Nocte Yin: Anti-Villain, Anti-Hero and Anti-Everything Else

Chapter Twenty-Nine

She was not surprised to find him a Fae; he had never been minion material. But she was surprised to find him here, in the snow and frost, and so immaculate save for the rigidness in his shoulders. Even in the cold, stiff air of the southern tundra, he still permeated the scent of forest and fauna, of the first sting of streams and rivers. For Nocte, he seemed both familiar and unfamiliar — different now that he was no longer coated in Glamour and surrounded by a group of drunkards. Indeed, with a troupe of able-bodied and magic-induced Faes at his side, Nahele seemed almost formidable and commanding; his pointed ears seemed “other” enough to make him reckless.

Witley edged forward to cover Nocte’s blind spot as Doctor shifted his stance to one of wary defence, his emotions carefully in check, but his mind flickering to all the possible unsavoury outcomes of this meeting — Nocte as well. The phooka sneered, the werewolves bristled, Witley drew a dagger, but neither the Light nor the false-Darkness blinked. Their people had waged war less than twenty-four hours ago; animosity was to be expected.

Nahele quieted the phooka with a tap of his chin, a movement so slight that it was almost imperceptible to the naked eye. But both the Light and the false-Darkness had noted the action. Both the Light and the false-Darkness had read his urgency, his need, for the discourse to continue no matter how tense or unpleasant it was.

Something was amiss; Doctor resisted the urge to look to Nocte.

“What business do you have with us?” Achindra enquired, calm and unshaken by the arrival of the Unseelie. Her House stood strong.

Nahele slid his eyes, so violet and eerily non-human, to Chantée. Alex pressed his sister behind him, hiding her from the Unseelie’s gaze. Unperturbed, Nahele cast his eyes to Doctor.

“Lord Light,” he acknowledged with a stiff incline of his chin.

The corners of Doctor’s eyes grew tight and he stepped between Nahele and Alex, an extra body — blockade — in face of the Unseelie Fae. “You are…” the Lucent tested evasively, “… Nahele.” Doctor had grasped as much from Nocte.

“Yes,” confirmed the Fae. A pause, and then, “And you are late.”

Nocte resisted the urge to look to Doctor. They had erred. Of course they had erred. Fifteen hours were too long.

The House stirred, but Achindra had more sense to break her mask — Achindra had more sense to show any weakness or hesitance. Even Seth’s countenance, oftentimes so easy and natural and lax, was blank and solid and impenetrable in face of the Fae’s words. When several of their House broke line, Priscilla had fixed them with a sharp glance. No one dared to move afterwards; Witley hadn’t even blinked.

And Doctor. Doctor straightened, no longer defensive or cautious, no longer uncertain. He met Nahele’s stare with his own, grim and undaunted. “Please, if you would be so kind as to clarify.”

If Nahele found Doctor’s change of mood odd, he said nothing. There were more pressing matters to be dealt with. “The Great Evil has been conscious for the past seventeen hours,” he said, unimpressed by their lack of timeliness. “The Darkness is with him. I have yet to lay eyes on either; however, many of our troupes have already been eliminated.”