by A. R. Kahler
“Get ahold of yourself,” I mutter.
I turn to my door and run my hand along the doorframe, funneling a small amount of power into the magic embedded in the stone. Glyphs flare to life under my fingertips, and I feel the magic race through my room, sealing off all the exits, rendering any magic used inside moot. It’s a dangerous magic, but I made it so only I can trigger it—otherwise I know Mab would use it against me. Hell, she’s the one I learned it from as a kid. Had to keep me in line somehow.
Once I know Roxie’s safe and secure, I turn and stalk off down the hall. I know Pan will want to chat, and I definitely know Mab will expect a debrief. But they’re both used to my nature—I’ve never been the most talkative after a hit. At least my years of being a hermit have helped with something.
The joys of living in an enchanted castle are many, but the main one is the ease with which you can escape. Getting around inside? Tricky as sin. But getting out is cake.
One door later and I’m outside, in one of the many back alleys that stretch out from the castle wall like a spiderweb. I can’t get Roxie out of my mind as I head toward the bar. I try every trick I’ve been taught, every meditative practice and mantra. I even try jabbing my finger with a dagger to focus on the pain. But it doesn’t work. As I trek through the cold streets of Winter, all I can think about is her curled up on my sofa, her changing into my pajamas, her wondering what’s to become of the rest of her life.
I should be focusing on the job at hand. On the logistics. Someone out there is clearly funneling Dream, and they’re not afraid to be bold in their strokes. They’re infiltrating our usual sources and creating new ones—big hitters. So whoever this is isn’t interested in hiding. They want to make an impression. They want to show they mean business.
I should care. I should be worried. Or plotting. Or actually giving a shit about who is behind all of this. But I don’t. I can only think about Roxie. And as everything else in my life feels like it’s falling apart, I can’t help but admit that I like it.
The Lewd Unicorn’s pretty dead for this time of night, not that any of the other bars along the strip are faring any better. Now that I know just how dire Winter’s resources are, I can’t help but feel a sort of desperation here—the need to forget what you can’t afford to waste. I wonder how many of the citizens here are actually feeling the pinch, or if Mab’s keeping up a lavish air right up to the very last drop of Dream.
In any case, the regulars are still there, all lined up at Celeste’s bar. The place has a cozy sort of feel to it, as cozy as you can get when your building materials are ice and onyx. Everything in here is smooth black stone laced with veins of crystal and silver. From the bar to the floor to the twisted columns supporting the ceiling, it all glitters like a disco paradise. Purple light comes from icy chandeliers that drip from the ceiling, but even that light is mainly there to cast shadows for Winter denizens to hide in.
Celeste perks up the moment I step in. You’d think that for a glowing ball of light she’d be a shit bartender, but her skills are renowned throughout Faerie. She’s simultaneously mixing a cocktail and pouring some draft Dream as I walk up to the bar—she uses some sort of telekinesis, which makes the bar look like it’s haunted when she’s really slammed.
“Claire!” she calls out, hovering toward me. “How’s it going?”
“Royally,” I reply. Which is shorthand for royally screwed.
“That good, huh?” she asks. Oddly for a tiny ball of light, she doesn’t have one of those Tinker Bell helium voices—it’s deep and sultry and sounds exactly the opposite of what you’d expect. As with all things in Faerie, appearances are deceptive.
“That good.”
I settle onto one of the stools and cross my arms, resting my forehead atop them. The bar top doesn’t smell like stale alcohol—it smells minty, almost.
“Well then, you definitely need a drink. On the house,” she says. I don’t look up at the clink of glass, nor do I glance at the patrons on either side. I recognize all of them, and like me, they’re often at this bar because they don’t want small talk, unless it’s with Celeste.
“Make it a Daydreamer,” I mutter.
The glass stops clinking.
“Seriously?” she asks. I can feel the regulars staring at me, or maybe it’s just my imagination.
“Seriously,” I reply.
“Okay. But you know what happened last time.”
“Only because you told me after,” I say, grinning into my hands in spite of myself. Apparently it had involved dancing naked outside before picking a fight with a brood of vampires. And then trying to make out with one of them.
A few seconds later there’s the familiar clink of glass on onyx, and I look up to the tumbler sitting before me. It’s the rich amber of bourbon, but there’s something else dancing inside of it, a thread of blue and purple that glows but never coalesces.
As I said, she keeps the bourbon especially for me. The Dream is top-shelf shit. Combined, the two pretty much guarantee that Roxie will no longer be on my mind. I’ll be flying. Maybe literally.
“Do you need to talk?”
Celeste’s voice resonates inside my head. She’s at the other end of the bar, pouring shots of green Dream for a group of punk dryads that just walked in, their bark branded with tattoos and their leather jackets roughly tanned skin. Another reason she’s a good bartender; she can converse with everyone in the bar at the same time, and no one would be the wiser.
Just a rough night, I think back to her. And it’s not going to get any better for a while.
“I know how you feel,” she replies. “It’s starting to feel like the Dark Ages all over again. What happened?”
I brought back a straggler.
