Black Ice Burning (Pale Queen Series Book 3)

by A. R. Kahler

  And I know now that he won’t help me. Even if I beg.

  Four

  Despite the fact that the chapiteau is still sitting in the middle of the promenade like a decaying corpse, a smaller tent for the Tapis Noir is constructed within the hour. I sit on a crate of souvenirs and watch the remaining Shifters construct it, all of them heavily muscled and wearing leather and denim and covered in tattoos like some carnie biker gang. It feels strange, watching it go up, as if I’m getting some voyeuristic backstage pass: this is the dirty truth of the performing world. There is no magic here, just sweat and bad music and cheap beer and the sound of hammers on steel.

  I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there. I’m just too tired to find it.

  For the first few minutes, I try summoning the weapons I’d magically hidden in my flesh earlier. But, even though I could pull the Tarot card from my wrist before the Pale Queen, I can’t get any of them to appear. They stir beneath my flesh, a slight itch, but nothing appears. Not even the tiny butterfly knives I’d hidden in my ankles. Apparently, the card was my last trick. I try once more to summon Eli. I even go so far as to make a small blood sacrifice in his name by cutting my thumb on a nail and dripping it into a runic circle made on an old popcorn box. Nothing happens. The Pale Queen took him. And she is somehow more powerful than the contract that should have bound him tighter to me than any magic.

  When I realize my efforts are all in vain, I stop and resign myself to watching the Shifters set up. It’s not the most exciting of pastimes.

  As I watch, I’m hit with a new realization—my contract isn’t killing me. I’m here, sitting on my ass, watching a bunch of sweaty people put up a tent, when there’s a deranged killer on the loose, out for my employer’s kingdom. I should be incapacitated because I’m not actually doing anything to stop her. Instead, I feel perfectly fine. Which means one of two things: either Mab has altered my contract or right now being at the circus is actually the only thing I can do to defend the throne. In either case, I feel strangely . . . bored. Which is not a sensation I’m used to. I’m always on the search for another high, whether it’s booze or blood or babes.

  Becoming used to being a powerless mortal is not how I want to spend my night.

  Thankfully, the party gets started the moment the tent is up. Which feels strange, because I honestly expected there to be some sort of ritual beforehand, something to turn the tent into a den of vice and sin. But the Shifters just walk away, drinking from bottles of beer and vodka, and before they’ve all vanished around the corner of the trailers, Kingston is there, a group of punters huddled behind him like nervous ducks.

  Last time, there’d been an entourage of half-naked fire-dancers, and Kingston himself had been dressed like a leather daddy. Now, he’s just in the jacket he refused to offer me earlier, hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes more shadowed than before. There isn’t even any music in the background. Just the silence of the cold field and the occasional howl of wind through the skeletal chapiteau.

  The tent doesn’t glow with an inner light as they approach. In fact, the whole thing looks ridiculously sketchy, the purple-and-black panels no longer seductive, but childish in the garish lights overhead. He looks as if he’s leading them into a particularly sad birthday party.

  The only hint of mystery is the handful of white masks Kingston hands out to the crowd as they pass through the entrance flap. They enter silently, and the tent embraces them silently, everything quiet and cold, and even though I’ve found a sweater in my trailer, I shiver at how wrong it all feels. It’s as cheery as a funeral procession, and just as provocative. I can’t take my eyes off the crowd as they file in. Wondering which of them will make it out alive. If any will make it out alive. Wondering if any are working for the Pale Queen.

  I don’t have long to wait. After the twenty-third patron is admitted into the tent, Kingston stands there, alone, and looks over at me. A flourish of his wrist, and a black mask appears between his fingers. I hop from the crate and walk over, trying to figure out how to hold myself with any sense of poise. I haven’t been at the bottom of the totem pole since I finished my training with Mab. I’m not used to being shit on by people who are obviously my inferiors.

  I don’t know how office workers do it.

  “I’m assuming you want to partake,” he says when I near.

  “How kind of you to offer.”

