The Fallen’s Crime: A Codex Blair Novella

by Izzy Shows

  It would kill her, and he knew that, and he was doing it to her anyway.

  And she had done it to herself, in a way. It was all her fault.

  “I-I’m…” Her voice slurred. “Sorry.”

  “Good. You should be sorry, but I don’t think you’re sorry enough, not yet,” he said.

  He came closer to her, until he was standing beside her. He reached out to stroke her cheek, a comforting gesture that she managed not to lean into or flinch away from—while her body warred with itself as to which it wanted to do. She knew that she wanted neither, both would betray a weakness of an emotion. Just two different ones.

  She had to close the love she felt for him, because he was missing and it wouldn’t do her any good to dwell on this. There would either be time for that later, once she had survived this, or there wouldn’t be because she was dead. Either way, she had to focus now.

  His blade cut a sharp line down her cheek, following the path his hand had taken. She bit down on her cheek so hard that she tore a hole through it to keep herself from screaming. She would not give him the satisfaction of screaming, would not react to the pain if it was something that she could control.

  There was always something that you could control, even when you were dying. Perhaps especially when you were dying.

  “Now, now, Aisling. You’ve played this game before, you know how it goes. You give me what I want, and the easier it is for you. Maybe I’ll kill you quickly instead of dragging it out, but if you’re not a good girl, then this is going to hurt quite a bit.” His voice mocked her, even more so than his words did. He had no right to talk to her with that voice, with the voice of the man who had loved her, with the bedroom whisper she’d grown so used to. His voice conjured so many pleasant memories, and her mind wanted to grab hold of them and seek comfort there.

  Maybe that’s what she should be doing, retreating inside of herself so that she could not feel the pain of what she was going through. It was likely the smarter move. But then her eyes would be glazed over, her jaw slack, her muscles no longer holding her in place. She would slump back into the chair, and he would know. He wouldn’t be able to do anything about it except kill her, but he would still know where she had gone inside of herself, and that was a weakness as well.

  No, she was going to face this pain.

  This betrayal.

  His blade cut into her other cheek, drawing a symmetrical line, and she panted heavy breaths in and out of her nose, trying to keep herself calm. She didn’t know what she could focus on to draw herself away from the fiery pain his knife bestowed upon her.

  The chair continued to burn her, and she was treated to new pain when the first scrap of her shirt gave way and the iron touched her bare back.

  Then she did scream, arching her back to get as far away from the chair as she possibly could, and driving her shoulder straight into his knife.

  It was hell, there was no escape, and she didn’t know what to do. Because every time he cut her, she lurched back into the chair, and every time her skin touched the chair she screamed and moved forward again. Because no matter how bad the knife was, it could not compare with the chair. The chair was a seamless slab of cold iron that was going to burn her flesh to charred pieces that would never be identified.

  It went on like that for what felt like eons, though of course that could not be so. He was a mortal man and he would not live eons to torture her, and it was unlikely she could survive that long tied to an iron throne. Her breaths came in heavy pants, blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth, and her head had slumped forward, almost touching her chest.

  The fight had gone out of her.

  The door swung open, and she entertained the feeble thought that perhaps someone had come to rescue her.

  A woman entered the room, and he turned to look at her. Aisling recognised the emotion in his eyes the moment he looked at the woman—it was love.

  Somehow that was worse than every touch of the blade.

  Nuala’s Dream

  Something had gone horribly, horribly wrong in the world.

  And it was all Nuala’s fault.

  She was racing against a clock that had already expired, but that didn’t mean she could stop running or turn around and hide. She would have to face this, own up to her mistake and take the punishment that would be dealt out to her. She didn’t even know what punishment was worthy of her crime, she certainly couldn’t think of one. Death would be too good for her, and besides, they would need every Winter Fae they could get a hand on now that…

  She couldn’t bring herself to think of it, to name the event that had occurred, because to do that would be to accept that it had happened, and she wasn’t ready to do that yet. There was still the brief hope that perhaps she was wrong about the entire thing and it hadn’t happened at all and she would arrive back at the castle and everything would be OK again.

  Oh, Mother, but she needed to cling to that hope. She sent up a silent prayer as she ran, long legs jumping over obstacles as they cropped up, and ploughing forward without hesitation. There was nothing out here for her to worry about, nothing that would ever be able to trip up her steady legs. This was a place that she had run so many times with…

  Oh, but even the thought of her name would bring her pain and so she stowed the memory away for the moment, so that she could bring it up later when it could be shared with her companion.

  “What’s happened?” A satyr joined her, his furry legs stretching to keep up with hers.

  “I don’t know!” she shouted, not looking at him for fear that he would see her crime on her face.

  “Is the sky…is it cracking?” He shouted the question back at her, though it wasn’t out of anger or spite or frustration. It was hard to be heard over the din of the world falling apart.

  “We can only hope that it’s just the sky that is cracking,” she muttered under her breath. She felt his eyes on her, waiting for her to repeat what she had just said or otherwise expand on it, but she offered him neither.

  She didn’t want to talk about it, she didn’t want to think about.

