by A. R. Kahler
“The beginning?” he asks. “As in, when the Fey first appeared, or when humans appeared?”
“They were the same,” she says. “Humans and Fey have always lived symbiotically—their Dreams fed us, and our magic fed their world. And so, when there was no order, the worlds of Faerie and Mortal were a mess. It was from this chaos that Mab and Oberon appeared. They crafted their kingdoms and crafted the balance. And when Faerie became whole, so, too, did the mortal world. As payment for this great act, Oberon and Mab declared themselves rulers and set up the parameters for the Trade. Those who sought refuge within their kingdoms did so because they knew the cost of losing the balance. They knew how necessary Mab and Oberon were to keeping order. Without Summer and Winter, the mortal world would collapse. And so we partake in the Trade. To sustain ourselves, and to sustain the worlds.”
“How noble,” Eli says. He taps the bar absently, as if he’s hoping for another drink we both know will never come. “A life of servitude so others may live. No wonder so many of you are jumping ship.”
“Eli—” I begin, but he stands and cuts me off.
“I’ll be going, now. Thank you for that history lesson. As always, she will pay my tab. In Dream.”
He shakes his head and walks out of the bar.
For a moment, Celeste and I just sit there in stunned silence.
“What was that about?” she asks.
“I have no idea,” I mutter. “But I apologize for it.”
“Astral creatures,” she says, and I can practically feel her raising her hands in disdain.
I stand and follow Eli out of the bar. It’s only when I’m outside and jogging to catch up to him that I realize I hadn’t even touched the bourbon.
“What the hell is up your ass?” I yell.
He doesn’t stop. Just walks a little faster, his cane tapping in the empty silence of the street.
I don’t think. I grab the nearest thing I can find in my jacket and throw it at him.
When the dagger lodges between his ribs, he stops. Then he unhinges his arm, twists his free hand around his back, and pulls the blade from his skin. There’s no blood, of course. And by the time I reach him, his suit is already restitched.
“That,” he says, turning to face me, “was very rude.”
“So is what you just pulled.” I hold out my hand for the dagger—this one was enchanted to poison Summer Fey. He’s lucky the blades for astral assholes are in my boots. But he doesn’t hand it back. Instead, his eyes glow brighter blue as he folds the blade with one hand, the metal instantly flaring white-hot. It drips through his fingers and steams against the snow. “What was that about?” I ask.
“That was for you,” he replies. He shakes the last of the metal from his hand and pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe away the final traces. Naked men and women twine around each other like scandalous Celtic knot work on the fabric. Classy to the core, he is.
“For me? You treat Celeste like shit and say it was for me?”
“That history lesson was necessary,” he says. “You needed to understand just how ridiculous the Trade is.”
“Why?”
“Because you are risking your life for a system that doesn’t work. Do you not hear yourself? Go after Oberon, try to kill him. Find the ‘On’ switch to your mother’s powers to find and fight the Pale Queen, even though we don’t stand a chance against her. I understand that you are under contract, Claire. But what you are doing—”
“Speaking of contracts,” I interrupt, “you aren’t allowed to question me. Ever.”
“And I am not. I’m questioning your friends.”
I sigh. There’s no use arguing with immortals—they’ve been around longer, and for some reason that makes them believe they’re smarter.
“Why now? All of a sudden, why do you have a problem with what I’ve hired you to do? It’s always been about Dream, Eli. Every single hit has been to secure Mab’s hold on the Trade. And yet every time I summon you, you come back willingly.”
“Perhaps it’s because I enjoy your company,” he says.
I don’t answer. He folds up the handkerchief and places it back in his coat.
“Fine,” he finally says. “I am questioning because you need to be questioning.”
“I can’t.”
“But you should. Especially your motives. You are running headfirst into danger. You want to try and kill the Summer King even though we both know that is impossible. You are a mortal girl. You’re strong, and you’re a pain in the ass. But that doesn’t mean you can kill one of the most powerful Fey in this realm.”
“It’s the only way—”
“To ignore the real problem.” He takes a step forward, puts a hand on my shoulder. I think he’s trying to be comforting. All it does is come off as creepy.
“Eli.”
“You are hurting, Claire. It’s plain as poison. You are still torn up over Roxie, and now, paired with the appearance of your long-lost mother, you are doing everything you can to ignore it.”
I shove his hand away and seriously consider stabbing him again. I know it won’t do any good, but it would make me feel better.
“I’m not hurting.”
“Bullshit. You loved her. I know it.”
“I didn’t love her,” I hiss. “I don’t love anyone.”
“You can lie to me all you want. It won’t change what you feel. And right now, what you feel is interfering with what you should think. You’re an assassin, not some lovelorn teenager. If you want to kill the Pale Queen, you need to be thinking straight.”
“I am thinking straight. And I am doing something about it,” I say.
“Getting yourself killed by facing Oberon isn’t productive.”
“Do you have a better idea? Because if I spend one more minute in that damned circus, I will burn the place down.”
