by A. R. Kahler
He leans over and holds out the bottle, his arm stretching a few extra feet to accommodate the distance. I sit up and take it from him grudgingly, taking a swig straight from the bottle. Classy. Like a proper lady.
The whiskey burns, fills my chest with a welcome fire. Smoky. Peaty. Smooth, a touch of honey. Definitely an island malt. It almost rivals the ancient bottle I christened my bathtub with in Winter a thousand years ago. Back when Mab was still alive. Back when I was at the top of my game . . .
“You owe me a few souls first,” he says dryly. “Especially after what I’ve been through. That aside, that would be terribly rude. You know you like me around.”
“Yes. But I also know you’d kill me in a heartbeat if our contract was nullified.”
“You think so poorly of me.”
“I know you better than you think.” I sigh. “She shouldn’t be able to take you from me,” I say, taking another swig to chase the goddamn ghosts away. “I don’t like it. She has no control over you. Only I do.”
“Oooh, jealousy.” He smiles. “I like it when you go all dominatrix on me.”
“Not the time.”
“Always the time. Especially since you seem to have an infinite amount of it.” He leans forward. “This is exciting, you know. What shall we do first? Rob a bank with water guns? Wrestle a shark in front of a live studio audience? Now that you don’t have to worry about following anyone’s orders, we could easily capitalize on your assets. Especially since you’re immortal. You and I, we have all of eternity to spend together.”
I take another drink.
Maybe I shouldn’t have brought him back after all.
“We’re going to bring her down.”
“Impossible,” he says. “You’d be better off investing time in something immediately rewarding and ultimately meaningless. Like learning a foreign language. Or, I don’t know, sleeping with the Olympic gymnastics team. So long as I get to tag-team in.”
“I think you mean tag in.”
“I know precisely what I meant.” He leans forward. Without his sunglasses, I can see the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. I didn’t think he could have those. “The last time you squared off against the Pale Queen, she killed you. Very quickly, I might add. You may have an immortality contract, but that doesn’t make you all-powerful. An ant with infinite lives is still an ant. It will never topple the lion, and it will always end up squished. Really, I don’t think you want to live out the rest of your life like a video game; constant respawning grows tiresome. Believe me.”
“I’m not an ant.”
“But you are still outmatched. I have seen the Pale Queen’s army from the inside. Even taking her out of the equation, you’re no match for the forces following her every whim. They adore her, Claire. She doesn’t rule them through fear like Mab, or duty, like Oberon. They see her as a savior. They see the Pale Queen as a god.”
“Her name is Penelope,” I say. “Stop calling her a queen.”
“She rules all of Faerie now.” His voice hasn’t the slightest hint of emotion when he says it. “What else would you have me call her?”
I sigh, take another drink. Sadly, my tolerance seems to have stayed the same in this re-formed body—I get the warmth, but I’m not getting a buzz.
“She’s not the true queen. Mab is.”
“That’s your opinion. The fact is, Mab is dead, and Penelope rules completely. Even the Wildness has given over to her.”
“How do you know?”
“I was there when Princess Meadowsweet signed the treaty. It was a very humiliating affair for her, let me assure you.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. Princess Meadowsweet, the ruler of Tír na nÓg. The bitch who showed me the many lives I could have had. The lives she would have let me live out, lost forever in my own Dream stupor. She also set me up. Because of her kingdom, I killed my mother free from any faerie contract. Free will, no one else to blame. Not even Mab.
Even though it spells the end of everything familiar about Faerie, at least it’s nice to know she was humbled while doing it. A small revenge. Yes, I can be petty.
“We still have to take Penelope down,” I say. “No matter who’s sided with her.”
Eli shakes his head. “I know you are hurt. Your pride and your body have taken a beating. But Claire, listen to me when I say this: you can’t kill her. You can’t even scratch her. I say this as something infinitely more powerful than you could ever hope to be. I couldn’t harm a hair on her head. What hope do you have? You’re merely a human. Even if a newly immortal one.”
