Poison Kiss

by Ana Mardoll

  "So we still don't know why the portals are forming or how to stop them," I murmur, feeling dejected. "His best guess was that the three altereds yesterday passed through a kind of magical desert, making the portals easier to form. We're back to taking shifts of looking out the windows and being ready to run, while we wait and see whether or not it keeps happening."

  "Which is untenable, yeah," Lavender agrees with a nod. "But, look, I've been thinking. Celia keeps saying we have four portals to explain, but we don't; we really only have three. We can set aside the magma one. He's explained already that he was coming over to look for Clarent."

  "She said it was an amazing coincidence for him to tumble out right on top of us," I point out.

  Lavender nods. "I have a theory for that, though. The hunters have a sense for fae magic, right? There were seven of us in the area: you and me and Clarent in the car, and Dakota, Celia, and Lily in the house with Tox. That's a lot of altereds gathered in one place. If the hunter was looking for Clarent but didn't know where he was, wouldn't that be a logical place to check?"

  I frown, considering this. "You think he chose his portal location based on the concentration of fae magic on the other side?"

  "Yes! Even if Clarent hadn't been there, it was still a good place to start. If any of the altereds knew Clarent—which we did—they would have been able to tell the hunter where next to look. He was strong; it would have been easy for him to take the information he needed. Maybe resources, too; a cellphone with Clarent's number in it, or a car to drive around in while hunting him. That's a more efficient hunting technique than just traipsing randomly around the city, isn't it?"

  "That makes sense," Clarent agrees, giving her a warm smile. "So now we're down to just the three?"

  She flashes him an approving grin. "Yup. And the big mystery with those three, besides their sheer number, is that Celia and Hermit said the portals have to be paid for in magic. Right?"

  Clarent nods at this. "Either from the mind or the body or both, as long as it all adds up."

  Lavender nods briskly, her green eyes intense. "So who is to say that the magic isn't being paid for by a faery? Celia keeps saying that the three yesterday didn't seem to pay. They didn't have the necessary intent and didn't lose their magic. So why couldn't someone else have paid?"

  "You think a faery is helping people to escape?" I ask slowly, my eyes widening with disbelief.

  Her gaze softens. "Rose. Sorry, but... do you remember when we over there, how the May Queen would use you Nightshades to get rid of another faery's favorite toys? They'd visit and one of you would be sent to take out the head valet, or the best guard, or their handsomest lover?"

  A lump forms in my throat and Clarent hugs me closer. "I remember," I whisper.

  Lavender looks pained at forcing me to relive old memories but she continues. "Okay, so what if a faery wanted to get rid of their rival's best servants, but for various reasons those servants couldn't be easily killed? An assassin couldn't get near Tox, and that bear-woman was pretty dangerous. Maybe it was easier to just spend a little magic and dump them over here."

  Clarent frowns. "I don't think that I'm particularly hard to kill," he admits, his voice solemn.

  Her lips quirk in amusement at the admission. "Maybe not, but you were locked up safe and sound in your castle. Then, the minute you're taken outside, boom! You're sent over, and the High King is poorer for it."

  She turns bright eyes on me. "And then this faery pops them out near one of us; you and me, Clarent or Kieran or whoever. What's going to happen? We kill each other or we become friends. In either case, the faery who's just lost a servant is going to have a harder time recovering them."

  "So the theory is," I say slowly, catching my breath as I roll the idea around in my mind, "that one or more faeries are providing the magic necessary to power these portals, and they're sending powerful altereds over as a sort of... industrial sabotage? If they can't kill the altered, or steal them for themselves, they can at least put them out of the reach of their master?"

  Lavender claps her hands. "Yes. And if that's the case, then we don't really need to 'stop' the portals. We have to be careful, because we don't want to get hurt by a dangerous or confused escapee, but it's a good thing that they're being sent over. And since we won't need to kill anyone, you don't have to stay deadly. Clarent can change you—"

  The door opens again and Celia strides out, her face an unreadable mask. Behind her, Oracle lingers on the threshold, looking forlorn in the dim loneliness of her rooms. "I've got your number," Oracle reminds Celia, nodding when she sees us. "I hope you can come again sometime," she adds sadly to us. She closes the door and the four of us are on our own.

