Alone.
I struggled to my feet, picked a direction, and began walking. If they were out there, I decided, I would find them. I would find them, no matter how long it took, because I refused to dwell on any other possibility. I would find them. I would. I repeated that to myself over and over again in my head, so often and with such surety that I stopped paying attention to anything but the words. I shut out the surging storm, the whistling wind, and everything else that could remind me of where I was.
Until a familiar hand reached out to brush my face.
Chapter 27
My mother stood before me dressed as I’d always imagined her. She wore a flattering summer dress that rode her slender body and was tied at the waist with a brown leather belt. She was barefoot, and her hair—so like mine—cascaded down to the small of her back in gentle waves. She looked exactly right. Wholesome and lovely and welcoming.
Except for the eyes.
The eyes burned, tiny tongues of flame curling from the corners, trailing as she cocked her head. “You have finally returned,” she said, hand still pressed against my cheek.
I danced backwards so fast I nearly fell.
“It’s alright, Quinn,” she murmured, as if she were trying to stop me from running away, her palms held out in a calming gesture.
“How did I get here?” I asked. “Where’s Othello? Where’s Natasha? What have ye done to ‘em?”
My mother—or her ghost, I suppose you could say—shook her head. “I do not know what happened to your friends, but I expect they will be alright. The squall that guards the Road of Bones is meant to keep out those who have no purpose. No reason to move forward.”
“The what?” I asked, my heart still hammering away in my chest. I took a look around, recognizing the cosmic hallway in which we stood. She and I were suspended as we always were, on a glass surface so clear it might not have been glass at all. Far below, a red sun burned, casting faint, burgundy light on the nearest planets. On either side of us, windows defied gravity, hanging in mid-air, unopened as usual. I knew I was in the realm inhabited by my mother’s ghost, by the power she’d left behind. What I didn’t know was how, or why.
“The squall,” she repeated. “The storm which brought you here.”
I shook my head. “How could it bring me here? I don’t even know where here is.”
“That does not matter. This is the place you will always find when you dream, or when you are lost, if you wish. You haven’t let yourself dream of this place, or of me, but still you found it.”
“Send me back,” I said, through gritted teeth.
“I cannot. Only you can leave, and only once you are ready. Otherwise you will wander the squall forever, as so many have done.”
“What does that even mean, ‘when I’m ready’?” I threw up my hands. “I’m so tired of your cryptic bullshit. Why can’t ye just tell me what I want to know?”
My mother’s ghost smiled. “I have offered to tell you everything it is in my power to tell. But, the last time we spoke, you did not want to hear what I had to say.”
I turned away, staring down at that red sun as if it might fade away at any moment, leaving behind a hot, white core. She was right about one thing: I had been avoiding her. Avoiding this place. The last time I’d come, she’d told me the truth behind my impossible accent, claiming my mother had given it to me as a means to make Dez care for me. To love me unconditionally as her own daughter. I hadn’t taken it well. To be honest, I was as messed up about it now as I had been then. I mean, how would you feel if someone told you that your sole caretaker had been brainwashed into loving you?
“Did Dez ever really love me?” I asked, so softly I wasn’t sure whether I’d spoken out loud or not.
“That is not something I can answer,” my mother’s ghost replied.
“Then who can?” I demanded.
She hesitated, but something flitted across her face. Knowledge. An answer she didn’t want to give. I glared at her, willing her to speak, until at last she did. “The woman herself may have the answers you seek, but now is not the time to seek them out. Death will call to you soon enough without you seeking him out.”
“Death?” I asked. “As in Hemingway?”
She smiled again, but it was a sad smile. “That I cannot say.”
“Well, what can ye say?”
“There is much I have to tell you, but perhaps it is best if you ask the questions that matter most.” She held a hand to her head and rubbed at her temples, obscuring those flaming eyes for just an instant. “Time is fluid here, and I struggle to keep things in order.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Let’s start with that, then. Time. Why can I control time? Or how, I suppose I should say.”
