Midwinter

Meyer Schrabe was about Satterly's age, somewhere in his thirties; he had long, curly hair and a prominent nose that looked either broken or permanently swollen. According to Linda, he was on Jim Broward's side of things, though to Satterly he seemed like a perfectly decent person, all things considered. The two girls, Polly and jasmine, were his. They tagged along beside the men while their mother, jenny, lagged, talking with Linda and Linda's daughter Rachel.

There were torches evenly spaced along the wall, set into sconces fashioned from the omnipresent rebar. Meyer left Satterly with the girls to go light them.

"That's our daddy," said Polly, the older of the two. She watched her father, a sweet loving look on her face.

"We love our daddy," said jasmine. "We'll miss him."

Satterly kneeled next to jasmine. "Why will you miss him?" he said, humoring her. "Aren't you going with us?"

"No," said jasmine. "We're not going anywhere."

"Says who?" Satterly frowned.

Polly looked at Jasmine. "Quiet, stupid," she said. "He doesn't know things."

"Voila!" shouted Meyer. He stood by one of the oblongs in the cave's rear. He reached for the edge of a tarpaulin and pulled, revealing a sight that nearly brought tears to Satterly's eyes.

It was a red convertible, big, wide. Human. A 1971 Pontiac LeMans.

"This is the greatest automobile ever made," said Meyer, brushing over the paint with his fingertips. "A wolf in sheep's clothing. A '71 LeMans Sport, with an extremely rare 355 horsepower, 455 cubic inch V8. Aluminum intake manifold. Four-barreled carb. Four on the floor, with a power top, Rally wheels, and an AM motherfucking eight-track stereo in the dash."

"Just ignore him," said Linda, coming up behind them. "Once he starts talking about that thing there's no stopping him."

Meyer rolled his eyes. "It's only the greatest car ever made," he said.

Satterly was shocked. "But it looks so good. There's no way this car's been here for fifteen years."

"Time goes slower in the cave; it's great for the cars, but every minute we spend back here is more like twenty outside. So get back there and start pushing."

"A shifting place," said Satterly. "Okay, but why are we doing this exactly?"

A few feet away, Jim Broward took the other tarp off of his own vehicle, a mideighties Chevy pickup that was badly dented on the passenger side.

"Linda take you out to see the Hole?" asked Meyer, pushing the Pontiac from the driver's side, holding the wheel through the window.

Satterly grunted a yes.

"Well, it's been climbing that hill for years now. Problem is that it's now about fifty feet off the ground in our world." He leaned into his work. "We have to bring it down to earth."

Satterly wiped his forehead. "Mind telling me why we can't just drive out of here?"

"Batteries won't hold a charge in this place," said Meyer. "We have to roll them down the hill."

Broward stood by his truck, scowling. "Hey, you two. Stop screwing around and push."

It was backbreaking work pushing the two automobiles up the sloped floor of the cavern and into the sunlight. Satterly looked out across the hilltop and could see what looked like spires protruding from the mist in the distance. Past the hilltop the ground grew level; only baked earth and lonely trees separated them from the veiled city.

"What's that?" he said, pointing.

"Fae city," said Meyer. "Sylvan. We don't go there."

In the other direction lay the blue sphere, or the Hole, as the humans called it. By day it wasn't particularly remarkable, just a swatch of color in the dirt. From the mouth of the cave, the ground sloped downward to where the Hole lay in its ditch.

"When we're ready, we'll start the cars rolling, pop the clutches, and put the cars in place running," said Meyer.

Paul, the former truck driver, reached into the back of Broward's pickup and pulled out a length of chain that rattled metallically against the truck bed. At its end was a menacing steel hook.

"Is it strong enough?" said Broward.

"How the hell should I know?" said Paul, tugging on the chain.

Broward nodded. "Let's go get Hereg."

Satterly felt a tug on his shirtsleeve. It was Rachel, Linda's daughter, her hair done up in pigtails.

"Mister," she said, her face grim. "Once they all leave, can we go with you to Sylvan?"

Satterly frowned. "No, honey, we're all going home together." She made him uncomfortable; it was a discomfort he'd experienced before but couldn't place.

Rachel shook her head. "I am home," she said. She reached for the bandages around her ears and tugged. They came off, revealing ragged wounds dried to the color of rust, sliced across the tops of her ears. Despite having been cut, however, Satterly could see the beginnings of two perfect points sprouting from the raw flesh. The points were perfectly formed, perfectly Fae.

"See," said Rachel. "I am home." She pointed at Satterly. "You don't know it yet, but so are you."

homecoming

Satterl stood in front of the cage, feeling like a traitor.

"Mauritane, can I talk to you?"