Black Ice Burning (Pale Queen Series Book 3)

by A. R. Kahler

  Most of the portals from Mortal to Faerie end in the Wildness—Mab pretty much destroyed all the ones leading to her kingdom. Judging from the fact that there are no tracks in the deep snow, it’s pretty clear this one has been forgotten.

  I kneel in the snow and crawl through the tunnel, intimately aware of the cold and wet seeping through my jeans and the darkness that scrapes over my skin like teeth. After a few feet, the shadows close in and the light behind me winks out, and there is only the tunnel and the darkness and the scent of earth and ice. I shiver. Without magic telling me I’ve gone the right way, it’s entirely possible to think that I will vanish under here, that the tunnel is a series of caverns and I have chosen the wrong one, and that I will spend the rest of my short and frigid life crawling around in the depths of the earth, trying to find my way out.

  My breath catches in my lungs at the thought.

  “You’re the bloody assassin,” I whisper to myself. “You don’t get claustrophobia.”

  Didn’t, another voice whispers back, but you aren’t the assassin any longer.

  Thankfully, before I can freak myself out, the tunnel starts tilting up, and a few moments later I’m crawling out into a cool night and an overcast, orange sky.

  I take a deep breath as I stand, pretending that this is the first breath of the rest of my life—one of those pivotal moments, a turning point to immortalize. But the air clogs my lungs with the taste of chemicals, and I’m reminded why this isn’t a heavily used portal anymore.

  The faerie mound this entry was once built on has been bulldozed over, and now the tunnel looks out over a concrete ravine with a trickling river flowing below. Putrid water glints in the moonlight and the glow of the nearby city, everything somehow beautiful despite the smell. Behind me, the steady hum of traffic drones on. And even though I have an inkling that this place should be warm and humid, the chill coating the air reminds me that there’s no running from my problems.

  I drop to sitting beside the tunnel—now that I’m out, the entry is just a pile of rubble with spaces barely large enough for rats to pass through—and stare out at the desolate night.

  I’ve sentenced Mab to death. I know that much. Then again, I’m barely a shell of what I used to be—staying in her kingdom might not have offered her much more protection anyway. But the thought still cuts me to the bone. There’s no going back. And really, who am I kidding? There’s no going forward, either. I have money and a few places I can crash. I could still run back to the circus and grab my dad, since he can’t perform the tithe. I could be the daughter he should have had. He can be the father I never had. Maybe we could ignore the shit going on in Faerie and live a fairly normal life together. Ride out the storm. Like families do.

  Then I remember how he looked at me after realizing I killed Vivienne.

  He wouldn’t have me back any more than Mab would.

  I go to curl my knees to my chest and am interrupted by a mechanical chirrup.

  “Shit, right.”

  I pull the bird from my breast pocket and stare at the little thing.

  “If you’re watching this, Will,” I say. Then I stop, because I can’t think of anything to say. Remember me as I was? I hope you find freedom? The words fall short in my mind, and I can’t convince myself to voice them.

  “Fly free, little bird,” I say instead, and gently toss the bird into the air.

  There’s a sickening moment when the creation hits its zenith and begins to drop, twisting in a mess of fluttering wings as it tries and fails to find balance. A second later, it rights itself and flaps away, disappearing to the shadows in moments. Damn eyesight isn’t even what it used to be, without my magic.

  I do what I don’t want to do. I curl my knees up and rest my chin on them and stare out. I think about Mab, and the life I’ve thrown away. I think of my parents, and the lives I’ve destroyed.

  And then, with a furious twist of self-loathing, I think of me. Proud, powerful assassin, now sitting on the side of a polluted river with no allies and no weapons, no magic and no hit. I’m no longer worth more alive than I am dead. I’m no longer more important because I’m the one pulling the trigger. Eli told me that the only difference between the hunters and the hunted was the belief that your life was worth more than theirs. That there was no divine purpose or sin. You killed, or you were killed. It was all just a matter of perspective.

