by Kara Jaynes
Mother is the only elf in the palace who doesn’t hide her emotion. Prone to shrieking with laughter, wailing in despair, and shouting her anger, my mother is a whirlwind of unbottled feelings.
We get along well.
But I don't want her input on this. Not yet. She's no good at keeping secrets, and if word gets out that I’ve bonded with a human, and that the human has rejected me—
I swallow hard. What if Father finds out? He might call me back to Dertryis in shame. Father does as he likes, and he doesn't give me favors simply because I am his son. I had to fight tooth and nail to get the honor of nurturing this world back to health, and I am not going to let the girl get in the way of that.
Except she will. Because she is all I can think about. She is everything. I have to have her. We have to make this work.
I run a hand through my hair. She’s already proven that she will make this difficult.
But I must figure it out.
Somehow.
The girl.
I snort, annoyed with myself.
Things might have gone better if I had bothered to learn her name.
9
Dream Vagrant
Euphoria.
Experiencing the effects of the star-blood is like nothing else on Earth. It's pure happiness surging through your veins, through your very being. The best kind of dreams, the type that are difficult to wake up from, are nothing compared to this drug. It fills me with a contentment so complete, it's staggering to think I functioned most of my life without it.
I open my eyes. Had I a life before this? I'm not sure, now that I think about it.
I shrug and lean my back against the brick wall of a warehouse. I can’t remember much of anything, now. I don't need to. I don't want to. Star-blood is all I want. All I need.
Someone shifts, sitting next to me, and I glance over, feeling a flicker of surprise before it's swallowed up in the overwhelming peace. I have no idea who this individual is, though the man looks vaguely familiar with his buzzed head and tattoos that run up and down his arms. He should be freezing in the winter rain. I should be freezing. I peer up at the cloudy sky, droplets of rain hitting my face. I don't feel either hot or cold. I feel perfect.
A shadow appears, flickering at the edge of my vision. My heart sinks. Shadows signify the end of the star-blood's effects. I can’t tell if they're real or not, but they frighten me.
Sometimes the shadows have faces. Dead faces.
Euphoria still rages through me, but hunger is beginning to creep into my consciousness. I need another dose, and soon. What had I done to get my last fix? I can't remember, but I'll do whatever I must to get my next dose.
The man slumped next to me moans. I roughly search his pockets, cackling when my fingers close around a small plastic bag. I pull it from his coat pocket, fingers shaking with excitement when I recognize the pale red powder inside.
Star-blood.
I rip open the bag, whimpering when over half the contents spill onto the wet pavement. No!
Scooping it up frantically, I cram as much of the precious powder as I can salvage into my mouth. I sigh as the effects of the drug take almost immediate hold. I'm feeling better already. I tilt my head back and shake the remainder of the plastic bag’s contents onto my tongue.
The shadows lurking on the edge of sight fade. I lay down on the drenched pavement and hum a melody. I rock myself back and forth on my side. I can’t remember where I first heard the tune. It doesn’t matter, anyway.
The man with the tattooed arms surges to his feet with a howl. “Where is it? Where did it go?” He jumps on me with a snarl. “Give it back!”
I don’t feel his blows, my mind already wrapped up in hazy happiness. But his shouts annoy me. They’re too loud for me to ignore. I grab his arm and sink my teeth into his hand.
He screams and wrenches himself free. His footsteps fade away, as well as his snuffling sobs.
I swirl the blood about on my tongue before I decide I dislike the taste and spit it out.
The hum in my throat builds. Strange. I can remember the words.
Little lost boy
You are my joy
The day is done
So we will run
Among the stars
So very far
From grief and—
My body stiffens when I see a shadow stalking toward me, and the humming stops.
Should I be angry or afraid? Neither. I am irritated that shadows are already intruding. Except I can feel the star-blood, still singing through my veins. It’s wonderful. It’s life.
This shadow must be real.
I scrabble to my feet, muscles tense. “Back off,” I growl. “I’ll kill you.”
The shade stops. “You’re one of the dream vagrants.” His voice is low and musical, with the lilting accent of someone who doesn’t speak English as their native tongue.
I cock my head as the shadow momentarily blurs in my vision. “If you’re looking for star-blood, you’re too late.” I laugh, and stop when the laughter turns into a sob. “You’re too late. You always will be.” I rub at my eyes. Why am I sad?
“Poor human.” The form circles me. “I don’t know who brought the star-blood herb to your planet, but if we learn who is responsible, that individual will suffer. So many humans have been destroyed by such a little thing.”
I drop into a crouch and begin humming again. I’m feeling suddenly agreeable, hearing his words. He knows what the star-blood is. “Do you have more?” I ask. “I’ll do anything, for star-blood.”
The figure stops circling. “Will you come with me willingly?” he asks.
I peer at him, trying to will his image into focus. But it’s dark. The night makes it hard to see. “No,” I say. “Show me the drug, first.”
“Well, we will do this the hard way, then.” The shadow lunges forward and cuffs me on the head. I stagger, snarling when the world shudders around me. That hurt, even through the euphoria. I spin to face him and launch myself at the figure.
