by A. R. Kahler
“So how did the Pale Queen break mine? I don’t know what she is, but she definitely isn’t a faerie.” And her answer in the dream was far from conclusive. If only Mab weren’t once more holding back . . . but no, that’s why I’m not fighting for her. I’m tired of working for a creature who won’t show me the whole picture. I’m done being a mouse in a maze. I want to be the one in charge of the design.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” he replies. Then he looks away, toward the trailers. “But it doesn’t matter now. You’re not fighting anymore, remember? You’ve washed your hands of this. Of us.”
I bite my tongue. The way he says it makes it sound as if I’ve admitted defeat. When in reality, I’m just picking the winning team. My team. It’s not my fault he’s fighting a losing war.
Actually, no. It is all my fault. If I hadn’t summoned the Pale Queen, none of this would have happened. I want tell myself it’s not my fault. I was under contract to stop the Dream thieves, and I had no idea that would draw me into a completely different plot. But it was still my blood that summoned the bitch. Still my presence that spelled the end. So I guess I’m not really picking sides. I’m taking myself out of the game before I can screw anything else up or fall into another trap.
He turns and heads toward the trailers, feet cutting a new path through the fresh snow—a visual reminder that there is barely anyone left in this troupe. I feel like I should say something, something to try to at least cleanse myself of the lingering guilt. But there’s nothing to say, and knowing I’m going to watch someone die isn’t the most inspiring of situations.
He doesn’t lead me to Melody’s trailer, though. He leads me to his.
The moment he opens the door, revealing the long mansion-like hall, my memories lurch back to the front of my mind: the hall of rooms he’d crafted for the children he and Viv would never have, that horrible afternoon the day I knew I had to kill my mother to save the world.
I push the thoughts down as he guides me into the mansion, past roaring fireplaces and crystal chandeliers and suits of armor. Down one hall, and then another, this one lined with potted topiary and stained glass windows. The scent of vegetation gets stronger with every step, and the air shifts from cool to warm and humid. Then the hall opens into a domed room filled with plants, a giant greenhouse or arboretum or whatever the hell they’re called. Trees press up toward the glass ceiling while other plants drip from wrought-iron rafters, everything alive and blooming and beautifully fragrant.
She lies on a chaise lounge near a small waterfall, surrounded by palm trees and orchids and ferns. Light filters down through the canopy, draping her in honey golds and shifting shadows. Her eyes are closed, and in this light she looks as though she could just be relaxing here—she’s been changed into a patchwork sundress and knit shawl, the fabric draping over her and the chaise elegantly. She’s as serene as a model ready for her close-up.
But there are no paparazzi here. Just Austin sitting by her side on a lawn chair, hands folded and head bowed. Just him and us and the surrounding reminder of life in its fullness.
Neither of them move when Kingston and I near. Maybe they didn’t hear us over the rush of the nearby waterfall, or maybe Austin just doesn’t care. I don’t expect Melody to be doing much moving.
My breath catches when I see her face.
Melody looks young. Younger than I’ve ever seen her. Her skin is smooth and tight, her cheeks rosy; if not for the fact that I’d just seen her, wrinkled and fading, only last night, I would have thought she was perfectly fine. Better than fine. Her youthful looks definitely put me to shame. I know it’s magic, but she said maintaining her youthful appearance took energy, which I wouldn’t imagine her having. Not this close to the end.
I glance to Kingston. He leans in and whispers “my doing” into my ear. Another illusion, then. Let her go out the way she’s been all these years. Let her die in the circus of beautiful immortals looking the part.
I don’t know what to do. Do I kneel at her side and hold her hand until she passes? Do I stand and wait or say something touching and false? How long does it take? I’ve never just watched someone die of natural causes before. At least, not passively, not like this—I’ve always had a hand in deciding when and how the last breath would happen.
Seeing her there just makes me feel helpless. Not because I can’t save her, but because I can’t put her out of her misery.
Unless, of course, that’s why she wanted me here.
Her eyes flutter open at that thought. And yes, her skin might be youthful, but those are the eyes of someone staring into the void.
