Books

  www.pinbeambooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events

  portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously

  Copyright © 2016 by Sharon Lee.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the

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  Will-o'-the-Wisp and The Wolf's Bride were previously published on Splinter Universe (www.splinteruniverse.com), January 2016

  ISBN: 978-0-9966346-2-5

  Published August 2016 by

  Pinbeam Books

  PO Box 1586

  Waterville ME 04903

  email info@pinbeambooks.com

  cover by Sharon Lee

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Will-o'-the-wisp

  Author’s Notes | Will-o’-the-wisp

  The Wolf’s Bride

  Author’s Notes The Wolf’s Bride

  About the Author

  Other Works by Sharon Lee

  Thank you

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  Will-o'-the-wisp

  Felsic hadn’t ever thought of herself as a coward — well. She hadn’t ever thought she was brave, neither. You just did what there was to do, taking the good with the bad, like they say, and letting the sea sort it out.

  That sort of thinking, now; that worked just fine for marshes and wetlands, and rivers, too, for all Felsic knew about it. Nothing so fine as a river, Felsic; just a little patch o’salt marsh, that was all. Not much to look at, and likely to smell like wet mud and rottin’ reeds at low tide, but it did for her.

  More than did, until just lately, when the Enterprise took a sudden interest in her, and Kate Archer no help at all.

  She opened up her drawer in the dresser — and didn’t that beat everything, her having a dresser drawer full of rolled socks and under clothes, and t-shirts. She’d even gone down to Dynamite and gotten herself some party clothes for tomorrow night’s dance — those were in the closet. Bright red shirt, a long vest embroidered with blue, and red, and yellow flowers, and a pair of tight black trousers. Peggy’d make a face at all that color. Peggy’d be in black, like usual, but Felsic liked colors. Some folks, they said there wasn’t nothin’ like color in a salt marsh, but, then, some folk couldn’t see past the end of their noses — not that Felsic held it against ’em. You were born blind, or you were born Sighted, and there wasn’t no sense blaming either kind for being who they were.

  Peggy, now, she was Sighted, and there was the problem, right there. If she hadn’t been — well.

  No sense dwelling on that, neither. If Peggy’d been blind-born, then she’d never seen anything other than what Felsic had wanted to her see, and the Season would’ve got done, and she’d gone on back down into the Flatlands — New Jersey, in particular — and Felsic’d gone back to winter with her little bit of marsh.

  No dresser drawers in that might-be, nor party clothes, nor spooning in a tall bed, under a quilted blanket. . .leastways, not with the Season over. Felsic’d had her some good times, never you doubt it, and there wasn’t no reason she couldn’t’ve had a fine old time with Peggy Marr, and vice-versa, ’til it got time for her to go.

  Except Peggy, now. Peggy’d turned out to be. . .different.

  She’d never lied to Peggy. Peggy didn’t hold with lying; you saw that first thing. It was just Felsic’s good luck that Peggy’d never asked what it was she was, or where’d she’d lived before they’d set up house in this snug little condo, and bought all new kitchen stuff, and a sofa, and a TV set.

  And that was because Peggy thought Felsic was another Kate Archer — that being her role model for people who walked off the edge of the sidewalk — just maybe without the material advantages that came with being an Archer of Archers Beach. In fact, Peggy might’ve thought that Felsic’d been rooming with Vornflee and Moss. . .an’ it could just be Felsic’d given her suppositions a gentle nudge in that direction.

  Wasn’t lying, exactly, to let somebody have suppositions.

  This now, though. She was close to a line, here, and the fact of the matter was that either side she choose, there was a lie waiting for her.

  She pulled the manilla envelope out from under her t-shirts, and crossed over to the bed. Lifted the flap like the thing was like to bite her, which it hadn’t done the last three times she’d had it open, and wasn’t like to do now.

  Inside — they were simple things. Everyday things, like mundane folk carried ’round with them in their wallets, or set aside in a file drawer and hardly thought on ’em again.

  Driver’s license.

  Social Security card.

  Birth certificate.

  Every single one of ’em genuine, though Felsic was pretty sure she didn’t know how to drive, and the only thing she remembered being present at her birth, backaways, was a momma mallard with a knowing button eye, who’d winked at her, then gone tail-up in the water, in search of a little something to eat.

  And that there was going to be the hardest thing to explain to Peggy. Kate Archer was. . .human. Felsic was trenvay, born out of the needs and desires of a particular bit of geography. Felsic happened to be. . .call it the personafication of a little tiny corner of Scarborough Marsh, that the locals called Bufflehead Cove. Why she’d arisen — well, that was a mystery, even to Felsic. But, having gotten herself born, in the way that trenvay are, she’d set about the care and keeping of her bit of marsh. That’d been enough, just at first, when she’d been young and simple. But as she’d gotten older, and stronger, her horizons had widened, in a matter of speaking. That just naturally came with age, so far as Felsic’d seen. Why, Kate Archer’s Gran’d been born a dryad, and tied tight to her tree. And now she had some years on her, didn’t she just wander all over town?

