by May Sage
Outside, leaning against the storefront, there was a woman who uncannily resembled Mel in many ways. They were both five foot seven, lean and muscular. They had the same jaw, the same high cheekbones, and above all, the same eyes. The only differences were the hair, the mouths, noses, and the color of their skins.
Urania was white marble with eyes of storm and moss-green hair, at least now, under the rain.
"That's a little conspicuous, don't you think?" Mel said, rolling her eyes.
Urania shrugged. "I'm not the one trying to mainstream. It's good to see you, Mel."
Mel smiled at her cousin.
They were from the same bloodline, that much was clear, though that could mean anything. They could be sisters or distant cousins. Maybe Mel was her aunt, who knew? Because of their similar ages, they referred to themselves as cousins.
"Same to you.” Mel kissed Uri’s cheek. “Even though Calliope sent you to bring me home."
Urania didn't try to deny it.
"She's tried to get me to bring you back for years. You should ask yourself why I'm only coming now."
Mel would have asked herself that very question if she hadn’t decided it didn't matter. "Because the rest of the clan is dull and you're bored without me?"
Urania chuckled. “There's that. But I would have settled for a life of boredom to see that you had the freedom and happiness you desire. You know that.”
Mel said nothing, although Uri’s words rang true.
Her cousin fixed her with an intense stare. “I'm here today telling you to come home regardless. Mel, you're in danger in the mortal world.”
She'd heard that many times.
“There's something brewing. All the signs are clear. Our best seers have felt chaos, destruction. Pain. I asked Cassandra herself, and she saw your blood running.”
Mel shrugged off the ominous warning. "Come on, Uri. There's less than a handful of things that can actually pose a threat to us here."
And none were interested in her.
There was a warlock she clashed with, an alchemist who hated that her potions surpassed his, an immortal wolf who got on her nerves, and she knew any of them could cause mischief to trip her up. But they wouldn’t—couldn’t—actually hurt her.
Mel and her people had the blood of the advanced, powerful species humans called gods—the Enlightened—but her clan was entirely irrelevant among the Enlightened. Foot soldiers, at best. They had very little magic and their powers didn't compare to the legendary divinities out there, those who'd shaped humanity—and everything else.
Mel’s clan was weak and untrained, partially because they’d been raised on Earth, away from their elders, and also because they were made up of half-blood bastards and rejects. They were the children the gods had turned their backs on.
Thousands of years ago, they'd been called the muses. A nice, poetic name that basically meant the immortal hippies. It was well deserved: her clan had spent an era sitting in ponds and writing songs.
Mel and Uri were younger than the original nine muses, just as irrelevant in the great scheme of things. When there were wars or great decisions about the fate of the world, her clan was entirely excluded by the Enlightened. Mortals sought their council, but that was about it.
"You're not hearing me. The threat is not from this world. And they won't care that you don't want to hang out with us. Think clearly, cousin. The humans whose company you prefer will not be spared if they are in the way. And you know you cannot protect them."
That did catch her attention.
Urania had hit a sore point. Mel wasn’t able to protect anyone. Her greatest shame. Her greatest weakness.
"Come back home," Uri pleaded.
"Tell me what's after me, and I might."
Her cousin shook her head, half helpless, half frustrated. Mel knew she wasn't being fair—if Uri had been ordered to keep quiet, there was nothing she could do against the compulsion.
After a beat, she sighed. "Go back, Uri. Tell Calliope I'll call her. If she can convince me she isn't lying—to you and me—in order to get me home, I'll schedule a short trip back, all right?"
Urania's eyes widened. "You would?"
Mel shrugged. "Why not? Greece is lovely this time of the year."
Taken by Surprise
Urania was worried on her behalf. Whatever Cassandra and Calliope had told her, her cousin believed the danger was real. That alone ought to alarm Mel. She couldn’t entirely take it seriously, because it wasn’t the first warning she’d heard, but she decided to be cautious.
She bit her lip, looking at the vulnerable woman who’d become her dear companion here.
Julia was so fragile.
"I'll walk you home." Mel’s tone was as cheerful and casual as she could make it.
Her friend lifted a brow. "Why? It's raining, and I'm not far."
Mel lived above her shop on Rue Beranger and Julia was in the opposite direction, close to the Palais de la Republique. She shrugged. "I don't feel like going home yet. It probably still smells of the horrible soup I made."
Julia was too smart to buy her excuse; she looked at her with a frown. "You get lonely?" her friend guessed.
Mel immediately shook her head. A lie she told herself every day. "I enjoy my own company. All I need is some music and a good book to be content. Sometimes I just like walking in the rain."
That at least, was true. Although it wasn't the reason why she was escorting the human girl home.
It turned out to be unnecessary; they encountered no threat on their way.
Mel was tense when she returned home after dropping Julia off. Damn Uri. If this was just Callie messing with her to force her to return home, she was going to kick her ass in the sparring ring.
She got to the bookshop, locked up behind her, and walked upstairs.
