“Of course you don’t.” Another burst of whirring, accompanied by an acrid scent that Malachi recognized as burned flesh, punctuated the man’s words. “Your kind are ethereal. You never need patching up, or at least you’re not supposed to. But you, my friend…you were in bad shape when I found you.”
Though the man’s words were strange, his meaning was clear. Malachi cursed him silently and rested against the table once more. “You should have left me to die.”
“It was tempting. I haven’t ever gotten my hands on a pair of these beauties. Promise me if you kick off before I do, you won’t mind me keeping them?” Another burst of whirring, then, “Okay, all done.”
The man jumped down from the table—it must have been his knee causing the pressure, Malachi decided—and helped him to sit up. Malachi teetered under the weight of his wings. They’d been too heavy from the moment he’d turned mortal, but they were lopsided and unwieldy now. “What have you done to me?”
“Saved your life. And your wings.” The man touched one of them, and Malachi hissed involuntarily at the pain. “Well, they’re gonna be tender for a while.”
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” Malachi moved to stand, but his weakened limbs would not support him. Light danced before his eyes, leaving the room darker with each starburst, and he fell onto the table again, bending the tips of his wings beneath him.
“No, no, don’t go passing out. You’re too big for me to catch if you fall.” The man steadied him, then held out one blood-crusted hand. “Name’s Keller. And I’m doing this because I hate to see perfectly healthy folk go down for things that are easily fixed. You would have bled to death out there. Don’t let me tell you how to live, but I’d much rather live a life that’s worth something than die alone in the Sewer District. Place is a hellhole.”
“Where am I?” His vision cleared, Malachi surveyed the room. Pipes made a grid of the low ceiling, and the Human had used them to hang too-bright electric lights that gave off a terrible fizzing sound. He’d covered the walls in a wide, wire mesh fence, forming crude walls around their space. Everywhere were boxes and steel cabinets, and tables strewn with mechanical parts and tools.
“You’re in my shop,” Keller said with forced pride. “In the Sewer District. But hey, the rent’s cheap, and at least I found a dry place. You wouldn’t believe some of the hovels around here—they have to sleep in hammocks to stay out of the muck.”
Malachi said nothing. He’d seen many homes in the Darkworld. Creatures mortal and immortal fought to survive in the harshest half of the Underground, and their ingenuity knew no bounds. Keller’s humble shop seemed a palace in comparison to some Darkworld dwellings, and his numerous boxes indicated he had some way of earning material possessions.
“I outfitted you with some lightweight aluminum I won in a card game. I heard it came from an airplane.” Keller tapped one of the sore spots on Malachi’s wing, and the resultant clang distracted Malachi from the pain. When the man faced him, Malachi saw one arm was completely missing from the elbow. In its place, an intricate system of metal and wires imitated the severed body part. In fact, the man’s head seemed to be fitted with metal, as well, a long, curved piece of shiny steel that scooped around his ear. Keller scratched at the metal fragment in his skull with the false hand, and sparks jumped from the contact. “So, now you know why I’m not living the life fantastic up on the surface.”
“Yes.” There was nothing else to say. The man was clearly a Bio-mech, a creature who believed the Human body an appliance with replaceable components that could outlast the ravages of time. It was not as the Lord intended, as evidenced by the high number of souls the Death Angels claimed from experiments gone awry.
“Yeah, well, I saved your life, so go to hell,” Keller snapped, and only then did Malachi realize he’d been staring.
“I did not ask for your pity. I prayed for death, and this is how I am repaid?” Malachi shook his head. The motion seemed oddly natural. “I am not meant to be here.”
“I can always put you back.” Keller sounded…insulted? Malachi had such a difficult time putting the word to the tone of voice.
“You are not pleased.” He could not summon up more empathy for the man’s reaction. Malachi’s only concern was for his mortal body, and the death that had been stolen from him.
“I’m a little pissed, yeah. I did save your life.” Keller turned to one of his worktables, moving some equipment there. “That’s worth something, whether you believe it or not.” After a long pause, he tossed something heavy onto the table with a clatter. “What were you doing in that tunnel?”
