Fae's Anatomy

by Mindy Klasky

  To Titania:

  Done.

  13

  Life as a fae princess was surprisingly good preparation for romancing a vampire.

  I was accustomed to sleeping the day away and staying up all night, dancing under the stars in the glade at the center of the Thousand-Oak Grove. I had mastered the art of keeping a conversation afloat, no matter how brooding my companion. I had entertained lovers with the most…esoteric of gifts.

  But I still needed to perfect a few skills.

  Case in point: I was terrible at waiting for Jonathan to come to me.

  Saturday night, our second after the ley blockade had confined us to the hospital, I refused to scramble down to the emergency room, seeking out Jonathan within five minutes of awakening. I wasn’t going to fawn over him like a lapdog. I would die before I let him know how much I wanted to fall into his arms, to hear the soft pop as his fangs betrayed the true level of his excitement.

  He hadn’t drunk from me. I wasn’t sure I even wanted him to drink from me. I certainly wasn’t ready to drink from him in an exchange, to turn into a vampire and leave behind the fae world forever.

  Swallowing hard to drive the sound of my heartbeat from my ears, I forced myself to settle in the middle of my high bed on the Vampire Ward. I took my charmed playing cards from the nightstand, and I shuffled them together—again and again and one time more. I dealt a hand of baccarat, and then I concentrated on changing all the images to face cards and nines.

  When even I couldn’t stand to play one more hand, I took a casual walk to the nurses’ station. The cat shifter and a centaur orderly were glued to a television screen mounted high on the wall. I followed their gaze and found myself staring at Abigail Weaver.

  “Police ask the public’s help in finding Abigail Reece Weaver. The thirty-two-year old, a star to DelMarVa lottery faithful, did not return home after the lottery drawing last Wednesday night. Her fiancé, Matthew Drake, is cooperating with police and is not considered a suspect in her disappearance.”

  I stumbled back to my room as the hospital staff exclaimed about how dangerous DC had become. I spent the next hour telling myself not to bolt to my feet every time I heard a footstep in the hallway.

  I was lousy at listening to myself. I was halfway to the door the instant I heard the shifter nurse call out, “Good evening, Dr. Weaver.”

  He was taller than I remembered from just the night before. Brawnier, too. His lips were more firm on mine, and his fingers were an awful lot more clever as I forgot every single witty greeting I’d practiced while I waited.

  “Good evening, Dr. Weaver,” I finally managed when we both came up for air. I mimicked the nurse’s tone perfectly.

  “Good evening.” He rattled the curtain across the window in my door, shielding us both from prying eyes.

  If he’d heard the nightly news, he was willing to ignore it. Instead, he devoted the next several minutes to giving me a thorough medical evaluation. My pulse was wildly erratic. My muscle tone was poor—I could barely manage to stay on my feet unsupported. My reflexes, though, were in perfect working order.

  I only stopped him when his hand slipped inside the waistband of my scrubs. “Don’t you have patients who need you?”

  “They can page me over the intercom.” He curled his fingers to secure more of my attention.

  “You’re the medical expert,” I panted.

  “I did want to try one particular prescription for your condition…”

  He cured what ailed me. And I managed to treat one or two of his problems myself.

  After, when I’d caught my breath and his body temperature had dropped to its normal chill, I said, “You know what would make this perfect?”

  “Two weeks of vacation and a cabin in the woods?”

  I suppressed a thrilled shudder. He wanted to spend two weeks with me. Maybe more, if we continued to work our differential diagnoses so effectively.

  I said, “I was thinking about something a little more basic. I’m hungry.”

  He laughed and reached for his white jacket, which we’d kicked to the foot of the bed. It only took him a moment to fumble for the pocket, and then he handed me a sleek red package. “My lady,” he said.

  “Skittles!” I ripped open the bag and poured half the candies into my mouth. I moaned as the sweetness coated my tongue, glorious fake fruit igniting all the nerves that had fired only minutes before.