  So, Felsic’d begun to take an interest, which she had to, the Beach having been without a proper Guardian for so long — and the result of all her care and effort being —

  A driver’s license, a birth certificate, a Social Security card. . .

  . . .and a proper name.

  Francis Eleanor Sicot, so it said on the paper, born to one Willow Jane Sicot, no father listed, at the South Portland Medical Center, about thirty years ago, which put her near enough to Peggy’s age. On paper, leastways.

  Lies, every bit of it, even if there’d been a Willow Jane Sicot, who’d gone and got herself in trouble. It was in her to wonder where was Willow Jane now, and if maybe she might need a hand — and she shook herself, hard.

  There was a brisk tap on the door. She snatched up the papers, like she was going to hide them again — then let them fall back onto the bed. Past time for hiding, she told herself sternly; you’re almost into lying.

  "Felsic?" Peggy’s voice came through the door. "You OK?"

  She took a deep breath, looked down, and turned toward the door.

  "Almost," she said, wryly, and feeling her stomach grab up into a knot.

  "Whyn’t you come on in, Peg? There’s some things you gotta know."

  #

  "So you’re telling me that these papers here are — counterfeit? That somebody here in town made them?"

  Peggy shook her head and put the Social Security card down on the bedspread next to the other papers.

  "Damn, I wish I’d know about this back at the beginning of the Season. I wouldn’t have had to play quite so many games with Arbitrary and Cruel’s hiring policies."

  "You’d’ve ordered in false IDs for the whole crew?" Felsic asked, momentarily diverted.

  "You’re thinking it would’ve been expensive? I had an expense account and total discretion. By the time they did the audit, the Season would’ve been over." She looked thoughtful, lips pursed.

  "More or less the same result, actually," she said, and shrugged. "So, Felsic, if these papers are — counterfeit. . .I guess I’d like to know why you need counterfeit papers?"

  "That’s a good question. Kate’s of the opinion that I’m on the edge of getting more responsibility on the Beach. The kind of responsibility that needs a Social Security card to be listened to."

  "Kate gave you these?"

  Her tone said she didn’t believe it, and Felsic didn’t blame her. Truth said, Kate’d looked as horrified as Felsic, when she’d opened up the envelope. ‘course, Kate had some idea of how unsettling the Enterprise was, just as a general concept, which Peggy didn’t.

  "Kate offered to talk to you about how them papers come in," she said. "I don’t understand it, myself — not that I think Kate does. Her edge over us is she’s seen it done more’n once."

  Peggy nodded.

  "I’ll keep it in mind," she said slowly, and reached out to tap the birth certificate.

  "But if this is counterfeit — who are you really?"

  Well, now, that was the question, wasn’t it?

  Felsic took a hard breath, feeling chill all the way up from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head.

  Peggy. . .There was some things even the Sig hted shouldn’t ought to see, and the first. . .

  "Felsic," she said, quietly. "You know I won’t get mad, so long as you tell me the truth."

  Mad, no. But there was plenty of room for horror, and other kinds of upset that she’d never willingly bring Peggy to feel.

  Shoulda been smarter, Felsic told herself, but there wasn’t any way to go back to the first of the Season, and seein’ her for the first time, and feeling that tug that meant here was a prize worth having. . .

  "You promise me something," she said suddenly, and knew by the change on Peggy’s face that her voice had been every bit as harsh as she’d feared.

  "What’s that?"

  "You promise me, if you need to leave — to leave this house, on account of what truth I’ll be showing you. If you need to leave here, you’ll go to Kate Archer, and tell ‘er."

  Peggy frowned.

  "Tell her what?"

  "You’ll know what, if you gotta say it out," Felsic said with certainty, and looked down at the documents spread over their bed. She used her chin to point at the driver’s license.

  "That right there’s your first lie," she said. "That photograph. I don’t — the real me ain’t quite so. . .smooth."

  She turned to the chest of drawers, facing the mirror there. Peggy’d see the reflection over her shoulder. She didn’t stop to wonder why she thought that might be less upsetting than seeing it straight.

  There was a face in the mirror — an easy, comfortable face that she wore for those who didn’t believe in magic, or creatures of the night, or spirits of the place. That face was glamour, and that’s all it was. Sugar-coating, if you like it that way.

  Her real face. . .well, she’d been born out of the will of a piece of marshland, now hadn’t she? Marsh had the general shape of things, but it’d been a little foggy on details.

  That being so, her real face was what you might call rugged: broad and flat; nose not much more’n a bump; no chin to speak of; and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. Her eyes were deep, and dark; the rest of her shape following the broad, flat design.

  She took a breath, staring into her own eyes, and breathed out, releasing the glamour, part of her waiting for Peggy to scream.

  Except that the face in the mirror didn’t change. It remained obstinately round, with an adorable uptilted nose, generous mouth, and a sturdy chin. Only the eyes were as they should be — dark as bog water, with glimmers of cinnamon in the depths. Her shape was strong; broad in the shoulders, and sturdy at the waist; and the tshirt clung somewhat to definite breasts.

  Felsic felt a little stutter of horror all her own.

  Behind her, she heard the bedclothes shift, then Peggy was behind her in the mirror, arms around her waist.

