Cold Dream Dawning

by A. R. Kahler

  Again, that glare that could peel paint.

  “I’m perfectly fine being close to home. You know that, Melody. Family has always been the most important thing in my life. Unlike you, I can’t just leave everyone I care about behind.”

  Okay, I admit, the dig actually does get under my skin. I’ve never actually had a family to leave behind—she took them from me. And, as I look at Viv, I realize she’s still doing everything to keep them at arm’s length.

  “I find that the ones I care about always come back to me,” I say. “And those that cross me, I don’t see again.” I make sure to direct the first part to Viv, and the last part to her. If my mother notices the exchange, she doesn’t say anything. She’s already up and busying herself about the kitchen.

  “I should probably start making breakfast,” she says. “Before Austin wakes up.”

  I don’t tell her I’ve already eaten, because I’ve decided that I will eat whatever she prepares, whenever she prepares it: it’s not often I get a home-cooked meal. Come to think of it, this might actually be the first time someone else has physically cooked anything for me. Mab usually just had servants bring me dishes from the mortal world. Snap of her fingers sort of thing. I don’t think the Faerie Queen has even seen a frying pan.

  The changeling might not know why I’m here, but I can definitely tell she doesn’t want me around. She’d want me around even less if she knew that my charge might involve killing the one she was hired to protect. But hey—take it up with our mutual employer. In any case, I don’t let Vivienne’s cooking stop me from prodding. If I’m going to find a way to her secret past, I need to dig. And that means I need her to start thinking about things she probably doesn’t want to remember—and things the changeling definitely doesn’t want aired.

  I ask about her family. She says she hasn’t heard from her parents in years.

  I ask about vacations. The only ones she’s taken were to visit the in-laws. Or trips to amusement parks in the changeling’s early days that I’m not entirely convinced aren’t made up.

  I try to ask more about her circus dreams—has she seen any shows, has she taken a class, has she ever had actual dreams of any sort regarding the big top—but every time, the changeling steps in and changes the subject. It’s maddening, but it’s not the fact that the changeling’s making this difficult.

  It’s the fact that Vivienne honestly seems okay with everything in her life. Maybe not happy, but okay with it.

  The woman rummaging around before me should be a queen in her own right. She should be reigning in a castle with a host of servants ensuring she’s happy. She literally saved the world. She’s a hero. And she should have a hero’s reward.

  Instead, she’s worrying about retirement and helping her deadbeat daughter pay off her college loans.

  And here I am, hoping to get her to help Mab even more, when the bitch queen couldn’t even give her a consolation prize.

  I’m your fucking consolation prize. A daughter you don’t remember, a relationship you can’t feel. Or maybe this is my consolation prize from Mab, for bringing the Pale Queen into the world. It wouldn’t be the first time her reward was more like a punishment. And it doesn’t matter—the effect is the same. I feel like shit. Both for trying to get her to do more for Mab, and for being a shitty excuse for a daughter.

  Convince her your love is enough to die for, Mab had told Kingston. Was it? Was the love between my mother and Kingston enough to warrant this? A boring life with a boring family and a really boring kid? When she could be . . . what, with me? Trying to save the world? I can almost imagine it—a mother/daughter duo, two kick-ass assassins in kick-ass leather bombers with a host of weapons and countless enemies. We’d probably have secret hand signals and crazy combo moves that were part ninja, part acrobat, and one hundred percent awesome. We’d be unstoppable. We’d stomp into bars just to start shit and then make out with half the clientele before the night was through.

  But that’s just the image of my mother I’ve been harboring. Someone like me—witty and strong and fierce as fuck. When I look at Vivienne . . . it’s clear she’s not made for that sort of adrenaline. Not anymore. She’s soft, and there’s something in her demeanor that tells me she’d be the kind of woman to hand over her purse and social security number before throwing a punch at her burned-out teenage mugger. If it were her and me on a night on the town, it would probably involve a chain Italian restaurant and bland sangrias. Maybe a movie. Probably an early night in.