Malachi did not wish to discuss the details of the past hours with this man. It horrified him enough to know it himself. But the thought of not speaking made the ache of sorrow expand in his chest, and the only relief came from releasing the words he did not want to say. “I have fallen.”
“Didn’t the fall happen a long time ago? Like, in bible times?” Despite his questions, the Human seemed genuinely impressed.
“The first time. But Angels continue to fall.” Malachi closed his eyes. “It was an accident.”
Keller’s voice came from a great distance. “Well, ain’t that a bitch. One minute you’re immortal and the next you’re…not.”
When Malachi opened his eyes, the room spun. He listed to the side, felt as though he might slip from the table. With a shout of alarm, Keller raced to his side. “Lie down, lie down,” the Human ordered. He peered into Malachi’s face with an expression of worry. “I’ve got to get you something to eat. Then we’re going to the Strip.”
“Why?” The word sounded hollow from Malachi’s parched lips.
“Because you need a healer.” Keller moved away, and Malachi could not follow him with his eyes. They were too sore, too set on closing.
“Here, eat this.” The Human shoved a chunk of bread into Malachi’s hands. “It isn’t much, but I don’t keep supplies on hand for entertaining company.”
Malachi struggled to lean up on his elbows. The experience of eating was strange. The coarse, grainy bread made his mouth drier. It tasted horrible, but he could not stop stuffing more and more of it into his mouth, desperate to fill the aching void inside him. He gagged, and Keller rushed to his side. “Whoa, slow down. Here, drink this.”
Taking the cup offered him, Malachi swallowed the bread and gulped the water. Now, instead of empty, he felt uncomfortably tight, and he wished the Human had never offered him food.
Keller took the cup from him. “See, that’s good clean water. You’re lucky you found someone who’s got connections.”
“I am still thirsty.” Malachi reached for the cup, and Keller held it away.
“Not right now. Sometimes, when people are starving, they consume so much so fast that they…” He waved a hand. “Well, you’ll just cause yourself more trouble than you’re in now.”
Searing pain ripped down Malachi’s torso, as if he’d been run through with a sword. “Where is…where is the healer?”
“On the Strip.” Keller eyed him as though measuring him. “But you’ll need some clothes.”
“I do not wear clothes.” As an Angel, any garments he had needed had manifested from pure energy. Material objects, especially coarse fabrics, were too unpleasant to tolerate.
“Yeah, well, you look a little more Human than you used to.” Keller went to one of the cabinets and pulled out a box. “I won some clothes off a guy on a bar bet. He was shorter than you. Smaller all around. But there aren’t too many Humans your size.”
“Give me what you must, then take me to the healer.” If he survived the journey, he would devise another way to die.
“So, how did this happen to you? I mean, how does one accidentally fall? It seems like something you’d have to do intentionally.” Keller’s voice was muffled by the box he’d buried his head in. Occasionally he cursed and tossed something over his shoulder.
The memories were clouded, but something flickered through Mal
achi’s mind. A blaze of orange. Had there been flames? No. It had been…a Faery.
Rage burned his veins. Now this was an emotion he could grow to enjoy. It pulled the past few hours into sharp focus, gave him purpose. He could not seek death. Not when he could feel this anger grow in him, fuel him to seek out the Faery who had stolen his immortality and get the revenge due him. If mortals felt this exhilaration every time someone wronged them, perhaps he did envy them a bit after all.
“Hey, buddy?” Keller had been staring at him, Malachi had no idea how long.
But he did know what he would do next. “Take me to the healer.”
Five
T he Queene did not leave her chambers until long after sunup. It annoyed Garret to know the reason for his sister’s laziness. It was either Cedric, Master of the Assassins’ Guild, or Tristan, his Second-in-Command. It could even be Robin Goodfellow, that low-class Trickster, just because he amused her.