  Other Fae joined them in the run to the castle, the frantic energy crackling around them as they moved. Emotions were too high for anyone to contain power to themselves, so it was spraying off from them in random spurts, not even pouring out as smooth waves. In normal conditions, she would have chided them for their lack of control, but she didn’t have the time for it. Not for the chiding or even for the caring.

  She was going to lose her title over this, at the very least, and then she wouldn’t have anyone left to chide, so it was best to just abandon the practice altogether now, right? She couldn’t believe that she was thinking of her title at a time like this.

  And then, as if to demonstrate that the world agreed with her, a chasm opened two steps ahead of her. She launched herself into the air, somersaulted, and landed on the other side with one leg bent and the other kicked out to steady herself. She leapt back to her feet and continued running, drawing closer to the castle now. Not too long and then she would hopefully be allowed to die.

  Die in disgrace, of course, but that was much better than living through whatever punishment she was going to be given.

  A shudder ran down her spine as she crossed the drawbridge and hurried inside the castle walls. She slowed her pace from the bolting run she had been maintaining, to more of a hurried walk. She averted her gaze from every Fae she came across, afraid that they would look at her and see her hurry and know that it was all her fault.

  They didn’t seem to know, or else the Fae she had already interacted with would have avoided her. Not asked her for information.

  Her feet flew across the palace floor, to the throne room.

  The Queen sat on the throne on the dais. Sunlight glinted off the crown of ice on her white hair, creating a cascade of rainbows down the pale blue gown she wore. It was nowhere near as ornate as her full regalia, but it was a simple sort of elegance. The kind where you can’
t stop yourself from staring because you want to pick up every single detail that your eyes could possibly fall upon.

  She turned her violet eyes on Nuala, no trace of emotion in her face.

  “What is it, Bhean Nuala?” Her voice could shake mountains, but now she spoke quietly.

  Nuala trembled nonetheless, staring up at the powerful woman she called Queen, and wondering how she was supposed to make this admission.

  “Your Majesty…” she began, though her words trailed off. She knew not where to take them, knew not what would be enough to have her life spared. Or to have her life taken.

  “Nuala, does it appear to you that I have the time to waste on you deciding what it is you wanted to share with me? Do not make me take it from you.”

  Nuala stared at the ground, her eyes bulging with the effort she was putting into thinking of something to say. Anything to say other than what she had come here to say.

  “My liege. Your daughter is gone,” she whispered the words, every syllable a knife in her heart. She had been given one mission, all her life just the one task, and that was to keep the Lady safe. Keep her safe and happy, and it had always been so easy. There had never been anything to be concerned about, and if she was asked about it she would say even still that there hadn’t been anything to worry about.

  The Lady had been there one moment and gone the next.

  Nuala had gone hunting, of course, wasting time that the Queen would likely penalise her for, but she couldn’t alert the Queen to the Lady’s absence if it turned out that she was just playing a prank—she had done that once, when they’d been younger and she hadn’t known any better. The lashes she received hurt even to this day sometimes.

  But she hadn’t found her, and now she had to face the music.

  The Queen said nothing, her eyes shut so that Nuala couldn’t even try and guess what would be coming for her—not that she would have been able to. Queen Danu was notoriously difficult to read. No one had ever been able to do it, save for the Lady or the Crone. The Lady had been so good at it, and so mischievous, that there had been times when they’d been sent away from the room when Queen Danu was doing something important and couldn’t afford to risk her intentions being given away.

  Nuala wanted nothing more than to be with her friend now, being chided by the Queen for something ridiculous and silly that they had done. She would be so happy even to have alerted the Queen to a false alarm and be given a thousand lashes for her insolence. Nothing would make her happier right now than for the Lady to come running in and laugh in all their worried faces.

  She was suddenly aware of all the faces staring at her, the court having filled in slowly after she had reached the Queen, and now they were all watching her. Had they heard her, her admission? It was obvious now, watching the Queen fight for her control. That was what was happening, Nuala was certain of it now. The Queen didn’t dare speak because if she did, her voice would crack, or she would cry, or otherwise betray the emotions that she had hidden away from her court for so long that no one even knew what it looked like when she felt anything.

  No one except the Lady, and probably the Crone. No one had seen the Crone in so long though, that she was considered a myth depending on who you talked to. Nuala knew better, but that was only because of how close she was—or had been—to the royal family.

  Queen Danu’s eyes snapped open, and Nuala saw pure, venomous hatred there for a split second before they were the calm and quiet pools that she had known for so long. Had the hatred been there? Had she imagined it? She wasn’t certain anymore, but her heart was racing all the same.

  The Queen lifted a hand and gestured. A servant came forward and held out his hand for the Queen.

  She placed her hand in his and looked out at the crowd. The servant spoke for her.

  “You have come to tell me that my daughter is missing? This is how you deliver the news to me, throwing your words at me like daggers? Do you expect me to crack?” The words were so strange coming from the boy, but this was not a new development. The Queen used her servants like this when she was upset with a courtier, or when she thought they were not worthy of her voice. Again, the interpretation depended on who you were talking to—in this instance, if you were talking to the Lady, or to every other Fae in Winter.

