by Wendy Owens
The guard nods and turns, firmly holding his large axe with two hands. I’m certain from the look of him he will do his job, and we won’t be interrupted. “Ready for this?” Desmond asks.
“Not really,” I reply honestly.
“Don’t be scared. And don’t bring up the throne.”
“Why not?”
“Just trust me; she loves talking about it a little too much,” he replies through gritted teeth.
Before I can say another word, he puts his shoulder into the massive door and pushes it open. Walking into the great hall, the door falls closed behind us. Suddenly I feel Desmond’s hand clasp mine. When his flesh touches me I can sense everything he’s feeling; it’s like a shock wave hitting me, a tidal wave of emotions. He’s afraid—no, terrified. I’m no longer excited to meet this Queen; instead, all I can think about is why this man, who has been like an uncle to me my entire life, is so afraid of this woman.
I look around the room; the ceilings are so high I have to strain my neck to see the peak. The floors still glow, and along the walls are framed oil paintings with many mysterious creatures, each one encased in an ornate gold frame. I’m sure I could spend hours looking at every detail inside the room.
“This must be little Tynder Crown,” I hear a woman say from the far side of the room. Desmond grips my hand tighter as we move closer.
In front of us are a half-dozen gleaming white stairs that lead up to one of the most amazing spectacles I have ever seen. A brilliant white throne with intricate carvings over every inch of the surface.
On either side of the throne are pillars, a flame burning on top of each one. Everything about the room glows, except the woman on the throne. Her alabaster skin is draped in midnight. The dress she wears pools at her feet, and I notice the elaborate shadow-colored stones embroidered all over the garment. A neckpiece rises up around her head, with eight-inch black spikes jutting out from that, as if a halo of terror hovers around her. On one hand she wears a satin glove that climbs up her arm, on the fingertips, black metal claws. The other hand reveals a small peek at her pail flesh; the long and perfectly manicured nails on her slender hands are painted ebony to match the rest of her attire.
“Her hair,” I whisper in astonishment. “She’s beautiful.” The raven-black strands are pulled back into a shimmering bun, hidden beneath the massive crown she wears; what appear to be large glowing opals are set into the face of the crown, as well as into the setting of the necklace around her neck. I am unsure where to look when I peer up at her. I tell myself not to stare, but I can’t look away.
“Tynder,” Desmond nudges me, and motions for me to bow my head.
But I can’t, I’m locked in her gaze, and I can see that she knows that. She licks her black-lipstick-covered mouth as she inspects me, rising elegantly to her feet. I notice she has the slightest hint of fangs peeking from either side of her mouth. Desmond falls to the ground next to me, and tugs persistently at the hem of my jacket. I feel the woman’s eyes on me, waiting to see what I will do. I decide in an instant. She intimidates me, and though she scares the hell out of me, Joe raised me never to take a knee for anyone. I bow at the waist; it’s the most I’m willing to offer this stranger.
“Yes,” I answer at last. “I’m Tynder, granddaughter of Josiah Crown.”
“Thank you, your grace, for honoring us with your presence,” Desmond grovels, and I’m now embarrassed for him.
She flicks one of her metal-clad claw fingertips in his direction. “Silence, you fool. You speak only when you are spoken to.”
“Yes, my Queen,” Desmond quickly replies, lowering his head as close to the ground as he physically can.
She ignores him, descending the stairs and walking over to me. Desmond is practically in a ball on the floor now, I don’t move. She walks a circle around me, looking me up and down.
“You know, your grandfather kept you such a secret for the longest time, I was beginning to think you didn’t exist at all,” the words roll off The Queen’s tongue like silk. She comes to a stop directly in front of me.
“Funny, I could say the same thing about you,” I toss back, determined to show this woman I don’t fear her. I look past her at the throne again. Her eyes follow my gaze.
“Like it?” she asks.
I remember Desmond’s warning not to talk about the item of furniture.