“You came,” she says, her voice rough and belying her youthful appearance. She cracks a smile.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Of course.”
Her eyes close as she holds up a shaky hand. I step forward and take it, letting her guide me down to kneeling.
“Your mother was my best friend,” she whispers. Her voice is as dry and rattling as stones tumbling down a hill. “She sacrificed so much for this show. For her family. Just as you’ve done.”
I keep my mouth closed. I can’t bring myself to say that the only thing I’ve sacrificed in all of this is Vivienne. It doesn’t feel right.
“She never would have given you up,” Melody continues. “Not if she could have helped it. I know this. She fought for those she loved harder than anyone I’ve ever known. And she loved you most of all.”
I take a deep breath, try to keep my chest from burning with unspent tears.
“I know,” I manage to say. I can’t tell if that’s a lie or not.
“I’ve seen a lot in my years,” she continues. I can’t tell if she even heard me. “Demons and angels, love and hate. I’ve seen good people do terrible things. Even your mother . . . even she did things I never thought I could forgive. But I did. And I do.”
Her eyes open.
“I forgive you, Claire.”
I sit back. “What?”
“I forgive you for being afraid. For running. I forgive you for doing what you had to do.” She smiles. “And I’m a bit of a bitch when I want to be. I have no doubt your mother would forgive you faster than I ever could.”
“I don’t need your forgiveness,” I whisper.
“No. But you want it. We all do, in the end. When we look back and see all the terrible and wonderful things we’ve done, all we want is to feel forgiven. For all the moments we were too harsh, or too scared. All the words we couldn’t say, and the ones we shouldn’t have. You . . . your life has never truly been yours, Claire. I saw you as a toddler. You were not made to be an assassin. You were meant to love and be loved. You were meant to feel joy.”
“Mab made me what I am,” I say. Damn it, my words come out as a choke. “And my mother gave me to Mab.”
Melody shakes her head.
“Under contract, we all do things we wish we needn’t. You know that well. Your mother did what she had to do. Just as you have done what you had to do. To survive. But now, those contracts and bonds are fading. And at the end of the line, we look back and wonder which actions were truly ours. What fights we would have battled ourselves. I, for one, know I would have lived exactly as I have. For all of the shit . . . it was worth it. To see what I have. To have met and loved who I have.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because your choice is coming. To fight or fold. To stand up or run away. And take it from one who’s staring death in the cold, blind eye; you will want to look back and know you made the right choice. Not the easy one. You’re not a weapon, Claire. Not for Mab, and not for the Pale Queen. You are a mortal, with a mortal heart and mortal needs. But you are also what you have been raised to be, and that is a survivor. You may have killed those Mab sent you after, but I know in your heart you believe in right and wrong. You know you can’t just give up here.”
I don’t tell her it’s too late; I’ve already given up. There’s no fight left. I just squeeze her hand and nod.
&nbs
p; “You’re going to do great things, Claire,” she says. “I can feel it. You’ll make your mother proud. You already have.”
She sighs, and I think that maybe that was it. My heart flips over. But then she pulls me in closer.
“Watch out for Kingston for me.” It’s not a whisper, and I know he hears it, and I think maybe that was her intent. “He’s always needed a strong woman in his life to keep his head on straight. It was a full-time job—no wonder I burned out so fast.”
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles from my throat, or the tears that accompany it.
“Do great things,” she repeats. She gives my hand another squeeze. “And give the bastards hell.”
Kingston puts his hand on my shoulder then, and I step back. Let the two of them have their moment.
“It’s almost time, isn’t it?” Melody says.
Kingston nods.
“I want you . . . I want you to be the one . . .” Her voice cracks.
He nods again.
“Kingston . . . Kingston, I’m scared.” I have never heard her sound so young.
“Shh,” he says, and smooths the hair from her face. “I’m right here. We all are.”
He doesn’t take his hand off her forehead.
“I love you,” he tells her.
Then he leans over, Prince Charming over Sleeping Beauty.
