Master of One

by Jaida Jones

  All the while, the map rested heavy in his hands. Tal hadn’t said anything about it.

  “My lump cracked,” Rags said. He’d spent so much time around Tal that he’d become used to the conversation. “But it didn’t turn into a beastie or even part of a beastie. It’s a map . . . I think.”

  Tal looked at him. Maybe it was a trick of the light, and Rags hated himself for hoping, but there was a moment’s trace of the old warmth on his face.

  “I knew you would prove yourself worthy. It was only a matter of time.”

  No mention of going with him to wherever the map led. Rags let the conversation die.

  Chambers after chambers. Rags got the impression that there were plenty more Tal wasn’t leading them through. Some held empty bed frames or empty chests, while others held nothing but shadows stamped upon the walls. Rags would have preferred a ghost jumping out to the stifling silence, the walls glowing in response to Tal’s presence.

  “Hey,” Rags said, distracting himself, “how come you have beds and feasting rooms and stuff if you don’t need to eat?”

  “We do not need to eat or sleep,” Tal said, “but that does not mean we cannot enjoy both.”

  Great. All this time Rags had thought Tal was being normal, he was being noble. Putting off enjoyment in service of—what? Devoting his time and energy to keeping Rags safe?

  Ridiculous. Tal needed someone a little more sneaky and selfish around to keep an eye on him. He wasn’t ready for Rags to excuse himself from the picture.

  “I must fortify the defenses,” Tal said as they stopped in another room with a bed frame and an abandoned chair. “This will take time. But we need that time to recover.”

  “Speaking of.” Rags nodded to Tal’s arm. “Should get somebody to take a look at that wound.”

  “Unnecessary.” Tal didn’t acknowledge that this was the most they’d spoken since Rags had betrayed him, commanded him to leave fae children behind in order to save the few they’d freed. To save themselves. Himself. “It is already healing.” Then he turned to Rags, a fresh streak of white in his hair held against his palm as evidence.

  “Your hair changes color when you’re healing?” Rags asked. He’d believe anything about the fae at this point.

  Tal shook his head. “Our hair is darkest when we have all our strength. If we are diminished over time, sapped, it turns white. As I heal myself, I must sacrifice some of my immortal strength.”

  “Uh-huh,” Rags said. “Sure. Why not.” He took a deep breath. “So you’re talking to me again?”

  “I did not have the words for all I wished to say.” Tal paused, confusion shadowing his face, mixed with something darker, like concern. After a long and uncertain silence, he knelt in front of Rags and bowed his head. “Forgive me. I lost my way when I saw the children in need. I almost sacrificed you because of my indecision—my stubborn insistence that I could save them all.”

  “What?” Rags heard himself say it, the nervous laughter that followed. He backed away from where Tal knelt, like that would make him get up. “No. You’re mad at me.”

  Tal lifted his head. Blinked. That steady, pupilless gaze was extra freaky in the underground light.

  “You believe I harbor feelings of anger for you?” Tal asked. “Never.”

  It was the spoon incident all over again. Tal needed Rags to explain things step by step. “Yes, you’re mad at me. Because I made you leave. I did what a thief’s supposed to do. I cut and I ran. You finally got that I’m not a hero and I’m not worth your time.”

  Tal did rise then, but he didn’t look away from Rags. Instead, he reached over to grip Rags’s shoulder. Not too tight. Sturdy, strong. He was still someone Rags could lean on if he wanted to, despite Tal’s injuries.

  “You saved all of us,” Tal said. “If I had succumbed to my fever to rescue every child, then all of them would have remained captured. The Lying One would have taken us. Those who are here, whole and healthy, have you to thank for their freedom.”

  Rags did his impression of a gaping trout head tossed out with the scraps.

  A tug at the old scar on his upper lip signaled that he was smiling. He reached to touch Tal’s arm where it was whole and undamaged.

  “You’re an idiot,” Rags said.

  “And you have helped me to do something unimaginable,” Tal countered. “I shall never be able to repay you, though what is left of my lifetime shall be devoted to it.”

  Devoted to you.

  Rags shook his head. “Uh-uh. We’re free. No Morien watching over our shoulders or through my chest. You can take the last fragments for yourself, if you want. You probably should. They’re yours, and all we’ve managed to do so far is hurt them.”

