The Immortal Crown

by Richelle Mead

  “Damn!”

  Mae jerked her hand back as she felt a sting in her finger tip. She looked down in surprise and saw blood beading on her skin. It was only one drop, and she started to wipe it on her jeans—but then paused. In the poor lighting, the blood had looked almost black when she’d first cut herself, but suddenly, it began turning a brighter red. She blinked, certain her eyes were playing tricks on her. But no, there it was. A rich scarlet, like the pip on her uniform’s collar. That didn’t last, though, and moments later, the blood covering her hand brightened into crimson.

  Covering her hand?

  What had started as a bead was expanding rapidly. Mae stared in mingled fascination and horror as that swathe of red enveloped her hand and then her arm. From there it spread to the rest of her body, wrapping around her like a cloak. No, it was a cloak, made of a heavy velvet that felt oppressive in the sun. There was sun everywhere, golden and glorious as it shone down from a clear blue sky. Mae felt that warmth enter her body, felt it connect her to every green and growing thing on the planet, to all that was alive and thriving. She threw the smothering cloak off and saw that she was naked underneath. It felt right somehow, that there was nothing between her body and the world around her.

  A fragrance so intense it made her dizzy filled her nostrils, and Mae reached up to discover a wreath of flowers on her head. They were apple blossoms, just like the perfume she normally wore. The air around them shimmered, and suddenly, they were small, white stephanotis flowers. Then they were peonies. Then roses. The wreath fell apart in her hands, and a sudden wind picked up, scattering the petals away like shooting stars. They brushed delicately against Mae’s skin as they went, before disappearing altogether.

  Do not be deceived by the crown. It may look fragile, but there is power in it. There is power in love and beauty and desire. There is more power in creating life than taking it.

  Mae looked around for the speaker but could find no source for the woman’s voice, only the sun above. Or was it truly the sun? As she squinted, trying to make out that brilliance, she couldn’t be sure if it was actually a woman’s face, too dazzling for mortal eyes to behold. A small laugh made Mae look down, to where the red velvet cloak rested at her feet. Something under it stirred, and she flinched as a small face suddenly peered up at her. It was a girl’s face, a familiar face: the face of Mae’s niece, sent away when she was born for not possessing a pure Nordic gene set.

  Mae had spent years trying to find her, her closest lead being a servant of the Morrigan named Emil—a servant Mae had killed with the amber dagger. Emil had promised Mae a lead to the girl in Arcadia, as part of his attempts to get Mae to join their cult and fulfill the pact her mother had made at Mae’s conception. Mae had refused and thought she’d lost her chance at finding her niece forever. And yet, here, right in front of her was the girl, looking up with hazel eyes that showed glints of green in the sunlight. She grinned, but when Mae reached for her, the wind stirred again, picking up the red velvet. It was no longer a cloak but a flag, rippling in the air, blocking Mae from her niece. Angrily, she tried to catch hold of the waving fabric, but when she finally did and jerked it aside, the girl was gone.

  So was the sun. So was everything.

  Mae was sitting in the March living room, dressed, with no blood on her hands. There wasn’t even a cut. Glancing around, she saw the amber dagger lying on the floor but had no memory of dropping it. In fact, as her eyes passed over a clock, she was startled to realize she was apparently missing a few memories. To Mae’s perceptions, barely five minutes had passed, but the time—and other signs—said nearly three hours had gone by. The faint light of sunrise was seeping through the windows, and the coffee maker in the kitchen had turned itself on. Weirdest of all, she felt exhausted, as though she’d been through some great physical activity—not a sensation she felt often these days.

  Chills ran through her, and she fixed her gaze back on the knife. I have to get rid of it. But how? And where? A sound from the other end of the house startled her out of her fear. Someone was stirring, probably Cynthia. Without further thought, only knowing that she had to get the knife away from her and not have to explain how she’d just spaced out on guard duty, Mae grabbed the blade and dropped it inside an ornamental basket on a high shelf near the media screen. Several other artistic oddities were on the shelf, and in all the time she’d spent here, Mae had never seen anyone disturb them. She would come back for the knife later and find a proper way to dispose of it—if such a thing even existed.