“You cannot control time,” she replied, stressing the word. She pointed to my wrist. “You have been given a gift, yes? Use it, and in time you will come to understand what you are capable of, and what your true purpose is.”
I pulled back on the sweater I wore to reveal the sundial watch I’d been given by Darling and Dear. They’d said something about time, I recalled, stressing the word nearly much as my mother’s ghost had. I shoved the sleeve back down and took a different tack. “Who was my father?” I demanded.
“That is not the right question,” she replied.
“And what is the right question?” I snapped, almost too livid to speak.
“The question you want answered is: who is my father? Yes,” she said, holding up a hand, “he lives, still. Though not as he once was, he lives.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. The revelation that my father was among the living churned up all sorts of emotions within me. Joy that he was alive, sadness that he’d never come for me, and a whole host of emotions in between. “Ye still didn’t answer me question,” I said, finally.
“You will find out his identity in time, but I cannot share it with you.” She held up her other hand as if warding off a blow, and I realized I’d taken a threatening step forward. “This was a promise made by your mother to your father, who merely wished to be left alone, to carve out a new life for himself. It is his legacy and her blood you have been given, and it is their will you are meant to impose. You will have to trust that your heritage is one to be proud of.”
“Fuck that,” I hissed. “How can I trust ye if ye won’t tell me the whole truth? Can ye even tell me whether or not he was human? Fae? A Freak?”
“He was human once, though perhaps more, even then. More than that, I cannot say.” My mother’s ghost lowered her hands, clasping them over her stomach, her expression almost serene. It pissed me off even more to see her standing there like that, so calm, as if I were a child throwing a tantrum. Granted, I was throwing a tantrum. But I wasn’t a child; I had legitimate reasons to be angry. Frankly, even finding out that my father had been human once wasn’t enough to satisfy me, to ease the burning desire to know exactly where I belonged, and who I belonged to. So much had been kept from me, was still being kept from me, that I felt betrayed.
Lost.
“Just tell me what I need to know so I can leave,” I said, quietly, the anger spilling out of me in a rush that left me feeling weak and tired.
She nodded, as if that was the request she’d been anticipating all along. “The first thing you need to know is that The Road of Bones is not a place. It is a realm unto itself. Many, many years ago a war was fought there, a war between the Tiny Gods. The Makers. Those who had the will to shape the world as they saw fit. It was a terrible war which threatened every living creature. In the final days, a Maker sacrificed herself to seal it—and the powers which remain there—away from the rest of the world. The path you walk, what they call The Road of Bones, was paved by her blood and carved from her flesh. I must warn you that you will face more trials before you may return to the mortal realm but will only survive if you accept what you are.”
I took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “And what am I?” I asked.
“You ar
e a sorceress.”
I simply stared at her. “Meanin’ what?” I asked, finally.
“Meaning you are a practitioner of magic.”
“Like a wizard?” I asked, the beginnings of a migraine stirring behind my eyes.
“No. Wizards manipulate elements. Witches brew potions and cast spells or curses, depending on their affiliation. Conjurors, such as the one you met recently, summon creatures from other realms to do their bidding. There are also alchemists. Enchantresses. Necromancers. Druids. Shamans.” She waved her hand as if none of that mattered. “Magic comes in many flavors, but it must almost always be nurtured if it is to grow.”
“But me magic doesn’t?” I asked.
“No. A sorceress inherits her magic. It is part of her from birth, like a wild thing growing as you grow. Your mother foresaw that your magic would be especially powerful, so much so that she was forced to seal it away with her own life, leaving only her power behind to guide you. She wanted you to be safe from your magic’s legacy until you were ready. Soon, you will understand why.”
