Dorian raised his eyebrows at her. “What?” he said.
“Something,” Beatrice repeated. “You told me to say ‘something.’” She choked on another incredulous laugh.
The sheer, insidious power of the mantle she carried made it difficult to focus on anything else. Whispers gnawed incessantly at the edges of her consciousness, clamoring for her attention. But there was a tiny speck of consciousness somewhere in front of her, and Beatrice narrowed her senses toward it.
There was a pale, black-haired woman curled up on the ground at the foot of the stairs. Her skin was still ashen—her eyes still smoked with the remnants of the same power that hummed between Beatrice and Dorian. Arcadia had irrevocably touched her body and left behind its scars… but she had not been utterly undone by its desertion.
Beatrice turned her attention back toward the vault’s door, still humming with the electric orange magic that now seemed so faint and whimsical to her. She reached out with the magical key she’d stored in the golden coin in her palm, unlocking the orange veil with a few simple thoughts.
Something so small is still so priceless, Beatrice thought distantly, looking down at the coin. Fragile things can be the most valuable of all.
The agonized door opened instantly at her suggestion. Inside, there was another hallway, spaced with simple doors.
“All of these secrets belong to you,” Beatrice rasped to the woman on the ground. “And I promised you would have them back.”
The mantle of whispers seethed so strongly against that statement that Beatrice nearly doubled over. Mine, it insisted, rising up from the bottom of her mind like a serpent. My secrets.
But Beatrice had promised to give the secrets back… and for now, at least, that promise bound her too.
Slowly, the ashen woman staggered to her feet. She looked at Beatrice with smoky eyes, staring at her with awful fascination. Beatrice didn’t dare to wonder what she looked like now, with those whispers strangling her magic.
“It will consume you,” the woman told Beatrice hoarsely. “That power will undo you.”
Dorian tightened his arms on Beatrice. She closed her eyes and tried to steel herself against the whispers.
“I won’t let you go,” Dorian promised again. There was a somber resignation to his voice this time. Beatrice leaned her cheek against his shirt.
“Go and get your memories,” Beatrice told the woman. “I’ve got a ton of shit to work out.” She paused wearily. “And I really need to dye my hair.”
Chapter 16
Whispers hissed at the bottom of Beatrice’s mind—endless and breathy and endlessly frustrating.
Dorian glanced sideways at her as they walked through the dark hallways of the Labyrinth. His smoky eyes were openly concerned. “Ça t'affecte déjà,” he murmured. It’s already getting to you.
Beatrice clenched her jaw. “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t,” she said. “But I’m a stubborn bitch, and it’s a mindless magical force. Out of the two of us, I think I’ll win.”
She said the words with far more confidence than she actually felt. Beatrice wasn’t sure just how much time had passed since she’d taken up the mantle—it was all one big blur of surreal confusion. Somehow, she’d managed to cling to her sanity long enough to send off the last Lady of Whispers. After that, the realm had redoubled its incessant efforts, scratching at her mind like a restless cat.
I need help, Beatrice thought. She didn’t say it aloud—but she knew that Dorian had already figured it out. That was why they were headed to a flickering golden window at the very edge of the Labyrinth.
Gabe stood just inside, leaned against the window frame. The whole feel of him struck Beatrice differently, this time. She was keenly aware of the bewildering kaleidoscope of power that shifted and breathed around him. There was a dizzy, disorienting magic to him—but it was oddly fragile and fragmented. The mantle of the Looking Glass was barely held together, slowly healing from some terrible blow—and she knew instinctively that it might shatter all over again if it was struck too hard.
What caused that damage? Beatrice wondered suddenly. How could it be caused again? It could be valuable to know, if another faerie lord ever came after me—
She stopped in her tracks with a sharp hiss of anger.
Stop that, Beatrice told her mantle. Stop that shit right now. I’m not interested in hurting anyone.
Gabe’s golden eyes fixed upon her, and he forced a rueful smile. “I can’t say this is a great outcome,” he admitted. “But we’ll work with it.” He stepped back from the window, out of their path. “I’m not inviting either of you inside. But that doesn’t mean you can’t come inside.”