  When did mine change so entirely?

  You should have died in her place, I think for the thousandth time.

  It should make me feel horrible. Instead, it barely presses against the numbness. It’s hard to fight against fact.

  Still, I’m not going to let myself freeze to death. I have enough pride and self-preservation to force myself to stand and head to the highway. If there’s one thing I can rely on, it’s lonely truckers being more than willing to pick up a platinum blonde in leather from the side of the road in the middle of the night.

  “Here’s to a new life,” I say, and stick out my thumb.

  Nine

  “You are running,” she says in the drift of my dream.

  “I’m not running,” I reply. The world shifts in and out, or maybe it’s the lights of the chapiteau, everything glittering and golden as we stand in the center ring. “I’ve given up—there’s a difference.”

  The Pale Queen walks forward, her dress billowing against the floor like waves in the sea. She’s back in her cloak, her face hidden in the shadows of her hood, nothing but the glint of her glowing red eyes and the red slash of her lips. I can’t tell if it’s beautiful or grotesque.

  “You’ve given up?” she asks.

  I nod. “I’m done fighting. I’m not the assassin, not anymore. And I’m tired of being Mab’s bitch. Especially after . . .”

  “What she made you do to your mother. Yes, I thought you would eventually see the error of her ways. Mab is not to be trusted. She is cruel and manipulative, especially to those she feigns the deepest love for. The Fey know no such thing as love, or mercy.”

  “And you do?” I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from shaking, to keep the memory of my mother down. There are blades in my pockets, and a handful of chalk. Another sign this is all just a dream.

  She bows.

  “I released you from your contract, did I not?”

  “So you did steal the book.”

  She nods.

  “A faerie without her contracts is but a nuisance,” she replies. “Mab has built her life on the servitude of others. Let her see what it is like when she may only be saved by those who truly love her.”

  “But how?”

  She smiles. “It just requires a little more finesse than most transactions. I thought it would show her how serious I am. Did you tell her my ultimatum?”

  “Yeah. And you can imagine how well that went.”

  She chuckles. It’s the only sound in the big top, and the space feels empty and ominous. Hungry.

  “Why are you here?” I ask. I feel like we’re negotiating. But I have a strict no-negotiating-with-people-I’m-meant-to-kill pact with myself. I’m also wondering if that still holds, all things considered.

  She gestures to the tent.

  “Because soon, my dear girl, this will all crumble. You have done as I asked, and you do not stand against me. I offer you a place at my side once more.”

  “Why? I’m just a regular mortal now. I’m no use to anyone, let alone someone as powerful as you.”

  She smiles.

  “I would not have thought you would be one to resort to flattery.”

  “It’s not flattery. It’s fact. You don’t need me to end Winter. You’ve already proven that by killing Oberon. So why spare me? Why not just let me die with the rest of them?”

  “Because you are your mother’s daughter,” she replies. “And because I could use one as wise as you at my side.”

  “I’m a turncoat.”

  “You are a realist. In the world of the Fey, that trait is rare.”

/>   I shake my head.

  “What does it even matter? My mother’s dead, thanks to you.”

  “Thanks to me?” She sweeps forward. “My dear, I had no hand in your mother’s death. I am shocked you would accuse me of such, especially after all I had done to save her. From you.”

  “What?”

  “The changeling was under my command, my dear. I brought your mother to Tír na nÓg because it was the one place in Faerie Vivienne could be safe. Especially from you.”

  Her words are a punch to the gut; in the dream, the pain is literal, and I stumble back, nearly falling on my knees.

  “What do you mean, from me?”

  “My dear, I knew what you would do to your poor mother from the very start. The Oracle’s powers are great, which is why she has always been a prized possession of the Courts. Mab wanted to keep the Oracle’s powers hidden away for when she needed them most. Oberon wanted her dead so she would be reincarnated in his custody. All this, I knew. All this, I wanted to prevent. I tried to keep your mother safe from their game, the game you yourself are a pawn in. But you, it appears, were too tenacious.”