The apartment was large and elegant. The muses received money from a collective pot every year—at least, she had when she used to work with the rest of them. Mel had bought this place in her teens, for a few thousand francs. She also had pied-a-terres in London, Los Angeles, and Vienna. Now, if she ever sold the French building, it might be worth millions, as there were three floors, plus the store. It was unlikely that she ever would; it was her favorite house.
Once she was behind doors, she removed her jacket and peeled off the wet trousers and her boots. Bath. She needed to take a nice warm bath, to relax before calling Callie.
She started the water in her claw-footed tub, smiling like an idiot as soon her hand touched the water. Mel responded to all water—seas, oceans, rivers, rain, and yes, even the plain old tap water, though there were too many chemicals mixed through it for her liking.
She was a water spirit, a naiad, a siren. Or she would have been, had she been born a few thousand years ago, when labels of that kind existed for immortals.
Mel walked back to the living room to grab some candles and put some music on. Bath time was her happy place; she liked to make it special.
In the center of the warm room, on a low, ruby-red lacquered Chinese cabinet, was her favorite thing in the whole house: a gramophone. She had all the modern stuff, but there was nothing like listening to music this way in a well-insulated house.
She stilled as she changed the disc from Pink Floyd to the Beatles, her senses tingling, when she felt something approaching at high speed.
Mel spun on her heels, lowering her torso seconds before a stranger threw a weird device her way. A two- or three-foot long chain with two handles, that looked like a restraining or strangling weapon. It buzzed as it hit the wall behind her. Electrified, too.
What the hell? She was utterly confused. Minor conflicts, in-the-moment animosity, she understood. However, she’d never done anything that might warrant someone sending goons to track her down and attack her. Especially not of late. Her life was boring.
Her hands in fists, close to her chest, feet hip-width apart, balanced, she looked at the man in front of her. And the one to his right. And the t
hree to his left. They'd come from the now-open window.
Rather than asking herself how they'd gotten past all her spells, as well as the locks, she kept her mind on the intruders. Clearly, she was outmanned. Was she outmatched? She couldn't tell. Normally, she would have guessed she wasn’t. Mel was an immortal. A true immortal, not bound to drinking blood or sacrificing virgins to stay that way. There weren't many things who could beat her on Earth.
She couldn't tell with these five strange. They felt, smelled, looked different. It wasn't only the extended curve of their ears or the unfairly attractive features—no creep breaking into your home and attacking you should be that attractive—but also their presence. Their…otherness.
"I'm only going to say this once. You have the wrong person. Push this, and you'll regret it." A promise she intended to keep, no matter who or what they were.
The first one she'd noticed, the one who'd thrown the restraints, laughed. "We'll see, little girl."
She'd been underestimated plenty of times. By humans, by sups, by her people. She was female, and to them, it meant fragile. She liked to use it to her advantage.
Mel let them come to her, to gauge their skills. They were fast. As fast as she. She blocked the right guy's kick, pushed back and punched his side before jump-kicking the middle one who came at her upfront. Using his head as a stepping stone, she leaped on the other side of the room, landing atop an armchair. She was getting closer to the window on the left, but the three others still blocked that exit.
Dammit. Why did this have to happen when she was shoeless, wearing nothing except her panties and a tank top?
She eyed her pants and her boots, knowing there were two or three knives in the sole, inside pocket, and outer pocket of the boots, and another four in her pants. Mel wasn't one to take lives if she could help it but at five against one—five who were as fast as she—she would have planted a blade in their throat without hesitation.
Instead, Mel opened her right fist, calling to the water—all the water around her, from her bath, the rain outside, the Seine.
See if you enjoy choking on it.
"Look at that. Little kitty has claws. Maybe I'll keep this one if the lords don't tear her apart."
Their voices were light. They were loving this, loving that she was fighting back. These five relished the chase, and in administering pain.
She wouldn't give them the chance.
Mel pushed her energy forward at the closest of her assailants, smirking as he tried to yell. Hard to make a sound with water drowning every breath. She opened her other hand, ready for her next target, when she caught movement in the corner of her eye. A matte white barrel aimed at her. She frowned. A gun, really? She would have rolled her eyes if her focus hadn't been elsewhere. Guns were so very human. Avoiding them was easy; they couldn't fire fast enough to take out an immortal.
As he pulled the trigger, she understood her mistake.
The object flying out of the weapon wasn't a bullet. It was a syringe, and it was fast. Faster than anything she'd ever seen.
She moved, but it still hit her shoulder.
Mel started to feel dizzy almost immediately. Her hold on the water wavered.
It wasn't possible. No drug manufactured in this world had ever affected her. Not paracetamol or ibuprofen. She couldn't get drunk, or stoned, on anything except from a drop of nectar, the actual beverage of the gods. She couldn't use any of the potions she sold, made from ingredients found on Earth. They were too weak for her.
Who were these people? Where were they from? And more importantly, what did they want from her?
That was her last thought as she collapsed on the floor.
Whispers from the East
Caim had often wished to part with the old souls who rendered their world stagnant and stuck in a bygone era.
He'd never expected the chaos that would come with it.
Immortals never believed they were about to die, so it should have been no surprise that among the seven circle rulers, only three had prepared for succession adequately.