  He hands me the mask. “It’s not an offer. It’s a job. The Shifters will be back in a bit, but I don’t trust them to guard, not anymore. I need another set of eyes on the inside. Cannon fodder, at the very least.”

  “I think I liked you better when you were trying to sleep with me.”

  “And I think I liked you better when I deemed you worth sleeping with. Sucks for both of us.”

  I reach up and tie the mask to my face. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who built a bedroom in his magical mansion for me, so that’s sort of weird since you viewed me as a daughter.”

  He reaches out, gently dislodging a chunk of hair behind my mask and tucking it behind my ear. I don’t want to look him in the eyes. I don’t want to see the expression he’s wearing.

  “You’ve never been a daughter to me,” he says. “Just as you’ve never been a lover. You are a pawn, Claire. Just like me. And we pawns must take our pleasures when and where we can, before the Queen gets us killed.”

  He pats the side of my face.

  “Keep your eyes open.”

  “I don’t even have any weapons.”

  He sighs dramatically, then moves his hand from the side of my face to my hip. To where I’d shoved a rapier earlier. While he’d been watching.

  There’s a stir of what must be magic, a heat that buzzes against my skin, then swarms and stings as though wasps are tearing through my flesh. I hiss back a yelp as the pain builds. There’s a strange noise, a combination of ripping and slurping, and my torso gives a disgusting shudder as something smacks against Kingston’s palm. I glance down. The rapier hilt is in his hand, the blade still stuck through my hip. I look back to him, to the shit-eating grin on his face, and before I can say anything, he pulls the blade the rest of the way out.

  It feels exactly as bad as it sounds.

  But when I fall to my knees from the pain, hands going to my waist, I find that there’s no blood. No puncture wound. Still, I don’t stand. The pain is an afterglow, but it’s not just that. It’s the feeling of violation.

  “You could have warned me,” I growl.

  He shrugs, then drops the rapier to the grass in front of me. “You needed a weapon. You had a weapon. I just procured it for you. Don’t say I never did anything nice.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  But he doesn’t hear. He’s already through the tent.

  I curse him under my breath—figuratively and, wistfully, literally, not that the curse does anything without magic behind it—and then pick up the rapier to follow him inside.

  With the black mask and the rapier, I feel like a pirate. And sadly, that’s not nearly as cool as it should be.

  The inside of the Tapis Noir tent is just as depressing as the exterior.

  Even though it’s only been erected for a few minutes, time works differently in Faerie—which is where this definitely leads, seeing as the interior is the size of a mansion—and I fully expect an onslaught of hedonism the moment I step inside. Like last time. Dancing girls and aerialists hanging from hoops, and contortionists stacked atop each other in a tantric Jenga. All of them naked. All of them seducing. All of it driven by a sadistic beat, blood and champagne flowing as mortals indulged in all the unearthly delights they could handle. And couldn’t handle.

  But the tent is nearly empty, a fact made all the more apparent by the muted music and lack of performers. There’s a stage in the corner on which a lone male pole dancer writhes in slow time to the music, but that’s it. The tables of champagne sit untouched. The mortals sit on the various leather armchairs and chaise lounges. And talk.
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  Kingston is right inside the door. His jaw isn’t dropping, but it might as well be—he’s staring at it all in mute horror, his eyes wide behind his black demon mask.

  “Not quite what I expected,” I say, patting him on the shoulder.

  He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw is tense. That says more than enough. One more shoulder pat, and I walk into the room, grabbing two champagne flutes in one hand as I pass. If anyone notices the fact that I’m still carrying a sword, they don’t say anything. Probably because I have champagne and a sword. I sit down on a settee near the corner and watch.

  Kingston kicks into action immediately. He walks through the room, his hands caressing shoulders and jaws as he goes, and even though I can’t see or feel the magic he’s wielding, the effects are instantaneous and obvious. People start making out in his wake, twosomes and threesomes and moresomes forming between strangers faster than I can blink. It’s actually pretty impressive, that level of power—love spells are notoriously tricky. But then, maybe lust magic is a whole lot easier to dispense; after all, everyone’s a horny bastard deep down, especially those invited to this special soiree.

