Moribund

by Genevieve Iseult Eldredge

  “Yes.” She was down in the pit, at the front of the stage, the power of my music drawing her in, lulling her into thinking I am harmless, alluring, available. Lulling her into thinking I am the prey and she the huntress.

  “She’ll follow you?” His doubt is as fake as the rest of his emotions.

  Dark Fae magic is strong, and I am one of the strongest.

  I hate this part, but once the Hunt is engaged, I have no control over it. I shrug one shoulder like it’s nothing to me. “They always do.”

  His smile is sharp as knives as he laces his voice with power. “Then reel her in, dear Rouen.”

  His Command slams into me, stealing my free will. Strong as I am, I’m a puppet made to dance on strings. His strings, Agravaine, the Huntsman who enslaves me.

  For now.

  I nod stiffly and pull up my hood. Glad to leave him behind, I head deeper into Old City, looking for the best place to lay my trap.

  Some nights are born to nightmare and dream, dark yet achingly beautiful. Tonight, Prague is awash in ethereal fog and the light from a misty moon. Sounds muffle on the cobblestone streets, and people move like ghosts in a mythical place—Avalon, from the time of King Arthur, or the Celtic land of the dead, Tír Na nÓg.

  Nightmare and dream, so beautiful it can cut you.

  Crap. I’m going all emo again.

  Pulling my hood down tighter, I prowl the hazy, wet streets of Old City, my battered, sticker-laden violin case bumping gently against my shoulder. The end-of-summer rain is passing, and fog curls in sheets on the riverside. It rolls in, filling the labyrinth of alleyways with mist and misdirection. It’s what the Fae, both fair and dark, call a “tule fog,” thick and good for cloaking mischief.

  I know because I have called it. Rain and fog from the western sky, enough to mask my passage through the mortal realm.

  It’s a thousand-percent emo to say so, but tonight feels made of nightmare and dream. A glimmering moment stamped on the fabric of time. That night on the train tracks was like that.

  The night I saw her. The true sleeper-princess.

  I saw her and I let her get away.

  I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face. At least…that’s my official excuse, as far as Agravaine’s concerned. I didn’t get a good look at her at all.

  It wasn’t her face that drew me. Unlike the others, this girl fought—and not just for herself, but for her friend, unconscious at her feet. She was everything brave and courageous. She burned so brightly in the night.

  A sleeper-princess of the fair Fae, enemy of my people.

  As a dark Fae, I should have dealt her a swift death. But no part of me wanted that. Even knowing I was disobeying Father and all the arch-Eld. Again. Yes, siding with the sleeper-princesses cost me. Dearly.

  I flex my right hand, but all I feel is the low thrumming hum of black circuitry twisting and pulling, spliced into my flesh.

  The Moribund. Dark, disgusting magic. It was the second of my punishments.

  The first came when Father and the arch-Eld chose Agravaine’s plan to save our world over mine. A naïve princess, I was unprepared for the consequences of speaking out against it.

  But not for long.

  I was stripped of my royal birthright and given to the Huntsman, the very man who convinced my father that killing all sleeper-princesses was the answer, even though my plan to team up with them was better.

  It was Agravaine who learned of my plan to contact the sleeper-princesses of the fair Fae. It was he who turned me in.

  So he could further enslave me to him.

  I clench my hand into a fist, and all the black circuits spliced into it whine. Ever since I can remember, Agravaine’s wanted to be my mate.

  Fat chance, buddy-boy. You’re so not my type.

  I’m his Huntress, but I will never be his mate.

  My motorcycle boots splash through a puddle, scattering my true reflection—pointed ears and fangs, high cheekbones, eyes that glimmer blue ringed in gold. Over my dark Faeness I wear a Glamoury, an illusion that cloaks me. The mortals will see passing shadows, ghosts on their periphery. A few rare and sensitive mortals, those we call the Wakeful, might see the face of a loved one long past. Perhaps it will bring them terror. Perhaps it will bring them peace.

  Peace! I have been restless since that moment—the moment I touched her hand—and now she haunts my dreams.

  You’re really rocking that tortured Goth-star thing, aren’t you, Roue?