  My breath catches in my lungs, and I can’t even begin to wonder how that’s possible in a dream. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  Her lips curve into a smile.

  “That is not what I hear,” she says. “The Princess of Tír na nÓg told me you would not be under contract in her realm—the magic that Oberon and Mab use to manipulate their subjects does not hold sway in the land of dreams. You killed your mother in cold blood, under your own volition. Not because Mab forced your hand, but because you yourself deemed it necessary. Why?”

  “To find and kill you.”

  She chuckles.

  “And now you are out of the fight. Funny, how pointless it was, don’t you think? You could have come to the same conclusion without killing her.”

  “Shut up.” My words are weak. She hit a nerve I’ve been trying to ignore, and she knows it. My mother died for nothing. And now that I’m done fighting, there’s even less reason to know how to kill the apparition before me. “I’m out,” I continue. “I told you, you’ve won. Do what you want to Winter. I don’t care. Just leave me out of this. I’m done helping you.” I’m done hurting the ones I care about.

  Another chuckle from her, this one more ominous. “I believe you will find that is not the case.”

  Then she turns, and the music starts, and the first act of the circus begins. Kingston descends from the ceiling, strung from chains like a marionette. Melody is rolled out in a gurney, her skin pale and wrinkled, a masked stranger pushing her and making the cart spin and dance in a one-sided duet. My stomach drops as more performers come onstage, all clearly acting against their own volition.

  And then there’s a billow of smoke, right before me, and the Pale Queen is replaced by Mab. Mab, whose eyes are dead as emeralds, who wields a whip duct-taped to her limp hand. But the smoke isn’t an illusion; fire licks up the sides of the tent, turning the stage into the belly of hell.

  “The show is about to begin,” she mouths, and the Pale Queen’s voice comes from her lips. Mab’s arm jerkily rises, then snaps down, the whip flashing toward my eyes.

  A knock at the door jerks me awake. My heart leaps into my throat, thudding madly as I stare about, my dulled senses trying to figure out if I’m under attack. The nightstand is littered with cheap bottles of whiskey and one of tequila, and light filters through the closed curtains. I lift my head up, and even that small motion sends my head swimming, and I flop back down on the stained sheets.

  Another knock.

  “The fuck is that?” the dude beside me asks. His voice makes my head ache.

  “Room service,” mumbles the woman spooned against him.

  Room service? Does this shitty motel even know what that is?

  I push myself up, rolling over as I do so and knocking an empty bottle to the floor. My head swims. Oh, gods, this is going to be one hell of a hangover. As soon as I stop being drunk.

  I stumble toward the door, tripping over another bottle and another passed out naked bro-dude on the way. The clinking bottle makes more noise than he does, and a small, distant part of me wonders if he’s still breathing. I don’t check. I don’t trust myself to get up again if I bend over.

  Another knock, this time continuous and louder. I grab for the door and yank it open.

  Kingston stands on the other side.

  “Come to join?” I slur, gesturing to the room. It’s only then that I realize I—like the rest of my guests—am naked.

  He brings an arm to his nose and squints his eyes, studiously looking past me and into the room.

  “Jesus, Claire. You smell like booze.”

  “Got that too,” I reply. I try to gesture to the room, but stumble in the backward movement and barely correct myself.

  He reaches out and grabs my arm, steadying me. And then he uses some magic. I only know he’s doing it because my drunkenness slides off like a sheath, leaving me cold and sober and a little nauseated.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. I’m not embarrassed to be naked in front of him, or for the people naked behind me. If anything, it feels awkward that he’s clothed—in black jeans and a leather jacket, no less. He could be my partner in crime.

  “I should be asking you the same thing. Where’s the fucking book?”

  He doesn’t bother keeping his voice down, but I keep mine pitched low. Dangerous.