  If we were together, my life would probably be a whole hell of a lot different than it is now. Vivienne might have been a badass years ago. But the rules of her contract have turned her into the exact opposite.

  And then it hits me. I look around at the kitchen and its kitschy shit and the family photos. This could be my life, when it’s all over. Mab could force me back to the human world with no memories and no future, and I would have no say in any of that. I wouldn’t even know it had happened. Hell, I might have agreed to this sort of parting gift when I signed the damned contract. Never sign a faerie contract. That had been my motto. Because it always led to something like this. Vivienne’s humming to herself, and another pot of coffee is brewing, and in that moment, I can’t tell if I feel at home or like an alien on some foreign shore. The entire time, I can only think this should have been my life, this should have been my life.

  The question, though, is whether I would have wanted it.

  Fuck that. She’s not exiling me here, not if I have anything to say about it. Which I probably don’t.

  As I watch Vivienne scramble eggs and make toast and chop vegetables, I’m struck with images of my own upbringing: Mab, teaching me how to pull magic from the ether and make my stuffed animals dance; Pan, guiding me through the castle on late-night expeditions for treats I know he hid just for me to find; William, showing me how to craft rings from silver and imbue stone with memory. And sure, those memories are tainted with blood. My first kill at ten years old, stalking a rogue Shifter through the streets of Tokyo while dressed as a Harajuku girl. The countless training sessions in magic and weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. The long nights alone, and the many nights coiled amongst the naked denizens of Faerie when my body had aged and my heart had hardened.

  Would I have really given all that up for this? For quiet mornings and the scent of toast and the promise of . . . watching television for a few hours or going to Pilates or whatever these women do to keep their minds off the slow march toward death?

  And holy shit, what am I even thinking? What am I feeling? This spite toward her. Not because she doesn’t recognize me, but because . . . because in this room, in this moment, I feel like I’m the only one who’s actually alive, and no amount of screaming will ever get her to wake up from her comatose dream. My entertainment is drifting between worlds and cities, stalking prey and getting shitfaced, and playing with demons and dangerous magic. I have access to every nightclub in every hot spot in the world—and in Faerie. My cardio involves getting sweaty with satyrs or running down dragons in the Alps. Every day is a game of survival. Every night a victory dance. Even lately, after the disaster with Roxie and the Pale Queen, I feel more alive being a failure than I would playing out the role of Average Mortal Girl.

  The fact that I don’t just think that but feel it in the very depths of my gut makes me feel even more distanced from the woman playing chef before me.

  Maybe I’m no better than the creature who raised me after all. I don’t fit in here. I’m not built to be a mortal. I’m made to kill, to screw, to party. And I’m fooling myself if I try to convince myself otherwise.

  Suddenly, I want this job over with more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my whole life. Not because I’m scared of what I might have to do to get Vivienne to remember her powers, but because—next to her—it’s become glaringly obvious that I have become nothing more than a monster. I’m less her daughter than the faerie stealing my name. Even if I tried, I could never be the girl she
would want me to be. Even if I wanted it—and, I’m starting to realize, I do want it—I couldn’t fit into her life, or she into mine. Ever.

  Stop being weak, I hiss to myself as Vivienne and the changeling chat. Don’t think of her as your mother. Think of her as a target. Mab is the woman who raised you. Mab is the woman who made you who you are. And Mab may not be a mortal, but she’s the closest thing you have to a family. This is merely the woman who birthed you. She was a vessel. Nothing more.

  Gods, I wish that line of reasoning didn’t make me feel like shit.

  I also wish I could bring myself to fully believe it.

  The changeling is halfway through telling Vivienne about her job search when the stairs creak again. I look over and am greeted by the sight of a man I’m honestly a bit impressed my mother was able to bag. I mean, I know she’d scored with Kingston, but this guy’s a fox. A silver fox, too, which is probably not something I should think about my biological father.

  He strides into the kitchen with bleary eyes and similar pj’s to Viv’s, which makes me wonder if they were some joint Christmas present from their undeserving daughter. Like Vivienne, he’s in his early fifties, and his hair is more grey than dark brown. He sort of looks like a model for a European clothing company, even if he is unkempt and clearly running himself into the ground.