Disgusting, the way Mabb carried on. In her hunger for an heir, it seemed she would bed any attractive Fae that could charm her with pretty words. It was ridiculous, really, for an immortal ruler to worry about her lineage. Especially when she had a younger, more qualified brother who would gladly assume the throne should something happen to end her reign.
Gods forbid.
He waited in her personal drawing room, easily one of the most extravagantly decorated rooms in the Palace. No bare cement for Queene Mabb. She had real wood panels shielding her eyes from the rough sight, and thick grass grew to cushion her delicate footsteps. The furniture had been fashioned of real wood, intricately carved, and somehow she found fresh flowers to garland the round doors. The entire Palace was a wonder to behold, but only in Mabb’s private rooms was there such sumptuous detail. Garret thought of his own dwelling outside the Palace, one room, large for the Underground but still minute compared to the Palace. And why was this not his? Because he had been born second.
He was welcome to live in the Palace, of course, if he wished to be subject to his sister’s scrutiny. She had a keen insight and wielded it against her brother like a sword, but could she turn it on herself? Of course not, Garret thought bitterly, watching maids scurry to and fro with bowls of hot water and towels for her morning beauty rituals. The water had come from Sanctuary, no doubt, for Mabb found it inconvenient to leave the Palace and demanded the springs brought to her.
“Don’t you make that face at us, Garret.” Scota, a pretty maid with butterfly wings the color of saffron, clucked her tongue disapprovingly at him. Her tone was reproachful, but her dark eyes sparkled with mirth. “Your sister works hard and deserves a bit of pampering.”
“Oh, I agree on that score. My only doubt lies in who exactly she has been working hard.” He gave the maid a drowsy smile, knowing the effect it had on the low-class females of the Palace. Scota had lovely fair skin and yards of curling dark hair, but he would never consider someone of her station for more than a bit of sport. Still, it did not hurt to leave his options open, especially when he had not enjoyed such diversions with Ayla yet.
Scota blushed prettily and dipped her head, but Garret’s mind now centered firmly on his student. Ayla. Low-class if ever an urchin was born. Half-Human, and how that tormented his dear, dear sister. But there was a wild sort of elegance to her, the way she moved as though she were meant to be a dancer, the way her hair snapped like red ribbons all around her. Of common birth, yes, but not so fragile as his dear, worthless sister. Ayla would give him heirs, and his sister would despair.
But it wasn’t all to torment his sister. His affection for Ayla ran deep and true. Of all the Faeries at Court he could take as consort, it suited him that the only one he wanted was the one who would not have him. Oh, she would, and soon. He sensed her will bending like a reed under a stiff wind. Still, his prey would succumb only after a long and satisfying hunt.
Another maid exited the Queene’s bedchambers and bobbed a small bow to him. “She will see you now, Your Grace.”
“So soon?” He snapped, knowing this quivering servant was not to blame for the delay and not caring. Forcing down his anger, he fixed his most charming smile and strode into the Queene’s bedchamber.
If the sitting room was extravagant, the Queene’s bedchamber surpassed it. The floor here was marble, polished to a deep green shine. No other place in the Underground could boast such splendor. Mabb’s bed sat on a dais, and curtains of sheer gauze were pulled back, displaying the mountains of rich fabric pillows and bolsters Mabb nested amongst. The tall, carved posts reached almost to the ceiling, where, in a marvel of Underground ingenuity, an illusion of the sky had been fashioned to disguise the broken tiles and pipes that had been there before. Mabb detested anything mortal, but she condescended to allow electricity for this one purpose, to keep a facsimile sun glowing down on her in the day and thousands of tiny, fake stars twinkling above her at night.
In the middle of all the disgusting excess, Mabb stood before a floor-length mirror held by one of her maids while two others fussed over her appearance. Like a beautiful statue, she stood straight and tall, her pale skin appearing even paler above the lavender gossamer of her gown. As always, her wings were bound and covered. Garret was not certain he had ever seen her wings, even when they were children. Mabb was such a beauty, there could be no part of her that was less than fair, and perhaps that was why she kept them covered.