It’s a futile effort. The shadow grabs my wrists, and with inhuman strength, twists my arms around my back.
I hunch over with as much strength as I can gather, and try to throw him over my shoulder, but I'm weaker than he is, and my efforts are for nothing.
The figure hits me on the head again, hard.
Darkness claims me, and my last thought is a twinge of regret that I won’t be awake to experience the star-blood’s sweet oblivion.
10
Stella
I pace the room, my mind going over my options for what feels like the millionth time. But no matter how hard I think, my mind always settles on the only option available to me. To stay, simply because leaving is impossible.
I have already tried to escape three times in as many days, and have been foiled in my efforts. I never even got out of the fortress.
I haven’t been punished for trying to leave, and it’s clear the elves can’t quite decide if I’m a guest of honor or a prisoner. Aleere sees to my every need with dogged persistence. She makes sure I get three square meals a day, hot water to shower in, and that my closet always has plenty of outfits to choose from, such as dresses, blouses, and skirts of various styles, as well as several pairs of form-fitting trousers. I find myself picking dresses more often than not. I can't help it. I don't own any at home, and this could be my only chance to wear a gown with lace trimmings or ribbons. I feel almost pretty, wearing them. Almost.
I’m thankful for the meals my servant brings. I’m happy to eat as much as she will give me. If living on the streets of Liberty has taught me anything, it’s never to turn down a meal. I’ve only ever refused food in a den. They are dangerous places, where drugs and other illegal goods are exchanged at a lightning fast rate. It’s where I’d first purchased information to gain access to the medicine Quinn so desperately needed.
Is my brother still safe? I hope so. I trust Lyra, mostly. She’ll stay with him as long as she possibly can, but if
they run out of money and food, she’ll be gone like summer heat in the fall. It’s in her Drifter blood. It’s only now that I regret not telling her about the money hidden away in my books. She’d probably stay longer if she knew about it.
That gives me two weeks—three, at the very most. I will have to discover a way to escape within three weeks. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I cross the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. I pull one of the books off the shelf and study the faded cover. It’s an antique novel. I open it to the first page and begin to read. The wonderful thing about stories is that regardless of my worries and cares, I can escape from them with a good book.
Just as I feel myself being drawn into the fictional world, the door to my room opens, and Aleere glides in, holding a silver tray laden with various dishes. She sets it on the small table and leaves.
I say nothing to her. I tried talking to her a few times, but she never engages me in conversation, so I don't see a point in trying anymore.
I do, however, close the book and hurry over to the food. I'm hungry.
It's a thin soup, light in flavor and not nearly enough to fill my stomach, but it takes the edge off my hunger. I eat the soft roll from a small side plate, savoring the light, flaky bread. There’s also a salad and some crunchy biscuits. No meat.
I’m almost done with my meal before I realize Eldaren is watching me. I hadn’t heard him enter my room. I jump, startled, and spill a spoonful of soup in my lap. I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t.
“I can order more food,” he offers instead.
“No, thank you,” I mutter. I take a cloth napkin and dab at the spill. Why does he choose to appear now? This is the first time he’s come to see me since that first night we’d met.
He tilts his head a little to the side. “Why not?”
“Because eating around you makes me self-conscious.”
“Ah.” He turns. “I will return when you have finished, then.”
“No!” I reach a hand out. “Stay. I need to talk to you. Please.” I grimace at the last word.
He says nothing, arching a dark eyebrow at me. He tries to hide his hopefulness, but I can see it, flickering in his beautiful gray gaze.
“No,” I say flatly. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
His expression sours, but he makes no reply. He strides over to the window, peering out. “You have a wide view of the city here.” He glances over his shoulder at me.
“This Kenelky thing,” I say, ignoring his comment. Why on earth is he talking about city views? Is he trying to make conversation? “You’re not over it?”
“One does not ‘get over’ the Kenelky,” he says. “We’ll simply have to find a way to make it work. When you’re ready.”
“What if I'm never ready?”
Eldaren exhales heavily. “Then I'll never get over it.”
Wow. Tough luck being an elf. “What do you think went wrong?” I ask.
“I do not know,” he replies. “Something must be wrong with you.”
“Right.” I fold my arms, unable to keep the dryness from my voice. “It couldn’t possibly be you.”
“I’m glad we can agree on something, woman.” He turns away from the window, piercing me with his gaze. “What is your name?”
My eyes widen when I remember I’ve never given it to him. “Are you for real?” I sputter. “You kissed me, and intended to take it further, without even knowing my name?”
Eldaren lifts a shoulder. “I do not need to know your name to—”
I sigh heavily, interrupting him. “Stella,” I say. “My name is Stella.”
“Stella.” Eldaren speaks my name like he’s tasting it, rolling it over his tongue. “That is a beautiful name. It means ‘starlight.’
I hadn’t known that, and I can’t think of a response to it. The silence stretches.