  Her hair like white flame, her eyes burning in my mind like fiery embers. Even though I can never see her face, not even in dreams or memories, I’ve gotta admit, it does make for good lyrics.

  I hitch my violin case up and tuck my hood down even though there’s no danger of me being recognized here. This place is gorgeous, but it’s not exactly cutting edge. No one listens to Euphoria in the Czech Republic. Besides, my personal Glamoury is strong.

  There’s no danger here.

  At least, not to me.

  I can’t say the same for my prey.

  Even now, my black-handled sickle blades weigh heavily on my belt. I pull my longcoat closed to make sure they’re covered. Sleeper-princesses are unpredictable, all of them in various stages of Awakening. Some of them can see through a Glamoury—even one as powerful as mine.

  And some of them can touch you, deep inside.

  She burned so bright.

  Forget about her. Focus on this one.

  I don’t want this one to see me coming. It’s the only mercy I can give.

  Mercy, ha! I glance down at my right hand. I wear a glove over it now. The dark-magic circuitry pains me—black circuits of the Moribund spliced into my flesh, my fingers, my palm, the back of my hand. This fell circuitry magic is from my people’s past. It should have stayed dead and buried, but it’s part of Agravaine’s dark plan.

  We are the first Circuit Fae.

  I am part machine, no longer whole.

  No one gave me any mercy.

  This is my punishment for wanting to team up with the sleeper-princesses, losing my hand to the Moribund. As if being bound to Agravaine in a Contract of Bone and Blood wasn’t punishment enough.

  I am no longer a princess, only a Huntress. A dark Circuit Fae, infected with Moribund, able to harness the killing magic in technology.

  That is what I am. Until all the sleeper-princesses are dead. Only then can I be free—free of the Moribund, free of Agravaine.

  Restless energy stirs inside me, aching. I want to play it to life on my violin and hear the bittersweet strains shatter the night.

  But I’m not here to play. I’m here to hunt.

  Tonight, I am not Euphoria, glam-Goth singer. Tonight, I am Rouen Rivoche, dark Fae and Huntress.

  And sure as the mortal hells are hot, there’s no room for mercy in the Hunt. I am the Huntress, the advance guard of the Wild Hunt. A sluagh, worst of the worst, dead to my own people until I fulfill the Contract that binds me to Agravaine.

  I must bring him seven sleeper-princesses. This one will be my sixth.

  I raise my head to the passing rain and scent the air. Sweet vanilla and musky, resinous opoponax.

  She’s close.

  After her, only one more. The girl with the burning eyes. You won’t be able to let her go the next time.

  Watch me, that quiet part of me whispers. I sigh. Why does all my self-control go out the window when I so much as think of her?

  I turn the corner. I’m back at the club now. Clearly, I want to torture myself by getting one more glimpse of sleeper-princess #6 before luring her in.

  She stands at the curb, looking out into the night. She’s nowhere near as bright and burning as that last sleeper-princess, but the raindrops shine like jewels in her hair. I should not regret what I must do. Father would say it’s unbefitting of a dark Fae.

  At least…he’d say that if he were speaking to me.

  I do regret it, but I have no choice.

  Our world is sick, and only the
sleeper-princesses can cure it.

  Stuck in their ancient ways, my father and the arch-Eld sided with Agravaine. They wouldn’t hear of my plan to team up with the sleeper-princess, so now, this girl’s life is forfeit. She’ll die, a battery to power the dying hearthstone at the center of our kingdom. With her blood, we should be able to eke out a few more months before our world goes entirely into the Harrowing darkness, into nothingness.

  I have no choice. Bound by the Contract, I must obey.

  I pull my right-hand glove on tighter. The dark circuits of the Moribund glitter brightly, sinister even through the leather. It’s hungry.

  With a thought, I summon my fairy wind. It swirls around me, speeding me through the city faster than any human can see—to the metro station, and down into the dark tunnels where I will lie in wait.

  I unsling my violin case, unzip, take out my instrument. The clear, polished surface glistens like glass in the dim subway lighting. I bring it to my chin and poise the bow, waiting.