“I’m sorry, like what?”
“Why, my throne, of course,” she begins. “Come, have a seat.”
I don’t move. I watch her as she practically floats back up the stairs and stands next to the massive white masterpiece of craftsmanship. I glance down at Desmond, but he doesn’t budge.
“Come now,” the woman presses. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
I narrow my brow. I’m not afraid. Nothing frightens me, I tell myself. With a nod, I confidently stride up the stairs, hesitating for only a moment. I take a seat on the throne and run my fingertips along the cool surface; I still can’t figure out what it is made of. At first I thought it was marble, but it’s clear to me now it’s no stone I’ve ever seen. I hear a whimper from Desmond on the floor in response to my sitting.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks me.
“Very,” I answer honestly.
“Eight hundred years ago an army rose up and attempted to seize power from the Boru family. I come from a family of warriors. They slept outside our gates, ready to attack at first light. The army never awoke. My family slaughtered them under the night’s sky, bathing our countryside in their warm blood.” I look up at her as she retells the horrific tale. Her tongue presses against one of the fangs in delight. “We made this throne from their bones. So that no one else would ever forget who they serve.”
I swallow hard, stand, and add “delightful story,” before returning to Desmond’s side.
She offers a tight-lipped smile. “Josiah was a good servant,” she adds at last. “I’m sorry for your loss, and don’t worry, his murderer will swiftly be brought to justice.”
I tilt my head. “You know who it is?”
“No, but our most seasoned Royal Magistrate will be assigned to the task,” she informs me. “As for you…” She turns her head in Desmond’s direction. “You have failed in your job, you understand what this means?”
I see Desmond nod, never lifting his chin. The Queen begins to descend the stairs toward him.
“Wait!” I exclaim, moving between her and the man I have trusted most of my life.
“Yes?” she asks impatiently.
I have to think fast. I have to say something that will keep her from possibly killing him. I’ve lost far too much of my life for one day. And then I know exactly what I must do. “I need him.”
“Excuse me?” she attempts to clarify.
“What are you doing?” he whispers.
I wave him off. “I have so much to learn, and I need to learn it quickly. I’ll need an assistant. I need Desmond.”
She narrows her gaze, her brow heavy with distrust. “You mean you plan to carry on your family legacy and be a Royal Magistrate?”
“I think it’s what my grandfather would have wanted,” I lie, then grit my teeth.
She sighs heavily, looking at Desmond, then back at me. “Very well. I’ll instruct The Council to put you on active duty for a probationary term. They’ll monitor you and decide if you’re up to the task.”
“So Desmond can come home with me?” I attempt to confirm.
“Oh no, you can’t have him. He failed at his task. Other Crimlocks would take it as a message that they wouldn’t be punished for the same error. We can’t have that. He’ll be stripped of his wand and placed in a position fitting of someone with such disgrace.”
“But—” I begin.
“I’ve made my decision!” The Queen shouts, and, as she does, the entire chamber shakes. I stumble, steadying myself on Desmond’s shoulder. He looks up at me, his eyes wide and sad. “Guards!” she shouts once more.
Befor
e I can figure out what to do next, Desmond is being carted off in one direction and I in another. The guard who had led me to the chamber originally, at least that’s who I think it is—they all seem to look alike—escorts me down a long hall into another room. I’m trying to reason with him the entire time, but he isn’t having any part of it.
In the room, there is a large pedestal in the center and on top of it a pool of shimmering water. The guard swipes his hand in the pool, and a reflective wall appears in front of us. He mutters something I can’t make out, and then, gripping my arm, he drags me into the glistening wall of liquid. I hold my breath, expecting to be submerged in water, but instead, we are in Joe’s office.
The guard releases me, then turns and walks back through the portal. And just as quickly as it had appeared, it is gone, along with Desmond and all the answers I need.
