Cold Dream Dawning

by A. R. Kahler

  Before I can get too lost to the vision, Mab steps up beside me. But it’s not Mab, not really—I can see the ice through her, as though she’s some terrible, twitchy hologram.

  “I know I should not ask this of you, old friend,” she says to his corpse. “But we must do that which we fear we cannot. Her life is important to us. To you. But she must sacrifice it so we may live. As you sacrificed your life. As you will many times. You must convince her.”

  She steps forward and lays a hand on his neck, slides a finger slowly across the clean cut. It seals itself up in her finger’s wake, a zipper closing on silent teeth.

  “Convince her your love is strong enough to die for,” she says. “Otherwise, I fear our world will falter.”

  Something cracks, a gunshot of broken ice, and then the slab is empty and Mab is gone, and my heart is racing while the stone burns like frostbite against my chest. Who was Mab talking about? Me? Was Mab responsible for sending Kingston to my room, for getting him to sleep with me? But that didn’t make sense.

  No, you idiot. She meant your mother.

  My hand goes to the necklace while the other pushes me to standing. This couldn’t be my mother’s memory, could it? Because no, that wouldn’t make sense—Vivienne wasn’t in the cave when this happened; I could tell that much. Mab never would have spoken so openly if my mother had been watching. So was it the castle, reaching out to me? Showing me Mab’s secret plans?

  Mab had never told me much about my mother, or the Oracle. I knew the Oracle had saved all of Faerie. And now I knew that the Oracle was a force within my mother, one that Kingston had magicked away after whatever she had done to save everyone. But that was it. So why this room? Why this memory?

  Why does even the castle want me to know the lengths to which Mab went to betray my mother?

  My stomach is in knots. I stare at the slab, feeling colder than the ice. I’ve always known Mab was a treacherous bitch. I’ve known my life was built on half-truths and deception and blood. And I was okay with that. I never knew anything else. But seeing this, knowing that Mab had Kingston manipulate my mother . . . The ice within turns red with rage. Maybe it’s just the tie of blood, but the very idea of someone screwing with my mother, lying to her, hurting her, makes me want to make Mab pay. More than I’ve ever desired that before.

  And lately, I’ve desired it very much.

  You were lied to, I think to my mother’s shadow. You were sacrificed why? Just so Mab could continue ruling?

  I turn and walk away from the ice, toward an archway in the walls that I know wasn’t there moments ago. Then I halt.

  Soon, Mab’s imagined voice whispers in my skull, you, too, will have to lie to her. Just as I have done. And you will hurt her deeper than I ever could.

  Ten minutes and countless more frustrating hallways later, I’m finally released from the castle’s hold. Not from the front door, but from one of the many hidden entrances along the palace’s exterior.

  I make my way down a dark alley, the buzzing faerie lights above (real faeries: captured Summer Fey doing penance) casting a soft-blue glow over everything, making the flakes drifting down glimmer. Even out here, the emptiness is palpable. Snow drifts higher at the edges, and the breeze that blows through the alley carries a heaviness, a weight of loss. I fully expect to see fragments of the exodus Mab spoke of—discarded dolls and furniture, broken mirrors or bits of food—but the alley is clean. The only sign is the deepening snow and the cold that clutches my bones.

  I eventually make it onto the main boulevard leading to the front gate. Normally, there would be at least a few people walking back and forth along here, coming to the castle to air a grievance or something like that. I don’t actually know why anyone would want to come and talk to Mab—it’s never a pleasant interaction. But the path is now completely empty. The wide cobblestones are covered in snow, and the only figures dotting the white-and-black landscape are the statues that line the boulevard like sentinels. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if they were sentinels, out here as a sort of last defense against anyone stupid enough to attack.

  My gut is churning, and it’s not just because of the emptiness of this place; it’s also because of the statue nearest Mab’s castle, the one my feet walk toward with a mind of their own. A statue of a girl, poised as though floating with one toe on the ground, her ebony skin covered in live blue flames. I place my hand on the plaque on the pedestal and look to the only physical manifestation of my mother I’ve ever seen. At least in my memory.

