Moonflowers

-i spy-

"What did he see?" Oscar asks on the way to the car.

"I don't know." Of course he thinks the woman is Alima--there are only so many Asian-American girls who aren't tourists--but Owen is the one to ask for details, once he's had a day or two to recover.

But as Oscar drives Owen home, Ogma can at least give advice as he knocks on Alima's door.

"There was a lot of yelling," Alima remarks hesitantly. "What happened?"

"Owen had a vision," May tells her. "Sometimes they're nice ones, like when he saw Matthaeus, but sometimes he hurts himself by accident. Is Owen hurt, Granddad?"

"He's not, lass. Just got a bit loud. Your dad's taken him home to sleep it off. Give me a minute with Alima."

The women clear out. Bulan comes out from under the bed and turns his wolf's eyes towards them.

"What was Owen's vision?" Alima asks him.

A woman in a tree with her hair chopped off. That is what he saw, without his thoughts or assumptions. But Ogma still doesn't know what exactly Owen was seeing, or who Owen was voicing in his hysterics.

"I'll have to ask him later," he settles on saying. "But it was in the forest. Do not wander there alone."

----

Owen wakes up in the hazy lamp-light of his room, throat dry and breath crackling. His father is sitting nearby, with a couple mugs of tea on the table.

"Are you all right?" Oscar asks. He runs a hand through damp hair, and he can feel Owen try to relax.

"Alima's mum." He tries not to cough--it already hurts his throat. "She got hanged. Alima found her."

Oscar doesn't like that at all. Visions aren't always right, there are so many interpretations and red herrings, but his knee-jerk reaction is to think of Ita hanging somewhere for him to find. Or god forbid the kids find her instead.

The Folk destroy whoever they can't persuade, or con, or take. If Owen hadn't been grandson to a cunning-man, hadn't had the wyrth eyes himself, hadn't become an old-walker--lacking one or all of these would have made him so much more vulnerable, because he's smart and proud and handsome.

The Folk are envious creatures. If they can't have someone, then nobody will.

And it's so hard to tell why they'd want someone.

"The tea's got some honey in it," Oscar says. "If you need it warmer, I'll stick it in the microwave for a minute or two."

"It's fine." He hasn't even moved.

Oscar stretches out the pins and needles, then finds himself stuck in memories. He remembers when Owen was five, and started playing with an invisible brother named Mark--they thought it was an imaginary friend, like most kids had. But the next month, Ita had a two-week period, heavier by the day, and the emergency room found out it was a miscarriage instead.

Between the month of hospital check-ups, and then visits to Ogma for Owen's teaching, and the years of Owen in general, it was a wonder they managed another kid at all. But Noreen had five (albeit three were triplets), so it all evened out.

He wonders where Alima's father is. If the Folk would hang her mother, what have they done to her father that Owen hasn't seen?

The Folk like to prey on lost children. It doesn't matter how old they are.

There's not much more he can do now, aside from keep in hearing range of Owen's wrecked voice, so he traces along his son's temple before he heads off.

There is a noise of acknowledgment, and a waxy hand tightens on his own before letting go.

"I love you too," Oscar answers, and switches off the light.

---

After a few minutes of quiet, while Owen is sorting out the shapes in his room, he hears a portal open. Someone hits the bedpost and sprawls.

"Owowowow. What the hell?" A pause, and the ruffle of paper. "'Next to bed?' Bed-ROOM, dumbasses! I knew I should have asked more about a three-hour portal!"

"Teis?" He turns the light on.

"Hi!" He gets himself up with the chair, wincing when his hip pops. "I'm pretty sure this surprised you, but as usual I got slightly injured and you had to be asleep."

"I wasn't." He fumbles for the tea and takes a drink. It's clinging to the last of its warmth.

"Oh, no. Are you sick?" He checks his bag, is satisfied, and sets it under the table.

"I'm not. Just had a vision."

"Yay, not contagious." He hobbles over and lies next to Owen, hefting his legs under the blanket.

"Are you not wearing shoes?"

"Fucking three-hour portal ate them. At least it wasn't my wallet or laptop." Matthaeus brushes his mouth against Owen's hair. "Is this a bad time to remind you that I'm turning twenty-five on the ninth? No more higher-ups forcing Dad to explain why I keep going to Ireland every other holiday. And said explanation is always 'he's an adult with a job, so he can go wherever the hell he wants--'"

"It's good." He grips Matthaeus' hands, warm against the cotton of the blanket. "Very good."