Background
In an alternative London Bob runs a pub for humans and fae in the East End of London, despite opposition from the police
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Peter reached the top stair and stared at the door across the landing. He'd made it. Now all he had to do was let go of the banisters. He slid his hand to and fro, his palms slick with sweat. Let go. That's all he had to do. Let go. Now. Well, on three. One, two, three! Well, okay, maybe after three. He looked over his shoulder and wished he hadn't.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! No, what was behind him was worse. He let go of the banister and staggered forward. That was better. He was in a room, that was all. A room. There was the door, in front of his nose. Wall. Floor. Yes, just floor. No stairs behind him. That was just an old memory. A floor like any other. Might as well be a hundred metres of granite under the floorboards. Except there wasn't. Every atom screamed that below a thin crust of wood lay space.
No, this was stupid. He'd stood over crevices before. He'd skipped over narrow bridges as though they were solid to the Earth's very heart.
Except they'd been underground, where nature intended great spaces to be.
Concentrate on the wall in front of him, that was the trick. Wall. Door. He was underground, that was it. Underground, in a cavern that just happened to look man made. He could do this. No problem. He shoved at the door and walked through.
Ahead of him stood a semicircle of chairs. In their focus stood an easel with a flipchart that proclaimed him to be in the presence of the Fae Brotherhood. Someone had struck out 'Brother' and writtin 'Sib' over the top. Most of the chairs were occupied. A couple of fairies, a troll, a few of indeterminate origin. By the easel stood a man, chalk white skin, white hair and pale lips. He smiled at Peter.
"Brother! Welcome. Take a seat."
Peter took a step forward, then noticed the walls. Such as they were. Some freak of nature had decided to make the walls out of glass. Windows stretched from floor to ceiling. Outside, in the harsh streetlights, he could make out other buildings, and between those and him lay a concrete ravine that screamed its height at him. He staggered back until he felt the comfort of the wall behind him. If he concentrated really hard, it was almost as though he were laying down, the wall was his floor and the heights outside the window were no more than lengths.
"Please, don't be shy." The white figure beckoned to him. The others had twisted in their chairs and were staring.
"He's a dwarf," said one.
"Not a dwarf," muttered Peter, as the sweat started to soak his clothes.
"What?"
"I'm not a dwarf," said Peter, with more anger than he felt. Yes. Try and distract himself. "I'm a leprechaun."
"Same difference." Peter glared at the speaker. An elf, by the looks of him.
"Yeah, like you're a fairy," shouted Peter. Yes, the anger definitely helped.
The elf shrugged. "Scared of heights. They all are."
Someone muttered, "It's only one storey."
The pale figure approached him. "Does it help to be close to the wall?"
Peter nodded. It did, somehow.
The pale figure turned. "Brothers, come. Bring your chairs over here. Please. We must help each other. After all, who else will?"
With varying degrees of enthusiasm, the others stood and dragged their chairs back in line with Peter. A strange creature, all shadows and rags, pulled a chair over for Peter.
"Me too," he whispered.
"What?"
"Scared." He took his own chair, placed it near the wall then hunkered down behind it.
"Scared? What of?"
"Everything." He shrunk even lower, looking out at the room from under the backrest, until he could almost have been just a shadow himself.
The pale man took the easel and dragged it closer, till once again he was at the focus of the semicircle. He glanced at his wrist. "It's time," he said. "Brothers." He gave a little bow to a couple at the end of the row. "And sisters. Sibs. I see we have a couple of new faces tonight. Welcome. Sir, I can see you are of the lupine persuasion." He bowed to a man to Peter's right. "Welcome. I know the moon is waxing, but in future, should a meeting fall during your time of the month, know that we understand and can support you. You are amongst family here. And sir." He bowed to Peter. "A leprechaun, you say? I'm sorry, I don't know any Gallic. Although, forgive me, to the untrained eye, a human with dwarfism and a leprechaun can be difficult to distinguish. Do you have any proof that you're fae?"
Peter looked around. Everyone was staring at him, with varying degrees of distrust and suspicion. So, a typical family, then.
"You want me to dance a jig and drink a bottle of whiskey?"
The leader of the meeting winced. "We don't encourage stereotypical thinking here. But if you could help us out?"
"I know him." Peter turned. A pixie stood and turned to Peter. His face was vaguely familiar. "He drinks at The Lion."
"So we have a sponsor. Anything else?" The leader turned to Peter and raised an eyebrow.
Peter sighed. If he was here at all, he might as well be all in. Besides, there wasn't a human among them. He raised his hand and extended his pinkie. "My ring."
"May I have it?" The man held out his hand.
"Sure, if you cut my finger off. Word to the wise, though. You'll need to cut my head off first. And bring friends. A lot of them. It's my ring."
"Of course. I apologise. But perhaps you'll allow Tyroll to examine it?"
A fairy stood, walked over to Peter and waited. Peter sighed, and held out his hand. The fairy took Peter's hand in his, with a grip that felt like steel wrapped in gossamer. He flicked out a purple tongue and licked the ring. He shuddered, his wings flashing for a moment as his eyes closed. Then he turned to the pale man and nodded. "Magic, sure enough." The leader beamed and threw his arms open.
"Brother. Welcome!"
