Page 74 of The Exorcism of Faeries

Sonder opened his mouth and damn her, she wanted to know what he was going to say, but the front door buzzed and a voice came over the intercom.

“Come on up.”

Plague Doctor masks firmly in place, they strode into Sunny Hills Complex—which was neither sunny nor remotely near a hill—and rode the lift up to the third floor. A baby wailed inside one of the flats and a couple was in a shouting match in another. Flat C4 had a very distinct odour wafting from it, and C5 sounded like they were shooting a porno inside.

“Classy place,” Sonder muttered through his mask. They’d taken other precautions besides the masks, electing to wear vials of Tears of the Grieved around their necks, pure iron rings—because faeries notoriously hate iron—and ornate crucifixes on iron chains around their waists. They had no scientific data to prove the crucifixes would be effective protection, but Sonder thought it gave them credibility. Atta thought it looked ridiculous. She’d told him at least five times that they looked like creepy priests in plain clothes, but he didn’t listen. In fact, he seemed to find it amusing.

Sonder knocked on the door to C6, and a young man answered. Atta would have pegged him around eighteen or nineteen. “I was told by some lady at the hotline that you’d be by in masks.” He looked them up and down with a grimace.

Sonder nodded. “Yes. May we come in?”

“Not so fast. She told me you’d pay.”

This had not been mentioned to Atta, but Sonder pulled out a wad of pounds and handed it to the lad. “Now may we come in?”

He stepped out of the way, counting the money. “Have at it. She’s as good as dead if it’s really the Plague.”

“You don’t seem too broken up about it,” Atta observed and the lad pulled a face, shrugging.

“She’s not exactly been the best mam, you know? This Plague is doing me a favour.”

Sonder went rigid, but Atta was still collecting data. “I’m sorry to hear she wasn’t there for you in the way you hoped. Can you tell me what sort of person she is?”

“I told ya’, she’s no good. I’m not exactly a fecken saint, but I wouldn’t choose fuck buddies over my kid his whole life.”

Atta stored the fresh data in her tired,tiredbrain. “I’m sorry. That’s not fair. Would you mind directing us to where she is?”

He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Second door on the left. See yourselves out when you’re done.” And he walked out the way they’d come in, leaving them alone with an Inhabited woman.

“All good?” Sonder asked her softly.

“Yes.”

He led the way to the room they’d been pointed to and knocked. No one answered, so Sonder slowly turned the knob and went in.

The stench hit her first, square in the stomach. Like foul soil and crops gone bad, the sickly sweet of turned meat.

“Jesus,” Sonder whispered under his breath.

The woman was on her back in a filthy bed, needle tracks up and down both arms, the veins collapsed. The doctor in Sonder kicked in, and he pulled gloves from his coat, slipping them on quickly. “She needs naloxone. An IV.”

“We have to face the Inhabitation first. Then we can get her help.”

Sonder nodded and let her arm fall. “Her veins are black. She’s at least Stage 2. Maybe you should—” He gestured toward the woman and Atta was grateful he didn’t finish the sentence. She already knew what she should do.

Slowly, and with trembling hands, Atta approached the woman, whispering soothing nonsense, a faerie poem she’d heard as a child. The woman didn’t stir, but something in the air did.

“Light the black candles,” she said over her shoulder.

Sonder did as she requested and stepped back.

“Get the smudge sticks ready, but don’t light them until I say.” With a deep breath, Atta let her fingertips touch the woman’s bare wrist.

The pain wasn’t as deep this time, but it began at her temples, slipping behind her eyes. A woman, young and beautiful but selfish. There were flashes of skin and hands and carnal pleasures, each sweat-slick body tangled with hers different from the last, the cries of a child off in the distance, alone, on his own. Just as he’d said.

Atta ripped off her mask and forced the images to the back of her mind, focusing on maintaining contact, but willing her mouth to form the words she’d prepared. A variation of an exorcism prayer limned in fairytales and folklore.

“As smoke alights on the Fae,

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