Beatrice knitted her brow. “I thought faerie lords couldn’t walk into each other’s realms without an invitation,” she said warily. The words—faerie lord—made her wince, in spite of herself. A few days ago, Beatrice had only known faeries as something vaguely academic. Now, she was supposed to think of herself as one? As some… larger-than-life mythical figure out of a storybook?
You are powerful, the mantle whispered. You are great beyond measure.
Beatrice shook her head sharply—and realized that Gabe had spoken while she was distracted. “I… I didn’t hear that,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
Gabe gave her a look of concern. “I said… we can walk into another faerie lord’s realm without an invitation. But we lose all of our power. In this case, that could be a good thing.”
Beatrice’s mantle hissed and thrashed at the very suggestion. Looking at the boundary between the Labyrinth and the Looking Glass gave her an instant feeling of anxious nausea. It was foolish to put herself into another faerie lord’s power, to trust in anyone else—
Dorian threaded his fingers through hers. The feel of his warm skin pressed back at the moment of fear.
“We will figure this out,” Dorian told her quietly. “But not in the Labyrinth.”
Beatrice nodded mutely. I trust him, she thought back at the mantle. And you can’t convince me otherwise. She took in a deep breath… and then, before she could stop herself, she stepped through the window.
All at once, the whispers fled her mind. The great, intoxicating power that stirred in her blood subsided sullenly, draining slowly away beneath her feet.
Her mind went silent.
Beatrice’s knees locked—but Dorian caught her quickly, holding her upright.
“Better?” Gabe asked her softly.
Beatrice nodded in mute relief. She didn’t yet trust herself to speak—if she did, she thought, she might just break down crying. The silence in her head was an indescribable respite.
The ubiquitous mirrors of the Looking Glass flashed behind Dorian’s shoulder. For the first time since taking on the mantle, Beatrice saw her own reflection. The already washed-out pink dye in her hair had faded with unnatural white streaks; her eyes had taken on a seething white shadow, twisting like whorls of smoke. Black whispers clung to the crown of her head—but even as she watched, they began to collapse in upon themselves, stolen from her by the foreign realm beneath her feet.
I’m not human anymore. The thought came to her with a hint of horror. In some respects, Beatrice had already known that was the case… but it was a different thing entirely to see it.
She swallowed back her misgivings, reaching instinctively for one of her aluminum earrings. The purely mortal magic that remained within her responded. This is important, she thought. I need to be myself for this… or at least, some version of me.
A jumble of masks offered themselves eagerly out to her. Beatrice reached for Consummate Professional Trixie… but there was another mask stirring in her mind, and she frowned.
That’s new, she thought. She reached out to touch it with her magic experimentally—
Cold, inhuman logic. The power to bring her enemies to their knees with a single terrible secret. No humor, no pity, no love.
Beatrice jerked her magic back from the new mask with a gasp.
&n
bsp; We’ll call that one Psychopathic Trixie, she thought shakily. Let’s never ever put that on.
If Gabe was aware of Beatrice’s sudden distress, he didn’t show it. “Zoe had to take off to keep the Lady of Briars distracted,” he told her. “But… as promised, we’ve got other company.”
There were other windows, Beatrice realized, that looked out onto even stranger vistas than the Labyrinth. One of them framed a short woman with tangled black hair and distant eyes. The world beyond the mirror twisted and flowed around her in dark currents, stirring a crown of rotted seaweed that climbed along her body. That, she knew, had to be Valentine—the Lady of the Deeps.
Another mirror showed a tall, pale man with long black hair and cold blue eyes. Shadows cloaked his body at odd angles, but his hair was visibly touched by hints of snow. The world behind him was nearly black—in fact, it drew in the light of the Looking Glass, feeding upon it with a subtle hunger. Gabe had called him Liam… but Beatrice privately thought that he looked much more like his title, Lord Blackfrost.
Gabe cleared his throat. “Okay, Justice League,” he said. “This meeting is officially called to order.”