  The girl’s features are smoothed down, barely discernible through the flames, and it’s impossible to tell if her chin is lifted in anguish or ecstasy. “The Oracle’s Sacrifice” is engraved on the plaque, and that really doesn’t bode well.

  Convince her your love is strong enough to die for. Those had been Mab’s words to Kingston, and suddenly my blood boils. Kingston, the bastard who now runs the Immortal Circus. The sex god who’d slept with me and then called me my mother’s name. The guy I still can’t get out of my head, not fully. When I see him again, I will do more than slap him in the face like some vengeful ex. I will see if he can be killed and brought back a second time. And a third. And however many times it takes for me to feel like my mother was avenged.

  Speaking of . . . I can’t delay this homecoming any longer.

  I shove my frigid hands back into my pockets and send a small course of magic through one of the sigils inked down my spine; my skin immediately flushes warm. A minor magic, but damn if it isn’t necessary in this place. Then, before I can get too sentimental, I turn and head down the boulevard.

  I know there’s more than one reason Mab sent me out this way. She made the magic keeping everyone from magically leaving, which means she could have easily removed it for me. She wanted this: wanted me to walk down the empty lane and see just how dire it was. And she was smart to do it, really. Had I not just watched her tell Kingston to lie to my mother, I might have felt a kernel of responsibility for helping get her kingdom back after seeing this. This place is absolutely devoid of life, no Fey wandering or laughing or tempting mortals in their eternal dance. No music lingering in the alleys like a bad dream. And when I turn down one of the more, shall we say, rowdy streets, it, too, is empty as an open grave.

  I walk down the row of buildings, staring into hookah bars and saloons and brothels, and everything is silent. Empty. Barren. When I pass by my haunt, the Lewd Unicorn, I fight the urge to go inside and see if my main friend in this wasteland is still here. But I don’t want Celeste to see me right now—she’s the one faerie who can get into my head, literally and figuratively, and I’m in no state to pretend that everything is fine.

  And Mab would definitely not appreciate it if I blew the morning on alcohol and Dream highs.

  It’s funny. I should be running toward the front gate. I should want to see my true mother and father more than anything else. But I don’t. I really, really don’t. I mean, I’m okay with a reunion with my dad, but there’s something about the bond I always thought I’d have with my mom that makes this painful. It’s not just the fact that she’s never been a figure in my life; it’s the fact that . . . well, I can’t really deal with any more emotional turmoil. I was raised to be cold and unflinching. Heart of ice, touch of steel sort of thing. But that facade is proving to be more and more difficult to keep up. I have no doubt that seeing my mother, seeing the human who bore me into the world and gave me up, will shatter that illusion of strength completely.

  What if she doesn’t live up to my expectations? What if I don’t live up to hers? And I want to punch myself in the face for even wondering that, because that’s not who I am. That’s not what I care about. And yet here I am, strolling through the abandoned streets of Winter, pissing time away because I can’t face the music.

  It’s not just the fear of meeting my mom. On any other day, I’d be okay with that. There’s something about Winter, though, something in the endless dance of darkness that lets you convince yo
urself that you are insular, that here, nothing changes. Human things like emotions and death don’t hold sway. Here, I’m safe. From myself. From the world outside.

  From the ache Roxie left me with.

  I’ve barely let myself think on it, not in the wake of everything that’s happened since Roxie summoned the Pale Queen from the great beyond. But I know that when I step into the mortal world, I’ll feel it. See her laughter in the people I cross or her voice in the music from car windows. Hell, I’ll probably be lucky enough to hear her music played on the radio, seeing as her band had gotten so successful. It would be my luck.

  I can’t tell what it is I feel. Well, beyond hurt and betrayed. Was I falling for her? Or was I just yearning for mortal friendship? Some connection to a life that didn’t involve blood, but instead entailed nights of movies and pizza and good wine and not worrying about who you had to kill the next morning. Love isn’t a notion I’ve let myself entertain—it’s not something faeries understand, so it’s not something I was raised to know. Just desire and lust and passion. But what I feel—no, felt—toward Roxie wasn’t any of that. It was softer. Quieter.

