The Empty Throne

by Cayla Kluver

  “Hello, Thatcher,” I greeted him, trying to keep my voice from rising into a squeak. “It’s good to see you again.”

  To my surprise, the large raven-haired man pulled me into his arms, giving me a bear hug that lifted me off my feet.

  “Glad to see you’re still in Tairmor, though it appears you’ve acquired another injury.”

  He pointed at my wrist, prompting me to quickly ease any worry he might be feeling.

  “Broken—in a fall. But it’s healing well.”

  “I’d tell you to slow down, but I doubt you’d listen. And I was hoping you’d stop by one day. I’ve wanted the chance to thank you in person.”

  “Thank me?” I mumbled, thinking there must be two Anyas in the world, for this man surely didn’t owe me any thanks.

  Tom walked over, preventing me from demanding an explanation.

  “Officer Tom Matlock,” he said, extending a hand to Shea’s father, who in turn enthusiastically gripped it. “Not here on official duty, despite the uniform.”

  “Good to know,” Thatcher responded. Then he eyed me, adding, “You’re full of surprises.”

  “It’s not what you think—”

  “Oh, come on, Anya,” Tom interrupted. “It’s exactly what he thinks.”

  I shifted my gaze between the two men—one dark-haired and dark-eyed, big and burly and a full head taller than me, with a gruffness that belied his good heart, the other more refined in manner and build, with chocolate-brown hair and cinder-gray eyes, at age nineteen showing a wisdom and astuteness well beyond his years—and knew I was in trouble if I stayed sandwiched between the two of them. There were things I didn’t want Tom to know, and likewise things I didn’t want Thatcher to know, and if I didn’t separate them quickly, everyone would soon be eating from the same plate.

  “Is Shea here?” I quickly asked, trying to shift their attention from me.

  “No. And I don’t expect her anytime soon.” Thatcher scratched his head, heavy eyebrows drawing close while he engaged in some type of internal debate. “No harm in saying this to a Constabulary, I suppose. I’ve sent her to stay with relatives. Someone made a threat against her life last night, and it shook her up pretty badly. Shook the whole family up pretty badly.”

  I gasped, and it suddenly hit me that I cared more about Shea than I wanted to admit. I also cared about Shea’s parents, and about Maggie and Marissa, her younger sisters. If Fane and some of his thieving crew went after Shea, they might not care who else got hurt.

  “What sort of threat?” Tom asked, and though I knew the question would inexorably come back to me, I was desperate to know the answer.

  “Strange situation, actually. When Shea went to bed last night, she found a package on the floor by her window. It was a box wrapped up like a gift. But when she opened it, it contained a one-word message—boom. Not signed, of course. But here’s the really strange part. I couldn’t figure out how the box was delivered. The window was locked from the inside. First thing this morning, I notified the Constables at the local station house and hid Shea away.”

  “Did your daughter say who might have a grudge against her?” Tom pressed.

  “Said she didn’t know.”

  Tom’s eyes made their way to me. “You and Shea spent a lot of time together the past few months. Care to hazard a guess?”

  “No idea.” Though I had discovered the ability to lie, I knew from the rise in Tom’s eyebrows that I wasn’t very good at it. But he did me the courtesy of not pursuing the matter in front of Thatcher.

  Now that I knew Shea had at least temporarily been removed from danger, I no longer felt the need to deliver a warning to her father. After all, what additional good would it do? He and his family were sufficiently on alert already, and the Constabularies had been notified. The one thing Zabriel and I could still do—and the only thing likely to be effective—was to meet with Fane ourselves. Unless he saw that Pyrite was still alive, it was a safe bet he would at some time and place get to Shea.

  “It was good to see you, but I should let you get back to work,” I said to Thatcher, preparing to depart. “Tell Shea I stopped by. And I’m sorry to hear about your troubles.”