  I’m a spider in her glittering web. Come into my parlor, little princess. Let me make this painless for you.

  The nearness of the train prickles discomfort along my skin. My powers are always weaker here, surrounded by so much old-world iron, but this is where Agravaine wants it done.

  Besides, the sleeper-princesses are immune to dark Fae gramarye, our personal magics. Mine manifests through music—my voice and violin. Using those as my focus, I can weave a euphoric spell over a crowd, or even a single person. They become spellbound. Faestruck. That’s what gave me my stage name, Euphoria.

  Agravaine’s gramarye once manifested through smithing and metalwork. A talented dark Fae blacksmith, he held great renown, was respected.

  That was why the arch-Eld sided with him.

  Now we’re both infected with Moribund, and our personal gramarye has taken a darker turn. Mine has become even more destructive, my voice and violin turned into ruinous violet lightning. His now manifests through machinery—cars, motorcycles, and the like. He can craft them, control them, suck the life-force from their riders.

  Agravaine… He knew I’d be weaker here. Jerk. I flex my right hand. After the Moribund fouled my sense of touch, I had to learn how to play all over again.

  I hear soft footfalls as she comes down the stairs. The sleeper-princess. There is no one else here at this time of night. Only her and me. I step closer to my violin case, feeling my rebellion rise within me like a storm.

  Don’t get stupid now, Rouen. I can’t afford another slip-up. I only have one more hand.

  How brightly that last girl shone, that night by the tracks. Her hair like white flame, her eyes burning, embers in the night. She’d been so alive, the thought of Agravaine draining her, infecting her with Moribund circuitry and then blowing the fuses, killing her… I couldn’t bear it in that moment.

  Just like I can’t bear it every time it happens.

  Even now, as my fingers tense on the bow, I hesitate.

  “Do it.” Agravaine’s quiet voice rumbles in my ear as he steps from the shadows. Most people would be unnerved, but I’ve seen this trick like a thousand times. “Distract her.”

  “Aww, it’s like you don’t trust me.”

  “Do it now.” He laces his voice with Command, and it burns in my blood.

  The Moribund lifts my hand, lifts my bow to the strings.

  The sleeper-princess glances up. Agravaine is cloaked in his Glamoury, so she doesn’t see him—six feet of muscle and masculinity, his white hair and skin making him a ghost in this dark place—but she sees me. She dismisses me as another street musician begging for coin.

  It’s her last mistake.

  In that moment, Agravaine’s Command rules my body. The Moribund burns with it, lacing my bones and blood with fire. I have to obey the Command, the Contract.

  I play. The sweet strains of violin strike the air, bringing feelings of bliss to everyone who hears.

  They don’t call me Euphoria for nothing.

  She wavers, nearly goes under, and then shakes off my gramarye. A normal girl would already be unconscious, but sleeper-princesses can shake off dark Fae gramarye, even Circuit Fae gramarye, like a duck shakes off a shower. Here it comes. I brace myself for Agravaine’s strike. He’ll grab her, sharp fingernails piercing her skin as he levers open the glimmering black box—the phylactery—that contains the Moribund. He’ll make the Moribund infect her.

  Stay still, Rouen. Don’t interfere. Don’t—

  But I’m already moving, getting between him and her. She sees me, her face opening up in shock and fear.

  I feel Agravaine behind me, his rage a palpable thing. “Rouen!”

  Screw you. I won’t just let her die.

  “Stop.” His voice is calm—we’ve done this every time; he treats it like a game, smiling as his Command slams into me.

  Or maybe I will let her die. Enslaved by the Moribund circuitry, my body stops, and I stand there, screaming inside as he seizes her, a wolf seizing a sheep.

  He touches the phylactery, and with a liquid-smooth clink, clink, clink all its cogs and wheels and locks open.

  No, no, no!

  In a chittering black wave, the Moribund circuits teem from the blackness of the box and leap upon her like a swarm of scarabs.

  In mortal peril, her body reacts, Awakening to the sleeping power within her. White light flares from her hands, encasing her in blinding radiance. But the blackness of thousands of Moribund circuits engulfs it, eating the light, sapping her strength, infecting her…

  Taking her down into unconsciousness.