  He didn’t say what he was thinking: that with Hope and the other fae awakened, there was little doubt the Weapon would choose more preferable masters. There was no need to settle for paltry human substitutes.

  Rags didn’t know why, but Tal got to his knees again. He reached for Rags’s scarred, freezing hands. Took the injured one, black with bruising and dried blood. He kissed Rags’s fingers at the knuckles, warm lips, cool breath. Soft, but unmistakably that. Kissing.

  “What are you doing?” Rags demanded, the words coming out hoarser than he’d intended. Scratchy. Young. Nervous.

  “Your hands are precious to you,” Tal replied. “They are precious to me.”

  “No.” Rags’s voice, independent of his instructions, coming from his mouth.

  “No,” Tal repeated, though he didn’t pull away. “I should not have done this?”

  “Shit, no, that’s not—” Rags wasn’t mad, he was happy. But every time he tried to show it, it flickered away like a flea between his fingers. When he tried to catch it head-on, he ended up with his hands holding empty air.

  Rags didn’t know how to show it, much less share it. He swallowed. His throat was molten silver, and he knew what that was like because he’d seen it. He also knew what it could become, which was something more lovely, more powerful, than anything else. His voice was hoarse, reaching a buried place that should have stayed buried but wasn’t. It wouldn’t go back to being buried, not now that it’d been unearthed.

  “You’re free, too,” Rags said. “I release you—or whatever.”

  How Tal managed to look calm and in control when he was on his knees was but one of the infuriating and beautiful things about him. His bright gaze burned.

  “Have I disappointed you?”

  “What? No, I’m not disappointed.”

  Daring as ravens, Rags reminded himself. But there was the second part. Rich as magpies. Tal was a treasure, just not the kind Morien and Lord Faolan had anticipated.

  With only one good hand, Rags nabbed him.

  “I want to kiss you.” The words screamed from under his skin, rooted him to the floor. No comparing it to the pain of mirrorcraft. The pain was natural to him, if brand-new. “But I can’t know if you want to kiss me. Not really. Not when you do everything I tell you to. Obey my every command.”

  “Truly?” Tal arched one black brow. “But I have never lied to you.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Tal’s shirt was as slippery as it looked when Rags seized it. He tugged, but Tal stayed in place. It was Rags who came forward. Tal’s hands caught him above the hips and Rags tilted his face up. Like colliding chest-first with an oak tree, so it was totally reasonable he felt winded.

  He couldn’t tell who kissed who. Maybe that didn’t matter. Relief and sorrow broke over Rags like the first shock of cold when they’d jumped into Old Drowner. They were free, but they’d lost people. Fae children were still under the Queen’s control. One of them had died to get the shards out of their hearts. They’d be hunted until the end of their days, probably.

  But they’d slipped Morien’s grip, and Tal was holding Rags up. Rags’s fingers slid into Tal’s silky hair, mouth softening under his. For one long honey-drop moment, Rags stopped thinking, and everything inside him turned to want.r />
  Fucking fae.

  It was Rags who found the breathless will to break away first, though really, he was on fire with the desire to go back and give in.

  “Listen,” Rags said sharply, though he was still using Tal for balance, “listen. I want you bound to me by choice. Not circumstance or fae prophecy.”

  “You object to our bond?” The restraint in Tal’s voice, the disarray of black hair, the heat in his silver eyes: striking match after match in Rags’s gut.

  He thought he’d already been set ablaze.

  “Yes.” Rags nodded deliberately. Tal didn’t have to know he was trying to convince himself in the same measure. “I can’t kiss someone under my command. It’s creepy.”

  Tal frowned. “To the fae it is not creepy.”

  Rags buried his face in Tal’s shoulder. “To the fae it should be creepy, Tal. We’re gonna work on that. Together, I guess.”

  Everything shifted as they faced each other. Rags felt like all the pieces of him had been there all along, obviously, but he’d been waiting for something else, a big lug who had perfect shoulders, to bring those pieces together the way they were meant to be. To feel so damn right. So powerful.

  Ready to make his world a better place.