“Farewell, dear friend,” he says.
He kisses her on the forehead.
And then, with the barest shudder, her chest deflates, and in that moment her body folds away, breaking into a million shimmering butterflies that dance up into the flowers of the arboretum. When Kingston stands, the chaise lounge is empty, save for a single blue morpho. Kingston sniffs and holds out his finger to the butterfly. But the creature merely flies off and up to the sunlit windows.
Melody is gone.
I look at him when he stands, at the tears in his eyes. At our side, I hear my father crying.
I don’t know what to do. In that moment, I feel totally adrift; I’ve seen more people die than I’ve taken breaths, but that didn’t prepare me for this. For losing someone I care about, and not to flames or weapons or magic. To age. To mortality.
My heart doesn’t stop hammering. As if it’s trying to remind me it still exists. And with every beat, it has one less pump to give.
Tears form in my eyes. Everyone is dying. Everyone I care about is dying. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—
“They have begun.”
I sniff and turn, and there in the hallway is Lilith, wearing her stupid striped Goth dress and doll-like expression. She isn’t smiling, and she isn’t being ominous.
“What?” Kingston asks.
“The Pale Queen’s army. They are attacking. I thought you would want to know.”
Then she turns and leaves, walking slowly back down the hall.
Kingston and I exchange a glance.
“You would be safe here,” he begins. “This place is in the heart of Faerie. They could burn down the trailer, but that would only destroy the entrance.”
I shake my head and stand. I don’t want to be here, in this tomb. I don’t want to be stuck in Faerie. It’s not where I belong.
Melody was right. I wasn’t born to be a weapon wielded by some ruler with an ax to grind. I wasn’t born to be used. If I’m going to do this—any of this—I’m going to do it on my terms. Melody might have died serving a show. She might not have had a choice in what she did. But she had a choice in how she lived, and who she loved, and what she was willing to fight for.
I didn’t have a choice in where I was raised, or what I was to become. But Mab could never change who I am at heart. Neither could the Pale Queen. I’ve spent the last couple days fighting not a war but myself. Fighting who I am. I’m not a quitter. I’m not interested in living a mortal life and falling in love and getting old without the slightest hint of adventure. I’m not content to live on the sidelines and watch the battle unfold. I thrive in battle. I want to be in the fight. I want to be in control.
I am a weapon. The best Faerie or Mortal has ever seen. And damn it, it’s about time I began wielding myself.
The Pale Queen can go fuck herself if she thinks I’ll just stand aside and let her take everything I’ve fought for—everything I’ve proven I cared for simply because I fought for it.
I might have screwed up. I might have done things under contract I didn’t want to do. But I’m free now. My actions are my own.
And I’m going to give the Pale Queen hell.
“Give me some weapons,” I reply.
Kingston’s mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, but right now, it’s as close as any of us will get.
We jog out of Kingston’s mansion, and my person is now coated in new weapons that I have to admit are just as good as the ones I made myself—pockets of butterfly knives, a belt of daggers. Even two axes strapped across my back like some badass Viking goddess. It makes me feel more myself, but even riding the high of my personal revelation, it’s not enough to neutralize the acid roiling through my veins or the fear in my chest. I know when I am outpowered, and I’m bringing knives to a gunfight. Pretty much literally. But every blink, and I see Melody, holding my hand, believing I’ll do the right thing. I don’t think anyone’s ever expected that of me before.
Especially not me. But now I have a choice. Not just in how I view my actions, but in what I’m able to do.
The world outside Kingston’s hidden paradise is chaos.
Fire and lightning fissure over the tent, crashing against an invisible dome that even I can tell is growing weaker by the second. Sparks and embers flicker down, drifting lazily toward the tent and the trailers. The silence of it is eerie. While all hell rages outside, the air in here is cold, filled only with the occasional fizz of static, the hiss of burning snow.
“How long will it hold?” I ask as we run. I don’t have a tactic. I don’t know how the two of us are going to kill off hundreds of faeries and magic users. But facing them head-on feels like a better option than waiting for them to break through.
