Black Ice Burning (Pale Queen Series Book 3)

by A. R. Kahler

  I’m immediately grateful I haven’t screwed or killed anyone tonight, though I’m conscious of the rapier held in my hand, and the streaks of blood I couldn’t avoid.

  He doesn’t seem perturbed at all.

  “Where is she?” he asks when he sees me.

  I don’t have to ask who.

  “What did you do with Vivienne?” he demands.

  I’ve seen a lot of screwed up shit tonight. Go figure, the one that makes me want to hide is my father.

  Five

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, hoping to stay on the offensive, to keep some sort of upper hand. “How did you find us?”

  “Your website,” he replies. “Answer my question.” He closes the gap between us in a few steps.

  But I can’t. I can’t tell this man that his wife is dead. That his own daughter did it. I can’t, because I know that would destroy him. And I’m tired of destroying people’s lives.

  Wow. That’s something I never thought I’d feel.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “Bullshit.” He steps closer, until he’s only a foot away. His jaw is tense with anger, his eyes tight. I know that look; he’s about to lose it. “You took her from me. What did you do with her? Did you kill her?”

  The accusation is a punch to the chest. Mainly because it’s accurate.

  I don’t say anything.

  “You did, didn’t you?” There’s a hatred in his eyes that makes me wonder if he’ll attack. He knows I’m his own flesh and blood. Not that I think that will stop him. It clearly didn’t stop me.

  “It’s not what it—”

  “YOU KILLED MY WIFE!”

  His yell stops the blood in my veins, because he’s on me then, his hands clenched on my arms. And yes, I could throw him off, but I don’t. I let him press me a few steps back, let myself stumble under his ferocity.

  Because I deserve this. He deserves this. I will let him hurt me. Because I deserve nothing less, and he deserves so much more.

  He shoves me to the ground, and somewhere along the way I’ve lost the rapier, but I don’t care—I’m not going to fight back, and there’s no one around I need to save face in front of. The grounds are empty. I have a feeling that anyone watching would just want to see my blood get spilled.

  I stay silent while he towers over me, his fists balled. I should be whimpering, or cringing, begging him to stop. I don’t. I don’t want him to.

  “Say something,” he growls.

  I don’t.

  This pisses him off more.

  “Damn it, bitch. Say something!”

  He kicks me, accentuating his point. I hate to admit that the spark of pain feels . . . nice. After everything that’s happened, this feels right. As though there is justice in the world, and for once, I’m not the one doling it out. He kicks me in the ribs again. Sparks flash across my vision as my lungs scream out. I stay silent.

  Again, I want to say. Instead, I just cough.

  “You ruined our lives,” he growls. Another kick. Another small high. I close my eyes and let it come, distantly wondering if I’m immortal under the circus’s roof, or if Austin could kill me if he tried hard enough. “Everything we fought for. Everything we did for you. She was your mother. Your mother! I should kill you. I should fucking kill you!”

  Then he grunts as I hear something slam into him. I open my eyes. It’s not Kingston coming to my rescue, but Melody. She has him pinned to the ground, his chest to the grass and his arms twisted behind his back. Her arms look bigger than they did before—Shifter magic—but even from here I can see them shake and strain.

  “Now,” she says coolly. “You’re going to calm your shit down. Because we used to be friends and I don’t want to hurt Viv’s husband. Got it?”

  He says something I can’t quite make out, but it sounds like get the hell off me. Melody doesn’t move. I don’t know how he hasn’t flipped her off of him by now. She’s still only half his size, and Austin has the physique of a man used to working out. Either it’s more Shifter powers, or Melody’s been taking self-defense classes.

  “This is going to get ugly if you don’t cooperate,” she says. It’s very conversational, all things considered. I keep expecting someone to come out of the Tapis Noir tent and interrupt us. No one does.

  She tugs on his arm a bit as I press myself up to sitting.

  “See, if I pull just a little bit farther, I’ll either dislocate your shoulder or force your humerus to snap. You don’t want either of those to happen. Because our magician and primary healer is currently indisposed, and no one here is going to drive your sorry ass to the hospital. So. I suggest you take a deep breath—attaboy—and check yourself before you wreck yourself.”