  “Quiet night?”

  Mae spun around as a yawning Cynthia entered the kitchen and checked the coffee maker. Forcing calm, Mae strolled into the kitchen and put on a smile.

  “Sure was. Not that I’d expect different, if word of your deadly coatrack’s gotten around.”

  Cynthia scowled as she poured two cups. “That kid’s lucky he didn’t break it.”

  Mae accepted the offered coffee and tried to ignore the fact that she’d just lied. Technically, she didn’t know if had been a quiet night or not. Anything could’ve happened in those three hours. There could’ve been another attack, one she would’ve just let happen while hallucinating with a cursed knife. Fortunately, Cynthia was too preoccupied with breakfast plans to notice Mae’s unease. Or maybe Mae was just that good at covering it up.

  The rest of the household began to wake up shortly after that—aside from Justin. Tessa and Quentin got ready for school as Cynthia cooked, and Mae checked her messages, discovering she’d received a few responses to her security ad. A couple looked promising, and she set up interviews for that afternoon. She’d just finished responding to the last applicant when Val and Dag showed up at the door, more excited than she’d seen them in a while. Capital duty really was starting to wear on them.

  “Anything exciting happen overnight?” asked Dag. Like Cynthia, he assumed the answer was a given, and it bothered Mae that the night hadn’t been nearly as tame as she would’ve liked.

  “Not around here,” she said easily, showing them into the kitchen. Cynthia had resigned herself to having household security as a necessary evil and considered feeding them part of her responsibility, especially upon learning they were doing it for free. Val and Dag— driven by the same supercharged metabolism that Mae was—had no problem with this. They set into their food with gusto, much to the delight of a wide-eyed Quentin. He was so used to Mae now that she was old-hat, but having “real” praetorians in the house was as new and exciting as movie heroes come to life. He peppered them with questions while Tessa watched in wary silence.

  A little of the previous night’s weirdness faded as breakfast wore down. Val and Dag always had a calming effect on Mae. She was closer to them than her blood family and trusted them implicitly . . . almost. As the Marches dispersed for the day, a pang of guilt shot through Mae that her friends were blindly taking on this bodyguard job as a friendly favor, little knowing the truth of what they were facing. Would they be strong enough to take on what was to come? The answer, Mae decided, hadn’t changed from what she’d told Justin last night: they would have to be.

  Justin himself didn’t surface, which wasn’t surprising after his late night. Mae, who was escorting Tessa and then going on to the Internal Security building, had simply hoped he’d come along with her. For all she knew, he wouldn’t get out of bed until that evening, so she and the others finally set off for the day’s tasks, with Val and Dag escorting Cynthia and Quentin respectively.

  “How long are we going to be doing this?” Tessa asked Mae, as they rode the subway into the city. “The bodyguards?”

  Excellent question, Mae thought. “Until Justin thinks it’s safe, I guess.”

  Tessa frowned. “That’s vague.”

  “It’s kind of a vague situation.” Hoping to deflect from further questioning, Mae added, “It should be like the old days for you. Didn’t you always leave the house in Panama with an entourage?”

  Tessa gave her a faint smile and glanced
out the window. “Yeah . . . but I’ve sort of gotten used to coming and going on my own. I like it.”

  Mae smiled back. Her upbringing hadn’t been quite as cloistered as Tessa’s, but it had had its share of restrictions. Mae could certainly appreciate wanting to come and go on one’s own and hated to put these fetters on Tessa . . . but at the same time, it sickened Mae to think of this girl she’d come to love facing the same kinds of threats she and Justin found themselves continually surrounded in.

  “Soon,” said Mae, gently patting Tessa’s arm. “Soon.”

