The secrecy surrounding her absence hadn't helped either.
Her family knew that she had taken a contract with the government that involved a nondisclosure agreement, but without knowing exactly what she was doing, they had used their imaginations to fill in the lurid details—especially Stephen, who was convinced she was a secret agent.
If only she were just a spy.
Her family had grilled her last night, but Elizabeth insisted she couldn't speak of it without breaking the law. Her mother disapproved, but had she known the truth about Elizabeth's mag-sens abilities, she probably would have insisted on an exorcism. She was better off not knowing. Her mother had changed tactics, demanding to know why the government felt Elizabeth needed bodyguards, but Elizabeth insisted it was because of her nondisclosure agreement, and her father sagely nodded, stating that he had heard of such things. After that, she feigned fatigue and spent the night in her own bed for the first time in a year.
It had felt … weird, as if she were sleeping in a stranger's room.
"Stephen," her mother whispered harshly, "not in God's house. Put it away, or lose it!"
He snuffed and turned off the camera, holding it between his thin knees.
Elizabeth fidgeted on the hard wooden bench. The church's air conditioning wasn't working, and it was stifling hot. She wore a yellow sundress that used to fit her well enough but was now far too large. She had always been fit, an avid track-and-field athlete, but after she'd spent the last year living on an isolated army base, surrounded by Special Forces operators who considered diet and exercise as natural as breathing, her body was now lean and hard—even her abs looked chiseled. There wasn't much to do in the Magic Kingdom, but its gym was world class. If she ever found the courage to try one on, she'd look killer in a bikini.
For the hundredth time, she wondered what Clara was doing.
Her mind must have drifted, because before she realized it, the priest, Father Mackin, was inviting the congregants to come forward and receive Holy Communion. A line quickly formed between the pews, and Elizabeth and her family stood up and shuffled out to join it, getting just behind the Johnsons.
Then she froze.
As she watched the line form, her pulse began to race madly and her forehead glistened with sweat—she hadn't thought about communion before this moment.
How could I not think of this?
When she heard Father Mackin repeat the words of Jesus at the last supper—"This is my body, which will be given up for you"—her face burned. Her eyes locked on the crucifix at the front of the church, and she stared at the lifelike carving of the suffering Jesus nailed to the cross, his sorrowful eyes fixed upon hers.
She blanched, taking a faltering step back and bumping into her mother.
"Mary Elizabeth, honey," her mother said, placing her hand on Elizabeth's back and guiding her forward.
But Elizabeth barely heard her—her focus was entirely upon Jesus's anguished face.
I can't take communion.
The revelation was like a hammer blow.
You must be in communion to receive communion, she told herself, repeating the words she had heard a thousand times before.
I'm not in communion. Not now.
Clara.
I … I can't lie to God.
She spun about, meeting her mother's disapproving glare. Her mother's lips opened, but before she could say anything, Elizabeth left the line, walked past her, and headed for the church's entrance. She felt the heat of her mother's anger, heard the whispers of the parishioners. Stephen asked her father where she was going but was angrily hushed up and pushed forward.
I won't lie to God. Not that.
Elizabeth hurried from the church.
TOPS AND WARD immediately followed her out, and both men went for the car while she waited atop the church steps. Before they could bring the car around, her mother came out, staring at Elizabeth with cold eyes, her hands shaking so hard she made fists of them. Elizabeth stared at her feet.
"I don't know what you've been doing for the last year," her mother said, rage making her voice tremble, "but I never suspected you'd be living in sin. I should have."
"Mother, I—"
"I've tried to raise you properly, God only knows, but you've always been a disappointment to me, an embarrassment. What is it now? Some boy? Are you … are you pregnant?"
"It's not like that. I'm in love. She's—"
Her mother gasped, stepping back, her hands flying to her throat. "She?"
Elizabeth saw the sedan pull up in front of the church. Tops jumped out, scurried around, and opened the passenger door for her. She saw the concern in his face. He was a good man. They all were. She forced herself to meet her mother's glare. "God understands."
Her mother slapped her so hard Elizabeth's head flew to the side. Just for a moment, mana flowed through her, filling her with magical energy, energizing all her nerves. She forced the power down, pushing it away. If she lost control now, she could kill her own mother.