  The music kicks in then, growing in volume if not in power. Before, it felt like a command. Tonight, it just feels like a desperate plea. Maybe due to the lack of participants. Maybe because I can’t feel the Dream unraveling from the humans. I down a glass of champagne and try not to sneeze from the bubbles; not feeling Dream is another reminder that I’ve become obsolete. At least I can hide from that fact behind a curtain of champagne.

  Slowly, other Fey begin to arrive to the party. As though they’re finally conscious of the mortal notion of fashionably late. They’re easy to pick out, and not just because they enter from flaps that I know don’t lead to the field we left. They all know what this party is about; where the humans here are dressed (although not entirely, not anymore) in sensible coats and pants, the Fey are dressed to the nines. If dressing to the nines also encapsulates fetish wear. There are women in full evening gowns and men in corsets and tuxedo pants, couples of all shapes and sizes and colors, but each and every one of them is beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful. As though they took a human body and removed every single flaw that makes a human, human, leaving something ethereal and dangerous in its place.

  They drift through the crowd, looking at the mortals with bemused, appraising expressions. Some circle the whole room before settling in beside an in-progress orgy, slipping between or atop the humans as easily as draping a blanket. And the mortals don’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite. The moment a group is joined by a Fey or two, the passion kicks up ten notches. Clothes fly off. Sighs become moans. Hands explore further.

  I down the second glass of champagne. I wish I knew where the bottles were kept.

  A few Fey look my way, but none of them make a move. I want to tell myself it’s because there isn’t a single denizen of Faerie who doesn’t know my face or reputation, even with my mask. Faeries can taste energy like a calling card.

  But the cold truth is that the expressions that pass over me aren’t fear. Or awe. Or even frustrated desire. But pity. Not just pity—something else.

  These bastards are ashamed of me.

  And I haven’t even started dancing topless on the bar yet.

  It would take a lot more than a few glasses of champagne to get there. Sometimes, a high tolerance is a curse.

  I tell myself I don’t care. Not about my sobriety. Not about the expressions I want to stab off their smug faces. But when a woman—tall, curvaceous, in a dress that’s more leather straps than fabric—walks by and tsks under her breath, I realize I do care. I care a damn lot.

  I’ve lost my powers. My mother. Mothers. My reputation was all I had left. So long as people were afraid of me, I could pretend I was something worth being afraid of. Now, I’m just a girl in a mask with a rapier being a wallflower at an orgy.

  Not exactly fear inspiring at all.

  Some middle-aged man in loose boxers and one boot staggers over to me, his eyes drugged on magic and Dream and his grin slung with desire. He flops down on the settee and immediately begins kissing my neck.

  “Dude,” I say, pushing him away. He pushes back, his hands going to my thigh, completely oblivious of the fact that he’s sitting on my hand. And rapier. “Dude.” I push him again. Harder. He topples off the settee, but that doesn’t stop him; he begins licking my shoes, and they’re not even good leather boots worth licking. This isn’t a party where no is an acceptable answer. He just has it the wrong way around. I’m in the black mask. I’m the one who’s a predator. This white-masked dick is nothing but food.

  I kick. Maybe a little harder than I should, because there’s a sound of bones cracking as he falls backward. His hand goes to his jaw, and for the briefest moment I see it—that crack in composure as magic and lust falter, as realization dawns: he’s at a strange party, surrounded by naked strangers, and he was just licking the shoe of a girl half his age. Then the dominatrix woman from before kneels down beside him, taking his face gingerly between her hands, her thumb tracing the blood dripping from his split lip. His trance takes over, his eyes glaze, and as she pulls his face to hers, licking the blood from the corner of his mouth, I am entirely forgotten.

  More Fey join, kneeling down in front of me, and the man’s moans become ragged as nails trace lines down his skin, as teeth bite into soft flesh. He practically disappears beneath his predators, but not once does he cry out. Not once does he panic and beg for help. Even when the floor around him begins to color with blood and the scent of iron fills the air.

