Nigh - Book 1 Read online

  Nigh

  Copyright: Marie Bilodeau

  Published: January 30, 2014

  ISBN: 978-0-9940439-0-0

  Publisher: S&G Publishing

  Cover Artwork by Kerri Elizabeth Gerow

  http://northernelfpony.blogspot.ca/

  Cover Design by Designs by Lynsey

  http://www.designsbylynsey.co.uk/

  Editing by Gabrielle Harbowy

  http://gabrielle-edits.com/

  Copyediting by Jessica Torrance

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Start of Nigh 1

  Stay in Touch!

  To Katherine Gallant of the Graham Clan,

  for being so freaking awesome.

  (You’d also kick faerie ass. I want you on my Faerie Apocalypse Survival Team.)

  Acknowledgements

  Nigh was a labour of much love, and many people contributed, whether they realized it or not. I first got the idea for Nigh at a storytelling show, where I had a vision of a show that would be supported by a book, and vice versa. So, first and foremost, thanks to the Ottawa Storytellers for their love of stories and fostering of the community.

  Adam Shaftoe, from The Page of Reviews, who seeded the idea for a novel serialization (this is on you!).

  My family, as always, is a source of inspiration: Kerri Elizabeth Gerow, Jessica Torrance, Jean-François Bilodeau, George and Ada, Suzanne Desjardins, Gilles Bilodeau and Nicole Caouette, Katherine and Martin Gallant, Karen and Dave Henderson, Xander and Isabelle.

  To the Gerow/Taverner family for sharing stories, names, a hometown and some fun facts.

  Thanks to Kathryn Hunt for sharing faerie knowledge and to Darrell Kouri, for sharing his knowledge and expertise of cars. And to Derek Künsken, Linda Poitevin, Karen Dudley and Nicole Lavigne for constant cheerleading.

  NIGH

  - Book 1 –

  by Marie Bilodeau

  They say the end is nigh, dear friend,

  The world has passed its prime,

  And we must bid good bye, dear friend,

  To all the happier time.

  --(The Heart’s Tragedy in Fairyland, Arthur Edward Waite)

  Chapter 1

  The small gear popped out and tumbled to the floor, the desk lamp lighting its fall before it vanished into the darkness below the workbench.

  “Damn it!” Alva flicked back a sweat-dipped strand of rust-coloured hair that escaped her braid, and crouched to find the escapee. She felt under the workbench with oil stained fingers, but calluses blocked any sensation resembling a small gear.

  “Argh, under-the-workbench gross.” She stood back up, disgusted, wiping her hand on the leg of her blue coveralls.

  “What’s that? You’re gonna clean under the workbench?” Gruff’s voice boomed behind her.

  “Oh ya,” she turned, eyebrow raised. “Next thing you’ll tell me, you expect me to mop the floors, too!”

  “Clean shop is a busy shop, Al.”

  She grinned. “It IS clean. Cleanest in town! As long as you don’t look under the workbenches.” She sat on the stool, the innards of the watch laid bare before her. Intricate little swirls hugged gears and tumbled into small notches, so many that Alva didn’t know where to start. Each tiny gear did so much, an intricate system of metal and planning that turned time itself.

  She sighed and gently closed the watch. Gruff’s dirty overalls blocked her peripheral vision. “I thought you were gonna save your money to get that fixed, Al.” His voice was uncharacteristically soft.

  “I need to save money for Pete’s school. Besides, this isn’t gram’s watch.” She showed him the scratched, tarnished cover. She’d kept her great gram’s watch in perfect condition, just like her dad had before her.

  She shrugged. “I didn’t want to practice on the original, but I thought that if I could practice on another watch, then maybe… I don’t know. I don’t think my hands are young or nimble enough anymore.”

  Gruff guffawed, throwing his head back, his rebellious white hair swaying with his amusement. “If your hands can’t handle the small stuff, we’re all in trouble!” He held up his large hand, the right thumb tweaked to the side – it had never healed right after a car had slipped off its jack and snapped it.

  He sobered again. “You should keep trying. Maybe you’ll repair finer things than cars someday!” He turned back to finish his inventory.

  “I like repairing cars!” She screamed after him, but he just waved back without answering.

  The garage had already been closed for a few hours. Neither Alva nor Gruff were in any rush to get back home, him to an empty nest, her to an empty home. Pete would be back tomorrow, at least. She hoped the university visit had gone well. Her little sister wasn’t one for disclosing information on the go. Probably too lost in her own thoughts to think of texting Al.

  The main shop lights were off – drivers seemed drawn like moths to a flame to a lit garage. Alva relied on a small desk lamp.

  “All right,” she mumbled. “My dad built trains, I fix cars, and now let’s go smaller and fix a watch. Let’s make this happen!”

  She grabbed her flashlight and crouched again. She imagined the grit under the bench would consist mostly of dirt and maybe some food. Only the small metal gear should reflect the light. Well, she hoped there weren’t too many sharp and pointy things under there, anyway.

  The light beamed and blinded her for a second. She placed her cheek against the cold concrete floor, following the beam. Most of it looked like small rocks, probably all the crap the city threw on the roads during ice season.