“I believe that’s been done before,” he mutters, but then he looks at me, all serious again. “You need to process. I don’t say this as a friend. I don’t even say this as someone who cares about your well-being. I say this as someone calculating your odds of success. You can’t kill the Summer King. You can’t keep him from going after your mother. You need to be thinking straight if you want to solve this. And that means facing what you don’t want to face.”
“Since when did you become a shrink?”
“I am serious, Claire. Everything you are doing will fail if you don’t face what Roxie has done to you, and what seeing your mother continues to do to you. You have always been a cold, heartless bitch. That is why I continually come back to work with you. Now, you are confused and emotional, and that is a dangerous combination on the battlefield.”
“You know,” I say, “I don’t think anyone has ever mansplained something to me and lived.”
He smiles and pats me on the back. “That’s the assassin I was hoping for.”
I punch him and start walking toward Winter’s exit. The tap of his cane tells me he follows close behind.
“Where are we going, then?” he asks as we leave the Unicorn’s alley.
“Getting you a meal,” I respond. “Hopefully when you’re fed you won’t be such an ass.”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t count on it. After all, we both know it’s the only reason you put up with me. That, and the sex.”
I shake my head. It’s times like this I’m grateful he has a one-track mind. Food and fucking.
My mind is similarly wired. Eli’s right; I am hurting, and no amount of sobbing in a tub with expensive whiskey will help. No amount of facing my past will help. I’ve lost Roxie. I’ve lost the hope that I could live a life even remotely resembling something normal and human. I’ve lost my mother—both the reunion I wanted to have and the future I’ll never get.
And that means it’s time to make someone else feel that loss.
I’m going to wake my mom’s powers up. And I am going to ensure that both the Pale Queen and Oberon pay the price.
Thirteen
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I feel strange making a portal back to my mother’s neighborhood. We step out into a dark night punctured by streetlamps and the distant glow of some unknown city. Once more I can’t find the slightest hint of familiarity. Then it strikes me—maybe this isn’t where I grew up. Maybe Mab relocated my family the moment I was taken. It would make sense; fewer emotional triggers, fewer memories to potentially haunt. Less chance I would ever find it.
The thought just makes me colder. If this isn’t where I grew up, where was it? And why does not knowing make me feel more adrift than it should?
“I must say, this is the last place I thought you’d lead me,” Eli says, interrupting my derailed train of thought.
Damn it, the guy’s right. Why am I worried about feeling alone when I have a job to do?
Pull. Yourself. Together.
“It’s as good a place as any,” I respond. I grab a butterfly knife in my pocket, let the cool tang of metal and magic root me down. I look to him and try to keep my face stony. “Or would you prefer something more exotic?”
“This will do,” he says. “I’m sure we can find some couple here who loves each other and isn’t just pretending for the neighbors.”
“I can’t believe you care so much about this.”
“I don’t. But you do. Consider this my lesson for the night: love makes you weak. And when you are weak, you are prey.”
Before he even finishes talking, he begins his stroll down the street. He doesn’t speak as I jog to catch up to him. He barely shifts his gaze from the road in front of him. But I know he’s searching for his next meal; there’s an alertness to him that reminds me of a hungry dog. We head down the street and around a few corners, getting deeper into the trenches of suburbia. It’s quiet as a tomb out here: no animals in the yard, no stray cars on the street, no teenagers ditching their curfew. I can hear myself think. And that’s not a good thing.
I look around at the rows and rows of houses, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe this isn’t so bad a life. Everything is quaint and peaceful . . . and weak. The only danger here is us.
This could have been your upbringing. This could have been your future. And I can’t fight off the thoughts that run through my exhausted mind: a younger me, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, using chalk for play and not for a weapon; teenage me, stealing cigarettes and smoking in alleys with a gang of friends I’d kill for. And Roxie. With her, I have no idea what I’m envisioning. Us living together? Or being friends, visiting every weekend for wine and movie nights? Talking about the guys or girls we were falling for, the supermodels we wanted to be or bone.
I’m so screwed up that I don’t even know how to categorize what I feel for her. Felt for her.
And none of that matters. Roxie is dead. I was weak. I will never play out that role again.
To do that, I have to give this up. I can’t be normal. I can’t have a life in suburbia. I can’t begin to understand how the human heart works beyond start and stop. I will always be the shadow in the street. I have to be okay with that.
Gods, it can’t be good when Eli—practically a demon—is the voice of reason.
He stops in front of a house just like every other.
“This is it,” he says, as though it should be a surprise. Of course this is it. He wouldn’t be stopping just for giggles.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Emotions are like magic. Each has a distinguishing trace. And this place reeks of true love. I’m surprised your ovaries aren’t melting.”
I glare at him. He ignores me. He walks up the sidewalk, his cane vanishing into shadow the moment he steps up to the front door. I don’t follow. I don’t watch him eat; it’s only polite.
“Are you coming?” he calls. I wince—his voice carries easily in the cool night air. But if anyone hears it, they don’t act on it.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He doesn’t move to open the door or teleport in, and after a few seconds I realize that he won’t budge until I’m at his side. He wasn’t joking—he wants this to be educational. I trudge up beside him.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“Because I’m hungry.”
