Cold Dream Dawning

by A. R. Kahler

I fully expect my contract to lash the thoughts from my brain. It doesn’t. It can’t; I’m still dreaming.

  The woman reaches out, gently places her hand on my arm. It still burns like fire, but the pain is muted. Someone else’s pain. In someone else’s dream. “Soon, you will have to choose. I can be forgiving, but I will not be patient forever. Bring your mother to me and lay down your arms, and you and I shall rule side by side. Consider this my final gift. A reminder of who actually has your back. Remember whose side you’re truly fighting for, Claire. Faerie’s, or mankind’s?”

  The dream fades, inks out like a stain, and then I jolt awake at the sound of metal clanking. In the hall is a figure in shadowy robes. My hands immediately reach for a knife that isn’t there. Before I can try to go on the attack, the figure turns down the hall and disappears.

  “The fuck?” I whisper.

  Just as the door swings open.

  Eleven

  I can’t actually believe my luck. I crouch there for a good minute, ears and eyes straining for further footsteps. Surely this is a setup. There’s a faerie waiting down the hall to call the guards and have us killed. There’s no way in hell the Pale Queen has plants within the Summer Court, ready and waiting to do her work, even if it’s springing me from jail. And it’s not like anyone within Summer could or would spring me from the dungeons. Oberon would know about it immediately and have their head on a spike.

  It makes no sense, and that keeps my hackles raised.

  “Are you going to let me out now or what?” Eli asks. I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s so easy to forget he doesn’t sleep.

  “It’s a trap,” I whisper.

  “Of course it’s a trap,” he says, not even caring to drop into a whisper. I wince.

  I can’t hear or sense anyone, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a faerie or golem or something waiting just out of range. It feels like a test. One where those who stay in their cell get rewarded and those who sneak out get punished. Badly.

  Good thing I’ve never cared about a little rough play.

  I creep from my cell and over to Eli’s. It’s not locked with a normal padlock. Instead, there’s a long copper plate along the locking mechanism, the surface smooth.

  “What the hell is this?” I whisper.

  Eli leans against the wall of his cell, arms crossed, as if he’s there of his own volition. I can just see his outline, though his blue eyes burn bright.

  “I’m pretty certain only Summer Fey can open it,” he says.

  “Of course.” Because simple just isn’t the name of Oberon’s game.

  I glance around. The hall is empty, but I know the upper dungeons are swarming with Fey. They have to be—what’s the point of a dungeon if there isn’t a guard?

  “Give me a moment,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  Oberon took all of my weapons, and the dungeons are pretty much warded against all magic—not that I have much at my disposal anyway. But I’m still a weapon unto myself. An assassin who relies entirely on her blades is worthless. And I will never let myself be worthless.

  Eli wishes me luck as I creep down the hall. At every turn I expect to stumble across a guard, but there’s no one. Not around the next corner, and not up the first flight of stairs. Oberon’s kingdom is just as empty as Mab’s. And that means even his guard is depleted. Suddenly, my plan seems a little more impractical. Not because I don’t have the skill to pull it off, but because there might not be anyone to pull it off on.

  Then again, I could just leave Eli there . . .

  I’m about halfway down the next hall when I hear someone coming my way. I stop and curl up into the shadows along the wall, slow my breathing to a whisper. The figure rushes past me. Am I that lucky? They don’t see or sense me, and the robe they wear gives nothing away. I can only hope it’s the same faerie that released me, the one that works for the Pale Queen. I have a lot of questions to ask, and this would kill two birds with one very convenient stone.

  I slink behind the retreating figure, and it’s only when my arm goes around their neck that I realize that if it is the person working for the Pale Queen, they’re going the wrong way. And when my arm tightens, their flesh doesn’t give. Because it’s not flesh at all.

  I curse my luck at having jumped a golem when the creature lets out a yelp, and I let go immediately. It crashes to the floor, and I rip off the cloak. I don’t know whether to start cussing him out or kissing him.