  A piece reflected the light. “Gotcha,” she said, reaching in to sweep forward everything in that vicinity. She reached as far as she could, practically wedging her shoulder under the bench. She extended her fingers as far as possible, but just as she lowered her hand, something sharp pricked her.

  “Son of a…” she jerked back, knocking into the bench and throwing herself back. A hammer landed near her head.

  “You okay?” Gruff called from the parts room.

  “Ya, I’m fine,” she answered absent-mindedly as she stared at the blood bubbling on her finger. She grabbed her old stained rag and wrapped it around the wound, holding it tightly to stop the bleeding. Once the throbbing had subsided, she removed the rag to have a closer look.

  On the side of her finger, a perfect little set of holes lined up in two connected semi-circles. Just like a little jaw.

  “Gruff! We’ve got rats in here!” Gruff stormed out of the parts room, light spilling in behind him, forming a perfect halo around his body. She would have laughed if she wasn’t busy getting off the floor.

  “Where!” He grabbed the wrench from his belt and slapped it on his left palm.

  Alva nodded toward the bench. Faster than she thought the six-foot-some, two-hundred-and-eighty-at-least sixty-something-year-old mechanic could move, he was on his knees. He grabbed her flashlight and redirected it toward the offender, moving it around under the bench before standing back up with a grunt. “Damn bugger’s gone.”

  His eyes lowered to where she still clutched the rag on her finger, the blood barely distinguishable from the oil stains. He mumbled and moved, much more slowly, to one of the workstations, switching on another lamp and pulling out their first aid kit.

  “Well, this will do,” he said, grabbing a bandage and a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Alva knew
the drill pretty well. She had apprenticed under Gruff more than seven years ago, since a high school placement. He’d been bandaging her wounds ever since.

  Washing her hands carefully, she then dried them gingerly on a clean towel, tossed it in the laundry basket and turned, wounded hand towards Gruff.

  Blood trickled lazily from the wound. Gruff smiled. “Been a while since we’ve done this. Not since you got Big Bertha, anyway.” Alva grinned and looked toward her tool belt, slung on a peg on the wall. Her modified wrench, almost two feet longer than a regular one, hung from it.

  She hissed when he poured the hydrogen peroxide on the wound, the blood now covered in bubbling white foam. He ripped open a small alcohol covered swatch and wrapped it around the wound before Alva could complain.

  “Damn it, Gruff. You’d already used the peroxide!”

  He grinned. “Can never be too careful.”

  She glared at him as he finished up, pulling the swab off to examine the wound. His eyebrow shot up. “I ain’t never seen a bite like this. You said a rat did it?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see it. But I imagine a rat did it.” She gave him a crooked grin. “If not a rat, then what?”

  He bandaged her finger and shook his head. “Well, rats ain’t good for business, and neither are any other biting critters. We’ll have to call the exterminators in for the weekend, just in case. Can’t afford to close the shop for too long – don’t wanna scare folk back to their swindling dealerships. Let’s call it a night, Al. You close up here.”

  Alva knew better than to argue. Gruff was a good man, but he expected his employees, even his favourite one, to fall in line. He shambled off to the back, banging the cabinets closed and locking them. Alva turned back to her bench. Might as well put the watch away. It wasn’t really worth much, with a broken face and rusted cover, which was why she’d been able to afford it to practice on. But it was priceless as a learning tool.

  Something caught her eye, a dull silver glow on the ground. She leaned down and saw, near a drop of her blood, the tiny gear, in perfect view, as though it had just rolled itself out from under the bench and now waited for her.

  ***

  Her key was barely in the lock when Mrs. Gallaway opened her door. Her wizened eyes peeked left and then right, sharpening their focus on Alva, her face wrinkling from every edge.

  “There was someone looking for you, Alva,” she whispered conspiratorially. “A handsome lad! A gentleman caller!”

  Alva managed a smile for the old lady’s sake. Mrs. Gallaway suffered from a nasty combination of insomnia, loneliness and chattiness. Alva was tired and doubted this “gentleman caller” was looking for more than to try and sell her a new set of kitchen knives. Not that she’d really know what to do with those.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Gallaway.” Alva perked up her voice and looked off with a dreamy look in her eyes. “I’ll go dress in my ball gown now and wait for my prince charming!”

  Mrs. Gallaway cackled and waved Alva off as she closed her door, her laughter assailed by coughs. Alva grinned and put the key in the deadbolt. She turned it, but the familiar releasing thunk didn’t occur.

  Could she have forgotten to set it? No, of course not. Locking the deadbolt was second nature.

  She backed away, placing her keys between her fingers for a quick, easy weapon. Crude, but capable of inflicting lots of damage if necessary. She wasn’t weak and knew she could put up a fight. Unless they had a gun, of course, and blew her head off before she could reach them. But in her little town, that wasn’t too likely to happen.

  Her feet firmly planted, she opened the door carefully. If anyone was in her apartment, they knew she was here now. Changing her tactic, she slammed the door open in case someone waited for her behind it. The door bounced off the wall and she caught it with her booted foot, quickly turning to face the kitchen. It was empty, but someone had opened all of the drawers. She thought of stepping back and calling the cops, but she was already here and if those bastards were still here, she wanted to give them a piece of her mind. And fists.