"Don't you speak of God, you… you deviant."
"You're overreacting, Mother. I can love whoever I want."
Heat stained her mother's cheeks. "Love?" she asked with incredulity. "This… love is a sin. I'm ashamed that you can't see that. How could you be so … so broken? I wish you had never come home."
"You don't mean that."
"I do." Her mother advanced on her, staring into her eyes and placing her face only inches from Elizabeth's. "I do. I'm done with you. Don't ever come home again. Do you understand?"
People were coming out of the church now, staring as they parted around the two women. Elizabeth's face burned from the slap, and her fingers trailed down her cheek. Even Father Mackin had left church. He stepped forward now, placing his hand on her mother's arm. "Mrs. Chambers. Elizabeth, come back in. Whatever's wrong, we can talk it out. Mothers and daughters love one another, and there's no sin that can't be forgiven."
"No," said her mother with steel in her voice. "I have no daughter." She turned and stormed back inside the church.
"I'll talk to her," said Father Mackin. "It'll be fine."
Elizabeth shook her head. "No, it won't. Not this time, Father. Thank you, anyway." She hurried away, climbing into the back of the sedan. Tops joined Ward in the front, and the car pulled away, taking her back to the Magic Kingdom—the only home she had now.
Once again, she heard her mother's words: Don't ever come home again.
5
Elizabeth stood in the hallway of the barracks, staring at Clara's closed door, listening to the running shower on the other side. Because Clara was a sergeant—and soon to be a warrant officer—she was entitled to a room with her own bathroom and shower, the privileges of rank. Her room even came with a large balcony overlooking the wilderness on the other side of the security fence that surrounded the Magic Kingdom.
It isn't going to get any easier standing in the hallway.
Her pulse racing, she turned the doorknob, quietly slipping inside and shutting the door behind her. The bathroom door was partially open, and steam and the noise of the shower wafted through it. Across the room, the afternoon sunlight cascaded through the glass patio doors but did little to brighten Elizabeth's mood.
Her own room was two floors below, but it contained little more than a single bed with scratchy gray army blankets and a wall-mounted writing desk. In stark contrast, Clara's quarters were like a large hotel suite, spacious and bright, filled with a surprisingly feminine touch. There were two sides to Clara: the hard-as-nails soldier and the sensitive, loving woman. Here, in the privacy of her quarters, she was the sensitive persona, the one that Elizabeth thought of as the real Clara—although in her heart, she knew that the Clara who had led the assault on the dark elf's fortress was also the real Clara. God loves complexity.
Bright wildflowers sat in a vase beside the sliding balcony door, colorful paintings of rural landscapes hung on the walls, and a large queen-sized bed with satin sheets sat
before a wall-mounted plasma television screen currently muted but set to one of the twenty-four-seven satellite news channels. Just to the left of the plasma screen was a dark wooden writing desk—a real desk. On it sat a laptop, its screen opened to a real estate site displaying homes in the Pembrooke area of southern Ontario. A pad and paper sat beside the laptop, with five homes noted, and one underlined. "New promotion, new posting," Clara had said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to pick up and move your entire life on the whims of others. Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the television screen, not really paying attention to it. In her mind, she kept repeating the same phrase: You must be in communion to receive communion.
Next to the bed was a small nightstand with a comical monkey-faced alarm clock and a small personal radio, a miniature walkie-talkie. Sitting beside the radio, wrapped in a shoulder holster, was Clara's SIG-Sauer P229 pistol. Clara never went anywhere without both the radio and the pistol—even when she went to the gym or for a run. Security on the base had always been strong, but after the dark elf attack a year ago, it had become insane. Carrying weapons all the time was the least of the added security—there were also more armored vehicles, helicopters, bunkers in every building, and automatic turrets built along towers at regular intervals along the new—and much stronger—perimeter fence. At least once a week, the base ran drills, sending soldiers to fighting positions and civilians to the bunkers.
Elizabeth stood up and opened the small refrigerator near the patio door, taking a water bottle from within, and rolled its cold, wet exterior over her cheek. When she closed the fridge door, the shower stopped, and Clara called out from the bathroom, "Liz?"