  She looks at me and grins at that, as though she’s proud of her cliché wordplay. Then the smile slips, and the strain becomes apparent. I crawl over and sit beside them. Just out of his reach.

  “Calm down, Dad,” I say. It hurts to talk even more than it hurts to breathe, but I do both anyway.

  His eyes narrow when he sees me, but he doesn’t make a swipe. Just one thick inhale, which moves Melody up and down on his back like she’s cresting a wave.

  “Much better,” she says. She switches her grip so she’s holding his wrists with one enormous hand, patting him on the head with the other. “Now, we’re just going to keep you here for a bit. Until you learn to play nice.”

  “She killed my wife,” he says through gritted teeth.

  Melody doesn’t answer right away. Her hand lingers on his head, fingers curled through his hair, as her head droops and her eyes close.

  “I know,” she finally says. It sounds as though she’s finally admitting it to herself. “And I know how much that hurts—”

  “No,” he interrupts. “You don’t.”

  “I do.” She clenches his hair. “She worked with us, before you ever came to the show. Before she killed . . . Well, before a lot of things. In spite of it all, she was my best friend. Is. No. Was.”

  “And you’re still just letting this one walk around like she’s the damn queen.”

  “She’s suffering enough,” Melody replies. “Hurting her won’t help.”

  I don’t want to tell either of them that that’s untrue. There’s no way I could suffer enough.

  Just that thought makes me hate what I’ve become.

  It should fill me with fire, that sentiment. Self-loathing always was a good way to get my head on straight. But I can’t force myself to hate myself enough to get back in the game.

  He doesn’t respond and Melody doesn’t move. I can tell she’s straining—even though he isn’t struggling, her forehead is creased and her hands shake slightly. I don’t know much about Shifter powers, but maybe this increased strength thing is draining her. It’s another small needle to my heart; here she is, another person hurting herself because of me.

  Above us, thunder rumbles, and snow begins to drift from the sky.

  “Let him up,” I say. “He’s not going to hurt anyone.”

  My dad curses something that I don’t quite catch over another roll of thunder, but when Melody slides off of him, he just pushes himself up to sitting and glares at me.

  “Did the orgy move?” Kingston asks as he steps from the Tapis Noir tent. Jovial, almost. Despite just being embroiled in debauchery, he’s dressed exactly like he had been before entering.

  Austin glares at him. Kingston’s expression immediately shifts to defensive. I practically expect him to hiss.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” Kingston asks.

  Austin jumps to his feet, hands balled into fists. He doesn’t even bother with words—the moment he’s up, he rockets toward Kingston like a cannonball, fist swinging in an arc that I know without doubt will connect. Hard.

  But just as flesh meets flesh, Kingston vanishes in a swirl of smoke, appearing immediately by my side. Austin topples from the misspent inertia but turns it into a roll, flipping up onto his feet and twisting to face Kings
ton. I gotta hand it to the guy: he can fight.

  It makes me oddly proud.

  “You,” Austin seethes. I swear I hear his knuckles pop, even against the thunder above.

  “Me,” Kingston replies. He bows with a disgusting amount of flourish. When he stands, all surprise is gone, replaced by the shit-eating grin I want to punch off his face. “Frankly, I’m surprised you even remember. Your memory always was a bit shit.”

  Austin shakes his head as though trying to dislodge his thoughts. It doesn’t make him any less intimidating.

  “What have you done to my family?” he asks.

  “Nothing. As you can see, your daughter is right here.” He looks at me and shrugs. “I assume that cat was already out of the bag, yes?”

  I don’t bother nodding, and he doesn’t wait for me. His attention is already back on Austin. Something touches my side, making me flinch. Melody’s there, knees to her chest and watching it all with wide eyes. Tears run down her cheeks, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what she’s crying over. Well, what specifically.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Austin,” Kingston says. His voice is deadly low and calm, traced with a latent magic even I can feel. “You shouldn’t even know we exist.” Kingston’s eyes don’t dart to me, but I feel the accusation in his words.

