by A. R. Kahler
“They’re leaving,” I say instead.
“I know they’re leaving. I’ve been outside.”
“No. Your performers. The circus is nearly empty. So whoever took the book has figured out how to fuck with the contracts.” I pause. “I don’t know if I’m going to keep fighting for you.”
It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said to her. And we both know, in the ensuing silence, the other layer laced through my statement. I shouldn’t have been able to say that.
Which means the Pale Queen has already screwed with my contract.
The silence stretches. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. Maybe for her to say that she will tell me everything, that she knows that since my allegiance is no longer assured, she has to be nice to me if she wants my help. She has to start seeing me as an equal.
When she finally does speak, she utters only a single word.
“Out.”
I don’t fight. I turn and head for the door.
It feels like the final straw. Mab won’t help me help her. Why am I fighting for someone who so clearly doesn’t want me around?
The Pale Queen has given me a place at her side as an equal. More than I’ll ever get here.
So maybe it’s time I take her up on the offer.
Eight
My room is exactly how I left it, thank gods. I wouldn’t have put it past Mab to go in and try to erase the memory of me by burning the place to the ground. But when I step in to the glow of low-burning candles and scent of cinnamon and wood smoke, I feel at home. Momentarily. Because when I snap my fingers, I quickly remember that I have no power, not even here; the fireplaces lining the walls of my various rooms don’t erupt into flame, nor do the candles reinvigorate and fill the place with warm light. No, the embers stay smoldering, and the candles stay dim, and without that small magic, the place is just as cold as the rest of Winter.
I don’t know why, exactly, but that snaps me.
“Damn it!” I scream, tearing off my imposter jacket and throwing it onto the embers, which flare slightly but mostly just fill the room with smoke.
I walk toward the weapons case, run my finger along the plate that should make it open. But it doesn’t. Without magic, I can’t even get to my most powerful weapons.
I’m not about to be defenseless. I’m not going to leave here empty-handed, not when everything else has been taken from me. I rip off my stupid T-shirt and wrap it around my hand, then punch through the case window. The sound of shattering glass is music to my ears, and I reach in and pull out daggers and swords, throwing them to the ground. I’ve got a spare enchanted jacket in the bedroom. That will have to do.
Once I have everything I think I can carry, I storm toward a bookshelf and begin ripping out books. I don’t care which ones. Yeats and Rowling and Borges tumble to the ground, and now I’m silently fuming as I shred out pages and toss them to the nearest fireplace. The paper catches, miraculously, and the instant flare of light and heat is the smallest balm against what I’m feeling. I toss more pages in, and then full books, and I don’t give a shit that I’m committing literary treason. Not anymore. As the hearth fills with flames, I’m filled with resolve. This isn’t my home. This has never been my home. I’m only just now waking up enough to see it.
Fuck Mab. Fuck Winter. Fuck all of this shit.
I have never had a choice in who I served; Mab has always held the end of my leash, and I have served without question. But now I have a choice. And now I have a question: Why? Why am I fighting when this is a losing battle? Why am I defending a woman who has never seen me as more than a tool?
Even as I think these thoughts, even as I rip through books and set them aflame, I feel a sort of relief. Because I can think them. My contract isn’t just weakening; it’s gone. And if I have the Pale Queen to thank for that, thank her I will. But you know what—screw that whole serving thing.
I’ve had it. I am done serving. I am through with being the lap dog. The assassin. The tool. No more being told whom to kill or whom to defend. I am Claire Melody fucking Warfield, and I am my own woman. From here on out.
Mab thinks she can burn out my mother’s memory? Mine?
Not if I get to it first.
When the fire is going, I stand and rip more books from the shelves, tossing them into whatever hearth is nearest. The one I’ve tended is blazing strong, and a few others begin to catch as I walk along, tearing out books and tossing them to the flames. There goes the fantasy trilogy I escaped to as a teenager. There goes The Art of War. There go my books on anatomy, on philosophy, on puberty. Each one is a memory. Each memory feels like heaven the moment I let it burn.