  "Hey, nobody’s license photo is any good," she said. "You should see mine. No, on second thought, you shouldn’t. I don’t want to scare you."

  Felsic leaned back into Peggy’s hug, and tried to think.

  The Enterprise was powerful, and unpredictable; everybody knew that — trenvay and townie alike. You didn’t ask, that was it, and if you were lucky, the Enterprise didn’t answer, anyway.

  But it had taken an interest in her, and somehow, by. . .taking delivery of those papers, she’d gotten. . .nailed into place. Woven into the warp and woof of the mundane world; her aspect fixed —

  And her duty? Her little bit of marsh, that was her life, and her reason for being born?

  "Felsic?"

  "Peg, I’m not. . .like you," she said.

  "Right, you’re like Kate — which is to say that you’re an extra-special person with powers of which I wot not. I don’t mean to imply that you and Kate are interchangeable. For one thing, she’s straight."

  And it had used to be that Felsic was neither one kind nor another, pleasure being pleasure, and the marsh not expecting to deliver or sire children. Didn’t seem any way to exactly explain that, either. Felsic bent her head, stomach cramped and unhappy. She put her hands over Peggy’s where they were caught together at her waist, and squeezed.

  "You’re upset," Peggy said quietly. "What else do you need to tell me?"

  Felsic swallowed.

  Papers, she thought. She had papers, now, and the papers trapped her in a lie — except, what had Kate said? That the papers brought additional duty. Her primary duty, that was still with her. She wasn’t mundane, not wholly. What those papers made her was — a little more visible to those who were generally blind.

  That was all right. Well. With work, and some help from the Guardian of Archers Beach, it could be made to be all right. But that — them. Those half-blind folk, they weren’t where her heart was. Peggy. . .

  Peggy not only wanted the truth; she needed to have the truth.

  Felsic shivered. Other trenvay knew where to find her — where to find her soul, she guessed the marsh must be, which was a funny old thought, and not one she remembered having before. The Guardian surely knew where to find her. But, she’d never shown herself — her soul — to anyone. . .mundane. Never, in all the winters she’d been alive.

  "Show you," she said hoarsely.

  "What?"

  Felsic cleared her throat.

  "There’s a thing I gotta show you," she said, and lifted her head, catching Peggy’s eyes in the mirror.

  "Right now, before I lose my nerve."

  #

  "Here."

  "Here?"

  They were holding hands, standing side-by-side on a piece of marsh that, to Peggy’s eyes, Felsic figured, looked pretty much like every other piece of marsh they’d walked through to get to this one spot, where Felsic’s blood jumped with joy, and of a sudden she was wide, and deep; and slow and secret. Grasses tickled her ribs, and crabs scuttled along her skin; she felt a harrier land on a bush just over there, heard the scream of a frog pierced by a heron. . .

  "Tell me about it," Peggy said quietly.

  Felsic blinked at her.

  "Don’t know there’s much to tell," she said, and her voice was slow, and deeper, too, like the voice of the dark waters all around. "I can name off the plants, if you like it, or –"

  "Tell me what you’re feeling," Peggy said.

  And so Felsic told her about the tickling salt hay, and the hurrying crabs, the slow fish, the intensity of the hunting heron, and the hawk fair sitting on her shoulder. They moved along, still hand-in-hand, Felsic making sure the mud supported Peggy, while she showed her where, come spring, there’d be aster, and bayberry; wild orchid and blueberries. . .

  "We’re getting ready for the long sleep," she said. "Hay’s starting to die back, like you see. Pretty soon now the visitor birds’ll be leaving; the muskrats an’ all that sort’ll be settling into dens. Not so much for a trenvay to do, ‘cept keep good watch, an’ be sure nobody with his brains in his pants comes through here with a snowmachine, or, worse, a four-wheeler.

  "Old days, first snow, I’d just settle in to sleep myself. Some still do. Others of us, we come to keep more active watch in the winter. There’s more things can go wrong lately, and they just don’t happen in the warm days."

  She heard those last words, and came to the realization that she’d been talking along, heedless, for. . .quite some while, telling Peggy all about it, like she’d asked.

  Stomach clenched, she turned and looked down into violet eyes, which were looking steadfastly up into her face.

  Felsic thought she might ought to say something — and then thought that she’d already said more’n enough.

  She swallowed.

  Peggy smiled and reached up to touch her cheek.

  "I love you," she said.

  #

  "So, who’s Willow Jane Sicot?" Peggy asked. It was a couple days after their walk in the marsh, and the end-of-Season party. They were sitting at the bar in their kitchen, sharing a third cup of coffee.

  It took Felsic a tick to recall the name; then she shrugged.

  "Something the Enterprise snatched outta the wind, I’m guessing. Person with a driver’s license and a Social, she’s gotta at least have had a mother."

  Peggy frowned.

  "Kate seemed to think that the Enterprise — or whoever writes out those papers and sends them in — works within reality. It might’ve gotten away with making up a mother, before computerized record-keeping and all our –" She made quote marks in the air — "modern day improvements, but not anymore. I’m betting there is — or at least was — a Willow Jane."

 

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