Deny Me, The Nightshade Boy

Deny Me, The Nightshade Boy

Book 1 in The Heartwood Trilogy

Mary VanAlstine

Dreaming in Color

Copyright © 2023 by Mary VanAlstine

Cover Typography and Interior Decoration © Zsasa Kaslavska

Interior Illustrations © Mary VanAlstine

Edited by Quinton Li, Editorial Services www.quintonli.com

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

Dedication

Content Warning

1.The Artwork

2.The Fox

3. The Géas

4.The Rescue

5.The Folk

6.The Ward

7.The Nightshade

8.The Eyes

9.The Siblings

10.The Choice

11.The Mountains

12.The Bobcat

13.The Redwoods

14.The Duel

15.The Victor

16.The Question

To Be Continued

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Stay Up to Date

Dedication

This book must by point of fact be dedicated to my father, Guy Stewart. You have been a tireless and devoted writer longer than I’ve been alive, and you have worked just as hard to inspire me to write, too. And it worked. You’ve allowed me to chart my own course and you’ve always put my whims first. Thank you for being my inspiration to be unapologetically myself.

Content Warning

This book contains depictions of self-harm, depictions of psychosis, depictions of depression and anxiety, implied substance abuse, implied sexual assault, and instances of magical violence. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter one

The Artwork

Andrew Vidasche was much too nerdy to be hunting faeries in Lilydale.

What he’d have preferred to be doing was sipping tea and watching documentaries in sweatpants while he cuddled his cat. Nerds like him shouldn’t be walking into faerieland. But if he wanted to keep his sanity (what was left of it), he didn’t have a choice. The solitude had gotten too heavy, and with it, the weight of the rift between him and his estranged mother.

In a park overlooking downtown Saint Paul, Andrew made his way to the Brickyard Trail, the easiest place to get off the Path and into the bluffs where the Folk lived. Lilydale was untamed: steep sprawling limestone crags hung over the eastern banks of the Mississippi, haggard trees clinging desperately to the soil between the stones. Once, they’d tried to put a brickyard in the hills, but its massive kiln had exploded and killed everyone working. Not too long ago, some kids on a field trip got washed away in a mudslide while hunting for fossils, and the bluffs had been prohibited ever since. It seemed to Andrew that nature was trying to keep people out.

For as wild as it was, magic foods made by the Folk still got out of the bluffs and into the hands of humans, which Andrew never would have known about if not for how open his mum had been about her struggle with addiction. In Andrew’s teens, his mum’s pill addiction had culminated in such Fae-spelled foods. He remembered the foods to be unassuming: apple chunks in plastic baggies or heels of dark rye bread, once a little vial of golden liquid. But a single bite would leave his mum out of touch for days, hallucinating that she was being strangled by vines, turning on all the gas burners on the stove because she liked the smell, or convinced she was a princess on the better days. She’d be covered in sweat with a hummingbird heartbeat and blue skin around her lips.

The visions of her during and after taking those enchanted foods haunted Andrew. Using the stove made him hyperventilate. Irish brogue accents brought tears to his eyes. He wanted to both hug and slap any red-haired woman he saw. It seemed like the only way to get relief from his memories was to find her again, to rebuild their relationship. To try to reconcile.

Because his mum hadn’t had a phone since he was fourteen, his first step to tracking her down was to get a hold of her oldest friend. Kate’s phone number was still written on a scrap of paper buried in a box of Andrew’s childhood things. When they met, she’d confirmed his suspicions that Fae-spelled foods might have been his mum’s downfall. She blamed the Folk: dangerous, ambivalent faeries living in the river bluffs over the city. She tried to talk him out of going up there, but if there was some chance his mum was up there—captured by the faeries that got her addicted—then he was going to find her. So here he was. What would these supposed faeries even look like? Tinkerbell? Legolas? He wouldn’t mind Legolas, if he were being honest…

Late afternoon in October was Andrew’s favorite time in Minnesota. He savored the faint chill in the air and the explosion of sunset-colored leaves. They littered the black asphalt and clung stubbornly to branches, quivering in the breeze that made loose auburn hair from Andrew’s ponytail tickle his cheeks. He zipped his fleece pullover higher as he stepped into cooler shadows. Packed wood chips skittered under his boots. Fearful of a magical ambush, he jumped at every snap and rustle of leaves. 