  He nodded, and for a moment I thought I was going to escape unscathed. Tom and I were almost to the door before he called my name, drawing me to a reluctant halt.

  “Anya, I almost forgot. I wanted to thank you for helping Shea raise the money to pay off my debt. I still don’t know how you two came up with such a large sum, but she credits you for most of it. You must be very resourceful. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

  I clenched my fists at my sides, stunned by his words. How nice of Shea to give me credit for the money she’d earned off Zabriel’s blood! She clearly hadn’t told her father the truth about the origin of the funds, perhaps afraid of what he would think of her. Then my mind went to Thatcher’s necklace and his possible connections to the Fae-haters, and I was seized with an urge to speak privately with him. Taking a deep breath, I turned to Tom. “Would you mind if I talked to Thatcher for a moment? Alone?”

  “Anya, no.” There was a cautionary note in Tom’s voice, though he was trying not to spell out the limitations Luka had imposed on me in front of Thatcher—primarily that Tom not let me out of sight or earshot.

  “We’ll step right over there,” I wheedled, pointing to a corner of the shop. “I’ll let you hold my ring for safekeeping.”

  I held up my hand to display my royal ring, and Tom gritted his teeth.

  “What’s going on, Anya?” Thatcher asked, profoundly confused. “Are you under arrest or something?”

  “No, my friend here is just a little possessive.”

  Tom rolled his eyes, then capitulated. “A brief conversation. That’s all.”

  I gave him a sweet smile and kissed him on the cheek, then walked toward the corner I had indicated, Thatcher following.

  “What’s really going on, Anya?” Thatcher asked again, as soon as we were out of earshot.

  “It’s nothing to worry about. But listen—there is something you can do for me. I need information. I’d like to know who contacted you about the project that landed you in trouble with the Governor. And I’m wondering what you can tell me about the looking glass pendant you gave Shea.”

  “That’s funny. Shea and this other fellow—short, wearing suspenders, and twirling a cane—asked me much the same questions.”

  “Spex?” I blurted, flabbergasted.

  “Sounds right.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “What I’m about to tell you. The man who hired me was Ilia Krylov, who used to be the Executor of the Territory. He was murdered a couple of years ago.”

  My pulse rate dramatically increased, for this was the government official whose life Zabriel had taken, the man the Governor had named as a close friend at Pyrite’s execution. How high up did knowledge of the Fae abductions and experiments potentially go? Feeling I was on the verge of gathering important information, I pushed Thatcher further.

  “Executor of the Territory? What exactly does a person in that position do?”

  “It basically means the man who hires people to do work for the government. All projects paid for with government funds go through that office.”

  “And he’s the man who hired you?”

  “He hired me to build a cabinet to detailed specifications. But that was it.” Thatcher ran a hand through his heavy head of hair, then continued, dropping the volume of his voice. “Look, Anya, there was a time when I didn’t exactly support the Fae. And I got involved with some like-minded folks. But when I found out the things they were willing to do—well, I got out. That’s when I broke the contract to build the cabinet and took my family on the run. But Krylov wasn’t my contact in that group.”

/>   Confused and a bit frustrated, I asked, “Then who was?”

  “I never knew. We had a way of sending and receiving messages, and that’s how I’d get instructions or ask questions.”

  I glanced at Tom, who was pacing in front of the store’s front window, no doubt scaring away customers, and gave him a smile—he was clearly losing patience.

  “How did you send and receive messages?”

  “By snowbird. I’d send a bird trained to fly the route from the central relay station. Messages went to and from this tiny mining town by the name of Nettleston—lies to the north of here in the foothills of the Morrow Mountains.”

  I nodded, wondering if I had stumbled upon the reason Zabriel had been studying such a detailed map of the Warckum Territory. My cousin and I had yet to discuss our discoveries on Evernook Island, and I was beginning to realize he likely had other information to share. He and I needed a chance to talk away from the Governor’s mansion—and soon.

  “And the necklace?”