One of the maids adjusted Mabb’s sleeve and Garret spied a pattern of flowers comprised of amethyst and peridot. The stones practically sang their outrage at being used for no real purpose other than to decorate a spoiled Queene’s garments.
Mabb’s gaze met her brother’s in the mirror, and her expression brightened by cool degrees. She waved away the servant fussing over her hair, so ice-blond as to appear white, and jerked her sleeve from the other maid. They did not need a verbal cue to dismiss them, and they scurried from the room as Mabb turned to her brother. “Garret. When I heard you waited for an audience this morning you could not imagine my deep pleasure.”
“I am sure I cannot.” He had come to her prepared to charm, but now he could only snipe at her like a petulant child. “I am sorry, I did not sleep well.”
“Did the patrols not return your errant student?” She punctuated the sentence by flicking a piece of nonexistent lint from her shoulder. “No matter, I am sure she will come back on her own.”
“She did come back, no thanks to the patrols. But it was an upsetting experience I do not wish to repeat.” He eyed the elaborate writing desk in the corner, piled high with sheaves of parchment bearing the Guild symbol and hoped Mabb’s gaze would follow.
“Garret, would you really hold her back from her ambition for your own comfort?” A mothering tone colored Mabb’s words.
It was meant to grate on him, Garret knew, not guide him. “We have discussed this before. When she is my mate—”
“She has not yet accepted you as her mate, has she? Nor have you declared her.” Mabb waved a dismissive hand. “If you have only come here to argue with me—”
“I have not come here to argue. I have come to request your permission, as head of the royal family, to name Ayla my mate.” If he could have frozen the moment in time, he would have chosen this one, when his sister’s icy facade showed rare cracks, her mouth gaping open with shock and outrage.
Mabb sputtered a few times before she spoke coherently. She pressed one long-fingered hand to her chest as if suffering mortal pangs. “She is a commoner.”
“There are no rules in creating a royal match apart from a mate not being mortal, and Ayla is not.” Garret had spent long hours poring over the Scroll of Succession and could quote whole passages against his sister if she brought the argument to such a point.
“She is half mortal!” Mabb raged, her face coloring an unhealthy pink. The slender antennae at the crown of her forehead buzzed and throbbed vibrant red, and she smoothed them down, her mortification at having lost her temper distracting her from her anger for the mom
ent. “I am sorry, Garret, I forbid it.”
“Ah.” Garret shrugged, walking a wide circle around his sister. “Well, no matter. I will take it before the council. They have grown tired of your excesses, Mabb. They will read the laws of succession and find no fault with my match. They would not, even if I proposed mating with a Troll, such is their desire to rule against your wishes. Would you like that? A half Troll waiting for the throne of the Lightworld?”
Mabb whirled to face him, her fists clenched tight at her sides. “You would not dare! We are the only ones left of Mother’s line! Only a Queene can ascend to the throne, and you would put that…that common whore in my place?”
Overcome by his rage, Garret slapped her. A bright red hand print glowed on her alabaster cheek, and flames of anger flared in her eyes. “How dare you strike me!”
“How dare you drive me to these ends!” He turned away before he would strike her again, for if he started to hit her now he might never stop. “Do you think I enjoy threatening you? Do you think I like speaking with any of the council? The only reason they would grant me this is because they wish to see our line disestablished! They want to rule the Lightworld, they want to rule the whole Underground. They will side with me only because it makes you appear weak. But if you do not acquiesce, if you do not allow me to have Ayla, you will bring it upon yourself!”
In the silence, so crashing after his outburst, Garret listened to his sister’s muffled weeping. It sent a dagger through his heart. Curse her for making him so vulnerable with such poor playacting. But he knew his role well, and knew he would not achieve his ends if he did not participate in her disgusting performance. She had sunk to her knees on the cold, stone floor and he went to her, kneeling beside her to put his arms around her, ever the strong, supportive brother. “There now, I did not mean to be angry with you.”
Queene of Light Page 3
