Syl will sense it for sure. If I know my Summer girl, she’ll heal this one easy-breezy.
I turn to Etana. “Prepare your redcaps. I have a job for them.”
As queen, I like to hedge my bets. This time, there’ll be no escape for Syl Skye.
13
SYL
A Bleed causes tears
In the Shroud
Too many tears
And you’ve got a big problem
- Glamma’s Grimm
Roue’s been here. How do I know? Because the second I step from the Snickleways onto Brown’s Island, a howling snowstorm blasts me, threatening to freeze me solid where I stand. Instantly, my Chucks are buried in six-inch powder, and ice crystals form on my eyelashes. Every breath punches in and out of my chest like a knife.
Behind me, the James River freezes over in inches, milky-white ice over grey-green water. Ahead, the entire Island, the suspension bridge and the interstate above—
All of it locked in ice. It’s a Bleed, and a bad one at that.
Panic squirms in my stomach and, for a sec, I really am frozen, staring at the Bleed in horror, the electrical Moribund stink punctuating the crisp scent of Winter and that burned-rubber stench that smothers everything.
The same smell came off that crazy black violin Roue was carrying. Miss Jardin called it Wasteland, and it’s definitely making my girl’s dark side even stronger.
All I know is, it has control of my Roue, and I will break it.
But if I’m going to get anywhere near her, I need to lose my security detail.
The arch-Ýdyll are taking this “war” thing to heart. Once they see the snowpocalypse Rouen’s unleashed, they bristle with hypervigilance. Weapons come out. Summer energy bursts from them in shimmering heat, encasing us in a balmy 80-degree bubble that shuts out the wailing snow. Dahari moves closer to me, adding her natural Djinn heat.
Warmth returns, and I stamp my feet to get my circulation back to my fingers and toes.
The arch-Ýdyll close ranks, Nuwala’i on one side, white yew staff glowing with power. Fausto, the Sibylline on the other, his will-o’-wisps buzzing around us. His brown face creases with lines of worry. “Stay close, Majesty. The dark queen may still be nearby.”
I nod my thanks, but I know Roue isn’t here.
She can’t really want us to fight. “We need to find the source of the Bleed, so I can heal it.”
“Stay here!” Pink wings shimmering in the dawn light, Pluck zips up over the small hill to get the lay of the land. Dahari goes with him, her localized sandstorm helping her keep pace with the lighting-fast Pixie.
My heart pounds so loud its roar muffles the raging storm.
Thu Leian steps to my side, hand on their sword, hair swooshing dramatically as only an Elf’s hair can, while Gorishka hovers nearby, her massive rocky form towering high as the suspension bridge. Fausto and Nuwala’i flank me like bookends, Fausto’s blue will-o’-wisps tangling in his knotty hair, whispering to him. Laguna stayed behind, my de facto lieutenant, to keep an eye on the Ravagings.
I’m under strict orders from him and my father not to pull them into me. At this point, taking on the pain of my realm could kill me.
“Majesty!” Pluck flits back over the small rise, wings like tiny stained-glass panes beating in panicked greens and oranges. He gestures at the suspension bridge. “Come see, come see!” His voice is like the piping of silver pan flutes, but alarm makes every word shrill. Dahari’s grim-faced, her fiery eyes burning in the night.
Roue was here, and my arch-Ýdyll are freaking out.
It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
Heart crashing in my chest, I head up the small rise. Thu Leian nods to me and races up there with Elven speed. Their face quivers slightly, but on a stoic Elf, that’s like them screaming their head off. Dread shivers over every inch of me. I’m suddenly sweating, but I have to know.
What did she do? And can I undo it?
Small things come into view at first. Patches of ice and snow crust a field exploding with Winter flowers. Crescent moonslips shine with cold light, lunar blossoms choking the ground—then I crest the hill, where I can see the whole of Brown’s Island.
Everything’s imprisoned in ice, a pure white blanket dark with brooding shadows.
Massive shards of ice shoot upward in spikes from the frozen ground, gripping the suspension bridge and the interstate overhead, slowly ripping through the concrete. The entire tangle of wire and road and concrete above us groans and sways in the wind.
All of Brown’s Island is eidolizing. This isn’t a Bleed. It’s a full-on Wound.
My mouth drops open, then I shut it. You know, to look more queenly.
“Do not get too close, Majesty.” Dahari hovers in front of me, shielding me with her body.
But I have no choice. Unless someone (me) does something, this explosion of Faerie energy will expand until everything it touches eidolizes into the Faerie version of itself.
That would be super bad for our PR.
Our continued existence depends on mortals not finding out about us. Not to mention, if the Shroud tears, the entire multiverse of dimensions could come crashing down.