  “A package arrived one day, along with a message that it would bring luck. It’s supposed to ward off certain kinds of danger. That’s the reason I gave it to Shea.” He paused, thinking. “But the pendant itself could make a hidden message appear on a piece of paper. That way no one had to worry about information falling into the wrong hands.”

  I nodded. This operation was going to be more difficult to unravel than I thought. “One last thing. Do you know where to find Spex—Shea’s suspendered friend?”

  “No. I only met him one time.”

  “Anya,” Tom called, a touch of irritation in his voice. “We should be going.”

  Thatcher shot a glance toward the Constabulary. “Are you sure you’re okay? I’m not above delaying him while you sneak out the back door.”

  I laughed. “In some ways, that’s a very tempting offer. But common sense says I should decline. He’s actually very nice.” I laid a hand on his forearm, wanting to allay his worry. “Thank you, Thatcher—for the offer and the information.”

  “It’s the least I can do. But, Anya, the members of the group that’s caught your interest are dangerous. I know if Fae are being hurt, you’ve got a right to try to stop it. But please be careful.”

  “I will.”

  I met Tom halfway across the store, for he had begun to walk toward me.

  “You need to learn a little patience,” I groused, Thatcher’s warning having put me on edge, even though it was something I already knew.

  “And you’re a bit too smug for your own good. Are you going to tell me what that meeting was about? Or am I going to have to figure it out on my own?”

  “I’m not going to tell you, but it’s also not worth your time. It has nothing to do with the trouble Shea seems to be having.”

  “I know you, Anya, and the more you tell me it’s not my business, the more I suspect it is or ought to be.”

  “Suit yourself, then.” I pushed the door open and walked across the threshold, pleased the rain had stopped, though it looked like it might be a temporary respite. Then I tried to divert Tom’s attention. “I’m hungry, Officer Matlock. Where would you like to take me to eat?”

  Laughing, he signaled for our carriage. “I know a nice pub near here. Good food and good drink—and quiet enough to conduct an interrogation.”

  “Sounds like a fine choice. Now if you only had someone to interrogate.”

  He put his arm around me and pulled me close. “There are several forms of interrogation, you know. Some more gratifying than others.”

  I smiled, enjoying the look in his eyes, his manner drawing the tension from my body like one might draw poison from a wound. Not caring that we were on a public street, I put my hands in his thick hair and pulled him close for a kiss.

  Shouts and the sounds of a scuffle broke out from down the street, and Tom released me, immediately on alert.

  “Stay here,” he firmly told me, then disappeared behind our carriage to cross the street.

  I waited a few heartbeats, anxiously shifting foot to foot, and then followed. Tom was approaching several brawling men, calling out to them to halt. The men separated, and two of them took off at a run, leaving a third bleeding on the ground. Tom stopped next to the injured man and motioned to someone in the gathering throng of spectators to come forward.

  “Put pressure on the bleeding,” he directed, and the man obliged. Pointing to another person in the crowd, he added, “Fetch a doctor.”

  The selected fellow took off just as Thatcher appeared at Tom’s elbow.

  “I’ve got this,” he declared.

  Wiping his hands on his trousers, Tom stood and raced after the two assailants, who had ducked into a shop I recognized—it was the first collector’s shop I had visited on my search for the Anlace.

  With a mixture of excitement and fear pumping through my veins, I hastened after him. I entered the shop, then followed the trail of destruction through the merchandise that evidenced the path the culprits had taken. Ignoring the curses of the proprietor, I pushed through a door and into another cluttered room. It was much darker than the main room, the only light coming through a door that stood open to the alley, apparently the exit used by Tom and the men he’d been chasing.

  When my eyes had adjusted, I swept the room, taking in an array of disorganized merchandise—saddles, weapons, paintings, clocks, coins, a red double-breasted uniform coat and insignia, gemstones, a cherub statue of the type I’d seen at the Governor’s home, a tiara, a conduit blade—and it dawned on me from the difficulty of obtaining many of these items that I was probably looking at stolen goods. This shop seemed to trade in contraband.