  And it hurt a hell of a lot more.

  She betrayed you. Anything you felt toward her is a lie. And now, she is dead. You got your revenge by taking her life. You don’t live in the past. You live here, now, and this is the last thought you will give her.

  “You’ve grown soft,” I whisper to myself. “And now you’re talking to yourself. Pull your shit together. You were worth nothing to her, and she is worth nothing to you.”

  The rune on my back might make me warm, but I pull a heat from somewhere far deeper, a rage I’ve cultivated for years, the need to be worth something in someone’s eyes. The hatred for never being good enough to keep. Unless I was useful. I will be useful. I am worth more than they know, and I will prove it even if I have to make the whole world kneel.

  I turn down a side alley and beeline for the front gate.

  When I reach it, I barely give the great thing a cursory glance. It’s a few stories tall and thin as glass, made of some opaque smoky crystal that’s harder than steel. Trust me, I’ve tried making a crack in it many a drunken night. The moment I near, a shiver of power runs through me as another set of runes along my spine blazes into life, their mirrored counterparts slashing a blue line from the top to the bottom of the sharp-angled gate. It opens slowly, silently, snow bursting through the crack the moment it shifts. I press through, into the gale, and am out before it stops opening.

  It’s clear from the packed snow that the exodus was recent. Even with a blizzard raging around me, the path from the gate into the barren woods beyond is clear. It’s a razor’s line, leading right into the Wildness that looms in the blizzard like an ink stain on parchment. It’s frustrating, knowing that I can’t just follow it into the woods and find where this Pale Queen is raising her army. The magic within would just divert the path. It’s a magic Mab and Oberon can never tame, let alone control. It’s the chaos between balance. The disorder before creation. And it doesn’t like being toyed with.

  So I flick my hand and send a small wave of magic around me, a very simple shield that keeps the worst of the snow from blowing into my eyes and ears and prevents the cold from shearing off my lips. I follow a different path, a side trail that leads up a snow-swept mountain to a long stone wall that stands maybe ten feet high. It’s a waystone of sorts, a fixed point in a world of change. And it’s where I begin to make my portal.

  Despite the snow whipping around the castle, the air surrounding the wall is clear, calm. Snow drifts against my ankles and a light breeze flurries my coat, but there’s nothing to disturb me as I pull a piece of green chalk from my pocket and sketch the outline of a door. The process is so familiar by now, I nearly fall into a trance doing it, or maybe it’s just the magic at work: the vibration in my fingers as chalk drags over stone, the power that flows through my arm and chest as sigils and runes and equations blossom under my fingertips around the door’s perimeter. Not all of the marks are arcane, and some are pretty ridiculous from an outsider’s point of view—hearts or stars or GPS coordinates—but the magic is still there. Sometimes it’s not the words but the intent behind them, the angle of the letters or arc of the shapes. Magic flows through everything, and as I draw, I craft a channel for it.

  Finally done, I grind up the nub of chalk, raise my hand to my lips, and blow toward the sketch. Tendrils of dust snake out from my hand, swirling over the door like serpents seeking warmth; equations are completed, shapes fill in, and then, without flash or lightning, the magic’s done. The wall still looks solid; the symbols still look ridiculous. But I can feel the rip between the worlds, the power that will drag me through.

  As I step forward, into the stone, I can’t figure out if I’m entering home, or leaving it.

  I land in the middle of suburbia.

  It’s early morning, light just spilling over the horizon, turning all the identical whitewashed houses the same shade of pastel pink. Before me is a two-story house with the same lawn and same flaccid décor as every other house stretching along this block. One manicured tree in the front yard. Shuttered windows. Small porch with two chairs and a side table. It’s the picture-perfect cookie-cutter home, and I cannot for the life of me believe that this is where my mother—the woman who toured with an otherworldly circus and saved all of mankind and Fey—now spends her days.