  She ignored the barely used kitchen, which she kept clean and sparse. It was definitely empty. She turned back to the corridor and faced her living room/dining room/bedroom — a rather small room for its multiple purposes.

  No one was there. The lights were all switched on, casting large shadows on her scattered belongings. They’d been there in the past two hours, after the sun had set. She stepped over her stuff and reached the converted closet Pete used for her room. It was also in shambles, her books scattered. Alva picked up her sister’s favourite books on legends and myths, relieved they weren’t damaged, and carefully placed them back on the small wall shelf.

  “Some handsome man,” she mumbled. Mrs. Gallaway meant well, but she’d probably mentioned more than she should have, hoping Alva finally had a “suitor.” Damn thieves, too lazy to get jobs, yet skilled enough to pick a deadbolt without having to break down the door. Not that they’d have found anything of value here, except…

  Alva crossed the living room quickly to the train set lining the back wall. It was old and too broken to be of any worth to even collectors, but it had been her dad’s when he was a boy, and it was the only thing they had left of him, save for the one thing she kept hidden in the small tollbooth station. She reached carefully across the dilapidated pine trees, the bear figure with the missing forepaws, and the faded crosswalk signal, and popped the top off the little tollbooth. It was meant to go with a car set and not on a train track, but her father had loved it so much that every time the train went around the tracks, it had to stop to pay the toll.

  “Popular with the customers, I bet that was!” He laughed when he showed her, when it had been just the three of them in a small, but not as small, apartment. Her long, oil-stained fingers reached in and grazed cold metal. She let out a short sigh in relief.

  She rolled her fingers around the metal and gently clasped the top, pulling free the old watch her father had given her, his grandmother’s watch, the only item of value they had. “If we need to, we’ll pawn it. It’s gotta be worth something, but still, old gram would be disappointed…”

  He’d shake his head and place it back after showing it to her. The only other time she’d seen it was when he looked at it, when they’d been talking about her schooling. He had wanted her to go to university. Then Pete. He’d always worked the trains, and the rails were dying out. The trains had been a good job when he was a boy, but now he was older, scraping by with odd jobs and no formal certification in a world that demanded proof of learning over proof of knowledge and experience.

  He’d wanted her to go and take higher learning. “That watch might be good enough for one year, at least. Maybe even two. I can get more odd jobs, get money for the other years in the meantime.”

  He was already working 80-hour weeks.

  Alva had signed up for her apprenticeship the following day. “Learn as you earn,” the tagline was. And she had, and she’d never once regretted it.

  But her dad had always been a bit disappointed. He’d wanted her to do more than him, working with his hands on a technology that evolved too rapidly in the span of a lifetime. But she’d loved her job. And Gruff and her dad had become fast friends. Her winning argument had been Pete. With both of them saving money, they could afford to send at least the youngest Taverner to higher education.

  That had been the plan, anyway.

  Al had just turned nineteen when a drunk driver sideswiped her dad, and that was that. All she had left of him were this watch and the old train set.

  She half fell on the futon, which was currently set up as a couch but would become her bed later. She missed him, but this watch somehow made her feel connected to him still – the sound of his voice as he’d tell old family legends late in the night, his tinkering with it trying to make it work, the way his eyes watered when he recited his favourite pieces of literature.

  She held up the watch. It wasn’t tarnished – she cer
tainly didn’t let it get that way. It was gold, or a metal resembling it enough. Dad had been convinced it was worth thousands. She doubted it, but had never had the heart to tell him so.

  Its value was in its beauty, and in the stories it preserved. It was intricately carved. A small village on one side, a giant pine tree swooping over a small thatched house. On the other side was just one letter, which was her great grandmother’s initial. A promise that never came to pass.

  She heard a thunk in the kitchen. Alva’s head jerked up and she jumped to her feet, threw the watch in her pocket, grabbed her keys and leapt in the hallway and then the kitchen in two bounds.

  She threw one leg back behind the other and adopted a defensive posture, bringing up her “armed” hand.

  There was nothing there.

  She quickly crossed to the corridor. There was no one there, either. She glanced in the kitchen.

  Hadn’t those drawers been open a second ago?

  She was too tired. Long shifts and her obsession with fixing the watch were taking a toll. Having her place broken into was a violation she just didn’t need. Alva locked the deadbolt and the handle, and slid the nearly useless chain in place. At least it would warn her if the lock picker decided to come back. That, he’d have to break.

  She pondered calling the cops for a second, but nothing had been stolen as far as she could tell, and she didn’t have anything else of value. Or any insurance, for that matter. She might as well save herself the hassle.

  She thought about warning Pete, but she didn’t want to worry her younger sister. She was off in Toronto, checking out universities and the Royal Ontario Museum with others from her class. She needed to focus on her decision, and not worry about their home.

  An hour’s worth of work and most of the apartment was back to its usual order. They didn’t have much, but the small space fared better when everything was organized.