Andrew peered southward through the trees. Thighs shaking, breathing shallow, he climbed off the marked path and into the underbrush. His heavy Doc Martens made him sound like he was tromping forth in a full suit of armor. Despite them, he tried to duck under branches, weave around thistles, gently bend stalks of feathery grasses out of his path. How many of the wildflowers coloring the scraggly hillside could kill him? He imagined some waist-high winged child shoving poisonous flowers down his throat, and he snorted.

Maybe there wasn’t even anything out here except turkeys and deer. 

West of him, far below, the dark Mississippi ran relentlessly toward the equator, yawning under the interstate bridge in the distance. There wasn’t much that would protect him from tumbling headfirst into the river; the bluffs were jagged and dropped sharply into limestone cliffs with seemingly no warning. If he fell, Andrew wasn’t sure anyone would notice he was gone.

I think it’s time to hire a shop assistant, he muttered.

Wiping sweat from his brow, he blinked away a flash of panic. It was going to be just as much work to get back to the park. The kind of hiking the Brickyard trail demanded was much different than his usual tame running routine. He wasn’t sure on his feet. Maybe if he lost his footing, he’d be impaled on a branch before he hit the river.

Andrew paused at a fallen tree obscured beneath scaly moss, leaning his palm against the flaky bark of an oak while anxiety needled his spine. He scanned the way forward again, but nothing looked like it would house mythical little faeries. It would be easier to just go home, take a bath, get drunk on whiskey.

But he was stubborn, and more than a little curious. Climbing onto the decaying log, he allowed stubbornness to guide him further into danger. He hauled his leg over, boot scraping off dry bark and crusty white moss.

Then he froze, sucking in a sharp gasp. His boot was a sliver away from stepping on a body.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Andrew pulled his foot back and planted it in the loose dirt. Heart in his throat, he leaned down toward the body, which was pallid enough to be a corpse. Pillowed in silky grasses with a halo of tiny white wildflowers was a woman more art than human. Sharp in the manner of an uncut diamond, she was a specimen that even Andrew recognized as beautiful. Her complexion was snow-white with arched brows, long lashes, and deep red lips. She had shining burgundy curls falling back from her forehead. With long, elegant fingers, she clutched a clay pitcher in the crook of her elbow, which sloshed softly with her every breath.

Ah…breath. Not dead then, so that was good.

As Andrew tried to figure out what to do, her eyes snapped open.

They were blood red.

The woman moved with alarming speed, and her beauty was replaced with a silent snarl and fire in her eyes. She was above him before his back even slammed into the ground. As she lunged at him, Andrew fumbled for his pocket knife, flipped up the blade, and thrust his arm out.

The woman’s weight bore down on the knife. She dropped her pitcher, where it shattered on the log as she spun away with a cry.

Andrew scrambled to his feet, patting himself over and checking he still had all he needed on him. Oh my god! I’m sorry! He pulled out a folded canvas first aid kit from his back pocket. Extending it to her, he said, Here, please! That looks…smokey? Why are you smoking?

The cut on her sternum oozed blood—and smoke, as if the wound were made of tinder. She wiped at the blood and hissed, looking down, baring wolf-sharp teeth.

He dropped the kit onto the log between them. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You scared me, Andrew said, closing his blade and pocketing it before holding his hands up, palms out. I…I’m looking for someone.

The woman’s head flicked to the side. Her sharp profile caught a streak of afternoon sun, silver-bright. She swayed as she clenched her fists and panted.

Wow. You can’t be human, he breathed. I must be near Lilydale. You…you must be a faerie.

Go away, the woman growled, still not looking at him.

Remembering his purpose, he went on quickly, I have concerns about these Fae-spelled foods, you see, and I’m afraid that my mum—

I don’t care, the woman interrupted, about your concerns or your fears.

Do you have human prisoners? Andrew demanded, indignant over the woman’s apathy. Are you wrangling humans that eat your foods and—

No! Swallowing visibly, she shook herself like a dog and stepped toward him. Though Andrew’s height was substantial, this woman saw him eye-to-eye. You know nothing of me, but I will tell you this. Human affairs are no concern of mine. I do not take prisoners. But if humans seek food from my people, I do not get in their way.

You ruined my mother’s life, Andrew said, a tremble in his voice. I—I know, he added quickly, when the faerie opened her perfect crimson lips, you don’t care. But I can’t be the only one in the city whose loved ones are hurt by your ambivalence. One of these days, someone’s going to make you pay for that.