And it’s not just books.
I tear through the living room; whatever is in reach gets tossed toward the flames. I can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying, but my vision is blurred and my chest heaves as I throw pillows and blankets and knickknacks into the flames. There goes the voodoo doll collection I stole from a badass Haitian priestess. There goes the minotaur pelt I skinned myself. Statues and books, piles of old money, weapons from every civilization—they all feed the fires that spill from the hearths and into the living room. There’s a bellow of noise as the nearest armchair goes up in flames. The floor trembles, or maybe it’s another quake, but I’m dancing now, throwing everything I can find into the flames that make sweat drip down my skin and the very walls crack and peel.
The flames follow me toward the bedroom, where I toss my fur comforter to the fire, and then the sheets, and the pillows, and the clothes from my dresser. The flames leap higher, and in go the dresser drawers. Spears from the collections of history museums. The teddy bear that I stole from a changeling—not the one that stole my life from me. Sadly. I grab a new shirt and the last enchanted leather jacket, and then I head to the bathroom. The final place to say good-bye to, in the only way I know how—by destroying it.
I pause there. Seeing it, everything glittering in the light of the flames outside the doors, makes my heart break a little. The deep inset Roman-style tub. The mirrored vanity. The gold-and-mirrored everything. I think of the many nights I’d unwind here, with a bubble bath and a bottle of whiskey and the music from a sound system so advanced, the mortal world didn’t have them yet (the Fey have always loved music). Or the nights of debauchery, discovering just how many faeries or mortals I could fit into the tub and still have enough mobility to keep the party going. This was the room that had always felt like safety. Like home.
I open a cabinet and am greeted with row upon row of glass bottles. Priceless whiskeys and bourbons, my most prized libations. I grab the most expensive—a bottle so old, it doesn’t have a label—and uncork it, the flames a constant roar in the background. The swig of whiskey burns as well, rich and peaty and filled with smoke. A fitting final drink in this place. Fire to fire. Ashes to ashes.
Another drink.
Then I toss the bottle into the tub where its shattered landing is barely heard over the flames encroaching all around me, filling the room with heady smoke.
“Good-bye,” I whisper. To the room. To no one. To myself.
I shrug into the jacket and turn to leave. It’s only when I step out into the blazing living room that I realize all my weapons are obscured by fire. Whatever. After this, maybe I don’t have to be an assassin anymore, either. I’m ready to put this—all of this—behind me.
Except, the moment I open the door, my past is standing in front of me.
Part of it, at least.
William is waiting awkwardly in the hall, a bundle of rags in one hand and the other clenched in a fist, as though he’s waiting to knock. It’s hard to tell where the dark circles under his eyes end and the smudges of soot begin. Even his bald head is covered in smears, and his linen shirt is more ash than fabric, the tattoos beneath showing like bruises. He looks as if he’s just stepped out of some show where he was playing Dirty Street Urchin . . . if said urchin was old enough to be a grandfather.
Still, his tired eyes brigh
ten a bit when I step out. Or maybe that’s just the reflection of the flames behind me.
He peers behind my shoulder as the door clicks shut. Distantly, I wonder if the fire will spread. I can’t imagine Mab’s reign ending because I burned her castle down.
“Claire,” he breathes. “What have you—”
“Why are you here?” I cut him off. I’m not really interested in answering questions. “Aren’t you supposed to be locked in your workshop or something?”
That clearly smarts. He winces, both hands moving to his chest as though I’d punched him. Which, oddly enough, would never happen. William has always treated me like his daughter—he’s never used me, and he spent many nights when he should have been crafting things for Mab teaching me how to solder shitty little rings or amulets. He’s probably the one person in all of Winter I wouldn’t punch. But I’m also not in my normal, congenial mood.
I don’t think anyone would ever call me congenial.