Flopping down on the couch, I look over at the fireplace. All traces of any fire have long since extinguished. I consider starting another, but instead grab the fleece blanket across the back of the couch. I only want this day to end. I want to sleep and wake to Joe cooking me breakfast. Damn if he didn’t make some mean waffles. I close my eyes, shutting out all the impossible things that have happened today. Exhaustion is pressing against my lids, and I need rest. Laying my head down, I hope my fiery friend will allow me a night’s rest, not revisiting me with any other terrifying visions.
THE SMELL OF BACON MINGLING with something sweet—perhaps pancakes—is dancing around inside my nostrils, enticing me to wake. With a quick stretch of my muscles, I yawn and sit up on the couch. Joe has had this couch for as long as I can remember. The aged leather always seems to cradle my body perfectly. Joe always said if you invest in people who take pride in their work, then it will pay off throughout your life. Obviously, when it came to the craftsmanship of this couch, he was right.
I feel warmth against my face, and through squinted eyes I see there are flames flickering wildly in the mouth of the old stone fireplace. I wonder if Joe or Desmond lit it while I slept. I stand, the fire warming my backside. Slowly I turn, hands outstretched to just where the heat is tolerable, and with my eyes closed, I fantasize about the breakfast feast that must await me in the other room. It has always puzzled me. Joe can cook breakfast food like he is a master chef, but when it comes to anything outside of that, we are often left with Chinese or Indian takeout.
Opening my eyes, I gasp when I catch a glimpse of myself—and the mane of white hair—in the mirror over the mantle. The last twenty-four hours come crashing down on me. The visions, Joe being murdered, Desmond being ripped out of my life—Joe … Desmond … If they’re both gone, who is in the kitchen? Terror rolls through my body.
Frantically, I look around the room for anything I can use as a weapon. I pick up a small ceramic bowl from the coffee table and lift it into the air. Glancing at the bowl, I realize it’s one I made for Joe when I was a kid, and besides the sentimental value, it is quite unlikely that it will do any harm to an intruder. Quietly, I put it back, searching for something much more lethal. Turning, I see the fireplace tools and retrieve the poker from its stand. Gripping it firmly with two hands, I take a defensive posture. I debate for a moment: do I announce my presence, or do I seek out the invader in stealth mode. The fire … I remember. Whoever is here had to have seen me when they started the fire. I relax slightly as hope creeps in that perhaps The Queen reconsidered her decision and Desmond was home.
Placing one foot in front of the other, I edge toward the door leading to the living quarters, holding my breath as I move. When I round the corner I can see the door is open; the smells are even more intense. I hear a woman humming.
Grease sizzles in a pan, and now the water in the kitchen sink runs for a moment, before it’s off once again. Someone is in my grandfather’s kitchen; someone has invaded his home, someone who could know what happened to him. I have to find out. I glide into the room, never lowering my weapon.
Behind the kitchen counter is a slender female with a long mane of tangled red hair. Her back is to me, and I wait, watching and contemplating how hard she will be to defeat in a physical confrontation. Based on her tiny stature, I like my odds.
“About time you woke up,” she says, not turning around, continuing her cooking task.
I say nothing, wondering if she is talking to me or perhaps if there is another intruder. Suspiciously, I look around.
The girl turns and glances up at me briefly, before grabbing a bowl and sliding the fruit she had just been slicing into it. I slightly lower the poker, suddenly feeling awkward.
“Who are you?” I demand. I slink a little closer as she slides the bacon from the hot pan onto a paper towel-lined plate, and carries it over to the dining table, not answering me. There’s a feast sprawled out across the wooden tabletop. I stand in front of the kitchen counter, waiting for an answer to my question.
“Hungry?” she asks.
“I asked who you are,” I remind her.
“And I plan to explain everything. How about over breakfast?” she offers, walking to the table and pulling out two chairs.