The small woman in the oceanic mirror scowled darkly. “I don’t know what that reference is,” she said. “But never call us that again.”
Gabe sighed. “Well, I’m definitely not going with the Legion of Doom,” he said. He paused. “How about the Super Friends?”
“If we’re going with comic book references, I’d prefer something from Marvel,” Beatrice muttered. “I don’t do camp.”
Gabe turned to beam at her. “Oh, thank god,” he said. “Someone else who lives in the modern age.” He waved a hand. “Note for next meeting: pick a pithy name that’s not the Infected. Next point of order: the Lady of Whispers still has our secrets. Fortunately, she also knows what a comic book is.”
Two other faerie lords turned their eyes toward Beatrice, and she held in a shiver. As much as she’d wanted rid of her mantle, she suddenly felt oddly naked without it. Valentine’s eyes, in particular, were a strange combination of sightless and penetrating; the Lady of the Deeps was clearly blind, but some fragment of Beatrice’s magic had drawn her gaze all the same.
“And will La Voûte still be trading away our secrets when our enemies come calling?” Lord Blackfrost asked icily.
“I have no cause to do so,” Dorian told him calmly. Somehow, he managed to appear unimpressed by the living shadows that stared him down. “I am no longer bound by any rules of note. So long as that does not become public knowledge, I will be capable of lending significant support to your endeavors.” He paused grimly. “But you will need to help Trix. Her mantle is particularly vicious. Whatever progress you have made in forestalling your own degeneration… please share it with her.”
“I am not in a mood to entertain your requests,” Lord Blackfrost growled. His blue eyes flashed with fury. “Have you any idea what you did by selling my secrets to the Drowned Lord?”
Dorian paused. His expression remained calm and unperturbed… but Beatrice felt the slight flinch in his body. “I am aware of what the Drowned Lord requested,” Dorian said. “Chaque secret a son prix. I had no choice but to obey that rule at the time that he came to me.”
“I did not sell you that secret!” Lord Blackfrost hissed. “You obtained it from your secretary, entirely by chance.”
Beatrice let out a slow, unsteady breath. “What did you do, Dorian?” she asked softly.
Dorian shook his head minutely. “The Drowned Lord asked me what Lord Blackfrost would most miss from his vaults,” he replied. “I told him… that Lord Blackfrost had Lord Wormwood’s mantle within his possession.”
“His Frostiness owed th’ Drowned Lord for my freedom,” Valentine said grimly. “Any one item from th’ vaults of Blackfrost. Th’ Drowned Lord came to claim Lord Wormwood’s mantle, just before I ended him.”
“That mantle is missing,” Lord Blackfrost said darkly. “We have no idea what the Drowned Lord did with it. It’s certainly nowhere to be found within the Deeps.”
“I understand the magnitude of the issue,” Dorian said quietly. “And I will do everything in my power to help you rectify the situation. But Trix is not at fault for my actions. She took on a great burden for generous reasons.” He took in a deep breath. “I am… begging you to help her.”
“Of course we’re goin’ to help her, Frenchie,” Valentine drawled. Her blind eyes bored into Beatrice. “I don’t ‘ave a wish for th’ Lady of Whispers to go native. That’s bad news for all of us. Besides which… there’s other secrets in that Labyrinth we could use.”
Beatrice winced at the very thought. Chaque secret a son prix. The instinct was distant, as she stood at the center of the Looking Glass… but it still twinged in her chest. “I might find it hard to give secrets away,” Beatrice admitted uncomfortably. “I’m not entirely sure. But Dorian has free reign. Anything he already owns, he can trade as he likes.” She shifted against Dorian wearily. “I don’t have the key to most of the secrets in the Labyrinth, since they were before my time. But I can see the labels on those secrets, and the last Lady used the same key for everything. If you help me get my head on straight, I can probably break the encryption—”
“Are you speakin’ English right now?” Valentine asked dryly. “I could swear you were.”
Beatrice sighed. “All of the secrets the last Lady gathered up are locked away, and I don’t have the key,” she said. “But I can break the locks, given time.”