The Silver Circle wasn't one of the three. Theron evidently hadn't thought he'd meet his fate quite so soon; he’d named his future trueborn child as his successor—the eldest was to take the crown. The issue: he’d never gotten around to fathering one, which meant that Caim, Cassian, and anyone who dared, got to fight for the crown.
The vipers were looking forward to this. Refined and elegant as they pretended to be, the Aos Si were beasts, and the prospect of seeing the blood of the wildest among them flow was delectable.
Who didn't enjoy a good tournament? Caim was partial to a bit of bloodsport himself, but he had to admit, when the throne was on the line, it wasn't as entertaining as usual.
"Boy. Your master doesn't need you today. Go watch from the stands."
Caim broke into a rare smile, turning to find Rhedrek, his closest, oldest friend, behind him, talking to the young fae Caim had picked to squire for him.
"Red." Caim opened his arms to invite an embrace. "I didn't think you'd come."
Red was a captain of the guard posted to their western borders, the most sensitive side of the realm, as it was right in front of the Iron Circle, across the water.
Sidhe was a flat world, built by their ancestors in a strategic, symmetric, unnatural way, but thousands of years after, it looked like anyone's idea of paradise.
Golden water dripped down a platform, and evaporated once it reached the furnace underneath, only to fall back down in the rainy seasons. Eight circles, with the same features, size, and topography. Because of their positions on their floating world—some further from the furnace and closer to their star, others, west, far from both and remaining frozen all year round—the seven realms and the island of their sacred tree couldn’t have been more different.
Above all, Sidhe was functional. It had been built by the gods to guard Tartarus, the planet around which their system rotated.
The Iron and Silver Circles had been at war from the start. The others had their specific uses, whereas Iron and Silver were almost identical in strength and in purpose. The Iron Circle forged weapons that could kill their kind in one blow. Iron was the fae's main weakness—the gods had designed them that way to ensure that they remained inferior to their creators. The Silver Circle’s main trade was also weapons. Silver weapons didn't burn the skin of a fae on contact—though they could be spelled to do so—while fighting with an iron blade was a dangerous feat not many dared. Both trades were necessary, but the circles were still rivals.
The weapon Red pulled out of the squire's grasp had a silver and leather handle with an iron blade. Red lifted a brow. "You're gonna fight the rabble with that?"
Caim shrugged. He wasn't here to kid around. If his adversaries valued their lives, they shouldn't be fighting him in the first place.
Red rolled his eyes. "Come on. You know half of them are only doing this to impress their lovers or get better standing with their acquaintances. Keep this on the side for when you need it, but let's start you with my sword."
Caim was taken aback. It had been two decades since he'd seen Red and in those two decades, the only person who'd ever talked to him like that, questioning his decisions, was Theron.
Caim laughed. "It's good to have you back."
He took the silver blade his friend handed him. He could count on Rhedrek to stay his hand, reason with him when he was too harsh.
"If I'm named regent, you will stay," Caim told him, careful not to formulate it as a question. "You will advise me."
Red paused.
"I'm a soldier, Caim. You point me at an enemy, I'll destroy them. Sitting among the wolves is your purview, not mine."
"You will stay," Caim repeated. "If only because no one else dared telling me that there was no use in slaughtering peasants when I picked my sword."
He needed Red because, among everyone he knew, the captain was the only man who was not needlessly cruel.
Red took his time before n
odding, slowly. "All right. But I'm a package deal. My brother and sister come with me."
Caim managed not to grimace. He'd expected it, of course, though the prospect of getting reacquainted with his friend's siblings wasn't pleasant.
Ornela, Red's sister, was a scheming shrew who seldom failed to achieve her goals, and his brother Leto, a know-it-all who was useful, but equally annoying.
"If you must."
They headed out to the large city square in front of the regent's keep, where a crowd was assembled to witness the tournament.
Red’s gaze swept the arena. "Quite the circus."
True. Ridiculous as it was, their succession process wasn't nearly as problematic as the Iron Circle's. He was comforted by that knowledge, at least.
The Silver Circle’s charter had long ago been rewritten to include clauses stipulating that a new regent may be crowned, picked from whoever won a fair tournament, should their ruler die without naming a successor.
No such amendments had been ratified in the Iron Circle, which meant that they ran by the original charter written eons ago, when Sidhe was newer and dumber. Only an heir with the blood of the previous ruler could take the throne. As long as there was one heir breathing, the circle would accept no other leader. In the meantime, the regent’s keeps were shut, all gates firmly locked by the mechanism ruling their floating moon. If the Aos Si ever had the knowledge of how to operate the system, change their world, they'd long lost it. They had limited control over the details; only a regent could rewrite their charters during his reign.
Right now, the Ironers had no choice but to hunt down old Echterion's heirs. There must be one alive, otherwise the gates would have opened in front of the next in line for the regency—one of the Iron lords.
Hopefully not Lyr.
"Any news from across the water?" Caim knew his friend commanded spies on Iron land, just as the Ironers had spies on Silver.
No doubt Red would have checked their intelligence. Being so close to the enemy, he'd want to stay updated about their movements.