  I was just about to head out the door when a strange play of shadows drew my attention. I slowly looked up, then backed toward the wall. Several sets of Faerie wings were suspended from the ceiling. Even in the dim light, their translucent membranes shimmered, the interplay of colors like a sunset reflected on water, their beauty in sharp contrast to the pain that had been inflicted to claim them. I stared, both horrified and mesmerized, until the colors seemed to melt and run, forming droplets on the bottom edges of the wings, droplets that pooled on the floor, gradually darkening to crimson.

  “No, no, no,” I wailed; then I jerked...

  * * *

  ...as an arrow shot through my wings, pinning me to a tree.

  I dropped to my knees, excruciating pain searing through me. My vision darkened, filling with spots, and I fought to remain conscious. A figure loomed in front of me—a broad, grimy, stringy-haired man. I looked past him to see more humans, one woman among four men, and I trembled. I knew what they were going to do. In desperation, I tugged against the arrow, only to cry out in agony. Fate was staring me in the face and there was nothing I could do to change what lay in store for me.

  A man bearing a halberd stalked toward me, raising it high over his head. I cowered, my breathing ragged, but that didn’t stop him from bringing it forcefully down on me—not once, not twice, but three times, severing my glorious wings from my body.

  Weeping, I collapsed on the floor, body shaking, warm blood running down my back, magic seeping out of me. And when the magic was gone, I would never again be able to pass the Bloody Road to reach home.

  * * *

  “Anya, are you hurt?” Tom was kneeling beside me, his voice laden with concern.

  I looked at him but did not answer, knowing he should not be here in the Balsam Forest. He put his arms around me, drawing me to him, and his touch jarred me into action. I struck out at him with my fists, not about to let the hunters take me, not about to end up a test subject on Evernook Island.

  He caught my forearms and searched my eyes, no doubt for some sign of sanity.

  “Anya, it’s me, Tom. You’re safe— Do you hear me? I’m here, and you’re safe.”

&
nbsp; I stopped fighting and gazed into his face, trying to make sense out of him being here, out of the room in which we found ourselves, out of the chaos in my mind. Terrified, I buried my head in his chest.

  “M-my wings,” I sobbed. “They took my w-wings.” I clutched at his shirt. “You have to get them back. I need my magic or I—I can’t go home.”

  Tom sat down beside me, gently rocking me. “Anya, you lost your wings months ago. You’re remembering it, reliving it. But it’s not real. It’s not happening now.”

  I stared at him, then cast my gaze around the room. I wasn’t in the Balsam Forest—I was indoors, in a dingy, grimy, crowded storage area. But Tom was here; he was with me, and I was safe. Though I still shook, some of the tension left my body, and I leaned against him, my crying subsiding.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked, stroking my hair.

  “There are wings here,” I whispered. “The owner must buy wings from hunters and resell them.” I pointed vaguely upward at the multihued appendages, afraid to look directly at them.

  “I’m so sorry, Anya. But I promise you—he will be punished. Everyone involved in this will be punished.” He held me for a moment longer, then disentangled himself to come to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I nodded and he assisted me to stand. With one arm around my waist, he escorted me out of the shop and into the alley, then up to the main street. Phantom, yet very real, pain flared again in my back, and I collapsed against him. He lifted me as though I weighed no more than a sack of flour and carried me across the street to deposit me into the carriage. I was vaguely aware of Thatcher’s approach and his brief exchange of words with my escort, then Tom climbed in to sit next to me.

  “I’m taking you back to the mansion,” he told me, enfolding me in his arms. “Some rest might do you good.”

  I closed my eyes, not really caring where we were going, wanting to put distance between us, the shop, and my nightmarish delusions; wanting, as well, to feel Black Magic swirling in my veins.