"It's me," she answered, although it really couldn't be anybody else. The men and women of Task Force Devil, American and Canadian, were brothers-in-arms—even the women—and would never intrude on another's privacy.
"I wasn't expecting you back until tomorrow."
"Neither was I," Elizabeth whispered and approached the large glass doors leading to the balcony. It was another beautiful summer day in northern British Columbia, but the view did little to calm her stormy emotions. Be firm, she told herself. You know what you need to do. She cracked the cap on her water bottle and sipped from it, listening to Clara dry herself.
Clara didn't walk out of the bathroom so much as flounce out, a force of nature. She wore a thick pink bathrobe, her bright-red hair wrapped in an orange towel, her skin still pink from the shower. She flashed a toothy smile at Elizabeth as she approached and placed a hand on Elizabeth's hip, leaning in and kissing her cheek. She pulled back, concern in her eyes. "What's wrong?"
Elizabeth turned away. "My mother."
Clara sighed audibly. "What did she do now?"
Elizabeth felt the tears coming, her emotions surging, and she began to doubt she had the strength for what needed to be done. Clara rushed forward and embraced her, holding her tight against her. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. Did you … tell her about us?"
Elizabeth bit her lower lip and nodded. She pulled away abruptly from Clara, turning her back to her as soon as she saw the momentary flash of hurt in the other woman's eyes. Shame once again coursed through Elizabeth, but she doubted she could do this while looking at Clara. "The problem isn't my mother. The problem is me."
And it is. I'm as bad a person as my mother thinks I am.
She felt Clara's eyes upon her back. "What is it you want to say, Liz?"
Elizabeth stared out over the forest of pine and asp trees in the distance. "Clara, I …" Elizabeth's voice broke, and a shudder coursed through her. She made fists of her hands, willing herself to be strong.
Clara grabbed her shoulders and spun her about, forcing her to look at her. "Stop it. Talk to me. I deserve that much."
"I can't … I can't do this—us—anymore."
Elizabeth shuddered at the hurt on Clara's face. She tried to look away again, but Clara cupped her chin and turned her face up, kissing her tear-streaked cheeks. "Don't. Please don't."
"I'm sorry." Elizabeth's voice broke. "No more. It's … wrong."
"It isn't wrong—and you know it." Clara's voice sharpened angrily. "It's the only Goddamned right thing either of us has. Do you think there's something more out there? Someone else who loves you like I do? There's nothing but us, but this." She gripped Elizabeth's hands and held them against her chest, against her pounding heart. "This operation is ending, but you can come with me. It'll be hard, I won't lie, and people will talk, but we'll have each other."
Elizabeth pulled away, ripping her hands from Clara's grip. "No. It's my fault, not yours. Mine. I wanted to feel something, anything. I was weak."
"Bullshit, Liz. That's bullshit! Don't do this."
"You can't understand. You're not Catholic. It's a sin."
"It isn't a sin. Even the pope says so. It's love. I love you, and you love me. That's all that matters."
Elizabeth sat back down on the edge of the bed and stared at her trembling hands as she shook her head. "It is a sin," she whispered. "Pretending it isn't changes nothing. I do love you, but this is … is gravely—" Her voice broke. "Gravely immoral. For the first time in my life, I couldn't take communion." She looked up at Clara's face, feeling her heart ripping apart. "I … can't live outside the church's laws. I can't."
Clara dropped down beside her, wrapped her arms around her neck, and buried her face in Elizabeth's long dark hair, her voice breaking with sobs. "Please don't. Please don't. Please don't."
"It's a sin."
"It isn't. No loving God could be this cruel."
Elizabeth leaned into Clara. Even now, it just felt so … right with Clara holding her. God, why did you make me this way? She inhaled deeply, looking for comfort in the knowledge she was going to find her way back to God's blessing—no matter the cost. Clara was leaving. Everybody knew Operation Rubicon was shutting down. What kind of life could we have had together anyway? Best to make a clean break of it now.
"Liz. I know your faith is who you are. I understand that. And I can only imagine what it was like growing up in that home with that woman, but please, don't let your mother take this from you … from us. We belong together."