  "Well?" Lavender demands, shooting Celia a hostile look.

  Celia remains unruffled. "Hermit announced he was going to take a nap," she reports in a mild tone. "Either he doesn't have anything more to offer, or his need for secrecy outweighs his desire for social contact. There's also the possibility that he knows more but can't remember; I think his extended stay over here is affecting his mental state. Oracle promised to call if he lets slip anything important."

  Lavender doesn't back down. "I'm more interested in your secrets right now," she says, her tone blunt. "You're a hunter? And you're letting faeries run around town?"

  Celia runs a hand over her long braid, leaning against the metal door. "Hermit and Oracle are a unique case. When he destroyed his body to take over hers, he lost everything: his estates, his servants, and potentially his life, if the other faeries find him and realize what he is. Above all else, he wants to survive, but she's making that very difficult. She's depressed and suicidal. Right now he's the only thing keeping them alive, by virtue of making sure food gets into their body."

  Lavender blanches but stands her ground. "He's also a faery," she points out. "They're dangerous."

  Celia fixes her with a weary look. "Hermit has been rendered harmless," she declares firmly. "He's rude and annoying, but his magic has been reduced to a fraction of what it once was. I won't kill an innocent girl simply because she's been possessed by an asshole. And I don't dare integrate them into the community for fear that someone with fewer scruples will consider her acceptable collateral damage. So I'd take it as a kindness if you didn't spread the word around."

  Lavender looks away in frustration, unable to meet her eyes any longer.

  Clarent clears his throat softly, still holding me in his arms. "Can I ask what's all this about hunting?" he says, his low voice polite and casual.

  "You kept it a secret from us?" I ask Celia, looking up at her. The numbness has returned, edging out my earlier sadness and holding Lavender's anger at bay.

  "It's not a secret," Celia says. Her calm expression doesn't change but her eyes are suddenly very sad. "It's just not something we volunteer to everyone fresh out of the otherworld. No reason to spook people right off the bat."

  "That's why you know so much about the portals, isn't it?" Lavender asks, her voice bitter. "That's how you're able to find them when they open and to track down fresh escapees for the community. You used to do the same kind of hunting for the faeries."

  Celia runs a hand over her braid again. "Mmhmm. The finders took me because they sensed I had a knack for it. They shop around like that sometimes; pick people on the basis of specific latent talents they want to draw out. Hunters are special, because they need us to navigate the human world while searching for escapees to bring back. They're more selective about which memories they take, and they set us up with seed money to fund hunting expenses."

  She's quiet for a moment, lost in her recollections. "Pretty sure I had just turned thirty when they took me. Pulled my name, my family, and most of my childhood out of my head. Set me to hunting for a few years. Didn't enjoy it," she adds with a glance at Lavender.

  "Couldn't you run away?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. The faces of dead men flash through my memory, the sensation of being trapped rising in my chest.
"We didn't know there was anywhere to escape to, but you were earthside when you were hunting. Why didn't you just... not go back there?"

  Celia closes her eyes. "They're not stupid," she murmurs. Her voice is as calm as ever, but pain flashes over her face. "We're assigned buddies, held in chains against our return. If we escape, our counterpart suffers for it. It's a very motivating system, especially when they select someone they know you care about."

  I drop my gaze from her face, feeling intensely guilty for prying. Who am I to question what she's done in the past? She's only ever been kind to us, and it isn't my place to demand to know her personal demons. Removing myself gently from Clarent's embrace, I step forward and wrap my arms around her in a tentative hug.

  Her eyes fly open in surprise, and one hand comes up to pat my hair awkwardly. "Uh, thank you, Rose," she says, disentangling from me after only a moment.

  Lavender watches her with wary eyes but slowly the air around us turns softer, touched with the sunny hints of marigold and fond amusement. "Okay, okay," she concedes, a wry grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "I guess we all have pasts. Sorry I got touchy with you; I think Hermit took all my patience for the day." She doesn't hug Celia but she offers her a friendly fist-bump.