“So it was all for nothing, then?” I demand, waving the bottle in what probably looks like a drunken fashion. Huh. Maybe I am getting tipsy. “Mab and my mother and everyone else who died along the way? It was all doomed to fail and damn whoever tries to change that?”
“Not everything in life goes according to plan,” he says. “And for every winning side, there must be a loser. You were just playing for the wrong team.”
I shake my head, take another drink, pray that the next pull will be enough to truly start dulling my brain. Images of the last few days are spilling over behind my eyes, threatening to drown me from within. So much blood. And what do I do for an eternity if none of it was worth the cost?
“I can’t,” I say. “I refuse to believe that. I refuse to believe it’s over.”
“We both know that lack of belief doesn’t make something less true. You did work for the Faerie Queen, after all. A force that most mortals would deny existed. And she was as real as you or I. Perhaps even more so.”
Was. She was as real. Because she is no more.
“I need to be alone,” I say.
He doesn’t argue, just pushes himself up to standing.
“I’ll have dinner sent up to you. And, just so you know, I didn’t pick this place just for the scenery. This suite has a very close replica of your tub and a full bar. Don’t say I never did anything nice for you.”
He comes over and pats me on the head in what I’m sure he thinks is a consoling way, but actually just feels condescending. And a little creepy.
“I understand you will want to take your time,” he says, his fingers twining through my hair. “You have lost everything, and your future is uncertain. But do remember . . . you may have all the time in the world, but so does Penelope. And she is working much faster than you.”
I take another drink and stare out the window as he leaves the room. Rain slashes down in the light of a heavy orange lamp, lightning occasionally streaking the sky. A few of the raindrops look larger. Like hail.
The end of the world at the end of the world, indeed.
I wonder how long it will take Penelope to find me. How long it will take her to cement her power and open the veil between Mortal and Faerie. I wonder if it won’t matter, if the earth will tear itself apart before Penelope gets the chance. And I wonder if Eli is right, if I really don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell against her. Now, or ever.
Was it worth it? Any of it? If I’m destined to lose, over and over again, what’s the point?
Then I remember the way Mab looked at me in her final moments. That pride. That bone-deep assurance. I remember holding the dagger in Mab’s chest while Penelope poured her unearthly power through me.
I won’t blame myself for Mab’s death. Not anymore. That was Penelope’s doing. She claims not to manipulate those who follow her, but she used me like a common tool.
I am not common.
I am the right-hand assassin of Winter.
I am mildly drunk.
And even if I never find a way to kill her, I will make Penelope’s life miserable. Even if that means picking off her army, one minion at a time.
But first . . . I need a bath.
Fifteen
Eli wasn’t lying. The bath is delicious.
I was barely one foot in when there was a knock at the door, and a young woman—I dunno, I always assumed B&B owners would be, well, old—hands me a tray sh
e says my “partner” ordered for me. She doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the fact that I answer the door without a towel, or that my “partner” is dressed like a Japanese rock star/model. Maybe it’s Scottish hospitality or just the hospitality business in general; I’m probably far from the strangest guest she’s encountered since taking over the gig. Little does she know.
Now I’m soaking in a bath the size of a hot tub, water up to my chin, another bottle of local whiskey and a half-eaten tray of Angus steak and mashed “tatties” (I giggled when she said it) on the tray beside me. There’s no music, but there’s an honest-to-gods pub across the street, and I can hear the strains of fiddle and guitar and tin whistle through the rain and the walls between us.
I sigh and twirl a finger through the bubbles, trying to find some indulgence in this indulgence. Even here, at what feels like the edge of the world, humanity is holding on and making music, scaring off the bitter night.
It makes me wonder if we have a chance. If, after Penelope takes over, we’ll still be fighting against the darkness, or if that will become the new normal.
There was a time when humans believed freely in faeries and monsters and demons. What’s going to happen when they’re forced to believe again?