  “Pan,” I gasp instead. “What the hell are you doing here? How are you even here?”

  The satyr statue sprawled at my feet looks back at me, one hand to his smooth chest as though he’s fending off a heart attack. He’s one of those cherubic faun statues, complete with dimples and nubby horns. Except he’s clearly been around the block; there are chunks missing from his marble skin, and one of his horns has been sheared off to the base.

  “Claire?” he asks. “What are you doing out? I’m here to rescue you.”

  I laugh. Then I realize he was serious and feel really bad for a half second. But seriously: him rescue me?

  Pan’s been at my side ever since I was sent to Mab’s kingdom, my mentor and watcher and glorified babysitter. And yes, he’s come to my aid a few times. Last time I saw him, he’d been helping me protect Roxie. But making his way into the heart of Summer to free me? That’s a level of badassery I didn’t think the guy had. Or stupidity. I mean, who wears a cloak when trying to seem inconspicuous?

  “How did you get here?” I ask.

  He pushes himself to standing. The fact that he doesn’t answer right away tells me he really doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “It is a long story,” he says. “But we must get you out of here. Now.”

  I grin. “Clearly already ahead of you on that one. I need to get Eli, though. Did you pass any Summer Fey along the way?”

  He doesn’t ask how only I escaped. I know that will come later.

  “Why do you need a Summer faerie?” he asks. He looks at his feet.

  “To open the lock. It’s magicked or something. Only opens for someone from Summer.”

  Pan is many things. A good liar isn’t one of them.

  “Let us go, then,” he says, still not making eye contact.

  “Pan, what aren’t you telling me?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts walking down to the dungeons, from where I’d just come. I shake my head. Statues suck at small talk. This one in particular.

  Pan doesn’t speak until we’re back at the lowest cells of the dungeon. He stops in front of Eli’s door and looks to me.

  “There is much you don’t know,” Pan says. Then he glides his hand down the copper plate, and the door unlatches.

  “Clearly,” I respond.

  Eli steps forward, looking between the two of us as if there are a dozen questions he wants to ask but probably won’t until he has me on my own again.

  “Well then,” he says instead. “Shall we?”

  Pan nods and turns away, but I force him to a halt.

  “Hold on.” I grip his shoulder tight. “How do we know this isn’t a trap of some sort?”

  He actually looks as though I’ve stabbed him through the heart—his eyes go wide and his mouth forms a tiny little O.

  “Why would you even think that?” he asks.

  “Because you show up in the nick of time, somehow magically able to get Eli out of his cell, and now you’re promising a hasty retreat? It’s too easy, Pan.”

  “This is not the time or place,” he responds, looking up and down the hall. But no one’s coming to recapture us. Oberon’s complacent in his guard.

  “And this isn’t a place you should be,” I reply. “So you’re going to tell us how you’re here. Now. Or I’m going to lock your stony ass in one of those cells for Oberon to find.”

  His expression goes from shocked to angry in a heartbeat.

  “After all I’ve done for you.”

  “Trust is hard to earn and easy to break,” I r
eply.

  “I was created in Summer,” he says. “It is here I served Oberon and your mother, through many of her incarnations. Until I learned about you. About what happened to you. I left Oberon and forswore my oaths. Mab took me in as your caretaker. That is how I know Summer, and that is how I know the secret ways in and out. Now, if you’ll follow me, my stony ass will save yours. Once more.”

  Then he turns and storms off.

  I glance at Eli, who grins in an impressed sort of way. “I like him,” he says. I shake my head and follow Pan through the halls.