He places a hand on the doorknob. There’s a faint click of magic as he turns the knob, and then he steps inside.
The place looks like a carbon copy of my parents’ house, but he doesn’t give me any time to ponder. He’s up the stairs like a wraith, his blue eyes casting trails of light over everything. I follow, just as silently, just as smoothly. It feels like a test to see if I can keep up. Whatever. If he thinks I’m going to flinch away from this, he doesn’t know me half as well as he thinks he does.
I hear them breathing before we even reach the bedroom door. Not that either of the sleeping couple are loud, but my senses are on fire from nerves and adrenaline. I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t want to see this. These are innocent people, about to die because Eli is greedy and wants a power boost. Whose side are you fighting for . . . the Fey, or humankind?
“Remember,” he whispers to me, clearly reading my thoughts, “I’m here because you summoned me. Their lives are in your hands.”
“You’re an asshole.”
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t move from the open doorway as he slips into the room. I don’t know how they haven’t woken up—the light from his eyes is blazing, the interior of the room glowing like an aquarium. Then he leans over the bed and inhales heavily.
“They’ve been together eight years,” he muses, his voice a low rumble. I try not to look at him, but I can’t help but glance over as he runs a finger along the smooth jaw of one sleeping guy. His partner—scruffy and dark-haired to his partner’s blond—mumbles something and rolls in closer, wrapping himself tighter in his lover’s embrace. “Recently married. Plan on having two kids.” Eli looks at me. I can’t see his face from the shadows his eyes make, but I can feel his cruel smile. “It’s amazing what they have gone through to come to this point, the battles they’ve fought. The family lost. Even now, their Eden isn’t perfect. There are many on this block who think these two are abominations. You can feel the hatred directed at this house. And yet, of everyone in this neighborhood, their love is the purest. Can’t you taste it? It’s like ambrosia.”
“We’re leaving,” I hiss. My stomach is in knots. I can’t do this. I can’t watch this. I can’t let these guys die. I turn to go, but Eli’s hand is on my shoulder before I can take a step.
“You. Will. Watch.” He doesn’t let go of me. He drags me over to the bed, and I want to scream. I want to wake these guys up, because they don’t deserve this. No one deserves this. But Eli is right—I can feel the energy here, the sanctuary they’ve carved in a place that doesn’t fully accept them. And I know why he’s chosen them. Not just for the love he says he craves to devour. But for that sense of shared isolation. I look down at their sleeping faces, and I know what they’ve gone through. I can feel it. I can empathize.
I don’t fit in, either, no matter how hard I try.
“This is what you want,” he says, his free hand stroking the curly-haired guy’s head. Magic filters through his touch, calming them, keeping them asleep. “You want that love. That home. You want to share your heart and feel that you are not alone. You want a future that is safe from the evils of the world. But that is the greatest lie of humanity, Claire. You are each alone. You will each die in your own time. That is why love is weakness. You cling to it and hope it will keep the darkness away. But the darkness always comes. And it’s creatures like you and me who bring it.”
His fingers clench on the guy’s hair, and the sleeping guy wakes with a start.
“Wha—what the—”
I barely see what happens next; Eli’s face grows pale, his jaw cracking open and elongating as his eyes burn even brighter. And then my eyes squeeze themselves shut, because not one part of me wants to see. I can’t block out the light. I can’t block out the man’s screams
as Eli inhales his soul.
It seems to last for hours, and it’s not just the man that I hear, it’s Eli—his voice in my head, his true voice, promising oblivion and despair, cold suns and burning moons, eternities of darkness and eons of bitter light. Every cell in my very human body trembles from the onslaught. Every inch of me wants to run and hide, wants to have never been born.
And then it stops.
I don’t open my eyes.
“I never pegged you for squeamish,” he says with a single short laugh. “No matter. He tasted delicious. I kind of like having you here. It feels . . . voyeuristic.”
“Get it over with.” I still don’t look. I don’t want to see the guy’s blank eyes. I’ve seen the aftermath of Eli’s feedings before. His victims don’t die. That’s the worst part.
“No,” he says. His hand loosens from my shoulder. “This one is yours.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask. I peer at him; his grin isn’t gone, but it’s serious.
“I demanded four souls. I didn’t say I would be the one to take each of them. I can take his postmortem, you know. It’s not as fresh, but it will still do the trick.” His voice drops. “Kill him.”
“No.”
And then I do look, and I want to gag, because the sleeping partner is still coiled around his lover, and the curly-haired guy is barely a vegetable now. Two minutes ago they were in love. They had hopes and dreams. And now . . .
“Do not for one second forget who and what you are,” Eli hisses. He points to the blond guy. “This man is your hit. You are the blade. You strike. You do not feel. You do not question.”
“But he hasn’t done anything.”
“And you have no proof that anyone else you’ve killed has, either,” Eli says. “All you have is the word of Mab. Perhaps the blood that stains your hands was that of the Fey, but how many mortals did you kill? How many times did you strike because someone was stealing your mother’s precious Dream? And how many times did you question if stealing Dream from Winter truly was a crime, in the long run, or if it was simply someone else’s greed?”