I shook my head. “I wish she’d have been here to guide me, instead of her power. Instead of somethin’ as cold and unfeelin’ as ye are.” It was harsh, but true. Part of me hated this creature with her fiery eyes and her cryptic words, even if her advice and her warnings were meant to help me. Worse, another part of me was drawn to my mother’s ghost the same way I’d been drawn to the portrait of my mother as a child—as if she were close by, watching me through those eyes that held nothing, least of all love.
“The second thing you must know,” my mother’s ghost said, as if I hadn’t spoken, “is that you belong to both worlds. You will be tempted to choose between the mortal realm and Fae, but you must be true to yourself and to those you profess to care about. Otherwise, when the time comes, you will be lost and unable to save them.”
That comment hit a little too close to home. It provoked thoughts of Dez, of how I’d failed her, and I suddenly longed to curl up on this impossible floor and cry until all my pain went away, as if that were even possible. I fought the urge through gritted teeth, eyes pinched shut. Fingers brushed my cheek and I jerked away, hands balled into fists. “Don’t,” I hissed.
The hand retreated. “The last thing you must know is that it is impossible for one of the Tuatha to love as humans love. The human lifespan is so brief that, when they love, mortals love with a ferocity the gods cannot match. This is perhaps why the gods so often deal in vengeance and spite; those are emotions that can be held onto. That can grow without being nurtured. Even the shallowest love can become hate if left unattended.”
She was silent for so long, I opened my eyes. I found her studying a window, though this one was somehow different from the others, its frame gilded and ornate. I watched as she reached forward and turned the handle, opening the window to another world. Soft light spilled out onto her face, and a woman’s voice chimed on the other side.
“She’ll be named Quinn MacKenna,” the voice said, and in it I heard an echo of my own accent. “In the language of Desdemona’s people, it translates roughly into ‘one who loves with passion and reason’.”
“What of her true name?” a man’s voice this time. It was soft-spoken and yet utterly distinguished, tinged with the faintest hint of an English accent. I suddenly found myself wanting to take a step forward, to see the owners of those voices, but I couldn’t move. Something held me in place, and I knew I would be allowed to go no closer. The best I could do was listen, and so I did, straining to hear. The woman’s response was too soft to be heard, but the man laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that made you want to laugh, a deep chortle that would have charmed anyone who heard it.
“Will she hate us, do you think?” he asked a moment later, sounding thoughtful.
“I don’t know. I hope not, for her sake.”
The man sighed. “I wish things were different.”
“Oh? And what would you tell her, if ye could?” the woman asked, sounding amused.
A long pause.
“I would tell her to fear power and what it does to those who misuse it,” he said. “And that I love her, of course.”
“Of course,” the woman echoed, her voice laced with something like regret.
My mother’s ghost cranked the window shut.
I slid to my knees, overwhelmed. “Was that who I t’ink they were?”
“The last thing you should know is that your mother wanted desperately to love you,” she replied, turning to face me. “I do not know if that gives you any comfort, but she wanted to.”
And I did cry, then.
Chapter 28
When I looked up, tears staining my cheeks, my mother’s ghost was gone. The weight of the assault rifles settled across my shoulders as if they hadn’t been there before, and I felt the bone-chilling cold beat against my face and cheeks, kept at bay only by the ushanka which covered my head and protected my ears. Once the tears were wiped away, I could see two figures dimly visible in the distance, and it looked as if they’d just seen me; they were pointing and rushing towards me, waving their arms. It took me a minute to recognize them, to recall those faces. Othello and Natasha. I rose unsteadily to my feet in time to be taken to the ground by Othello, who hugged me hard enough that—had I been entirely human—I might not have been able to breathe. We lay in the snow, and I saw Natasha’s relief from over Othello’s shoulder, as if she, too, had been concerned.
“Everythin’ alright?” I asked, voice muffled by Othello’s coat.
She unfolded herself and stared down at me, tears brimming in her eyes. “I thought you were lost in the storm.”
“We both did,” Natasha added.
