“It was a sickle,” said Tad in the patient tone of someone who has said that before.
“And it was supposed to be possessed,” Izzy said. “The old woman, the first victim, she said as much. ‘That old scythe is hainted.’？”
“？‘Hainted’？” I said. “The movie is supposed to take place here, right? Isn’t a ‘haint’ a Southern term for a ghost? Like Georgia Southern. Southeastern Washington is still in the Pacific Northwest.”
“Oh, that’s what she said,” Jesse exclaimed. “I couldn’t tell what she was talking about. Well, if they knew the stupid thing was haunted, why did they leave it hanging around in a barn? Why didn’t they just burn down the barn with the scythe in it?”
“They did eventually,” Tad pointed out. “If the barn burned in the beginning of the movie, they wouldn’t have had a possessed guy armed with the sickle slicing people in half all over the place.”
“He beheaded a couple of them,” said Izzy. “Is it still slicing them in half when it’s more like removing ten percent or so?”
“All I know is that I’ll never get that hundred and eight minutes of my life back,” Jesse said. “Are you really sure it was a sickle? Everyone in the movie called it a scythe.”
“？‘Sickle’ doesn’t sound as cool as ‘scythe,’？” Izzy said, frowning at Tad.
“When the son of an iron-kissed fae who is the most famous smith in all of mythology tells you what a tool is called, you should believe him over someone reading a part,” Adam advised. He wasn’t smiling, but his dimple was making an appearance.
“A scythe is what Death wields,” I told them. “Long-handled. Like a pike or that weird thing Adam’s alter ego Captain Larson uses in ISTDPB4.” ISTDPB4 （Instant Spoils: The Dread Pirate’s Booty Four） was an interactive computer game that the whole pack played together on a regular basis. “A sickle has a handle that fits your hand—like a sword someone bent in a circle.”
“What’s an iron-kissed fae?” asked Izzy. “And Zee is famous?”
“Infamous,” I corrected.
Zee’s history wasn’t a secret, precisely. Though I didn’t go out of my way to talk about it. But Izzy was all but family, and if she was dating Tad, she should know what she was getting into.
“Thanks,” Tad told Adam and me dryly before addressing Izzy. “My father is one of a small group of fae who can handle iron and steel. Dad made a few famous weapons back in the day under one name or the other.” He flapped his free hand airily and went on in a casual tone, “Killed a few famous kings, a saint . . .” He cleared his throat and said, “A god or two, maybe. That kind of thing. Stories get exaggerated with time. Most of the fae who are older than a couple of centuries have stories told about them.”
“He made jewels out of the eyes of the sons of a king who enslaved him,” Jesse said tightly, her tone substantially different from Tad’s breezy delivery.
I knew that story—it wasn’t about Zee. I didn’t think it was about Zee. It was about Wayland Smith, a somewhat mysterious character who appeared in various medieval chronicles. I’d done a paper on him once, in college.
Jesse didn’t read a lot of old Germanic legends, so where had she gotten it?
“And goblets of their skulls,” she continued. “And he served that king and his wife wine out of those jeweled goblets. Beguiling them so they drank from the skulls of their sons.”
The tightness of her voice told me that she’d come upon that story very recently.
“Who told you that?” I asked before Tad could.
“Tilly,” said Jesse, sending a cold chill down my spine. “She doesn’t like Zee or Tad.”
That she didn’t.
Tilly was the name Underhill had given herself when she took on the form of a child so she could play with her human toys. Aiden had been one of those until he escaped.
Tilly might look like a feral eight-year-old girl （or any other age she picked that day）， but she was the personification of a land of faerie that had destroyed the courts of the fae and driven them out of her borders, locking her doors against them. The fae claimed that it had been the increasing use of iron that had closed the doors to Underhill in the old country. But I noted that the fae had been locked out, not locked in.
When Aiden had come to live with us, Tilly had installed a door to Underhill on a wall she built on the property line between this house and my old house. And apparently, she’d been telling Jesse stories.