  My father. This guy is my father. I can see it in the angles of his face and the way he holds his head up, the curves of his eyes and the curl of his fingers.

  He seems to catch on to the fact that I’m in the room five seconds after stepping into the kitchen. He actually does a double take, then reaches for the mug of coffee that Vivienne’s already poured for him.

  “And you are?” he asks. Not at all as pleasantly as Vivienne, but not as rude as the changeling. At least I know where I get my attitude problem.

  “Melody,” I reply, and is it my imagination or does he actually look a little surprised by that? “Claire’s friend.”

  And your real fucking daughter.

  Even though the words itch at the back of my throat, I don’t think I could convince these two short of a DNA test. Not that it would help; I can tell the magic that’s looped through their brains is tight.

  He reaches out and takes my hand, and maybe it’s my imagination, but his grip seems to linger.

  “I’m Austin,” he replies. “None of that Mr. Weaver shit. Pleasure to meet you.”

  He lets go and turns to his wife, who smiles at him and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “Morning, sunshine,” he whispers, and her smile widens—it’s the first smile I’ve seen that doesn’t look forced. Then he turns to the changeling and says, “And good morning, sweetheart,” and she smiles and returns the greeting, and I want to vomit.

  Because there’s something so picturesque about this, so scripted and perfect, that I can’t believe any of this is real. The greeting, the matching clothes, the ready cup of coffee. It’s way too normal. It stinks of glamour and deceit, even if no one else can feel it. Both Vivienne and Austin are playing roles that I don’t think they’re aware of, and the changeling is directing it all with a hidden hand.

  I look to her. She said she had it under control. Is that what she meant? Keeping the two of them so high on magic that they don’t even realize they’re living a daytime TV show? I wonder if she gets off on it, making these mortals dance like that. Faeries love screwing over humans, and what better opportunity than this? No wonder she looked so angry at my arrival; I was cutting in on her fun. And most likely signaling its end.

  Sorry, bitch. But you’re out of a job. Back to tying knots in virgins’ hair for old times’ sake.

  Austin leans back on the counter and nurses his coffee.

  “Melody, eh?” he continues, his eyes intent on me. Like he’s searching for something. Or found it. “Kind of a unique name. That a stage name or something?”

  I glance to Vivienne, who’s still oblivious as she butters the toast, and then to the changeling, who’s once more glaring daggers at me. Then I look back to Austin, his expression this strange mix of begging and guarded, as though he wants me to press a subject we all know I can’t broach. I open my mouth to mention that yes, I once toured briefly with a troupe, the Cirque des Immortels—have you heard of it?

  “Breakfast smells amazing,” the changeling intervenes, trying to change the subject. “You sure have outdone yourself, Mom.”

  I want to gag. Vivienne turns around and beams at her false daughter. Then she catches sight of me, and the smile fades. Which does nothing for my self-esteem. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s unhappy I’m here or because I’m asking questions that no one has been allowed to voice in here before. I’m off script, if we’re continuing that actor thing. And she’s clearly not happy about having to improvise. Austin seems to be watching the whole thing with interest, and is it just my imagination, or does he look at the changeling with a hint of anger? As if he wanted to hear my answer. As if he alone out of all of them liked my disruption of their routine. Even if he didn’t like being awake so early.

  What do these people really know? And what do I have to do to force out the truth?

  Before I can ask, the changeling goes white. Like, ghostly white. Like someone stepped over her grave white. Her eyes widen. Then she looks at me.

  “What the hell have you done?” she whispers.

  “Claire, language,” Vivienne begins, but before either my mother or I can ask what the girl’s talking about, there’s a knock at the door.

  “Jesus, what are we, a train station?” my dad asks. He pushes himself from the counter and walks toward the door.

  The changeling is there before he gets two feet.

  “No, don’t worry about it. I got it.”

  She casts me a look. One that clearly says get your ass over here, now. I drain the last of my coffee and hand Austin the empty mug as I walk past him. “It’s not a stage name, but I got it from a performer my mom loved,” I whisper, but then the changeling has my arm and she’s dragging me down the hall.