“I heard you had come home,” he says tentatively. Like I will actually punch him if he says the wrong thing. It makes me feel like shit. I’m not very good at showing the people close to me that I care. Apparently.
“Just leaving.” I take a step down the hall. His free hand grabs my arm before I’ve taken a full step.
“Wait. Please.” His hand shakes, but his grip is surprisingly strong. I guess that’s what happens when you spend an eternity hammering jewelry for the Faerie Queen.
“What?”
“I heard what happened,” he says. He gives my arm a gentle squeeze, which convinces me to turn and face him. I honestly expect to see smoke coming out from under my door, but none is. Even though the hall is empty and Mab preoccupied, he lowers his voice to a whisper. “I heard about your mother, and the sacrifice she made for you. For us.”
“It wasn’t for me.” And she didn’t have a choice.
“It was for you.” He’s looking at me as if he knows a great and terrible secret, one he isn’t so certain he can share.
“What are you talking about, Will?”
He glances around, then drops his voice to an even lower whisper. I have to lean in to hear.
“She would never have wanted you to live like this. She would have wanted you to live free. She was a slave to Mab, just as you are. She would have wanted you free and safe.”
“So her dying for Mab was dying to free me? Will, that doesn’t make any sense.”
Another conspiratorial glance.
“Perhaps, if she had a choice—if she knew what was happening in the greater world—she would have wanted the Pale Queen to win. Perhaps in those last moments, she understood. And she wanted you to fail. So Mab would fail, and the kingdoms would falter.”
“That’s heresy,” I whisper. He flinches again.
“I never—”
“It’s fine. I’m not going to report you. I just didn’t think you could—”
“Much is changing. As the rules of Faerie dissolve, so too do the contracts that held it together. Perhaps your mother’s death helped sow the seeds of this dissolution. Perhaps, in helping you, she was damning Mab.”
“I don’t understand. Honestly, William, if there’s something you’re not telling me, now’s the time. Because you’re right: Faerie is falling apart. And I’m done being Mab’s bitch. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets go of my arm and brings forth the bundle of rags, unwrapping it tenderly, as though something warm and living rests inside.
“You promised you would bring this to the mortal world,” he says, a little louder than before.
The package is a bird. A living, breathing bird. Its feathers ruffle with every breath, chest heaving slowly in and out, and it twists its head toward me, blinking its obsidian eye. Then I realize the eye truly is obsidian, and things click into place. This is the bird he had been working on what seems like ages ago, before I’d even known about the Oracle, before Roxie ever betrayed me. Oh, William, the only person untouched by treachery or treason or any of the shit swirling around the toilet of my life right now.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A promise fulfilled,” he replies. He holds it up to me, like an offering. “The eye was made from the stone you gave me.”
I don’t take the bird. Will has spent most of his life in the service of faeries, and faeries don’t just give out gifts without a catch. He might be mortal, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t conditioned to manipulate.
“Why am I taking this? Why can’t you just release it yourself—you know the ways in and out of this place.”
“I cannot leave the castle, and Mab has made it so nothing can enter or leave her kingdom. You are the only one who can traverse the barrier. And you promised me you would.” He actually looks hurt saying that, as if he can’t believe a trained assassin would ever go against her word.
“I can break promises. Perk of the bloodline. Why did you make this in the first place? What does it do?”
He sighs. The bird chirps sadly.
“I made it so I could feel free,” he relents. He holds up his hand, showing me the one ring he wears. Silver band and black stone, the same as the bird’s eye. “I cannot leave Faerie, Claire. Not without immediately losing my life to the years I’ve bargained away. No, I am confined here until Mab allows me to die, and who knows when that will be? I don’t want to end my life; I just want to see the life I had. This bird . . . this would allow me to feel the outside world again. To experience sunlight, and wind, and laughter.”
“But if Winter falls . . .”