I can only imagine the number of vigilante monster hunters that will spawn. Too many nutjobs waiting for the apocalypse with a basement of ammo and a hundred cans of soup. And, most likely, too many die-hard nerds with heads full of pop culture trivia and a base knowledge of martial arts. And their mother’s car. The smart ones will head for the hills with the aforementioned ammo and trivia, and barricade themselves in. The rest . . .
Gods, it’s going to be one big Tapis Noir for the rest of eternity.
Just the thought of it makes my gut twist with revulsion. And an equal dose of excitement.
All the rules of humanity will crumble. No more shame or sin, no more regulations save those made by the Fey. And oh, how the Fey will dine. Given all the shit going on, it sounds kind of perfect at first—the Fey in control, humanity unable to govern itself. Maybe it’s about time. And maybe it would mean an eternity of drinking and music and debauchery, like some of my favorite haunts in Winter. I mean, humans have proven they can’t take care of the planet, and the Fey are notoriously good at being “at one with the earth” and all that crunchy shit. At the very least, we’ll have some amazing dryad cleanup teams getting the forests restored, and I’m sure the naiads would work on the oceans. Which could make for some fun beach time; mermaids are hot.
Maybe Penelope has a point. Maybe it’s time for a change.
Then I remember the tail end of Tapis Noir, what happens when Fey are allowed to do whatever they please with their mortal prey. It’s not pretty. I’ve hunted down more than enough faeries who played with their food in ways Mab didn’t appreciate. I’ve had to enchant more than one crime scene to pin it on a mortal, make it look like a serial killer.
That’s when I realize what made Mab and Oberon different, what made them rise above the Fey they chose to rule. They had rules. Without the two of them to call the shots and enforce some semblance of law, faeries in general are just . . . hedonistic, bloodthirsty children. With a lot of power.
Humanity would be culled in a year, tops.
Even if Penelope was killed, Faerie would still be in chaos. The mortal world would still suffer. I’ve seen the common Fey. None of them are fit to rule. Not even Princess Honeybutt—Tír na nÓg is a joke. Faerie would need a much stronger ruler. Ruler-s.
I take another drink and try to figure out how exactly I—a lone human with only a statue and a smart-ass demon for company—could ever hope to restore order on that magnitude. It’s going to take many more bottles of whiskey, that’s for sure.
“The world is ending, and you’re taking a bath.”
I do my best not to jump, turning my gaze slowly to Kingston. He sits on a stool just behind my shoulder. His hair’s unbound, and he doesn’t look cool and collected as he usually does when making one of these surprise visits. His gaze doesn’t stop darting around the room. Like he’s looking for an escape. Or an enemy.
“Oh. You’re still alive,” I mutter.
“No thanks to you,” he replies.
“Well, I wasn’t for a while, thanks for asking.”
That gets his eyes to focus.
“What?”
“Yeah. Apparently I’m immortal now. Surprise!”
I turn around and take another drink. My head swims from the heat and the booze, everything floating with warmth. I won’t lie. It feels really damn nice. Even the sea shanty they’re playing outside is soothing, in a raucous sort of way.
“Mab made you immortal?” he asks. “Why?”
“To make you suffer, I’m sure,” I reply. “After all—it’s usually all about you, isn’t it.” Then I shrug and sink a little deeper into the tub. “I have no idea. She didn’t let me read the contract when I signed.”
“I would have thought you knew better.”
“Why are you here, Kingston? I know it’s not to stare at my tits in the tub while feigning small talk.”
He doesn’t laugh.
“We lost it.”
“What?” I ask.
“We lost the circus.”
I can’t say I’m surprised. After all, it was apparently Mab’s last defense, and if Penelope killed Mab, clearly she took the circus as well.
“How are you still alive, then?” I ask.
There’s a beat of silence.
“I don’t know,” he finally says. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound so defeated. “I fought to the bitter end. It still wasn’t enough. They razed the place. And when it was clear I wasn’t getting out of there alive, I left.”