The prince turns his gaze from me and studies the room. “Are you lacking anything in your accommodations?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Yes, actually. I need a ladder, some rope, and a wad of several hundred dollar bills. Think you could get those for me?”
He eyes me sideways. “Are you . . . joking?” The word sounds strange with his accent.
Casting my gaze heavenward, I sigh again. “More books would be nice.”
“That I can certainly do.” He steps over to the bookcase. “Anything in particular?”
“Do I have options?”
Eldaren smiles faintly at me, but it looks forced. “If we have it, you may read it.”
“I like to read history books.”
“Good choice. I'll tell Aleere.” He turns to the door.
“Why is it a good choice?” I query. “What do you care about our history?”
The elven prince watches me closely. “I have a responsibility to protect and heal this planet, and I will fulfill my duty better if I learn everything I can about it. What better way to learn about humans than by studying their past? The past tells me their strengths, and their weaknesses. How they overcome struggles, and how they react in the face of adversity.” His eyes show curiosity in an otherwise impassive face. “Why do you like history, Stella?”
I look away, trying to hide the sudden surge of grief I feel. The question brings up memories of happier days. “I just . . . like to learn.”
When I look up at Eldaren again, I'm met with a deadpan expression. “You're lying to me.”
I jut my chin out stubbornly. “I do like to learn.”
“But that isn’t your reason.”
“Maybe I don't trust you enough to tell the truth.”
“I see.” Eldaren’s gaze doesn’t change. “I hope that someday you will trust me. There should be no secrets between us.”
I don’t miss a beat. “When you trust me enough to let me back into the city, I will tell you why I love history.”
The prince’s eyes squint. “Good day, Stella.” He leaves the room.
I throw myself on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. How do I get back to Quinn, without giving him away? Maybe Eldaren has a spark of compassion in that cold heart of his, but I won’t bet on it. I can’t give him knowledge of my family.
I just hope Lyra will watch my brother until I can figure out how to get out of here.
11
Stella
Eldaren returns the next morning. He’s carrying an armful of books that he carefully deposits on my table. “I hope these shall be to your liking,” he says. “I have several history books in this stack, as well as a volume of fairy tales. Do you like fairy tales, Stella?”
“Not particularly,” I admit. “They’re almost always the same. A damsel in distress who needs some hero to save her. One or both of the parents die—” I almost choke on that part, “—and the stepmothers are always evil.”
“I see.” He picks up the thick book sitting on the top of the pile. “I won’t leave this one, then.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Some fairy tales are okay. Like The Glass Coffin and Jack and the Beanstalk.”
“I haven’t read those particular tales.”
“Well, you should.” My lip curls. “You remind me of the evil magician in The Glass Coffin. He fell in love with a princess and fell into a fitful rage when she rejected him. Rather than taking no for an answer, he locked the girl up in a glass coffin.”
Eldaren’s face betrays no emotion. “What happened then?”
A grin tugs at my mouth. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to read it and find out.”
Eldaren’s long fingers stay curled around the book. “I would be delighted to read it.” His voice is expressionless. “I want to understand humans better, and from my brief research, I've learned that fairy tales are very old, indeed. Perhaps they will give me some insight on human behavior.”
Cripes. “I don’t think you’ll like what you learn,” I warn. “And I would like to think that humans have come a long way from the brutality you’ll read in that book.”
Something flickers in his gaze. “Hu
mans haven’t come as far as you think, Stella, my heart.”
“What do you mean?”
His voice doesn’t change. “You’re instinctive, aggressive creatures who don’t learn from the past. You turn on each other at the slightest provocation or difference in opinion. You’ve killed in the name of religion, and you’ve murdered in the name of anti-religion. You put yourself into labeled little boxes, afraid to move, afraid to think. Humans don’t change. You never change.”
“We’re not all like that,” I protest. His words sting, but Eldaren is right. I know the past better than he does. If humans evolved, my home wouldn’t have a tarp for a roof. If humans changed, Wilder wouldn’t be dead, or under the influence of drugs so strong he can’t even think. My parents might still be alive. Quinn wouldn’t be afraid to go outside.
I inhale, and my fingers curl into fists. But Eldaren is also wrong. “There were—are good people in this world. People who serve their fellow man.”
Eldaren tilts his head. “Like the Christ figure in your Bible.”
“Yes,” I admit. “But not just him. Loads of other people are good, too. Well, maybe not as good as Jesus, but still good.” I glower at him, folding my arms across my chest, annoyed that I picked a dress drowning in lace to wear that morning. It’s hard to hold the high ground in a serious conversation when you’re dressed like a china doll. “Mothers and fathers. Sisters and brothers. No one’s perfect, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t progressing.”
“Society can only progress if the greater whole is moving in that direction,” Eldaren replies.
“Like the elves, I suppose.” I can’t keep the dryness from my tone.
“We are certainly superior to humans in that regard,” he admits. “We obey and follow the law. We put the collective whole above individual desires.”
My brow furrows. “Isn’t that depressing? I mean, what about expressing yourself?”