  “When the remaining fragments of the Great Paragon are located,” Tal said, “my duty will be fulfilled.”

  “And we won’t be bound by anything then?” Rags squinted. Fae were tricky, trickier than Cheapsiders during a lean year.

  “Nothing but our personal will.” Tal brought Rags’s scarred hand to his mouth.

  Against the rules. Rags allowed it.

  They only had to find two more fragments: the one destined for Tal and the one for Rags, which maybe Rags’s map could lead him to. Considering they’d started with one and now had four, those weren’t overwhelming numbers.

  Planning that far ahead should have made Rags want to bolt. It meant a lifetime sentence of working together. Rags wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t passed the verdict himself.

  With the pad of his thumb, he smoothed back Tal’s stray white hairs, the streak that had only just formed.

  “Humans have a saying about this,” Rags said. “Stress makes our hair turn gray. Your people probably don’t know shit about stress, so I’ll call it trouble. And since your Folk aren’t around to disapprove of me, I’m telling you before you hear it from someone else: I’m trouble. That’s why you’re getting all this white hair.”

  Tal frowned. “The loss of color is due to a healing ritual of my people. I thought I explained—”

  Rags sighed. “Easier not to kiss you when I remember you have no sense of humor.”

  Tal touched the back of Rags’s head, making him straighten up. There was either a faint sheen of sweat coating Tal’s skin or Rags had never noticed the way the gold glimmered below the surface.

  “We are free,” Tal said, “but there are yet those who lack the same freedom.”

  “Yeah,” Rags agreed. No time to relax. Letting his guard down meant getting pinched, no matter who was doing the pinching. And he was looking out for more than himself now. “You might need an expert thief to track the last two fragments down, so.”

  “Have you forgotten that you are the one who saved me? This means you are Master of Five.” Tal’s hand settled big and warm on Rags’s shoulder. Was he imagining it, or was that warmth and strength flowing from his body into Rags’s, making him want to do crazy, wonderful, heroic deeds?

  Master of Five. Yeah, right. Even with a map, it didn’t seem possible.

  But with Tal gazing at him and glowing bright as molten gold, holding Rags and gleaming at him, he could believe it. Whatever that map led to, it was up to Rags to make sure it blossomed into its fullest potential.

  “Gotta help the rest of those kids, too,” Rags added casually. “Good thing busting prisoners out is one of my many illegal specialties.” Penance for leaving them in the first place. They’d also have to track down Tal’s fragment while they were at it. Once they could. Once they’d recovered and it was safe.

  Safer.

  Tal smiled like Rags had told a joke. “It is a strange thief who seeks to steal something of little value.”

  “Aw, come on.” Rags shoved him. The motion didn’t budge Tal one bit. “Don’t make me say it.”

  He didn’t have a silver fragment of his own yet, but he’d begun forming another connection. One that explained how he understood, without either of them speaking, what they both knew: those kids were worth more than anything Rags’s clever fingers had ever snatched.

  They were the score of a lifetime.

  The scar over his heart throbbed with his pulse. They’d only survived because they’d gotten lucky. When their luck would run out was anyone’s guess.

  Good thing for everyone that Rags was damn good at slipping into—and out of—too-tight situations.

  He flexed his weary fingers, forcing strength into the trembling bones. The odds were against him, but when weren’t they? He had a fae map to follow, a fae prince for a friend, a fae stronghold to fortify. Give him sixteen days, and he’d make Morien regret the day he brought a thief named Rags to Coward’s Silence.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Aibhilin: EV-lin

  Ailis: EY-lish

  Ainle: EN-lyeh

  Baeth: Beth

  Diancecht: Dee-un-KAY-k

  Dyfed: Da-VED

  Cabhan: Cah-VAN (Cab is pronounced with a soft vh sound, not a hard b)