“That doesn’t explain how losing the circus didn’t end your life. I thought you were tied to it. Or was that all for dramatic effect to get me in bed—the doomed hero sort of bullshit?”
“Mab always told me I was.” He glances at me. “And you got into my bed way before any of this went down.”
I ignore the last part. “Mab can’t lie.”
“But she can bend the truth. Maybe the circus isn’t fully dead. Maybe it’s a metaphor for the people involved.” He almost sounds hopeful saying this. Mostly, he sounds resigned.
“Ugh. Metaphor.” I take another drink. Mainly because the thought makes my gut twist. “What about my dad?”
“Safe,” he admits. “I hid him in my mansion before shit got real.”
“Well, that’s good at least.”
“Yeah. Until he tries to find you again.” He raps a knuckle on the wall. “Though I don’t think he’ll find you here.”
“What can I say . . .” But I don’t finish the sentence. Maybe from the booze, and maybe because I really don’t know what I can say anymore.
We sit there in silence for a while longer. The water’s getting cold, but I can’t magic it back to warmth. I’m not about to get out, though. Not that I’m embarrassed at Kingston seeing me naked again; I just don’t want to move. I don’t want to kick the rest of my life into gear. The fire is there, but I don’t really know how I’m going to do it.
“Is Mab really dead?” he asks. “No tricks or subterfuge?”
“I watched her crumble,” I say. I don’t tell him that I was holding the dagger.
His sigh sounds like he’s deflating. Before I can say anything, he moves from his chair and steps over to the side of the tub. He doesn’t take his clothes off. Just steps over the side and settles in opposite me. His white shirt soaks through and clings to his skin, revealing a rather faded-looking Quetzalcoatl tattoo. I’m too tipsy to really complain, so I just move my legs out of the way so we aren’t playing underwater footsie (it’s a big tub, more of a Jacuzzi, really, so that’s not much of an issue) and slide the bottle his way. He grabs it, takes a few long sips, and settles back, arms draped on the rim and his eyes closed.
We listen to the music outside. The music and the wind and the rain.
After a while, he circles a finger lazily over the water, and a wave of warmth filters through. Bubbles foam against the surface. It’s indulgent. And oh, does it feel like the end.
“So that’s it, then,” he mutters.
“Hmm?”
“Mab’s gone. The circus is done.” He sighs again. “I’ve spent nearly three hundred years in that show, working for her. And now it’s over.”
“You knew the day would come.”
“Not like this.” He takes a drink. “I’m supposed to be dead. Why the hell am I not dead?”
“Contracts were negated,” I mutter. “Remember? You lost the whole troupe. Maybe yours was negated as well.”
“I don’t know if I should thank her, or kill her.”
“Probably the latter,” I say, taking the bottle. “Actually, definitely the latter.”
Another sigh, and then he sinks down under the water. I watch his black hair fan out around him, his shirt billowing in the water. I wonder if he’s going to try to drown himself—which, given his theoretical immortality, would just be annoyingly painful and ineffective. It seems like minutes pass. Then he pushes himself back up and runs a hand through his hair, peeling it back from his face, and leans back. He doesn’t look at me once.
“It should be a relief,” he says.
“Is it?”
He shakes his head.
I know the feeling all too well. It’s not just the alcohol or water that make me feel like I’m floating. Everything feels untethered right now. Mab was my anchor. My job was my life. Now, without either of those, who the hell am I? I know I have to kill Penelope. I know I have to avenge Mab. At the very least, I have to be the biggest thorn in Penelope’s side the world has ever seen. But the actual task at hand is so much bigger than I am. It makes my head ache—or maybe that’s the alcohol—and I’d much rather just focus on what’s right in front of me.
Kingston is right in front of me.
Maybe this is the point where we reach across the tub and make out. From desperation or loneliness if nothing else. Maybe this is the turning point in the story where the lonely girl gets the lonely guy and they stop being lonely together. It could be cute. It would probably involve a lot of anger-sex. And I’m sure he’d make me breakfast in the morning, while the rest of the world burns.