  I’ve been through the Summer Palace many times. And it is a palace, whereas Mab’s place is definitely a castle. Hers is built for defense and awe. Oberon’s is built for luxury. Once we leave the dungeons, we’re in a grand hallway twice as tall as it is wide, the arched ceiling dripping with tapestries and chandeliers that frame massive stained glass and picture windows overlooking fields and gardens. We pass pedestals with suits of armor (I keep expecting them to attack, but these must actually just be for show, which proves how confident Oberon is in his exterior defenses) and priceless vases and other décor that’s so gaudy and baroque I actually long for the starkness of Mab’s decorating. Despite the extravagance and false sense of safety, I don’t let my guard down. There might be a softness to Oberon’s style, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid.

  Mab uses sex appeal to lure people into thinking she’s pliable. Oberon uses aesthetic indulgence.

  Pan brushes aside a tapestry and leads us into a narrow passage, the light in here coming only from what peeks through the velvet on either end. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t lead us toward the light. Rather, he ducks into the shadows of a side corridor, this one even narrower than the first. I follow by dim sight and the sound of his hooves clopping against the marble. Eli is silent as a wraith behind me; if not for the pressure of his gaze between my shoulder blades, I might have thought he’d vanished.

  I don’t ask where we’re going. Pan leads us along one corridor and then another, down a flight of stone steps, and into a passage so dark, even my rune-enhanced vision can’t see a thing. If not for the glow of Eli’s eyes, I would probably be following by sound alone. Finally, after a good twenty minutes of walking through colder and darker tunnels, we come to a dead end.

  At least, that’s what I assume from Pan’s sudden halt.

  “This is just past Summer territory,” Pan says. His voice echoes in the hall. “Right on the edge of the Wildness.”

  “And a dead end.”

  Silence. Yes, yes, I know I could portal here—I’m not that stupid. But Oberon took everything I was carrying. I don’t have a single nub of chalk left.

  I don’t mention this. Because I have no doubt Eli would make some quip about hiding things in other places, and I don’t have the energy to punch him.

  Thankfully, Pan saves me from saying anything. He bends down and picks up a small piece of chalk. “I brought in extra,” he says. “I am well prepared.”

  “So you are, old friend,” I reply. I hope that’s enough of an apology for doubting him earlier. Probably not. He hands me the chalk, and I start sketching, the white lines practically glowing in the darkness. I draw out the rectangular doorway, then the glyphs and sigils for travel: equations and words and symbols. As much as I don’t want to be going there, I trace out the coordinates for Winter. I need more weapons, and Pan—helpful though he is—wouldn’t be much use in an actual mission. I won’t tell him that, though. I’m not that much of a bitch. Most days.

  “Thanks again,” I say to Pan as I crush up the chalk and blow it over the door. Magic swirls down my arm and through the dust, cementing the portal in place.

  “You are welcome,” Pan replies. I can tell he doesn’t mean it.

  My room isn’t empty when I arrive there.

  Which should be impossible. So the moment I see the hearth fires burning, I know who’s there before he turns around from his spot on the sofa.

  Kingston.

  He’s no longer in his ringmaster attire, just his usual jeans and baggy T-shirt, his hair back in a scraggly man-bun I sort of want to chop off and sort of want to yank on.

  “Guess that answers whether or not I fixed that flaw in my room’s defenses,” I mutter, throwing my coat on the sofa beside him.

  He doesn’t smile.

  “It’s still glaringly obvious,” he says. He pauses, looks me right in the eye. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Not where have you been? or how’s the good fight? but why are you doing this to me? I want to laugh. Instead, I head to the liquor cabinet and grab a bottle of bourbon, take a swig, and begin rustling through my weapons case.

  “Doing what?” I ask, shuffling through butterfly knives with one hand while the other holds the bottle. I grab a few blades that are specifically enchanted against Summer Fey and begin sliding them into my various pockets and belts.

  “I’m not your enemy,” he says. And oh, he sounds as though I’ve kicked him in the nuts. It’s so pathetic I laugh again. Then I take another drink, because I don’t have the mental or emotional capacity to handle this. I just learned my mother’s next life is bound to Oberon. On top of everything else I have to handle, now I have her future incarnations to worry about.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.

