Fury : The Kresova Vampire Harems: Lyra

by Graceley Knox

  "Well shit," Damon mutters.

  "Fuck it," I say, standing up and waving my hands to dismiss the entire concept. "Whatever. It doesn't matter right now. All that matters is dealing with Morana."

  There's a moment of silent agreement and Callahan pulls out a chair to sit down.

  "So tell us more about these ancient Kresova," he says. "What are the chances they'll go to war with Morana for us?"

  I take a seat as well. It's hard to focus on anything else when you find out something this huge. I've always wondered about my mom, but no one knew enough about her for me to try to find her. I guess I figured that if it mattered, someone would have told me by now.

  "The vampire clans—Kresova, Baetal, Draugur, and Istria—didn't start out the powerhouses that they are now," I explain. "Thousands of years ago they were just independent families or groups of families reigning over small territories. Modern vampire history really begins when the ancient families were brought together under the banners of the clans we know today. But some of the old families still consider themselves culturally distinct from the clan as a whole. They swear fealty to the reigning leader of the clan, but they have their own elders and a degree of sovereignty.

  "The Kresova king or queen used to be expected to get the elder's approval before major decisions. Big building projects, going to war, that kind of thing. But Morana did away with that by threatening to murder their families if they didn't go along with her. They've been fairly obedient since, but they're proud people. They've never broken to her boot on their neck. I think if we can show them we've got a real chance of beating her and promise them a return to proper sovereignty when she's gone, they'll support us."

  While I speak, Damon slips into the map room through the door across from the table and retrieves a map of the UK.

  "There are four ancient Kresova clans," I explain as he unrolls it over the map of Morana's palace. I point out a remote spot on the Scottish moors, a cove in the cliffs of the Welsh coast, and the heart of London itself. "The Blackthorn Kresova of Scotland, the Aspen Kresova of Wales, and the Alder Kresova of London. The fourth, Willow, historically owned the castle where Morana now rules. They've been folded into her court and aren't a reasonable option for an alliance."

  "If you can give us precise locations, I can have runners there by tomorrow," Callahan offers.

  "The sooner the better," I agree.

  "Are you sure?" Damon asks, frowning down at the map. "You did say they're in Morana's pocket. Can we trust them?"

  "He does have a point," Aura said with a frown. "If they reveal our plan to Morana, we could be in real trouble."

  "We'll be cautious," I assure them both, though the idea of going slow and careful is nearly unbearable. "We'll use some of your Dakvahar agents, if you'll allow it. They'll go in discreet, gauge sentiment toward Morana, maybe ask a few innocent questions to get people talking about us and the rebellion, and ideally get the people to go to their elders themselves trying to form alliances. At which point our man can step forward with our offer to meet up and talk possibilities."

  "I know some guys who would be perfect," Aura agrees.

  "All right," I say. "Then let's talk about those supplies."

  The meeting drags on, but I struggle, pulled in two directions both by my restless urgency to just do something and by the unsettling new revelation about my parentage. I can't stop thinking about my mom. I mean, I've spent plenty of sleepless nights, wondering about her before, wondering why she was never a part of my life. I had assumed she was dead for a long time.

  It's the easiest explanation. A hell of a lot easier than dealing with the fact that she apparently just didn't want to be involved with me. After I turned 100 I figured, even if she had been alive, she was probably dead by then. I tried to put it behind me. Packed all my uncomfortable parental issues into a little box and buried it.

  Now they're all spilling out again, and I can't get them back into the box. If Mom was Fae, she's probably been alive my whole life. Hell, she's probably still alive! So, where is she? Who is she? I have to assume she's Summer Court, guessing by when she appeared and when I was born. Does she know who I am? Does she even know I'm alive? It doesn't fucking matter. It's all in the past and pointless. But I can't stop thinking about it. Who is she? Why didn't she want me?

  Eventually, after two more cups of coffee and a discussion about armor and supplies that lasts for fucking ever, we brief the messengers who are being sent to the ancient clans. Two are Dakvahar I haven't met before but who Aura assures me are astonishingly competent. The third is Aura's consort, Carver.