Ah, yes? Her eyes glinted with a hard light. She wiped the fresh blood off her chest. Andrew stiffened. Reaching a stained hand toward him, the woman smudged her thumb over Andrew’s forehead and said softly, "I will make you pay for drawing my blood."

Then she pulled on a shadow and vanished.

Chapter two

The Fox

So, yeah, said Andrew, rolling the corner of Sam Larson’s resume between his fingers. Two weeks ago I was hiking alone and realized nobody would probably notice if I died.

Sam’s smile took on a strained quality. He nudged his round tortoiseshell glasses up into his fluffy bangs. That can’t be true…

Shrugging, Andrew continued, That—you at least being aware if I suddenly go missing, you know—would just be a cursory gain from having an assistant. You’d have, um…other tasks. He glanced past Sam to the park across the street. Magic’s Computer Repair peered out of a little rectangular building with an old red door and three cloudy window panes. At least the view of the park was typically serene, and he could watch the softball games happening if he got bored. But he had no serenity today. Things felt…charged, like the atmosphere before a storm. What else? Oh, customer correspondence. Don’t like that. The hairs on his arms were standing on end; he scratched anxiously at them, still looking out the front windows. And…getting more customers would be, uh…

Sam fussed with his pride tie striped pink, white, and baby blue. Hey… Andrew spared him a quick glance. You good, Mr. Viadsche?

Ah—sure. His head twitched in something akin to a nod. When he looked back toward the door, he—

He lurched to his feet, his desk chair tipping and clattering into Sam’s legs. Lightning bolts of terror lanced ice-cold down Andrew’s spine, freezing him in place with his back against the wall.

Sam swiveled toward the door. What’s wrong?

Through the front window, luminous scarlet eyes bored into Andrew. A wicked smile curved like a scythe on her lips, showed teeth gleaming like broken glass. The faerie’s skin was almost transparent in the afternoon light, which seemed to fall through her like she was an apparition. Her burgundy hair was dotted with red poppies that looked like blood splatters in a Tarantino movie. Raising her long hand, she tapped her sharp black nails against the glass.

Tink.

Andrew flinched.

Tink.

Andrew slapped his hand over his mouth to stifle a scream.

Tink.

The dark slashes of her eyebrows rose, and then she vanished.

Andrew blinked and lowered his trembling hand, taking a stumbling step past Sam to scan the trees and every inch of the windows. For good measure, he pushed open the door and leaned outside. But there was no sign of the faerie from the bluffs. He let the door close on his heels as he turned back around.

Sam wore several expressions jumbled together on his blemished face. When Andrew met his eyes, Sam hunched up with an awkward little laugh.

You didn’t see anything? Andrew gestured with a quavering hand. Out the window?

Er. Sam blushed, his eyes darting away. Nope. But I could be, I mean, maybe my glasses—

A little strangled laugh squeezed from Andrew’s chest.

So she just manifested especially for him.

This was it. He made that damned beautiful woman bleed, and now she was haunting him. Or maybe she’d kill him eventually. But she seemed the type of predator who would toy with him first. Like orcas did, tossing seals into the air and catching them in their teeth a dozen times before ripping off one flipper at a time.

Pressing his hands over his face, Andrew held his breath for as long as he could before forcing the air out of his nostrils in one elongated sigh. Well, he said. He came stiffly back to the long desk where Sam sat fidgeting. After fixing his desk chair, he lowered himself carefully into the seat. Adrenaline pumping in his veins helped him muster an easy, sardonic smile as he said to Sam, Want to bail, Mr. Larson? I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that my life is ruined, and I may only get crazier from here on out. You are an excellent candidate for an assistant or whatever else you end up wanting to do here, but in no way will I presume to be an excellent employer when I’m…crazy.

Sam leaned back in his desk chair. His hazel eyes roved the little store front with its neat aisle of computer hardware. The desk where Andrew sat was tidily kept with cords wrapped with zip-ties, a cup of tea near Andrew’s elbow somehow having endured his awkward and dramatic display. 

Sam looked back at Andrew and smiled kindly. Unless you start taking your crazy out on me, I can’t judge you for going through stuff. Your shop looks really nice, and it’s close to the buses that go back to campus. He shrugged. And I definitely appreciate that you’ve gotten my pronouns right.