  I slide open a drawer filled with rapier-thin swords. I pick one up, the blade a burning violet, and examine it in the light. Enchantments are still relatively fresh, the power good. Blade sharper than a scalpel. It’ll do. Satisfied, I thrust the blade into my hip, where it vanishes in a whirl of smoke, ready to be summoned when needed.

  Okay, I admit, I’m picking some of my more flashy weapons partly for show. But they’re still good weapons.

  “Why did you bring her to me?”

  I look at him, roll my eyes, and go back to looking for more weapons. The more I can hide within my flesh, the better—I’m not letting anyone steal all my blades again. I grab a rope dart and twine the chain around my wrist, where it disappears into my skin.

  “We have a dozen Summer Fey camped out around the show right now, waiting for us to crack. Waiting for her to become vulnerable. It’s been three days since you left her with us. We can’t move, not without risking her life. The moment we tear down, we stop being in Winter territory. Not that staying put has helped. Her . . . episodes . . . are getting worse.”

  Three days? Normally I could control—or at least coerce—time between the realms to remain stable. Apparently, being in Oberon’s care screwed that one to hell. At least a year hadn’t passed.

  “Stay, then. I’m sure your troupe would love not having to switch sites every week.”

  He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that. Can’t work like that. There are rules.”

  “There are always rules.”

  “We can’t stay in one place for too long without risking exposure. And we’re already running low on patrons for the show. If we don’t move soon, we’re toast. And if we move, Viv is no longer under our protection. She isn’t safe.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t be here flirting with me,” I reply. “You should be figuring out how to continue protecting her.”

  “That’s your job,” he says. “I’ve already done my part.”

  I turn on him. I’ve already ripped him a new one for doing his part to my mother, but I want to again. I want to rip him open until his guts are strewn about my room. Metaphorically and maybe a little literally.

  “Why the fuck are you here, Kingston? To whine? Because I brought your ex into your show? Because I’m forcing you to see the consequence of your actions?”

  I grab a rapier from the cabinet and shove it into my other hip as I speak, the magic unraveling into my flesh. A small part of me had hoped it would pierce; I want to feel the pain. Strike that; I want him to feel it.

  “I’m here because she can’t stay with us. Not for much longer,” he says. “You need to take her.”

  �
��Where? To Winter? She can’t come here, and I’m not about to go under Mab’s nose on this one. Not with what’s at stake.”

  His eyes narrow.

  “You let Mab move you without even questioning it. Did it ever strike you that she won’t allow Vivienne in Winter because she would rather use her to hurt me?”

  “Get over yourself. This has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me. Just as it has everything to do with you. Mab’s punishing us.”

  “You really have a victim complex, you know that?”

  “Live with Mab as long as I have, and you would as well.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not an idiot. I didn’t sign any immortality clause. Still mortal. Still have an easy way out.”

  “That’s nihilistic.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  And that’s when it hits me, like a punch to the gut. My mother’s no longer under Mab’s contract, no longer immortal—her soul, or whatever, supposedly goes back to Oberon the moment she dies. But if Mab were to reemploy her, she’d be safe. Oberon wouldn’t be able to touch her. Ever. Maybe that’s the way out. If she becomes immortal, her powers can’t kill her. I could still get her to track down the Pale Queen. I could still . . .

  You honestly think Mab didn’t already consider that?

  “How long until your magic fades enough for her powers to come back?”

  He shrugs uncomfortably and looks away. “A week. Maybe more, maybe less. It’s not something I can predict. Some memories flare stronger than others, and they burn through the magic faster.”

  “And then?”

  “She dies. I keep trying to tell you this. She won’t become the Oracle again. She’s just going to burn out and die.”

  “Mab said her powers would come back.”

  “Mab doesn’t know the situation like I do.” He looks to me. “It’s not just that, though. We don’t have a week.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Melody’s sick.”

  “She’s not sick,” I say. “She’s old. And dying.”

  Again, the tightness in his eyes, telling me I hit my mark.