  "Are you sure you're OK with him doing this?" I ask her as we stand in the courtyard, watching the three messengers be outfitted. They're going over their routes together, planning how far they can go as a group before they should split up. I've put on Mab's pendant for safekeeping if nothing else, and I fidget with its intricate, curved shape as my thoughts chase each other in circles. The metal is strangely cool, no matter how long it lies against my skin.

  "There's no one more qualified," Aura replies, trying to sound calm and logical, but her arms are crossed tight over her chest and her jaw is tense. "His experience with Le Tireur makes him the natural choice for this job."

  "Well, I can think of one person more qualified," I say with a haughty toss of my hair. Aura cracks a small smile.

  "Well, of course," she agrees with a knowing nod. "But as Half-Fae Prophesied Queen and Heir of the Dakvahar you're clearly too valuable to risk."

  "Clearly!" I snort. "God, my life is such ridiculous bullshit right now."

  "You're telling me," Aura says, sympathetically.

  I shake my head and sigh as we watch Carver ready a horse, which will take him to the coast and a ferry waiting to bring him to Wales.

  "He's pretty valuable, too," I say.

  "It's not a dangerous mission," Aura says, a hopeful note to her voice. "He'll be fine. It's just a diplomatic mission."

  "Right," I agree, not mentioning all the diplomatic missions Carver and I had been on which had ended in an extraordinary amount of violence. "It'll practically be a vacation. He'll be bored out of his mind."

  Aura smiles at me, grateful for the reassurance, then walks to say goodbye to her lover. I watch her drag him down into a long kiss, quietly grateful that, for the moment at least, everyone I love is safe and nearby.

  We watch the messengers ride off, Aura lingering at the gates longer than anyone, until Callahan pulls us into another conversation about supplies, payments, and shipping schedules.

  My mind wanders helplessly, still contemplating what my mother being Fae means for me, unable to focus for long on anything else. God only knows what being Fae means for me as a person. Am I supposed to have powers? Pointy ears? Why haven’t I seen some sign of this before? How can being half a fairy just sneak up on someone like this?

  My frustration grows the longer I am forced to sit listening to Callahan's sincere, urgent concern about leather shipments. Finally, realizing I am barely present, he breaks the meeting, advising me to get some rest. But I'm not going to be able to sleep with these kind of questions buzzing in my mind.

  Not when there is someone in the castle who can potentially answer them.

  Chapter 4

  Once preparations to contact the other vampires are underway, I slip out and head toward the greenhouses, half just to get away, half in hopes of finding someone specific there.

  I spot Seamus's red-gold hair through the bottle-green glass of the greenhouse as I approach, and I feel a little rush of relief. The revelation about my parentage has been bothering me since I picked up the stupid pendant. Seamus is probably the only person who really knows anything about what this means.

  The air inside the greenhouse is fragrant and humid, heavy with the scent of fruit and flowers. Grapevines older than me climb one wall, their trunks as thick as young trees. Raised beds overflow with curling squash vines. Several cherry tomato plants are going wild on paint
ed trellises in the corner. Everything is a hazy ethereal mass of green.

  I follow the sound of gentle, hypnotic humming to where Seamus stands over a raised bed at the back of the greenhouse. The bed is crowded with a variety of plants, most of which don't resemble anything remotely familiar to me. I watch Seamus work for a moment, curious. He's bent low over a small sprout with fuzzy, silvery leaves, whispering to it gently. He makes a coaxing gesture and it glows with a subtle light and begins to grow as I watch, stretching taller and uncurling new stems and leaves. Finally, it blooms a head of tiny purple flowers and Seamus leans back, smiling.

  "What is it?" I ask, moving closer.

  "Silver vervain," Seamus replies, stepping out of the way and inviting me to inspect the plant with a wave of his arm. "No relation to the mundane variety of vervain, of course."