  Coinneach: Ker-NAH-k

  Comhghall: KOW-aal

  Crisiant: CRAY-shant

  Einan: EYE-nan

  Faolan: FWAY-lahn

  Guaire: GOO-ruh

  Inis Fraoch: IN-ish Free

  Laisrean: LASH-rawn

  Lochlainn: Lock-lin

  Murchadh: MOOR-hah

  Saraid: SOR-id

  Siomha: SHEE-va

  Somhairle: SORE-luh

  Uaine: WEN-ya

  Acknowledgments

  Years back, we planned to dedicate the next book we published—if there ever was a next book published—to everything we’d lost along the way. As the years added up, so did the losses, until we realized this was both too depressing and too unwieldy a way to begin a book. Better, then, to (sort of) end it this way: by acknowledging what was lost, grieving it, and honoring it. As of now, the official Lost List includes three childhood cats (R and S and M); Grandpa Terry; Grandma Wint; Great-Grandma Nain; Ephraim Peretz; Paul Singer; Dani’s two cancer buddies, Carol Peretz and Jon Sholle; the incomparable Ric Menello, gone far too soon; the impossible Richie Shulberg, likewise; Great-Uncle Mickey; Great-Aunt Yudis; Natalia A.; Bob Jones’s left ear; Dani’s right breast.

  Goodbye, goodbye. Thank you for everything.

  You will not be forgotten. You will always be missed.

  As for the rest, we wrote much of this book between chemo visits and radiation appointments, between trips to the oncologist and mastectomy surgery and follow-up. We’re very grateful to Dani’s oncology team and her surgeons, with deep-abiding fondness ever reserved for PJ.

  We finished the first draft of this story in the Poconos with our beloved old writing group: Jean-Paul Bass drove us there, Denise Wallner cooked like a pro, Adelle Pica slept much-needed sleep, and all five of us wrote from dawn until dusk. We took breaks only to train a pregnant squirrel, three displeased deer, and one unimpressed groundhog to attack humankind in exchange for snacks. Without Jean, Denise, and Adelle, this book would not exist.

  To Jean especially, our first editor on this story, we owe our everything. We love you, Jean!

  Huge thanks must also be extended to our friends in the Grief Coven—Tea, Tori, Bridget, Caroline, Caitlyn, Katy, Kaylen, and Hannah. Everyone should have their own Grief Coven. We highly recommend you find or create one. For the insight to institute it, to open that door, and the gift of the room within: Thank you, Tea. You are the realest. (Love you too, Pickett!)

  Thanks also to the tattoo a
rtists who helped both of us reclaim our bodies from dysphoria and dysmorphic anxiety—Danielle’s from breast cancer; Jaida’s from gender confusion. Superspecial shout-outs to Anka Lavriv for being both superhero and superfriend, and all the artists at Black Iris Tattoo for providing a home, a space, a place for magic to grow (especially John and Leslie!); to Cate Webb and Meagan Blackwood and Ilwol Hongdam, for their incredible art; to our precious pal and magical Yukito, Ligia, for inspiring us nonstop in terms of sheer talent, sharp humor, and work ethic; to Studio Muscat in Shinjuku, specifically Asao and Haruka, for giving us our first machine tattoo experiences; and to Courtney, who gave us our first tattoos in her kitchen a couple of years before that, thus beginning our tattoo journeys, showing us the way.

  Thank you to all our freaking amazing friends—those who stuck with us for the long haul as well as the new ones we made while in the trenches. You teach us every day how to better show up for the people we love. The best part about publishing a book may be getting to write as many of their names as we can, so here goes: Miranda, we adore you; Marc, we adore you; Alain, we adore you; Cressa and Julia, we adore you; Amy, we adore you; Helen and Robin and Anthea and Tommy, coworkers at the Art & Writing office once and future, we adore you; little Lily L., we adore you; National Student Poets, you angels, artists, dreamers, darlings, we adore you; Sky, we adore you; Nycki, thanks for all the incredible haircuts, we adore you; Tara and Claire and Gregory and all the rescuers of Brooklyn Animal Action, we adore you.

  To Kelsey of I Do Declare and the team at Blood Milk (especially Jess, Miguel, and Jen): Thank you for being eternal inspirations and such real, great friends. Kelsey and Jess, your creativity and vision as artists are matched only by your kindness and generosity as people. We are so grateful and lucky to know you. And to Ana of Nuit Clothing Atelier too, for your art, your warmth, your internal and external beauty. Mia of Plutonia Blue, you and your work are utterly captivating. Thank you all for creating the fashion, the adornments, and the fantasy we were always seeking.