  “Now I understand the meaning of voracious,” he smirked.

  Another princess might have been embarrassed. I gobbled the rest of the candy.

  Only when I was sated did I remember I had an important question to ask. It wasn’t easy for me. I wasn’t accustomed to reducing feelings to words. I nudged his ribs with my toe. He caught my foot and started to rub the arch with his knuckles. I leaned back in ecstasy. First candy, and now this.

  But I couldn’t let his actions take me off track. Reluctantly, I eased my foot out of his hands. “Wait a second,” I said.

  He looked at me expectantly.

  “We sent all those emails yesterday. Well, you sent them. I dictated them.”

  “I remember,” he said with a droll arch of his eyebrows.

  “Oberon insists on fighting my champion.”

  “I read that.”

  He wasn’t making this easy. I pulled my knees up to my chin, locking my hands around my ankles. A fae princess shouldn’t have to ask. If I were back in the Thousand-Oak Grove, a dozen knights would be vying for the honor of carrying my token into battle.

  We weren’t in the Thousand-Oak Grove.

  And every single one of those dozen knights would have thought twice—three times! Four!—about fighting Oberon Blackthorne.

  I squirmed, refusing to meet Jonathan’s eye. “Have you ever won a sword fight?”

  “Sure,” he said. “We had a semester of swordplay in medical school. In between obstetrics and gastroenterology.”

  “Really?” I was shocked enough to look up.

  “No,” he said, smirking at my gullibility. “But I’ve handled a variety of weapons over at the Old Library, in the courthouse. A number of us vampires spar on a regular basis.”

  “Oberon Blackthorne doesn’t spar.”

  “I can handle a sword, Titania.”

  He wasn’t letting me off the hook. I had to ask him. I had to say the words, and wait for his reply, and if anything went wrong on the night of the full moon, it would be my fault forever.

  I was a fae princess. I was noble and canny and brave.

  I whispered, “Will you be my champion?”

  “What?” he asked. “I can’t hear you.”

  I cleared my throat, but I still spoke to my knees. “Will you be my champion?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

  I lifted my head and met his green eyes. He was laughing as he waited for me to say the words again. “Jonathan Weaver,” I said. “Will you be my champion against Oberon Blackthorne on the night of the next full moon?”

  Amusement drained from his face. He held my gaze without blinking. “I will,” he said.

  I’d had enough of hard work then, facing down my feelings, putting them to words. For nearly an hour, I didn’t use any words at all.

  It was easy to lose track of days and nights. With the torqued ley lines still surrounding the hospital, Empire General began to feel like a walled city. No one entered. No one left. Patients who had recovered began to wander the hospital and its grounds, restless and eager to return to their homes. Most of the medical staff had substantial swaths of free time because there were no new patients, no new illnesses to treat.

  People competed at chess and checkers. They worked the colorful jigsaw puzzles on the tables in the visitors’ lounges, only to tear them apart upon completion and start again.

  I longed to play a Game or two, to keep my talents sharp. But I’d promised Jonathan. No more Games. Even when no one would truly suffer.

  The hospital kitchen ran ou
t of fruits and vegetables after the first five days. People complained bitterly about the frozen replacements—mushy peas and flavorless frozen potatoes. The vending machines began to run dangerously low on some of my favorites.

  Fortunately, no one was a big fan of Twizzlers. Or Diet Dr. Pepper. They had no idea what a feast they were missing.

  Even worse than boredom and the food shortage was the lack of private space. Surrounded by restless supernaturals, it became harder and harder to steal a quiet moment with Jonathan.

  We managed, though. I vastly preferred meeting in the garden, lying under the stars. Only outdoors could I be certain we wouldn’t overhear a television blaring from a patient’s room, or idle gossip of the stranded supernaturals. Everyone was speculating on the hottest crime in DC—the disappearance of Abigail Weaver.

  Plus, my fae temperament naturally preferred the night sky.

  More than once, we were caught in a rain shower, but neither of us cared much about getting wet. We weren’t exactly wearing a lot of clothes.