  I touch one of the leaves curiously. I can still feel the warm hum of Seamus's magic on it. As I run my fingers over the leaf, I realize the silver color comes from tiny silver hairs growing from the pale, fleshy leaf.

  "I'm growing a few medicinals to help with the eventual fighting," Seamus explains. "For healing and such. And a few for the celebration after."

  He winks, patting a small shrubby plant with dark-purple five-pointed leaves.

  "Do we really need healing herbs?" I ask, frowning. "I mean, shouldn't our accelerated healing be enough?"

  "You of all people should know that isn't the case," Seamus says. "Accelerated healing can go wrong any number of ways. You can heal around things, for one. You ever tried to dig a silver bullet out of a wound that kept trying to close around it? Broken bones can heal incorrectly. Organs can heal in the wrong places. Healing too many injuries at once can lead to uncontrolled cell growth, tumors, and cancer. Magical medicine is damn dangerous business."

  "Okay, you have a point," I admit. "I saw a guy disemboweled once, and his stomach healed before he could stuff his guts back in. He had to just go around with his intestines hanging out until someone could cut him open and put it back in the right place again."

  "Exactly," Seamus says. "But that's what the herbs are for. Silver vervain speeds up accelerated healing a little further—great for burns. That there is winter lavender, which slows magical healing down, for the aforementioned silver bullet situation. This one is for setting bones, this one is a painkiller, this one draws out silver nitrate—"

  "What's this one do?" I ask, indicating a lush, curly leaved bush.

  "Makes a delightful tea," Seamus replies, and I laugh under my breath.

  Quietly, I stare at the plants and Seamus stares at me. He sidles closer, leaning back with his elbows on the edge of the raised bed.

  "How are you holding up?" he asks eventually.

  I shrug, frowning down at the winter lavender, with its spikes of wine-colored flowers. There's a spicy, citrus-sharp scent when I rub the leaves between my fingers

  "I don't know," I admit. "I'm not sure how to process all this yet. What does being part Fae even mean? Does it mean anything at all?"

  "As I figure it," Seamus says casually, "it only matters if you want it to. You haven't had any sign of Fae powers before this, I'm assuming?"

  I nod.

  "That's for a reason," Seamus says. "Most changelings and half Fae, at least the kind where the other half is human, need a push from a true Fae before their powers manifest. Jumpstarting the engine, as it were."

  "And what about the kind that are half vampire?" I ask.

  Seamus raises his hands in a helpless gesture. "You're the only one there's ever been, as far as I know," he replies. "I can ask Lysander if he's ever heard of another, but I'm fairly certain you're one of a kind, Lyra. In more ways than one."

  "That's not really reassuring," I pick a dead leaf off of a plant. "What kind of powers are we even talking about here?"

  "That would depend a great deal on the nature of your mother." Seamus spins a small pair of garden shears around his finger. He faces the plants again, pruning a small golden plant. Every time he snips a stem, two more grow back in its place. "Whether she was Seelie, Unseelie, wild, her position in the court, her elemental alignments. You'll likely have the ability to cast a glamour—an illusion cast on yourself, to make you appear like something else."

  I frown and watch him urge another plant into rapid growth.

  "Could I do that?" I ask, inclining my head toward the plant.

  "Possibly," Seamus says. He gives me a curious look for a moment, then holds out his hand. "Would you like to try?"

  I stare at the offered hand for a long moment, biting my lip. For a moment, caution almost overwhelms my curiosity. But I've never been known for my good judgment.

  I take his hand and a thrum of power runs through me, warm and ringing like a held note. It strikes something within me that echoes back the same note. Or, not quite the same. But similar.

  "That's all it takes?" I ask, barely above a whisper, feeling that note echo somewhere within me, in a place that has always been there but never felt before.

  "That's all it takes," Seamus confirms, smiling at me fondly. "Now, focus on the plant. Imagine it as an extension of you. Try to feel it, its roots and leaves."

  I frown, looking down at the silver vervain, and do as he says.

  "I'm pretending to be a plant?" I ask him, confused.