  Smirking back at me, he hoists her limp body, circuits and all, onto his shoulder. He enjoys this little game of ours. He forces me to lure her; I try to save her. And fail.

  It makes him feel powerful, in control—of his world, of me.

  One day, I’ll be free. And then… Watch out, buddy-boy.

  Agravaine’s smile is shark-sharp. “Good work.”

  But I don’t feel good. Not good at all.

  The thing about hunting is, you have to go to where they prey is. One night I’m in Prague, and the next I find myself back in Richmond, Virginia, thousands of miles from where we took the sixth sleeper-princess. The last time I was here, four months ago, we crashed a commuter rail.

  The last time we were here, I let a sleeper-princess go.

  That explains why we’re back, why I’m standing with Agravaine in the dark, empty gymnasium of a high school in the middle of the night.

  Then again, Agravaine did always remind me of that guy who peaked in high school. Maybe he’s trying to relive his glory days?

  I smirk, but it fades fast. We have to find the last sleeper-princess, and the clock is ticking.

  Even now, I can feel the hearthstone weakening. As the dark Fae princess, I’ve always has a unique link to it, and that’s remained even despite my punishment. Even though it’s a realm away, at the center of my kingdom, the dark Fae land of UnderHollow, it rumbles in my chest like a second heartbeat, but sluggish, diseased and failing. The blood from that sixth princess isn’t enough to sustain it. It’s like downing an energy drink when you’ve had two hours of sleep. You’re just kidding yourself.

  And you’re going to crash hard.

  Only, when the hearthstone crashes, it’s going to bring all of UnderHollow, the world of the dark Fae, crashing down, sucked into the Harrowing. We’ll cease to exist.

  My plan would have worked. We could have teamed up with the fair Fae and the sleeper-princesses. We could have put an end to the dark Fae/fair Fae war.

  No one else would have to die.

  But Agravaine has plans of his own.

  Speak of the devil… Agravaine sidesteps from the shadows. He likes using that trick, stepping through the Snickleways, a dangerous tangle of passageways that connects UnderHollow to the mortal realm. His Glamoury shimmers a moment before it settles into place, pale skin and shark-black eyes morphing into deep bronze and warm brown like melted chocola
te. He dresses himself in a Glamoury that matches mine.

  As if.

  “What are we doing here?” I’m sassier than the other hunters, and I can get away with it. I used to be royalty, after all. And after the seventh and last sleeper-princess goes into the darkness, I’ll be royalty again.

  And there’s nothing Agravaine, Master of the Wild Hunt, can do about it.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” His curved knife is red and slick with blood. My bond with the hearthstone gives a little lurch inside my chest. The blood of the sixth sleeper-princess. He’ll use it to pinpoint the seventh and last. Blood calls to blood.

  She must be close by, the girl with hair like white flame.

  I don’t know how to feel about that, but I’m smart enough to mask my jumbled-up emotions. “If it were obvious, would I have asked?”

  He paces, his hobnails tack-tacking on the polished floor, his shadow chasing him. Droplets of blood drip, drip, drip from the tip of the knife.

  I watch the blood so I don’t have to look at him. I hate seeing the way he stares at me.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  It’s then that I notice the map in his other hand. He slaps it down on the gym floor. A map of the city. Red lines slash through the railways we destroyed—that night four months ago, the train, the accident, all those deaths—all to break the circle of iron that kept us from finding her, the last sleeper-princess.

  That night, I didn’t fail. That night, I saved her.

  He points with the tip of the knife, and the blood drips off. Three drips, splat, splat, splat… Then four, five… Six… One for every sleeper-princess I’ve helped him capture. They run together, crossing the map to converge.

  On the high school.

  “This is where we’ll find her.” He stands, spreading out his arms to encompass the gym, the school banners proclaiming Go, Spiders! and I want to slap the grin off his face. “Welcome to high school, Rouen.”

  My look sours. He’s been doing his homework. “If you already knew she was going to be here”—I gesture at the map and the blood—“then why all the drama?”