“I got held up,” I said, still reeling from the host of revelations I’d been left with. Later, I decided. Right now, we had a job to do. Once this was all over, I’d dwell on everything I’d been told and sort out how I felt. Of course, it helped to know I could play back the memory of my parents’ voices any time I liked; I doubted I’d ever be able to get them out of my head, now that I’d actually heard them.
Othello looked skeptical and ran her gloved fingers down my cheeks, tracing the lines my tears had carved, but said nothing. Instead, she rolled off me into the snow and sat up. “Told you we’d all make it out,” she quipped.
Natasha and I gave her the looks that she deserved, until her smile widened to the point that it threatened to burst her bulging cheeks. Natasha reached out and drew both of us to our feet in one smooth motion. The speed of it made the world spin for a moment, but I adjusted; I was getting used to moving faster than a human. Othello, on the other hand, was not. I caught her before she could fall backwards, letting her lean on me for a moment before propping her up to stand on her own two feet.
“How long was I in there for?” I asked, worried that my little foray had cost us a significant amount of time.
“The sun rose some time ago,” Natasha said, and I realized she had a film of white sunscreen riding her already pale face, making her skin appear almost comically white, like a freshly painted picket fence.
“Natasha’s cord stayed attached to me,” Othello said. She pointed behind us, and I saw the squall from the other side. “We tried searching for you, but the minute we did, we came out this side. I wanted to go back in, but Natasha talked me out of it.”
“I reassured her that some of my people took hours to find their way out,” Natasha added.
I cocked my head, a thought nagging at the back of my brain. “Were they different? When they came out, I mean?”
Natasha frowned, but nodded. “Some seemed more certain of themselves. Others less so. They spoke of visions in the snow.” She shook her head. “I did not have visions.”
“Why?” Othello asked, searching my face. “What did you see? What happened to you in there?”
I shook my head. “Later.”
“You promise?” she asked.
I nodded.
That seemed to satisfy
Othello, which was good since I wasn’t yet ready to talk about it. Well, most of it, anyway. I shook my head as if to clear it and filled them in on what I knew about The Road of Bones after speaking to my mother’s ghost. I didn’t tell them how I knew, but neither pressed me to name my source.
“A Maker war…” Othello trailed off, her eyes haunted.
“D’ye know what these Makers were?” I asked.
Othello nodded. “Tiny Gods, in truth. They could bend reality to their will. Like magic, but more than that. The kind of magic that all magic tries to be or stems from. I’ve seen Makers wield their power, and the idea of a war between them is one of the most frightening things I can imagine.”
“That is good,” Natasha said. “Perhaps if that is what you fear most, you will not be as bothered by where we are going next.” She turned, facing away from the blizzard, and pointed. “We must cross the mountain, through the Valley of the Living Dead, to reach the ruined castle. Before I became what I am, I thought it the most horrifying place I had ever seen.”
“And now?” I asked, before I could stop myself.
Natasha turned cold eyes to me. “You wish to know what nightmares a vampire has, Quinn MacKenna?”
I thought about that. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”
“We should go,” Othello said, as if picking up on the tension that rode the air. “The sooner we get what we came for, the sooner we can return. I’d rather not leave Vitaly and the others waiting for us indefinitely.”
I watched something ancient and inhuman flash behind Natasha’s eyes—a brief flicker that sent the hairs on the back of my neck rising—and I looked away. I couldn’t meet that gaze. Not because I feared it, but because something lurked there I feared I might one day see in the mirror. Perhaps my mother’s ghost was right, and immortality really was a one-way road leading to disappointment and pain. Hell, I’d always considered myself mortal, and even I couldn’t seem to hold on to finer emotions like love or joy. Part of it was what I’d lost—friends and lovers and loved ones—but I suspected it was more than that. It was the knowledge, deep down inside, that love makes us vulnerable. To feel joy, we risk despair. Natasha’s haunted eyes were a reminder that living too long was as much a curse as a blessing.
Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 12