  Each morning, we took shelter as the dew rose. Jonathan had taken to sleeping in my room on the Vampire Ward. During those long days, we actually did sleep. Most of the time, his arm was flung around me. One of his legs was thrown over mine. I felt anchored and safe, even on September 28, the night of the new moon when Oberon’s power was at its strongest.

  After that dark night, the well of my powers began to fill. Each night, I awoke with more magic at my command. I still wasn’t ready to work a glamour. And I had no desire to lure any man.

  But I could feel the energy collecting inside me, and I was satisfied.

  Cerberus Security continued to monitor the outer wall of the ley lines, reporting to Nicholas Raines with reassuring regularity. There’d been no sign of Oberon. No hint of his coursing hounds.

  I wasn’t surprised. Oberon and I had reached an agreement. The Unseelie Prince would not attack before the night of the full moon.

  But still we watched. And we waited. And Jonathan and I played beside the fountain. It seemed as if the ley lines would never spring free.

  Jonathan kissed me awake. “You were dreaming,” he whispered against my lips.

  I sat up, shivering. The sky was clear above us, the stars without a hint of haze. This was the first cold snap of autumn. No human would have been comfortable as the frost silvered the grass around us. Jonathan felt no cold, though, and my fae blood had kept me warm enough. Warm enough, until I’d slipped into a heart-chilling dream.

  Jonathan settled his white coat over my shoulders. I pulled it close, breathing deeply of the soap-and-starch scent of him. My breath hitched as I remembered my nightmare.

  “What frightened you?” he asked, his voice so low I had to lean closer to hear.

  I shook my head. It took three tries, but I managed to offer a seductive smile suitable for a fae princess. “It’s your fault,” I drawled. “You’re the one who tired me out so I slept beneath the night-time sky.”

  He didn’t grin. He didn’t reach for my conveniently bare breast or stroke the thigh I shifted closer for the very purpose of distraction. “What were you dreaming about?” he asked.

  “Oberon,” I finally answered. “The first time I met him. I had a honeycake, a sweetmeat that Cook had made just for me. He found me in the orchard, at the top of my favorite apple tree. He was supposed to be in my father’s Great Hall, standing at his uncle’s side, learning the ways of a diplomat.”

  I could smell the cake, feel its gentle warmth rising through the linen Cook had given me. “How old were you?” Jonathan asked.

  “Five? No. Six.”

  “What happened?” His voice was impossibly gentle.

  “Oberon climbed the tree. He demanded that I give him the cake, or he’d come to sit beside me. The branch wasn’t wide enough for two. When I told him to get his own cake, he bounced on the branch, harder and harder, until I heard the limb crack.”

  “You must have been terrified.”

  “I was furious. I couldn’t have him destroying my favorite apple tree. I wasn’t even allowed in the orchard. Nurse would have beaten me with her hairbrush if she’d known how high I’d climbed.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “In real life? I gave him the cake. I handed it over, and he tore it into chunks, tossing it down to his dogs.”

  “And in the dream?”

  I shivered again, consciously reminding myself that the dream had not been real. The dream would never be real. I’d die before the dream became real.

  “He took the cake and fed it to me. But we weren’t in the tree anymore. We were at our wedding, in the Thousand-Oak Grove. And with every bite of honeycake, he passed me to another of his men. Rob Goodman first, then…” I shuddered, unwilling to say the other names. “All the guests at our wedding watched, and no one did anything to save me.”

  Jonathan’s arms around me were hard. I wasn’t in the Thousand-Oak Grove, kneeling before a laughing Oberon. I wasn’t in my father’s orchard, clinging to a branch. I was in the garden of Empire General Hospital, safe and secure in the embrace of my champion.

  “I’m never going to another wedding in my life,” I said. “Not mine. Not anyone’s.”

  He nodded, taking my vow seriously.