  In truth, I’d been hoping for something grand, a better parting gift from Mab. Maybe a mansion overlooking Hollywood, or at least a Tudor in the foothills of New England. But this . . . this just fuels the rage inside me, the anger I can do nothing about. My mother definitely got the short end of the stick. And there’s no way in hell I can avenge that.

  Worse, I feel no stirring inside when I look down the sidewalk leading to the front door. No memories of home. No whispers of a forgotten childhood. I feel empty, cold. And even though I’m no longer surrounded by whirling white, I feel as if I’m staring down a storm.

  I actually gulp. My throat is dry and my hands are clammy and what the serious fuck is wrong with me? I’ve hunted down the meanest creatures the worlds of Faerie and Mortal had to offer, and I’m freaking out over knocking on a goddamned door. I take a deep breath. Square my shoulders. And then I remember this is supposed to be a family reunion—albeit one tinged with business—and try to slouch. Try to look a little more like a twenty-five-year-old human girl.

  And then, before I can psych myself out anymore, I walk up the sidewalk and knock on the door.

  My hand barely leaves the wood before it opens, but it’s not my mother staring out. No, it’s a girl, roughly my age, with blonde hair and dark eyes and the unmistakable scent of a faerie. There isn’t even a moment of registration in her expression. She’s known I was coming all along. Of course she did. She’s the changeling that replaced me.

  “I was hoping it was a mistake,” she says. “But here you are.” She shakes her head, looks me up and down. Clearly isn’t impressed by what she sees. “Fuck.” Then she opens the door wider and steps away, leaving me to enter on my own.

  Four

  My mother’s house doesn’t smell like home.

  My own room carries the scent of cinnamon and cardamom and smoke. Even Mab’s kingdom—desolate though it is—has a tang to it, the sharp scent of snow and crisp air and fallen branches.

  This place is vanilla and lavender and cloying as hell.

  The girl walks down the short hall, and I click the door shut behind me, my nerves at full alert. Her footsteps barely make a sound as I follow her, and no one else in the house is moving about, either. For some reason, I keep expecting her to turn around and try to stab me, but then again, what else could I expect? She’s my replacement. Even if a part of me wants to try to treat her like a sister, the other part knows she’s been living the life I was supposed to.

  And I hear humans say their home lives are fucked up.

  I walk down the hall slowly, catal
oging everything. The family photos that I want to stop and stare at for hours, the painted landscapes in modest frames, the vase of fresh irises on the side table. This could have been your life, I think as I take it all in, as I look at photos of picnics and graduations. And I’m surprised to find that not one part of me wants it.

  Maybe that’s why my changeling replacement looks pissed. Maybe she is envious of me.

  “Why are you here?” she asks when I enter the kitchen. At least in here there’s something familiar and comforting: the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. She holds a mug in her hands and studiously refuses to offer me a cup.

  It’s one of those fancy modern kitchens with an island sink in the center and granite countertops and chrome everything. I sit at a high stool on one side of the island while she leans on the other side. We watch each other for a few long moments. Studying. Waiting.

  She doesn’t look anything like me. At least, she doesn’t anymore—maybe her child form had similar hair or features, but she’s no longer my doppelganger. She’s shorter by far, and it’s clear her life doesn’t involve killing or being a weapon. She just looks . . . normal. Average size, average face, average hair, average clothes. Her makeup is smooth and her expression is blank and her nail polish is a clear lacquer. Nothing about her stands out, and maybe that’s why she’s been so good at pretending to be me. Nothing about her is remarkable. Nothing would tell you that something is amiss.

  And I know it’s all faerie glamour, know that with a snap of her fingers she’d probably be some Kali goddess archetype with flaming eyes and severed heads. But in this disguise, she’s downright disappointing.

  “You’re supposed to be me?” I ask. No point trying to be friends. It’s clear we’re never going to be on the same page, even if we are employed by the same matriarch.