  After seeing Tessa safely to school, Mae headed over to the Internal Security building. She had no official position there since her work with Justin was done through an arrangement between IS and the military. Still, enough people knew her that no one questioned her presence, even without Justin. She figured she wouldn’t have any trouble talking her way into a conference room to conduct her interviews, but as bureaucratic luck would have it, all of those controlled by the Division of Sect and Cult Investigation were booked that morning.

  “Sorry, praetorian,” said the department’s receptionist, seeming genuinely apologetic—and terrified.

  Mae weighed her options, wondering if she should contact the interviewees and relocate elsewhere. She’d really wanted to have the full power of IS behind her to impart gravity on the situation, and a coffee shop or even Justin’s house just didn’t have that same effect.

  “There’s nothing we could use in another department?” Mae asked.

  The receptionist shook his head. “Not that I have access to. Why don’t you just use Dr. March’s office? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  Mae hesitated and then agreed. She’d wanted gravity, and Justin’s official office certainly conveyed it. He’d received a significant upgrade upon becoming SCI’s covert investigator of actual paranormal phenomena, earning a corner spot with wide, glass windows that looked down upon the bustling streets of Vancouver below. As Mae walked around the office after the aide had left, she was surprised at how little of himself Justin had put into it—and that she was even aware of that fact. Most of his work was done on the road in their missions or in his home office. This place, with its expensive glass desk and grand view, was just a formality. There were no personal effects. Even the art on the walls was just part of the set that SCI’s interior designer had obtained to match the rest on the department’s floor.

  Only the leather chair, which had managed to retain the scent of his cologne, indicated he spent any time here at all. Mae sank down in it and closed her eyes, allowing herself to be momentarily lost in the thought of him. She soon snapped herself back to attention and readied herself for the task at hand. She wished she’d had the foresight to stop at her apartment and change clothes, if not into her uniform, then something more formal than the linen pants and sleeveless blouse combo that tended to make up most of her summer wardrobe. Hopefully her personality and presence would carry through. She had very little experience with interviews. She’d never had any other job outside of the military and expected to base most of her decisions today on gut instinct . . .

  . . . which, as it turned out, didn’t have much good to say.

  Sure, there was nothing wrong with the two men and one woman who came in for their respective interviews. They were all ex-military and treated her respectfully when they learned her rank, even if one of the men looked a little dubious at first. They all possessed suitable track records, but as she spoke to them about their duties and the kind of schedule they’d be on, she kept thinking about Dag’s offhand comment about hiring security to watch one’s property. She could tell that was all these candidates really thought of themselves as, and although they seemed experienced and steady, she kept wondering what they would do if an army of supernatural beetles came after them. Would they be able to handle it?

  Would anyone?

  After she’d escorted the last candidate out, Mae returned to the chair and put her feet up on the desk with a sigh. A scan of her messages showed a few more applicants with similar military backgrounds, and she wrestled with the decision to invite any others in, wondering if she’d find any truly different results. She’d nearly talked herself into putting it off for another day—surely she and Justin had at least that much time before their next mission—when one person’s resume caught her eye. He was the only one who’d ever served actively in the provinces. That was still no comparison for the kind of things Justin and Mae faced, but it meant he’d had experience with the unpredictability of a setting outside the normal Gemman experience. Surely that was worth something.

  She responded back, asking him when he’d be able to meet at Internal Security, and was surprised to receive a response almost instantly, saying he was in the area now and could meet her whenever she wished. With nothing else to do, Mae accepted and invited him by.

  His name was Rufus Callaway, and he showed up an hour later, bearing a bag of donuts. Mae accepted them in astonishment.

  “Are you trying to bribe your way into this job?” she asked. She actually had to fight the urge to tear into them then and there. They were from one of her favorite bakeries, and she was almost certain she could smell the kind she liked best, the store’s signature hazelnut and chocolate blend.