  For that, I worked a hand free and traced the line of blond hair that ran south of his belly. His fingers closed over mine, though, and he held me still, dropping the gentlest of kisses on my temple. We stayed that way, not speaking, not moving, until just before dawn.

  “Tell me about Abigail,” I said.

  The news reports had reached a fever pitch. We’d both watched as Clarice was interviewed, as she begged whoever had kidnapped her daughter to bring her home safely. Matthew Drake stood stoically by Clarice’s side before he delivered his own tight-throated plea, saying he’d give anything to see the woman he loved.

  Oberon wouldn’t be swayed by their tears. I doubted the Unseelie Prince had seen a single television report.

  Jonathan’s answer was immediate, bitterly cold with fury. “She’s trapped beneath a crystal dome, and I’m going to kill the man who put her there.”

  I’d known it was a risk to ask him. But he’d been restless all evening, pacing beside the fountain. I’d tried to lure him with kisses, with well-placed caresses, but he’d have none of my gentling. It could hardly be worse to hear him voice his darkest thoughts.

  “Before that,” I said. “Tell me about when she was a little girl.”

  He finally settled on the wooden bench beside me. His hands dropped between his knees, and he stared at the flagstones as if he could read some text there.

  “I could hold her in one palm,” he said. “Support her neck in the V of my hand and balance her back against my forearm.”

  He actually smiled at the memory, and I felt my own lips curve in response.

  “I told you,” he went on. “She had colic. Every night, she screamed like we were skinning her. The only thing that soothed her was rocking in her cradle, an old-fashioned wooden thing we’d found in an antique store before she was even born. I’d sit in an armchair and push it with my foot, hour after hour after hour. I was used to working on short sleep. That’s what they taught us in medical school.”

  It was easy to picture him sitting up late at night, lit only by moonlight, staring down at his daughter.

  “She finally grew out of it,” he said. “But when she was a toddler, she never slept. She’d sit up all night in her crib, talking to herself, playing with her toys. She survived on cat-naps and apple juice, even though the dentist said it would ruin her teeth.”

  I thought about how exhausting it must have been to have a restless child. But Jonathan didn’t sound upset. He was happy. He was proud.

  “She had a smile that could fuel all of DC. She was generous, too, always willing to share.”

  I remembered the picture I’d seen in his wallet, the sunny little girl offering a daisy.

  “But after…” For the first
time, he hesitated, his expression going dark. “After I…turned, Clarice kept me from seeing her.”

  “Clarice knew you were a vampire?”

  “She thought I was sick. That I was contagious. And then she thought I was an asshole because I left her holding the bag for rent.”

  “You should have told her—”

  “The vampire who turned me said the Eastern Empire had to be kept absolutely secret. He said if I told anyone, he’d go after them. Clarice first, then Abigail. I couldn’t let him do that. I couldn’t let him do this to my daughter.”

  He gestured vaguely with his hand, taking in his pale, pale flesh. My heart twisted inside my chest. So many years had passed, and he still thought he was a monster.

  But now that he was talking, he had to finish the tale. “I’d had a choice. But Abigail wouldn’t. I couldn’t do that to her, couldn’t force her into something she couldn’t understand. I’d be as bad as Richardson had been, turning me because I came to settle a debt.”

  I nodded, wishing I had words to heal him.

  “I watched her,” he said. “Abigail. I know it sounds creepy, but I’d look through her window while she slept at night. Or didn’t sleep—while she read by flashlight or played with her dolls. And during the winter, when the sun set early and the nights were long, I’d watch her eating dinner with her mother. Doing her homework. Talking on her phone with friends.”

  So many little things—lost.

  “I followed her on her first date with Matthew, to dinner and a movie. But I didn’t want to see them making out in the last row of the theater. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. Besides, I could see how happy she was with him. I could see the way he looked at her. I owed it to her to let her grow up.”

  He sat up straight. He squared his shoulders. He was through visiting the past.

  “I love her,” he said simply. And then he repeated his first answer to me. “And now she’s trapped beneath a crystal dome, and I’m going to kill the man who put her there.”