Do we?
She wavered then, her doubt gnawing at her, but then she heard a small voice in her mind whisper, "You must be in communion to receive communion." Be strong, she told herself. Find your way back to God.
She stood up abruptly, pulling away from Clara. "I'm sorry," she said as she practically ran to the door, her vision blurry. "I'm not … I'm not like you, not this way. It was just ... just a thing to try. You were an experiment. I'm sorry."
She knew without looking that she had hurt Clara. In the hallway on the other side of the door, she heard the sound of others walking past, their heavy boots stomping down the hallway. Clara, still sitting on the bed, not looking at her, spoke softly, her words little more than a whisper. "Liz, if you walk out that door, it's over. I can't do this. It hurts too much. You can lie to yourself, but what we have is real. Don't … don't throw it away. Please."
Elizabeth opened the door and slipped out.
6
Fear gripped Horlastia, wrapping its icy tendrils around her hammering heart as she walked past the ranks of her mother's Storm Guard warriors and approached the Bane Throne and her mother sitting upon it. Queen Tuatha de Talinor's stoic expression never wavered, never softened in the slightest at the approach of her child. Horlastia knew, to the ice-cold woman who sat the throne, she was just another servant—and one who walked upon the razor's edge of a knife.
Be brave, she told herself. It's not my fault. She must see that.
Horlastia could just make out the dark bulk of Rizleoghin, her mother's spider-demon familiar, rustling softly behind the throne. Wherever her mother was, Rizleoghin was always nearby. Horlastia glanced at her mother's face, seeing the indifference and contempt in her eyes, and Horlastia faltered for a step. She does blame me. Or she suspects I was a part
of Tlathia's betrayal. But who could have suspected the heir to the Bane Throne of treason?
And if her eldest daughter betrayed her, she must be wondering how deep the rot grows among her other daughters.
I may not live through the day.
Horlastia knelt. Despite several bouts of magical healing, knives of pain cut across her back, causing her to wince—then immediately hate herself for showing weakness. Tlathia's Storm-Tongue spell had almost killed her. Only the black Kilven crystal around her neck had saved her life. It had been a dwarven construct, created by her now-dead technomancer, Kulm Ice-Hand. Crafted to release an Egis's-Shield ward when struck by magical energy, the crystal had worked as intended, saving her life. But her sister was no simple mage, and her terrifyingly powerful bolt of magical lightning had shattered the crystal and shield, searing into her flesh. Without it, though, she'd have died in that fort. Wounded, she had managed to cloak herself and escape while Tlathia had been preoccupied with killing her mother's Storm Guards.
Now, my Kilven crystal is destroyed, my dwarf technomancer is dead, and I may still die screaming this day—all because of you, Tlathia, you foul bitch!
As she bent over and stared at her mother's velvet slippers, her heart pounded against her chest and sweat ran between her breasts. "My queen, I live to serve."
Not a sound disturbed the cold silence in the throne room as her mother considered her. The only servant present was a single male fae seelie warrior who sat cross-legged to the right of her mother's throne—Ulfir Dunwalker, her mother's mage-hunter. Horlastia risked a glance at him now, hating him.
Breathtakingly handsome, with the right side of his head completely shaved, Ulfir smiled insolently at her, absentmindedly stroking the black wooden shaft of his famous weapon, the spear Witch-Bane, which lay across his lap. In the flickering torchlight, the spear's two-foot-long red-metal spearhead glinted with arcane promise. How many of us have died upon that foul weapon? Ulfir was a rare creature among the matriarchy that was the Fae Seelie Empire—a male that could cast magic. But unlike the other magic-cursed males, Ulfir hadn't died after manifesting his talent. Whereas the other males—too weak for the Spider Mother's gifts—had killed themselves trying to control the forces of magic, Ulfir had survived, even prospered. Most likely, it was because his magic was weak, barely magic at all. Worse, his gift manifested as an affinity for tracking magic, especially talismans or other warded items. That talent, combined with Witch-Bane, made him the ultimate enemy of fae seelie mages. Ulfir Dunwalker, the walking death.
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