The smell of the freshly cooked bacon is making my stomach flip wildly. I can see a tower of pancakes on one plate and a pitcher of what looks like orange juice. My breakfast usually consists of stale, day-old pizza crust. Cautiously, I agree with a nod and round the room, keeping a safe distance between us. I wait for her to sit. She is beaming at me. I’m not sure why, but it pisses me off. I sit as well, keeping my weapon near me.
“Not much of a morning person, are you?” She giggles. I squint my eyes in her direction before loading up my plate with the deliciousness in front of me.
“Are you going to answer my question?” I press, shoving a crispy strip of bacon into my watering mouth.
She watches me as I eat. I wait for her to make a plate for herself, but it’s obvious the food isn’t why she is here. “My name is Piper.” Silence lingers after her statement, and awkwardly I sit and wonder if she will share more. She doesn’t.
“Yeah, that really doesn’t tell me anything. Why are you here?”
Her eyebrows lift in excitement. “I’m going to be your new best friend,” she announces with a huge, yet uneasy, smile. I can’t help but laugh.
“I see … so you just escaped from some mental hospital, is that it?”
The girl presses her lips together; she’s obviously not happy with how she is being received, and this pleases me. She has to be close to my age, if not younger. She is slight in her build, and her emerald eyes are striking, though I would never admit that to her. Her pale skin is dotted with freckles, and, if she weren’t so damn adorable, I would have already planted my iron weapon upside her precious little head.
“I’m your new Crim,” she huffs.
“My what?” I snarl in response.
“Your Crimlock. You know, your magical assistant, here to help you in all your Royal Magistrate needs,” she rattles off, now flustered.
I shake my head. “No, you can’t be, you’re a kid. You can’t be a Wizard.”
“Well, you’re right about that much … I’m not a Wizard, I’m a Witch.”
“Whatever,” I snap. “You knew what I meant.”
“Cool your jets, princess.” Piper’s cheery demeanor has shifted, and I finally see a fiery attitude in her I might be able to work with. “I don’t know what crawled up your ass this morning, but I’m here to help you, so don’t shoot the messenger.”
I laugh out loud; this seems to set her at ease ever so slightly. Sticking my fork, which is loaded with pancakes dripping with syrup, into my mouth, I chew and swallow before continuing. “First off, the food is killer, so thank you. Second, I’m just going to bluntly lay it out for you. Based on what you’re saying, you were probably sent by either The Queen or The Council, am I right?”
She nods in response.
“Until yesterday I had no idea that Fae even existed, so when you say you’re my Crim, it’s gibberish. I gathered
from what was said yesterday that Desmond was Joe’s Crim, but I’m still not clear on how it all works.” As I wait for her to enlighten me, I scoop another heaping bite into my mouth, and can feel my stomach starting to swell.
“I can’t believe that the greatest Royal Magistrate of our time wouldn’t have prepared his own flesh and blood for what was to come.”
“Well, believe it, sweetheart.” I try not to think about the fact that we are talking about one of the few people in my life I ever actually loved, and about the fact that he’s no longer alive. “Joe apparently thought he was going to live forever.”
“Well, a Phoenix can live a very long life, so that’s understandable.”
“How long are we talking here?” I ask, leaning in.
“Sometimes the leap from one member of the line to another can be as much as six generations.”
“Wait, what? Are you telling me Joe expected to outlive me? Hell, to outlive his great grandchildren?” My voice is heavy with skepticism.
“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Piper replies. “The long lifespan only affects the actual active generation of the Phoenix.”
I push my plate in front of me to the center of the table for fear I might burst if I continue stuffing my face. “All right, what about you? What’s the deal with you?” I ask, watching her face twist. The question has confused her. “I mean, are you like some super freak ninja of a Witch or something?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m kind of coming into the game with a bit of a handicap. I assumed they’d give me someone who has their crap together. Is that why I have you?”
She hesitates; this is unsettling.
“What is it?” I practically shout, then pull back and try to soften my posture.
“Honestly, I’m not sure why I was assigned to you. I thought it was a mistake at first.”