  I watch it. I should turn away, but I don’t. I’m entranced by it. Maybe because in this moment, I’m not the lowest of the low. I’m not the prey. And maybe because killing runs in my veins—if I’m not doing the dirty work, at least I’m able to play the witness. It makes me think of Eli. The screwed up thing is, watching these faeries eat a man alive makes me miss him. I always knew we had a strange relationship. I didn’t realize it went that far.

  The dominatrix woman is the first to stand, but she doesn’t walk away. She comes over and sits beside me. And no, I don’t shy away, even though I want to. Her face and hands are smeared red.

  “Have some, love,” she says. She holds her arm out, wrist just beyond my lips. The scent of sweat and leather and blood fills my nostrils. The combination is terribly arousing. I feel my pulse quicken and my chest heat. Even if blood isn’t my drink of choice.

  It was your mother’s, though. The thought hisses through my head, along with the memory of feeding her my blood, and my powers . . .

  “No, thanks,” I say. I’m in no position to be crass to a faerie.

  She doesn’t move.

  “Come on. You of all people could use it.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Horny?” she asks. Her other hand moves to my thigh.

  And yes, damn it, I am horny, and I would love nothing more than to block out my troubles with her lips on mine. Even if they are covered by someone else’s blood. I can’t, though. I have to keep my eyes open.

  You know, in case some Pale Queen lackey tries to start shit, and they just happen to be afraid of angry women with rapiers.

  She seems to catch my train of thought, perhaps because she can actually read my thoughts. Most Fey can.

  “You’re worried someone will attack?” she asks. This brings a chuckle from her. She finally lowers her arm, but only to lick at her wrist herself. The hand on my thigh doesn’t move. “Please, love. No one is attacking here. Not tonight anyway. There’s no point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That would involve the loss of life. And the Pale Queen isn’t interested in losing any of her subjects. She does not rule like Mab. No one is a pawn in her eyes.”

  “Everyone’s a pawn,” I say, echoing Kingston. “But not everyone seems to know it.”

  “Not with her,” she says. She pats my thigh, then gives it a squeeze—I can’t tell whether
it’s condescending or exploratory. “I’ve been under Mab’s rule awhile, girl. I know the difference.”

  “It’s very brave or very stupid of you to claim allegiance to the Pale Queen when under Mab’s roof.” I mutter this, but she doesn’t bother to keep her voice down. The happy moaning of the faeries at our feet drowns everything out.

  “I’ve done no such thing. I have served Mab faithfully for many centuries. But that does not mean I don’t recognize a revolutionary when I see it. The Pale Queen has changed the game. The Courts no longer hold sway.”

  “You think the Pale Queen will bring a new era.”

  “No,” she replies. “I think she will bring the end to Faerie, and mankind. Which is why we must enjoy it while we can, yes?”

  The man before us has stopped moaning. He enjoyed it, while he could.

  But that didn’t keep him from winding up dead.

  At the moment, I can’t tell if I envy that, or if it’s a reason to fight harder.

  I leave the tent a few hours later. Maybe I’m the only person in the world who would find being a voyeur at a death orgy dull, but the time drags by until there are only a few Fey left, all sated and lying on leather sofas, curled against each other like bloody puppies. The mortals, of course, are dead. The bodies lie where they were left, some drained of blood, some just fucked to death. Others, I don’t quite know how they died, but the end result is the same. I watched them. All of them. And not once did I think, Maybe I should save them from this fate. After all, I’m now a puny mortal, just like them. The only thing keeping me safe is this black mask.

  So maybe it wasn’t just the mask protecting me. Maybe I am more of a monster than I’d thought.

  The air outside is frozen, and the stark contrast from the sweaty tent is a slap to the tit. But that’s not what makes me stop walking. It’s the man in a jacket and beanie standing a few feet from the entrance. Just standing there, hands in his pockets, and staring. As if he’s waiting.