  "No," Seamus shakes his head. "You're not pretending anything, any more than you are pretending to be a car when you sit inside it and drive. You must inhabit the plant. Reach out with your energy and fill it."

  "Easier said than done." I close my eyes and attempt to feel my energy or the plant or whatever.

  Seamus chuckles and moves behind me. His warm hands settle on my hips.

  "Let me guide you," he says. "Just relax. One day it will be as natural to you as walking. But it took you several years to learn to walk. This will be the same. Now focus. Can you feel me inside you?"

  I snicker and he pinches me.

  "Focus," he insists, though he's grinning. "Find my energy. Follow where it leads."

  To my surprise I can feel his energy, just as warm and strange as before, circling somewhere near my chest. It's almost as clear as the touch of his hands on my shoulders, fingertips tracing down toward my hands.

  "Let your awareness flow down your arms," he says softly, and his energy moves, pulling mine gently along, down into the tips of my fingers. "Focus on that feeling. Let yourself be entirely there."

  He takes my hands in his, nails tracing along my palms. Tingles of excitement race up my skin that I struggle to ignore, trying to focus on Seamus's energy, pulling mine along. His chest is warm against my back, his hair tickling my cheek. It's hard to focus on anything but him.

  "There," he says, breath warm against my ear. "Now, push your energy outward, away from you, into the plant."

  His magic pulls mine forward and I feel a strange, disorienting shift as my awareness leaves my body and hangs in the air for a moment, before Seamus guides it to the silver vervain. For just a second, my magic touches it, and I feel it like a part of me—my roots pushing through soil, my leaves reaching for sun—and then I jerk away, startled, and drop it.

  "Sorry," I say, rubbing my temples. "I got overwhelmed for a second there."

  "Not unusual at all," Seamus assures me, stepping back. "Take your time. We can try again whenever you like."

  I frown at the plant, remembering the brief flash of oneness, and the strange lonely ache following it.

  "What do you think happened to my mother?" I ask quietly. "My Fae mother I mean. Why did she leave? Where has she been all this time?"

  "She's probably still alive," Seamus offers. "Living in one court or another. It's not unusual that she didn't raise you. The Fae don't typically raise their own children."

  "Why not?" I ask, confused. "You just abandon them?"

  Seamus presses his lips together, searching for the words.

  "First you have to understand the way that debt works among the Fae," he says. "It's
both a currency and a natural law, like gravity. If a deal is made, it must be honored, regardless of how unfair it may be. If a debt is owed and repayment is demanded, we have no choice but to do whatever is asked of us. Honor and revenge play tightly into debt. If you have wounded my honor, you owe me a debt, and I can choose to take my payment in violence if I like, and you would have no choice but to allow it. If I destroy something that belongs to you, you are compelled to vengeance, as a stone is compelled to fall to the earth. Starting to see why having children around might be a bad idea?"

  I nod, thinking about all the things I broke or wrecked as a small child.

  "The courts are no place for children," Seamus goes on. "And the bonds of family build webs of debt that are dangerously complex and throw the whole court into danger. So we do not raise our young. We swap them for human children, changelings, and allow them to be raised by mortals. Some will live their entire lives never knowing and will die mortal. But some will find their way back to Fae. They'll be drawn to it, feeling it resonating with the magic inside them. And whatever Fae they first come across will be honor bound to give them the choice—to awaken the magic and return to the court, or let it fall silent forever. Most choose the former. It's rare to ever discover who sired you."

  "That just seems so cold to me," I say. "Like, I get it, but, Jesus. That sucks."

  Seamus shrugs. "That's how we've done it for millennia. It might not work for humans, but it works for us."

  I shake my head, struggling to accept it.

  "I just . . . you mean my mom is probably out there somewhere and has no interest in ever knowing me or being a part of my life? She doesn't even know if I'm alive. I could have died a thousand times and she would never know."

  Seamus takes my hand and I lace my fingers with his gratefully.

  "I'm sorry," he says. "There are ways to try and find her, if you wanted to."