  “Careful who you talk to like that,” I reply. Even without clothes or weapons, I could snap his neck like a twig. If, you know, he wasn’t a witch. And potentially contractually immortal.

  He doesn’t reply, and after a few seconds of glaring, I continue.

  “The Pale Queen has the book,” I reply. “We were too late.”

  “You were too late,” he says. Though we both know that’s stupid, since I didn’t even know we needed the book of contracts in the first place. He scrubs his fingers through his hair, which is no longer in a man-bun as it usually is. No wonder he was looking more attractive; it wasn’t just my beer goggles. His hand stays there, tangled in his tresses, and he squints his eyes closed. “She’s about to die.”

  It hits like a hammer. It shouldn’t, yet it’s another reminder of my failure. Even if this wasn’t directly related to me. But no. This isn’t my problem. I’ve walked away. I’m not involved in this anymore.

  Even if there’s a large part inside that wants to be.

  “So?” I ask. I try to keep my voice cold.

  He drops his hand and stares at me in disbelief.

  “So?” he repeats. “What do you mean, so? She’s your friend.”

  “I barely know her.” It tastes like a lie on my tongue.

  “She is your friend. And she was your mother’s friend. And goddamnit, Claire, she’s a human being. How the hell can you just say so?”

  I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the door. Behind us, someone snores.

  “Why are you here, Kingston? Haven’t you heard the news? I gave up giving a shit about Mab and her minions last night. I’m done fighting for her. I’m done caring about her. And that includes you.”

  His eyes narrow.

  “You shouldn’t be able to say any of that.”

  “Yeah, well, thank the Pale Queen for my freed tongue. I’m no longer Mab’s slave.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Yet here I am,” I reply, gesturing to the hotel room. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was busy. Kindly show yourself out.” I begin closing the door in his face, but his words stop me.

  “She wants to see you.”

  I hesitate.

  “What?”

  “Melody. She asked for you. Many times.” He doesn’t press on the door, but I open it anyway. “She doesn’t have long, Claire. I have to go back. With or without you.” He hesitates and looks away. “I can’t convince you to fight. Hell, I can’t even get my performers to stay. I’ll leave you alone after this, I
swear. Just . . . see her. One last time.”

  As I look at him, I realize he honestly isn’t hiding another motive. He’s as done with all of this as I am. He truly does just want me to see Melody and say good-bye and then be on my merry way.

  At least this way I can have him magic me to my hideout in Madrid. I wasn’t really looking forward to that flight.

  “Let me get dressed,” I say, turning away and making sure to sway my hips a little more as I head to a pile of clothes. I know it’s a nice view. “Come on in and meet the band.”

  “You always did have a thing for musicians,” he mutters.

  “Yeah. Thank gods none of these losers can actually sing.”

  I try to push the thoughts of Roxie away as I shove the drummer off my bra, try to keep focused on the future. The drummer farts and rolls over.

  If the start of my “new life” is any indication, it’s going to be a glorious future indeed.

  Ten

  The circus is empty.

  I guess I should have expected it, given the state it was in when I left. But when we appear beside the chapiteau, our feet instantly sinking into a few inches of fresh snow, the silence of the place nearly takes the breath out of me. I’m not the sentimental type, but there’s a part of me that knows this place is meant to be filled with sound and color and scent. The snow swallows all of that. No drifts of conversation, no lingering scent of popcorn and cotton candy, no music. Even the thick clouds above seem to mirror the silence and stagnation of this place. Everything about this is wrong. Goose bumps cover my skin, and not from the cold.

  “They’re still out there,” Kingston whispers, nodding to the edge of the circus grounds. “Waiting. I’ve reinforced the barrier between them and us, added a few extra wards. It might buy us some time, once Melody dies. Not that it will do much good without the book.”

  “You can’t do anything?” I ask. “I mean, can’t you, I don’t know, make a temporary contract or something?”

  He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that. Can’t. Only the Fey can make or break a faerie contract.”