  Clarent watches all this with gentle patience before clearing his throat again. "Ah, sorry," he says politely. "I asked because if you were a hunter once, does that mean you can tell us how to avoid them?"

  Celia gives him an approving nod. "Yeah. I was telling these two earlier, though I reckon that was when you were entertaining Tox. Hunters aren't invincible or omniscient. They're good at tracking fae magic, but they can be tricked or outrun or killed just like any other altered."

  Lavender leans against the nearby railing, more at ease now. "We killed the last one," she points out reasonably. "And you mentioned that the faeries usually lose interest pretty soon. So how long do we need to lie low for—a week? A month? How many more do you expect they'll send?"

  Any lingering pain in Celia's face is pushed away to make room for more practical concerns. "Well, it'll partly depend on how many hunters they have," she muses calmly. "A lot of them don't bother keeping even one hunter, let alone multiple. You have to understand: they don't like losing their property, but most of the time it's not worth it to bring anyone back. It's a question of investment."

  She extends her hand, ticking off costs on her fingers. "First you've got to acquire a hunter. You can pick anyone off the street, but if you want a good one you'll need to find somebody with a latent ability for sensing and manipulating fae magic, so they can open portals and track their targets. Then you feed and clothe and keep your hunter on standby against the statistical probability that one altered in dozens will eventually make a successful run. Then you send your hunter out and hope they come back; even if you've taken every precaution against their own inclination to escape, you can't be certain they won't get shot or stabbed."

  Lavender's eyes flash with grim amusement. "Oh, I do hope the hunter we killed was expensive," she murmurs.

  "Very likely," Celia says, her voice dry. "And when they do bring an escapee back from our world, what do you do with your newly-retrieved property? Whether you put them back to work or punish them as an example to the others, the rest of your workforce learns there's somewhere to escape to. More people run, because now they know there's somewhere to run to that isn't the same old nightmare ruled by a different faery. And more of those runners are able to open portals now that they know there's another world out there. You're not just dealing with unconscious intent at that point; you've got a potential riot on your hands."

  "So why do they keep hunters at all, then?" I ask. "If the system is so inefficient, why not just accept the loss when one of us gets away?"

  Celia shrugs. "Some of them do," she says simply. "But they aren't any more inherently logical than we are. Some want revenge and are willing to pay for it; for others it's an expensive sport or a hobby, something they subsidize with their time and resources. It depends on the individual faery. What do you think, Clarent? Did your High King go in for much hunting?"

  He considers this. "He liked to hunt deer and foxes," he says slowly. "Boars, too, and the occasional bear. I don't know that he ever hunted out here, though; but of course I didn't know earthside existed."

  I imagine the High King on a horse, hunting animals in his forest. Unless his earthside hunters could supply them, neither the horse nor the hunted would be real animals; they'd be humans he'd changed, using Clarent as part of the process. I frown at the mental image of red foxes and brown deer, something not quite adding up. "Doesn't it seem strange that an Arthurian faery would employ a man made of magma?" I look at Celia. "You said hunters have to be kept, right? Does living stone and fire really fit that aesthetic?"

  Lavender's brow furrows, considering this. "Maybe he was supposed to be a demon?" she asks. "Like Christian quests and holy grails and medieval imagery?"

  Celia looks thoughtful, tapping her boot against the wall. "I've seen better demons," she mutters. "And we still don't know if the High King is the one who sent that hunter. It's just a guess." She sighs. "All of which adds up to this: I don't know how many hunters might be sent after you, nor how long you might need to lie low. I do know that your best defense right now is in numbers. The next hunter might be forewarned about Rose's poison and my arrows, but might not be prepared for some of the tricks the rest of us have up our sleeves. We're stronger as a group."

  "We've got that meeting tonight," Lavender says, looking thoughtful. "Could we ask for volunteers? People who might be willing to stay with us for a few days, in some kind of rotation?"