There’s a pause, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s focusing on the dryads or because she doesn’t know how to answer that. We all know how well having humans in Winter goes over; they’re usually just brought in for food or cheap—albeit short-lived—entertainment.
“Why?” she finally asks.
I take a small sip of the drink. The bourbon burns sweetly. Dream sparks against my tongue and sends images of lounging on a white sand beach through my mind, the smell of salt in the air and the waves a relaxing rhythm. That’s the magic of Dream. To the Fey, it’s food. To mortals, it’s a really vivid hallucination. It could be anything—flight, fame, even fear if you’re twisted enough. It’s been ages since I’ve seen her break out beach Dream for anyone. I must look worse than I feel.
She was in trouble, I reply, mentally stretching myself out in the lounge chair. I don’t know, but I felt like I should save her. Then, as an afterthought and clearly not fast enough to pretend it was otherwise, I add, And I think I can use her to track down my next hit.
“Sounds dangerous.” She hovers over and pours more bourbon into my glass. “Mixing romance and business is never a good thing. Especially in your line of work.”
I never said anything about romance.
“You didn’t need to.”
I don’t have a response to that. Thankfully, she doesn’t expect it. I take another, bigger drink and let myself float in a world of blue skies and warmth. I need a real vacation. One with poolside-drink service. And cute cabana boys. And no worries about whether or not an entire kingdom is going to fall down around me if I don’t play Little Miss Supersleuth. I force that thought aside and try to focus on the Dream—the shit’s expensive and in short supply, and I don’t want to waste it to worry. The heat is decadent, even if illusory. I can feel the stress I’ve built up slowly ebb away with the surge of the tide . . .
“Am I interrupting something?”
Eli’s voice crashes me back into the bar, where I’m sitting with a ridiculous grin on my face and my arms stretched over the bar top like I’m trying to expose as much surface area to those imaginary rays as possible. This is why I comb
ine Dream with alcohol—ideally, by the time the Dream wears off, I’m so blazed I don’t actually notice the transition to reality, or care what sort of fool I made of myself under its influence. Flying Dream is the worst. I’ve broken many bones—mine and others’—that way.
I grunt and sit up straighter as he sidles onto the stool beside me.
“Finished with your drummer already?” I ask.
He nods and graciously accepts the drink of yellow Dream Celeste slides over to him.
“Put it on my tab,” I say. Not that Eli’s ever set a precedent of paying for his own drinks. It’s my way of paying him back for, you know, being summoned and held here mostly against his will.
“So,” he says after a moment. “How’s our damsel in distress taking it?”
I take a sip of my drink and fight off the beach scene, which is ridiculously hard because it’s ridiculously tempting. I’m definitely starting to feel the second bourbon. I also don’t give a shit. Tonight’s a night for obliteration.
“Managing,” I reply.
“You like her,” he says bluntly.
“I’m intrigued.” It’s almost a lie, but there’s enough truth in it to convince myself. “And protective; she’s the best lead we’ve got.”
“She’s a mortal. She won’t know what’s going on, and unless you’re planning on dangling her like bait in the mortal world, you’re wasting your time. No one’s going to try and get her while she’s in Winter. So don’t try that utilitarian BS on me.”
I sigh. “I know. I know. I panicked or something. But unless you have another idea, this is what we’re doing.”
He downs the Dream in a single drink and shudders happily.
“I’m just the sidekick,” he says. “You don’t pay me enough to have ideas.” Another drink slides across the bar toward him. He grabs it and brings it to his lips. “But, if you did, I’d tell you that you can’t keep her here. Even if Mab was okay with it. The girl can’t grow soft, and she can’t think she’s safe. Take her back to the human world and let her see firsthand what sort of shit she’s gotten herself into. A few threats on her life will get her talking.”
“And if she doesn’t know anything?”
“Then we get some fun out of her.” He takes a drink. “Besides, eventually, you kill enough of the cannon fodder and the boss will reveal himself. Or someone who knows the boss. You just gotta get through the underlings first. It’s a waiting game.”
“I’m not going to say that’s brilliant. But it doesn’t suck.”
“I try.”
“One problem: I’m not about to sit around and babysit for the next few weeks. I’m still on a job. Mab’s convinced we don’t have much time.”
“So find someone you can trust to watch her while we go about our dirty work.” He finishes the drink.
“I don’t trust anyone,” I reply. “Why else do you think I’m working with you?”
Roxie’s fast asleep by the time I stumble in. Against expectations, I didn’t have more than two drinks at Celeste’s—as much as I wanted to lose myself, a part of me kept a firm grip on reality for fear of what I’d do if I let go. As for Eli, he was back in the mortal world, probably lingering in the drummer’s hotel room and playing with his meal. Draining someone’s soul didn’t necessarily equate to death, unless the demon was careless. And I know that Eli is far from careless; he’d have known he’d need a place to stay and a distraction for his sleepless night. He’s not allowed in Mab’s castle. Period. Something about not letting the dogs in.