Valentine nodded at that. “Then let’s get your head on straight,” she agreed. She turned her gaze in Gabe’s general direction. “Broken brains are your area, Tootles,” she observed. “You got a plan?”
“Broken brains are not my area,” Gabe said long-sufferingly. “I’m a nurse—not a therapist. But I’ve got two warlocks who happen to have advanced psychology degrees, so I think they’ll have an idea or three.”
Valentine knitted her brow. “Two warlocks?” she asked.
Gabe went quiet. “…I’m starting to worry about all the interest we’ve caught,” he said. “The Looking Glass has been good to me; my mind’s not going anywhere. I think I’d feel better if I had some kind of actual claim on Jen, in case someone goes after her.” He straightened his shoulders. “Which is all to say… I’ll handle this one. You two have a whole mantle to track down.”
“If you’re sure,” Lord Blackfrost said. His cold blue eyes softened for just a moment as he said the words, and Beatrice caught a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the mantle.
Gabe raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Great power, great responsibility,” he said. “I’m not hiding behind you both indefinitely.”
“You can’t hide behind me, Tootles,” Valentine said in a deadpan tone. “You’re far too tall.”
Gabe’s mouth dropped open. “That was a joke,” he said. He glanced toward Beatrice. “You just heard that, right? I’m not imagining things?”
“I’m… not getting in the middle of this,” Beatrice said uncomfortably.
The blind Lady of the Deeps turned her gaze toward Beatrice, while Gabe was distracted… and then, very slowly, she gave a wink.
Beatrice stared at her.
“I think we’re done here,” Lord Blackfrost said. “For now, at least.” He turned his body away from the window. “Let me know if you find anything to do with that mantle.”
“Will do,” Gabe replied—but the mirror had already rippled and faded back into the false sunlight of a New York City street. He shrugged, and looked at Valentine.
“Goodbye, Tootles,” she said wryly. “Keep in touch.”
The Lady of the Deeps faded from the mirror—and was gone.
Gabe reached up to rub at his forehead. “Well,” he said, as he turned around to face Beatrice and Dorian. “That went… about as well as it could have.”
Beatrice managed a shaky smile. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said.
Epilogue
&n
bsp; “This is by far the weirdest thing I have ever done,” Beatrice observed, as she settled onto the couch in Dorian’s living room.
“This is the weirdest thing you’ve ever done?” Zoe asked her quizzically, from the other side of the couch. “You literally broke into another world and picked up a faerie lord’s mantle.” She wiggled out from underneath Simon’s arm to offer out a bowl. “Popcorn?”
Beatrice took a handful for herself, just as a delicate rose vine swept out to pluck a few kernels from the bowl. The Lady of Briars slid a piece of popcorn daintily into her mouth. She frowned idly at the television screen from her prim place upon the edge of the couch’s arm.
“This does not seem like an opera, Simon,” the Lady murmured. “There is no singing. And I do not understand where the soap is hiding.”
Simon rubbed at his jaw. “Er… I’m not sure I’m up to explaining this one,” he admitted.
Dorian headed back from the kitchen to settle in next to Beatrice. There was a fresh hot chocolate in his hand. “Ignore the name,” he told the Lady of Briars. “A soap opera is merely a very dramatic faerie tale.”
The Lady knitted her brow and cast a sulky glance at the television. “I have seen no faeries so far,” she murmured. “It would be far more interesting if there were faeries.”
“You want more interesting?” Zoe asked incredulously. “Two people came back from the dead in this episode alone.”
The Lady of Briars narrowed her eyes at that. “Unrealistic,” she said. “The dead cannot be brought back to life.”
Zoe shook her head. “You’re just upset that Pascale broke it off with Alain,” she accused the faerie lady.
The Lady snatched another kernel of popcorn from the bowl with an angry twitch. “Alain is a loyal man,” she said. “Pascale has greatly dishonored herself. If there were any true justice, she would be cursed forever—”
Beatrice glanced toward Dorian as he tucked her into his side. “Weirdest. Thing. Ever,” she repeated, in an emphatic mutter.
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