  “She killed my wife,” he says. “I deserve to be here. I deserve some sort of vengeance.”

  “None of us ever get the revenge we desire,” Kingston says. “Let alone the vengeance we deserve. The death of Vivienne is a loss to us all.”

  I feel like there should be more to his speech, something heroic—she died for a great cause; she sacrificed herself so others could live. All the things he’d said to me before, about when she saved the circus from destruction.

  “I want to know,” Austin says. He looks between all three of us when he says it, as though we’re all in on some great secret. And maybe we are. Even though I did tell him most of the truth. “I want to know what’s going on. Why I’m remembering . . . things. Why I see what I see.”

  “Going insane?” Kingston asks. I punch him in the calf. He doesn’t even look down. “Listen, you aren’t allowed to set foot here. I suggest you go back to your quaint little home and forget any of this ever happened.” He pauses. “I can make all of this go away. I can send you the daughter you thought you loved. I can make you believe your wife died for some noble cause. Hell, I could erase everything and give you a new wife, a new kid—maybe a boy this time . . . Whatever lie you want. Consider it my gift; it’s more than most of us get. We have to live with the truth.”

  I hadn’t thought at all about the changeling girl who’d been sent to live in my place. After she sold Vivienne off to Tír na nÓg, I figured she’d just gone to live with the Pale Queen. The thought of her inspires a little bit of heat within me. She deserves some sort of punishment for all of this.

  “I don’t want more lies,” Austin says. He actually drops to his knees and presses his hands to his head, as if he’s forcing out the memories he shouldn’t be having.

  “You don’t want the truth,” Kingston replies gravely. He steps forward, holds out his hand like he’s a fucking saint. “Come on. Agree to forget, and this all goes away. It won’t even be a bad dream.”

  Melody yelps at my side, her entire body going rigid.

  “What—?” I begin. Her hand grips my arm, tighter than a vise.

  “They’re here,” she whispers.

  The sky crackles, but not with thunder—a spiderweb of light curls over us, pale yellow and green. Sickly. Like decay. No need to wonder who she’s talking about. No one else would make that sort of entrance.

  “Could this night get any worse?” Kingston mutters. He turns his attention to Austin. “Looks like you got your wish. You’re staying here. Melody, take care of him. Claire, you come with me.”

  The crowd assembled outside the arch leading to the main promenade is not a mix I ever thought I’d live to see.

  Summer and Winter and unclaimed faeries stand stoically before the entrance. Grotesque harpies preen beside gorgeous water nymphs while fauns and devilish satyrs bristle with unspent energy. There are humanoid elves—with pointy ears and longbows—and stumpy redcaps and spiderlike monsters I don’t have names for. Hundreds of wisps of all colors float about, dancing like luminescent cotton candy or Saint Elmo’s fire. All of them are creatures usually at each other’s throats. Now, they stand side by side like battle-hardened allies.

  Despite the fact that he’s staring down a hundred Fey with a failing defense system and a backup of maybe a dozen slackers, Kingston stands beneath the gate proudly—shoulders back, head high. Somewhere between the trek from the Tapis Noir tent to here, his and my clothes changed. We’re both in black leather—pants and bombers with studs and armored patches—and black T-shirts. It’s a small touch, but even just being back in leather makes me feel more myself. More in control.

  Which, I know, was his point. He even granted me a few daggers and a handful of chalk. I wonder if he knows the chalk is also useless and just gave it to me for the placebo effect.

  He doesn’t speak. But as he stands there, a ripple forms and the crowd begins to part. As the figure walks forward, Kingston’s tattoo uncurls from his neck, transforming once more into the glowing golden-feathered serpent. It twines around his body slowly, sinuously, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. Another show of power. I grab a dagger and a piece of chalk, trying to seem cool and collected by his side even as my gut drops. We both know who’s coming, and just how pointless our display of faltering strength is.

  When the Pale Queen steps from the crowd, I honestly expect the tent to go up in flames.

  Her robes of faint aquamarine fan out behind her, the trim of white fur and diamonds glittering in the light of the wisps. The cowl is pulled high, her face hidden once more by a white lace mask. Her lips, though, are red and glimmering, as though she’s recently sipped the blood of her enemies. Just as red as the eyes that glow in the sockets of her disguise.