Andrew blinked. Correctly identifying you seems like a given.

You’d be surprised. Sam raised his brows and looked away.

Well. Shall we continue, then?

Nodding, Sam looked back with a smile.

You said you have people skills, right?

Oh, for sure!

Good grief. Native Minnesotan, aren’t you? Andrew glanced past Sam again, but there was nothing out of place outside.

Yeah. Speaking of, your accent is seriously so great, Sam blurted. Cheerio and stuff. Andrew gave him a look, which made him blush. Sorry. I’m just glad you reached out. I didn’t think those emails to alumni would actually lead to a job—er, presumably—but this shop seems like a perfect place for me while I finish the computer sciences program at the U of M. I still have a year and a half left, but I have certificates in three coding languages…

Eyes still fixed on the trees, Andrew nodded absent-mindedly and said, The last half of that program is hellish. You said you want to start at twenty hours, but if that’s too much—like around finals season—you need to tell me. And I fully expect you to do whatever you wish when things are quiet, be it homework or whatever else you kids do. He scraped his hair back from his face, his fingers getting tangled near the nape of his neck.

Crunking, mostly, said Sam.

I’m sorry, what? Crumpets?

They both laughed.

Rubbing his neck, Andrew said with eyes downcast, And I’m, ah…sorry. For my odd behavior.

Really, Mr. Vidasche, it’s okay. Sam straightened.

You can just call me Andrew, he said. He raised a brow at the eager look on Sam’s face. Oh. Would you like the job?

Yes, please!

Splendid. I can give you a ride back to campus. I have some research to do at the library. Do you think they have a section on faeries?

One year passed. Then another.

Night after night, season after season, the uncanny, scarlet-eyed faerie haunted Andrew’s dreams. And his days…and his nerves…and all his thoughts. He was a husk of a person filled up with fears that, at any moment, she would form from the shadows and slash him open with her sinister nails, laughing as he bled out at her feet.

She was…everywhere, but only out of the corner of his eye. Only where the shadows grew longer. Only to turn his cup of tea into flower petals right when he took a drink at a cafe. Only as a soft sigh in his ear when he was alone in a room. Sometimes it was a second pair of feet running in time with him on a trail when nobody else was in sight, or a tinkling laugh drifting by on the wind. He flinched when dogs barked or a bird flapped outside his window, or when his cat’s tail brushed his calves when he went to the restroom in the dark. 

His resting heart rate jumped from fifty to ninety; his skin always tingled with needles of heat. He’d changed his medication four times, but not even the highest doses or the strongest tranquilizers brought him relief.

Hoping to find relief in information, Andrew pored over Folk literature in the years that came. Inspired by his mum’s Druid practices, he began his research in the pages of Celtic books.

Whatcha looking at? asked Sam, two years since he started at Magic’s, comfortable now asking Andrew questions since he knew Andrew would tell him to mind his business if he needed to. As far as Sam could tell, Andrew had always been a little unhinged. Sam had been in the shop, after all, when the sword Andrew had bought off eBay showed up. It was an iron Viking-era replica of a straight sword the length of his forearm called a seax. The lie was easy enough—Andrew had been a History minor, and had always wanted to start a sword collection. Sam didn’t know that Andrew was taking swordplay lessons and wearing a holster around his chest under his clothes where he could slip the sword if he felt particularly harried. But the academic excuse seemed to work well enough for most of Andrew’s paranoia, since Sam was too polite to criticize.

Um, it’s a Druid folktales book, Andrew answered. I always check antique bookshops for stuff like this. Found this one on West Seventh.

Druid? Like the Dungeons and Dragons class? Sam grinned as if he knew that wasn’t what Andrew meant.

With a patient shake of his head, Andrew said, It’s actually a really old practice. My mum is Irish. She called herself a Druid. I learned a bit here and there when I was a kid.

Isn’t that just, like, a witch?

Andrew turned a page in his book and smoothed his hand over an intricate letterpress drawing of a tree dense with Celtic knots. Not exactly. The Druids don’t do spells or curses. They celebrate and revere nature. They want balance. They want to be mindful of the magic they believe is already in the world. Um, anyway, can you call on the Janssen order and let them know it’s ready?

You got it, boss. Sam’s carefree smile spread on his lips as he stood up and went to the cabinets next to their desk.

Andrew picked up a pen to start sketching the tree in his little ring-bound notebook. This was the third