Despite the cold, sweat drips down Kingston’s forehead.
“Not long,” he grunts.
We reach the edge of the trailers, stopping twenty feet or so from the perimeter. Lilith is already there, staring out, watching the flames with a strange look on her face. A part of her looks excited. The rest just looks pissed. I had thought, perhaps, there would be other performers making this last stand. But it’s only the three of us on the battlefield. No Shifters to transform into dragons and watch our back, no banshees or mortal murderers. If they’re here, they’re on the other side of that magical divide, and we definitely don’t want them at our backs.
“What the hell are we going to do?” I ask.
“Kill until they kill us,” Kingston responds. “These assholes have messed with the wrong witch.”
I grab a knife from my belt, a fairly well-balanced throwing dagger. It’s hard to make out any creatures through the wall of roiling magic, but I hone in on a faerie with vines springing from her arms and aim. The dagger flies true, piercing through the barrier and into her chest. I barely see her explode before another faerie moves to take her place.
“I’m going to need more ammo,” I mutter. Because although I’m better at hand-to-hand combat, there’s no way I’m going out there. I’m brave, but I’m not stupid. I’ll stay behind that barrier until it busts.
Kingston doesn’t respond, but when I reach for another knife, I realize my belt is full, so maybe it’s like some Holy Grail of throwing daggers. Why had I never thought of asking William for that? I stop questioning. I just keep throwing.
Kingston spreads his arms toward the sky as his tattoo peels from his skin. I throw daggers as fast as I can, not even caring anymore if they hit. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. Fear races through me as more screams and more magic filter through the barrier. Kingston’s feathered serpent tattoo stretches and grows before us, glowing brighter than t
he clouded sun. The static of its power grows as well, becomes a hiss that sets my hair on end. The serpent continues to grow, until it is as long as the tent is wide, until its belly is the thickness of a semi, and the whole time it twines in the air before us, its eyes glowing with flame.
Another faerie falls to my dagger, and then I see Kingston clench his hands into fists and punch forward, spreading his fingers at the end, a yell coming from the depths of his chest.
The serpentine familiar howls, too. It’s a scream like shattering glass and nails on a chalkboard and burning bodies. The serpent flashes forward through the barrier, ricocheting through the horde of faeries. I can barely see what it does, but fires erupt out there, and judging from the screams cut short, it’s either eating faeries alive or burning them before they can call out.
I don’t care what’s happening. Just so long as they die.
Kingston drops to his knees, more sweat dripping down his face, turning his hair damp. But his eyes don’t leave the horde, and his lips don’t stop incanting some silent curse.
Watching him work, watching that giant creature destroy Fey by the hundreds . . . it momentarily puts things into perspective. All these years I thought I was some magical badass, but Kingston had more aces up his sleeve than I ever gave him credit for. He’s more powerful than I ever was.
Then the dome cracks, and with the sound of rolling thunder, the whole thing comes tearing down.
Fey burst through in an instant, all yelling their battle cries even as others scream for their lives, running through flames that leap from faerie to faerie, or from the howling serpent that weaves through their midst in fire and hunger.
I have just enough time to curse under my breath before they near. Then I run headfirst into the fray, blades out, and in that moment all fear vanishes. This is my home. In the midst of screaming and bloodshed, I am at peace.
I’m not as fast as I used to be, and my reflexes are human, but the Fey I fight aren’t bred for battle; they’ve spent years living in the laps of luxury, either in Oberon’s kingdom or Mab’s. They fall like cards around me. My blades slice through skin like paper, turning faeries to dust and leaves. My body moves through the crowd of its own accord, attacking and dodging as though it’s a dance it’s known forever. Even the times I’m too slow don’t register; slashes burn at the corner of my awareness, but I barely feel them. I don’t even realize I’m laughing until I catch my reflection in the glassy black eyes of a seaweed-garbed selkie, right before I slice her into a pool of water and muck. The great serpent writhes past me, its heat palpable, and a second later there’s a burst of fire as the faerie that had been trying to stab me in the back bursts into flames.