  Celia nods. "I think that's a good idea," she says, turning it over in her head. "We've got quite a few folks who are good in a stand-up fight, as well as some sneaky bastards and the occasional faery-killer like you, Rose. No offense."

  I manage a wan smile, trying to be strong for Clarent and Lavs. "None taken," I murmur. Trying to turn the pain into a joke, I add, "Though you've hurt my ego. I thought I was special."

  She gives me a rare smile. "You're reasonably special," she affirms solemnly, not quite teasing me. "We've got a couple of hundred altereds in the area, and I'm hoping we can pull in at least half of those for the meeting tonight. Out of that, maybe a dozen or so have taken down a faery. It's a fairly exclusive group."

  "The more the better," Lavender declares, setting her teeth and looking grim.

  Celia kicks off the wall, gesturing for us to follow her down to the truck. "I'll probably ask Kieran to help," she muses as we walk. "Elric is gonna pitch a fit, of course. I think they're due for another reconciliation after he saw Kieran wounded like that, so he's not going to be thrilled at my yanking his boyfriend to ask that he move in with you kids for a few days. Oh well. I pity the next altered he has to name, though; you got off lucky, Rosalie Flowers. And I still can't believe he thought Smith was clever."

  "Out of curiosity, what did he name you?" Clarent asks, tilting his head at her.

  She fixes him with dark, serious eyes. "Cecily Hunter," she growls.

  The fact that Celia does not look like a 'Cecily' hangs unspoken in the air around us. "Yeah," she says shortly, acknowledging our expressions. "So I don't feel too bad interrupting his playtime when it's necessary. Shame for Kieran, though."

  Chapter 24

  There is a little church on the northern outskirts of the metroplex, roughly equidistant from everyone so that the gatherings are equally inconvenient for us all. The building is big, with an attached gymnasium, but the church membership is small and dwindling: mostly elderly couples whose children have grown up and moved away. Celia is allowed to rent space for our meetings, as the church needs money to keep the lights on and the water running. She's told them we play bingo, which is apparently traditional enough to allow us the use of the gym but scandalous enough to keep the conservative congregation away from any hint of gambling.

  Very rarely, a stray human
will show up to attend the event despite our complete lack of advertisement, but Celia has guards posted outside checking everyone in as they arrive. The guards have a variety of compelling excuses for refusing entry to the humans: our seating is limited, reservations must be made in advance, and the interloper wouldn't fit in with our tight-knit group anyway. Since the guards are an assortment of escaped sirens, rusalki, and loreleis, the humans tend to believe what they're told and rarely come back. Once the meeting begins we lock the doors and pull down the shades, and for the next few hours we can enjoy just being ourselves in a community.

  The church sign labels itself a tabernacle but the reality is less grand. The building is old and neglected, the grass neatly trimmed but dying. The red brick is faded and chipped, and the stained-glass windows on the front are in dire need of cleaning. I think the windows are supposed to cast pretty rainbows but the pictures are depressing, the stylized depictions of torture triggering bad memories. At any rate our rental agreement only covers the gym, which is far from the colorful windows and faded carpeting; we can eat and drink there without worrying about the occasional spill.

  When we walk in there are already tables set up with snacks, and hundreds of church folding chairs placed in neat rows. A podium has been wheeled to the front of the room alongside a single row of chairs that face the audience. Celia gestures for us to take a seat at the front, then immediately finds herself moderating a fierce argument between Dakota and Elric.

  "Ugh, I don't want to sit up front," Lavender grumbles, echoing my own thoughts on the matter.

  "You know it'll just be worse if we argue," I point out.

  "Is it always so crowded?" Clarent asks, staring around the room in mild astonishment at the people milling about; a hundred at least, so far.

  I twist my head with him, counting up who I know and who is still a stranger to me. Kieran drifts around the nearby buffet table, one eye constantly on Elric without making his interest too obvious. I notice that the burly fighter now has a sharp-looking machete strapped to his back. He ought to look ridiculous but considering that the last time I saw him he'd just been mauled by a bear, I suppose he felt a few extra precautions were in order.