I stand there watching Roxie sleep for a while, partly feeling like it’s sweet and partly feeling creepy, depending on the wave of inebriation. She’s changed into the pajamas, which miraculously fit her, and is curled up on her side on the giant leather sofa, a fire smoldering in the hearth. For the first time since we burst into her tour bus, she looks peaceful. And I know that’s a stupid observation because everyone looks peaceful when they’re sleeping, but she seriously looks like slumber might be the only time she isn’t trying to run from something.
Can Mab feel Roxie’s presence? Faeries don’t dream, which is part of the reason they need ours, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve been sleeping with talismans and dream catchers that snare and funnel my nighttime dreams to Mab. Always in service, even while asleep. Roxie’s wayward dreams can probably be tasted for miles. Another reason I can’t keep her here. Summer and the unclaimed may be unable to reach Mab’s domain, but that doesn’t mean Winter Fey won’t be tempted to grab her for themselves.
There aren’t any regulations or safeguards for humans in Faerie. As far as anyone’s concerned, mortals are trespassers, and they’re to be dealt with however the Fey wish. Usually not in a way the humans appreciate for long.
Why do you want to protect her? I ask for the hundredth time tonight. And, for the hundredth time, I don’t have an answer. I just do. I want to feel like the good guy for once. Maybe it’s the alcohol and lingering Dream, but there’s something about having her here that makes me feel the flicker of possibility, one I’ve never dared entertain before. A normal life. A mortal life. With a partner and a family and what the hell am I even thinking right now? I’m not falling for her. She’s not my type.
Damn it, Claire, you’re drunk. And you always do stupid things when you’re drunk. Remember that group of shape-shifters in Manhattan?
I take a breath and calm my thoughts. It’s just the enchantments surrounding her. It’s just my intense desire to not be dealing with all of Mab’s shit—Roxie’s a nice little distraction, and I need to remember that that’s all she’ll ever be. Protecting her is just part of the process, rather than the end result.
She must feel me watching, because she murmurs and rolls over, pulling the blanket tighter. It takes all my self-control not to walk over and brush her hair from her eyes. But that would definitely jump the line into creepy territory.
Before I can pull that card, I turn and head into my bedroom. I keep the door open. Just in case I’m needed.
By some magical coincidence, I’m up before Roxie the next morning. I amble into the kitchen and grab some eggs from the fridge. Obviously, there aren’t any farms or groceries in Faerie, seeing as I’m the only resident who actually eats anything, so I have to import from the human world. But I think everything’s fresh. Ish.
I brew some lackluster coffee and scramble the eggs and about halfway through, Roxie shuffles in.
“Breakfast?” she asks.
“Gotta keep my hostage happy,” I say, flashing her a smile.
Clearly she doesn’t catch the humor.
“How long are you planning on keeping me here?” she asks. I can hear the subtext: Will I see my world again? Will I have a normal life?
“Until you’ve cleaned your plate.” I stir the eggs with the spatula. “Like I said last night, I just brought you here to keep you safe while we figured out what to do with you. You’re not a hostage.”
“And you’ve figured out what to do with me, have you? I appreciate you collaborating.”
Ooh, sarcasm. Someone needs her morning coffee.
“You kind of gave up your negotiating rights when you signed your life away,” I say. I know it’s a low blow, but I’m not in the mood today. Not like I’m ever in the mood to feel guilty. Still, I appreciate that she has a bit of backbone left in her. She’ll need it. “You’ll be happy to know that you’re going back home. Wherever your home actually is.”
She steps farther into the kitchen, and I hate how it’s like she’s practiced this—entering a kitchen in someone else’s pajamas, looking tired and beautiful at the same maddening time. I turn back to the eggs and scrape them onto some plates before they burn. I hand her a plate and mug.
“It’s not gourmet,” I say when she takes them. “But it won’t kill you, either. Hopefully.”
I grab my own food and head into
the living room, collapsing on one of the leather armchairs.
“So,” I say when she settles across from me. She does so delicately, cross-legged, her plate balanced in her lap. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Is this an interrogation?” She’s smiling while she says it, though. Clearly her anger is short-lived. Either that or my cooking’s better than I thought.
“Definitely. The fingerprinting comes after.”
She chuckles, which is a good sign since that was clearly a shitty joke. “What do you want to know?”
I shouldn’t be playing getting-to-know-you games right now, but I’m starting to realize everything surrounding Roxie is one big shouldn’t. I can’t actually remember the last time I had a conversation with someone that wasn’t about killing, which means I have no clue how to navigate this sort of congenial small talk. But I’ve watched plenty of mortals interact. I can fake it.
“Why singing, for one thing? I mean, what made you want that lifestyle so much that you’d give up so much for it?”
She raises an eyebrow at me over her mug. “For one thing, that was a figure of speech I didn’t expect anyone to take literally. That aside, haven’t you ever had a dream you’d do anything to achieve?”
I honestly haven’t, but thankfully she’s not looking for a response because she just keeps talking.
“That was singing for me. I was lucky. My parents supported me all through school. I had to work for it, but they helped send me to private lessons, supported me through college. Singing was my everything. Trouble was, they were the only ones who seemed to believe in me. No matter where I went or what I tried, I couldn’t get a gig. Tried starting my own band three times before going solo, but even then it wasn’t easy. And, well, you know the rest.”