  “I meant no disrespect, your majesty…” Nuala whispered, eyes darting back down to the floor where it was safe. “I didn’t know what to do. I looked everywhere for her, but I cannot find her. I’m sor—” She choked, unable to breathe, her fingers clawed at her throat and she dropped to the floor. Fighting for her breath, she forced herself to think and looked up at her Queen. This was not a sudden occurrence, a freak of nature, her Queen had taken her breath with a wave of her hand.

  Just as suddenly as it had been taken from her, her air was returned, and she gasped it in.

  “You mean that she is…missing?” She tilted her head to the side. “This is why you have not brought my daughter’s body to me. You do not know where it is.”

  “My Lady, she is not dead. She can’t be,” Nuala said.

  The Queen’s lip twitched, almost as if she were about to snarl, but quickly settled. Again, Nuala wondered if she had imagined the movement altogether. Everyone knew why it was that the Lady could not be dead—the court could not be without a Winter Lady, no more than it could be without the Queen or the Crone. It hadn’t happened in the memory of the Court that one had been lost before a successor was available, but there were tales. If the Lady were killed and the Queen had no other children, then the power of the Lady would move into the closest available vessel of Winter that was available. The same were true of the Queen or the Crone—though that was a much more difficult succession to interrupt. To get to the Crone, one would have to wipe out all of Winter to prevent there being a blood successor.

  But the sky was cracking and perhaps other things were as well, and that was because there was no Lady.

  The Queen stood abruptly, staring down at Nuala. There was no emotion in those eyes, nothing for her to be able to see if or how she was to be punished, and then she walked towards her, the servant trailing behind so that the Queen could keep hold of his skin, and Nuala was certain that it was going to happen now.

  Except she moved right past her, her gown swishing and brushing past Nuala as she walked.

  “Get her out of my sight. You have disgraced your Court.”

  “Your Majesty, please!”

  “Be quiet,” she hissed, whirling back around, and Nuala had no choice but to fall silent. “I have to alert the Crone. Winter is in danger.”

  Modern Day, Blair’s House

  Mal was lost to me again, staring off into the fireplace that had long since died. There were no crackling flames, not even an ember burned in the fireplace. The room had grown dark, but Mal had kept talking as if a man possessed, and I hadn’t dared to interrupt him. Each story had been so painful to hear, and I deeply regretted asking him to share the information. Why had I thought it would be fun? I didn’t know these people, and it wasn’t my place to ask for something so personal from them. And they didn’t even know that I knew their worst fears.

  That was the worst part of all of it, that I knew something so private about these strangers.

  And if I felt so bad about them, how would I feel once Mal told me his?

  I waited with baited breath for him to continue, even to move, some indication that he was more than just a statue on my sofa. He had returned to his bowed position, leaning over with his elbows on his knees, absently turning his ring round and round. He was looking at the fireplace but I knew that he wasn’t seeing it, his eyes were far away somewhere else.

  Was he remembering his own nightmare? He’d become like this since he’d started telling me about Nuala’s, the other’s he’d certainly been affected by but nowhere near as bad as Nuala’s nightmare. Why was that?

  I glanced down at my hands, chewing on my lip, then back up at him.

  He still hadn’t mov
ed. I couldn’t even see if he was breathing at all.

  “Mal?” I asked. My voice was quiet. I was trying not to surprise him, if he really was lost inside his mind.

  Was it the same protocol as not waking a sleepwalker? I didn’t know what I was or wasn’t supposed to do here.

  Aidan would have been able to tell you what to do. I closed my own eyes at that thought, it had come unbidden from the depths of my mind. It had been a while since I’d lost Aidan, and each day it became a little bit easier. But every time I remembered I felt the guilt all over again. I pushed it inside me, something to deal with after Mal left.

  Funny. I had asked him to share his worst nightmare with me, and I wasn’t willing to share the vulnerability that my guilt brought out.

  He had yet to move.

  I reached out and touched his leg. “Mal.” My voice was more firm this time, and when he didn’t respond I shook his leg a little bit. Still nothing.

  “Malphas!” I shouted, and his head snapped around to look at me so hard that I was afraid he’d break me. His eyes were wild, searching mine, and I couldn’t tell if he was here or still in his nightmare—because good lord that had to be a nightmare that was having this effect on him.

  “Mal, it’s me. It’s Blair. You’re safe, you’re in my living room, and we’re having a drink and good conversation. It’s OK,” I said.

  “Blair.” He said my name, though he sounded alien to me. Not at all like his normal self.

  “That’s me,” I said, managing a weak smile.

  “Yeah,” he said, dropping his head down so that I couldn’t see his face anymore. He dragged his hands over his shaggy hair, messing it up more than it was on an average day. “Yeah, I know where I am.”

  “Where did you go?” I asked, pitching my voice low and soft again.

  “Where do you think I went?” he asked, though it came out more of a demand, and he jerked his head up to look at me again.

  He was angry, I realised. Angry at me for asking?