He turns and lifts up the back of his shirt with his free hand. Black runes are burned into flesh so pale, it’s nearly translucent. I know a few of those runes—many are etched along my own spine—but others are foreign. I know it’s rude, but I reach out and trace them with my finger. Even without my ability to feel magic, the symbols read wrong. There’s a hint of malice to them that reeks of faerie spite at its worst.
“When Winter falls,” he says, and I don’t miss that he said when, and not if, “I will fall as well. I cannot leave these walls. Not ever.” He drops his shirt and turns around, looking at me with a vulnerability in his eyes that manages to work its way to my deadened heart. “This is my last chance to feel alive, Claire. Please. Help me live. Just this once.”
I swallow hard and nod, taking the bird in both hands. It is light as cotton, and warm as though its fragile chest is filled with embers. When I look at him again, I realize this is the last time I’ll see him. Memories flood me—the times spent working together, soldering or hammering or just talking about the outside world. Once more, I can’t help someone who helped me. I can show him the world he can never have again, but I can’t set him free.
Maybe that’s enough for him, but it isn’t for me. It never will be.
“Thank you, William. For everything.”
He nods.
“Thank you, Claire.” He leans in and hugs me, awkwardly, mindful of the bird clutched to my chest. “I wish you freedom,” he whispers. “Freedom from all of this tyranny. The Pale Queen has plans for Faerie, to be sure. But it is not good for humans to be entwined in faerie plots. Get as far away from this place as you can. And never, ever, look back.”
Then he leans back.
“Good luck in your fight,” he says loudly. He truly does think we’re being listened in on. Maybe we are.
“Take care,” I say. Then I turn and leave him in the hall. I look back once; he’s still there, watching me. And I’m positive there are tears in his eyes.
There are many ways in and out of Faerie, and mortals have been falling into them accidentally for ages. Trouble is, getting into Faerie is much easier than getting out. And none of the portals are within the protected walls of the kingdom.
The clocks are still ticking in the back of my head: the Pale Queen’s threat to Mab, Melody’s impending death, life as I know it ending. But I push them aside and focus on the only person I can actually
do anything for right now: William. I trudge slowly through the snow, collar popped and hands shoved deep in my pockets as the black gates fade behind a curtain of white behind me. William’s bird is tucked safely in my inner coat pocket, and the thing keeps whirring and clicking against my chest, the only spot of warmth out here. The snow’s picked up since I entered, and the chill is almost unbearable. Without my magic or runes to keep me warm, I’m thinking I’ll be lucky if I make it out of here without severe frostbite.
Then again, if that’s the worst of my troubles, I’d say I’m doing pretty damn well.
I can’t stop thinking about William or the bird in my pocket. There’s an emptiness in my chest that I haven’t felt before, and that’s saying a lot. Because this is it. I can’t join the Pale Queen. I can’t. So once I step through this portal, I’m not coming back to Faerie. Ever. My contract is nullified, my family is dead or dying, and I’m on my own. Everything and everyone in my life has been tied to this cursed kingdom. Once I leave, I’m starting over entirely. No past and no direction for the future, but I have a few hideouts that I purchased with money I stole from my victims.
The thought of having to go online and find a job actually makes me laugh. Me working in customer service? I don’t exactly have a cheery demeanor. I mean, I’m sure I’d make a killer CEO or whatever—something that requires you to be cutthroat and ambitious. Even then, though, I’d get bored fast. Especially when cutthroat doesn’t involve cutting actual throats. Especially since it doesn’t seem like the mortal world will last much longer if the Pale Queen wipes out Faerie.
A vertical stitch in the landscape is the only sign I’m nearing my target. The black line grows larger as I near, until I’m standing at the base of a tall dead tree. I don’t know if centuries of storms have stripped the branches and bark away or if it was always like that, but it stands in the landscape like an obelisk, a testament to the sheer determination of this place. Snow mounds against one side of the trunk, the other miraculously cleared. And there, in the shadows of the base, is the tunnel leading back to the mortal world.