  “No, ma’am,” he said gruffly, taking the seat she pointed to. He was short but solidly built, still obviously strong and muscled despite his graying hair. “But I served with praetorians during my tour in Belgium. I learned two things. One, they like to eat. Two, they don’t like to sit still. Puts ’em in a bad mood, especially if they’re hungry. You said in your message you were conducting interviews all day, so I figured some deep fried sugar might improve things. Don’t want to be at a disadvantage just because I’ve caught you after a long day when you haven’t had time to eat.”

  “It hasn’t been that long,” said Mae, but she dared a peek and saw that he had indeed gotten the hazelnut-chocolate kind. “You got my favorite.”

  “They’re everyone’s favorites, ma’am.” She smiled. “Tell me about Belgium.”

  He talked about his time in the military, and Mae found herself caught up in it. The volatile European provinces were an area even she hadn’t been to. SCI usually just sent her and Justin around the Americas. Rufus described his experiences in a brisk, no-nonsense way and then listened with intent, narrowed eyes as she described the job’s specifics.

  “I don’t know much about religion,” he told her. “Don’t really want to. But I know most of the people who practice it are nuts. I think you’re being too lax here.”

  Mae felt her eyebrows rise. “Praetorians and a regular night guard are lax?”

  He shrugged. “You say you leave once the kids are at school.”

  “The schools have security. And we don’t have the manpower to keep someone there all the time.”

  “You don’t need to. Just make things unpredictable. I’ll show up unexpectedly sometimes, patrol the school grounds. Just so no zealots get complacent. These people don’t think in ordinary ways. Neither can we.”

  He was right about that, and even if he didn’t realize just how right he was, Mae appreciated that he was thinking creatively. “You’ll already be living at the house for nightshifts—and filling in the gaps for when I don’t have praetorian coverage,” she warned. “That’s a lot of hours.”

  “What else do I have to do?” he asked dismissively. “Retired, no family. I can’t serve my country as a soldier anymore, but I can serve this way. I’m licensed to carry arms, a good shot, and don’t mind catching sleep on the run. If I’m fighting to keep religious nutjobs at bay, then I don’t mind putting in the hours.” He hesitated. “If you can pay me for them.”

  “Well, I’m not actually the—”

  The door opened, and Justin walked in. If he was surprised at all by what he found, he didn’t show it. “Oh. Should I have scheduled an appointment?”

  “He’s the one who’d be paying you,” said Mae. Rufus jumped up, an
d she made introductions. To her surprise, he began peppering Justin with questions about his family and his family’s habits. The more she heard, the more she felt Rufus was the right choice. Something about him and the way he thought felt reassuring to her. He was about as close as they’d get to someone qualified to take on the supernatural.

  “How big’s your budget?” she asked.

  Justin sat on the edge of the desk, glancing at Rufus, then back at Mae.

  “Is he our guy?”

  “He’s our guy.”

  The three of them haggled out an hourly rate, one that made Justin wince when he realized just how many hours this could entail. But she knew he could afford it, and she also knew he trusted her. As Mae hashed out some final details with Rufus, Justin took hold of the bakery bag and looked inside.

  “Stocked up on your favorite, huh?”

  She glanced up in surprise. “How do you know they’re my favorite?”

  “Anyone who’s spent any appreciable time with you knows they’re your favorite.”

  Mae returned her attention to Rufus, who was watching the two of them quizzically. Justin’s whole life was about noticing small details, so she supposed it shouldn’t surprise her he’d pick up on something like this. It was just that, usually, he used his observations to gain some advantage over others.

  “So,” said Justin, after Rufus left. “That’s all that stands between my family and the forces of the unknown?”

  Mae immediately dug into the donuts. “Him, some freelancing praetorians, and whatever tricks you’ve got up your sleeve.” She hesitated. “Want one?”

  “No thanks. Had a hard enough time getting my stomach to accept coffee this morning.”

  “It’s two o’clock.” She stretched out and put her feet back on the desk, figuring he’d be more than forthcoming in telling her to move if he wanted the seat back. For now, he seemed comfortable perched on the desk’s corner. “Not really morning. But you look pretty recovered. Hope Lucian is. I’m sure he’s got a day of photo ops ahead.”