  A shudder runs through me at her smile. It is at once cold and dangerous and utterly inhuman. Speaking of inhuman . . .

  Eli is at her side. Still in the white suit, still in the black sunglasses. But that’s where the resemblance to his former self ends; the demon at the Pale Queen’s side is a broken thing, a toy that’s been used for far too long. Eli is normally a proud son of a bitch, but he stands there, hunched over, hands in his pockets and stains on his suit. Which is perhaps the biggest red flag, because any time he ever got a drop of blood or smudge of dirt on his clothing, it was magically cleaned away in seconds. I thought it was just automatic.

  “What do you want?” Kingston asks. The serpent curls around his head, hissing like a pissed-off halo.

  “Oh, dear Kingston,” she replies. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

  I flick my gaze to him just in time to see his expression tighten. It’s gone before I can place the emotion.

  “But sweet Claire,” she continues, drawing my attention to her, “you seem quite different. I would dare say you look whole.” She wiggles her hand when she says this, showcasing the ring she’d stolen when she’d snapped off my finger. I clutch the chalk harder. It grinds against my palm, turning to dust just as useless as the chalk itself.

  “What can I say?” I reply. I try to instill as much of Mab’s coldness as I can into my voice, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin like I don’t give a shit that we are outnumbered and about to die. “I have powerful allies.”

  She chuckles.

  “Don’t we all, love. Don’t we all. And yet I fear you may have chosen the losing side.”

  She is close enough now that I could reach out and slap her. But she doesn’t step over the invisible line in the sand, doesn’t cross over into circus grounds. Instead, she drags her fingers across the barrier. Green light immediately flares from her fingers, crackling up into the sky in another arc. Her fingers glow as if they’re illuminated fro
m the inside, her flesh smoking and crisping; the scent of burning skin fills my nostrils. It’s not a good smell, and it reminds me why I’ve never used branding as a form of torture in my interrogations.

  “Even now,” she muses, “your defenses fail you.” She taps her finger on the barrier. “I give the girl a few more hours until she fades. Less, if we were to push. But I am not after her life. Quite the contrary: she has given much to her queen, and should be rewarded for her valiant sacrifice. If only I could change her contract, and make her live in the height of her glory, forever.”

  She removes her unmarred fingers and examines them, then us. The smile has yet to leave her face, but now it turns vicious.

  “Oh, wait. I suppose I could.”

  Kingston flinches.

  “What did you say?”

  “Consider this my one and only offer, Kingston,” she replies. “I don’t want you dead. Just as I have granted amnesty to the citizens of Faerie, I extend the same grace to those in this show—including you. Join me, and you never need fear a life of servitude again. I can free you. Both of you. I will give you until the morning to consider my offer. At that time, any left standing against me will perish. You would be wise not to cross me or believe I would not burn this show to the ground. The time for games is over. Let this be your lesson on how serious I am.”

  She snaps a finger.

  The explosion behind us sends me flinching toward Kingston, who steadies me with an arm even as we both whip around to watch the pillar of green flame rise up into the sky. It’s not the chapiteau, thank gods.

  “The Tapis Noir tent,” Kingston hisses. “Melody!”

  He lets go and runs toward the trailers, leaving me standing there, speechless and shaking and totally unable to take on the army behind me. I turn. Did I say I felt calm and collected before? Yeah. Not anymore. I feel as naked and weak as when I woke up in the trailer.

  “It is good to see you again, Claire,” the Pale Queen says. “You are so like your mother. Brave in the face of annihilation. Powerful to a fault. But also stubborn. Stubborn to the bitter end.” She lowers her voice and leans in, so it’s only me that hears it. Her breath smells like cinders. “It pleases me that you have bounced back so quickly. It proves you have power, and that the fire your mother gave you still burns bright. I would like to not be enemies, you and me. But I will rule, Claire. I will own all of Faerie. You have proven you stand no chance against me. Do not die in vain in here. I will burn you alive with the rest of the troupe if I must. But your talents would be much better served at my side.”