  “What gives?” I hiss.

  “Who the hell did you bring with you?”

  I don’t have time to answer. There’s another thud on the door, this one louder, and I go silent as the entire door shudders on its hinges. Impressive. Whoever it is, they’re going for intimidating.

  For the first time all morning, I’m actually feeling a little excited.

  “Who knows you’re here?” the changeling asks.

  “No one,” I reply as the doorknob rattles. “Just Mab.”

  She curses under her breath, something in the faerie tongue that I’ve only heard from the lowest of the low. I’m impressed she knows it and suddenly wonder where Mab found her in the first place. Maybe this girl was doing more than knotting virgin locks . . .

  Another thud, and this time I hear Austin in the back calling out “Who the fuck is it?” but we don’t answer. I shove past the changeling with blood pounding in my ears and a knife in my hand. And a very big smile on my face.

  “How enchanted is this place?” I ask, my hand on the knob.

  “Very,” she replies. “No Fey or Shifter can get in without permission. But they shouldn’t have been able to get past the sidewalk.”

  “Perfect,” I mutter. And it is; even after last night, I still have the taste for blood in the back of my throat. The changeling glances at me. She actually looks frightened and—judging from the look she gives me—my manic smile isn’t consoling her. “Well then, looks like we’ll have our party on the lawn. Stay back. I’d hate for you to get hurt.”

  Then I kick the door off the hinges and jump out into the bloody dawn.

  Five

  The lawn looks like something out of a postapocalyptic motorcycle movie. I mean, seriously—four guys on bikes making doughnuts in the front yard while whoever was brave enough to knock twitches underneath the fallen door. It’s as if they’re trying to make an impression, which is stupid, since that means they clearly don’t kno
w who they’re dealing with.

  But I do. I take a deep breath as I walk forward—making sure to stomp down hard on the fallen guy’s face, which is greeted by a very satisfying cracking noise—and can tell these guys are from Summer. Oberon’s kingdom has a very distinct taste: the magic infused in these guys reminds me of lightning and cut grass, something wild and verdant and dangerous. Which is funny, because I never imagined anyone from Summer belonging to a biker gang.

  At least now I know what Mab meant about Vivienne needing protection from someone. If not why.

  I don’t question what they’re doing here—this is clearly an act of aggression, which means I’m clearly in the right to counterattack. Not that I would actually give a shit if I wasn’t in the right to attack; maim first, question later, as I always say. Before I even hop off the door, I fling two knives toward two of the bikers. The daggers hit true, and the leather-clad guys explode in a flurry of leaves and sparks before they even register surprise. I’m actually disappointed at how easy it was.

  The other bikers are a little faster.

  Vines shoot up from the lawn and wrap around my wrists and ankles, binding me fast. I struggle and curse under my breath, but I can’t get free, can’t grab any of the daggers hidden throughout my clothes. But Mab didn’t teach me the lesser magics for nothing, and I didn’t endure hours of painful tattoos just for aesthetics.

  I send a jolt of energy down my spine, visualizing the newest runes and glyphs tattooed there, and power blooms from my palms as the remaining motorcyclists bear down on me. Fire burns the vines to ash, but the power isn’t without a price—sweat and chills break over my skin as I crouch down and grab two more blades from my boots. Another flick of the wrists, and one Fey goes down as the other casts some sort of barrier around himself, the blade bouncing harmlessly to the side.

  This guy is fast, and he’s on top of me before I can grab another weapon, barreling me to the side. I try to roll from under him, but he’s heavy as a boulder and I know it’s more than meat—there’s magic coursing through his veins, and if not for the runes and wards on my skin and jewelry, I’d have been crushed or blown apart from the power. He somehow readjusts, fluid as a serpent, and his knees are locking my arms to the ground and one hand is on my neck. I can’t move. Can barely breathe. And for a split second, I wonder if maybe I’m in over my head. The masochism of it actually gets me more excited. I don’t just want to hurt, I want to be hurt.