Thu Leian squeezes my shoulder briefly. “The dark queen did this.”
I can only nod, my voice failing me.
The arch-Ýdyll gather around as the Faerie energy leaks outward in an expanding radius, icing the ground beneath our feet. Pluck ducks into my hair, shivering as he grips my ear. “You must accept this,” he pipes. “She’s completely fallen to her dark side.”
Between Jardin’s spell and the black violin, it’s clear that my girl’s dark side is in the driver’s seat. Okay. My heart threatens to squeeze me right into a panic attack, but I breathe into the pain.
Times like these, it pays to be good at logic.
I face the arch-Ýdyll and blow out a breath. Surrounded by ice and snow, I probably don’t seem like a Summer queen, but I go for it anyway. I square my stance and my shoulders. “Roue may have fallen, but I won’t believe she can’t be saved.”
This is all Miss Jardin’s fault. Because Glamma put her under a geis all those years ago. I won’t let Rouen suffer for my family’s actions.
“Majesty.” Nuwala’i interrupts my power-play as she gestures us over. On the ground, burned into the snow, a circular scorch mark mars the area, like some sort of explosion detonated there.
“And look.” Pluck zips from my shoulder and leaps into the snow like an arctic fox. He surfaces, wet and spluttering, and zips back. He drops some blackened bits into my hand. The singed electronics smell stings my nose.
Burned-out Moribund circuits.
“What’s this?” I look at my arch-Ýdyll, but all I get are blank faces.
With the crunch of coven hooves on snow and the jingling of bones and coins, Nuwala’i returns to my side. The Faun never hurries, and even seeing the mortal realm locked in a localized (for now) apocalyptic winter doesn’t faze her. She bends her furry goat legs to look at the black patch, then she beckons for the circuits.
I give them over, my small hand dwarfed by her rootlike fingers.
She sniffs, weighs them in hand, rattles them like the wind rattles the coins dangling from her horns. Meanwhile, I check out the area with my Fae-sight. Whammo! So many auras hit me, a barrage of colors, that an insta-headache slams into my brain, dizzying me. I shut off my Fae-sight.
That’s enough of that, thank you very much!
Nuwala'i digs in the snow with her staff, muttering about dark queens, the Winter Court, war.
“Allow me.” Dahari exhales a hot blast of sand. It melts the snow, revealing several shards of dark, swirled metal.
Grudgingly, the Faun snatches them up. “Here.” She places the shards my hands.
Adamant. A Dark Faerie metal. It’s chill touch feels sharp. Shiver claw my spine. “Where did these come from?”
Nuwala’i’s white eyes meet mine. “A Bleed bomb.”
>
Fear ripples through me. “A what? Tell me everything, but first…” I step forward and call my white flame to my hands.
Time to heal the damage Roue—and Faerie—has done.
Tingles rush through me as my fire ignites, washing the dawn even brighter. I fan my hands out, running my white flames over the Bleed. Smoke rises as my Summer power consumes Winter, restoring balance to the damaged mortal realm. Slowly, my white flame chases away the snowstorm to reveal a balmy night bright with stars. The ice melts, the lunar blossoms and moonslips shrivel up, the spikes of ice recede, loosening their grip on the interstate and suspension bridge.
The whole thing sags dangerously.
“Gorishka, fix that please.” And as the rock troll lumbers over, her fingers rooting into the concrete, calling it to fill the gaps and patch the damage, I turn to Nuwala'i, resolve in my heart. “Tell me everything.”
Because if I’m going to outsmart Dark-Rouen and save my Rouen, I’ll need every edge I can get.
14
DARK - ROUEN
My kingdom
Crumbling down around me
My heart turned black
By dark magic
- “Moribund,” Euphoria
Ahead, Dark Faerie winks into existence on the winding Snickleways, opening up to reveal glittering dark rainbows and beauty, a brooding castle atop an icy hill beneath a crescent-moon-carved sky. The Bleed bomb was a success. I should be cheering. But all I can think of is Syl. The look on her face when she finds it. When she sees the destruction.
When she realizes it was me.
Heart aching, I pour on the speed, my fairy wind wrapping me in a snow’s squall, speeding me back to my castle, where the arch-Eld wait to hear of our victory. The first shots fired in the war between the Summer and Winter Courts.
The Bleed bomb heard ‘round the world. Or some crap like that.
If the bain sidhe’s smugness and that smirk on Jardin’s face are any indication, we’re winning.
But I don’t feel victorious.
In my back pocket, my cell phone vibrates. What the—? I haven’t charged the damn thing in months, and with all the Winter and Summer power flying around the Snickleways, electronics should definitely not work here. Bzzzt…bzzzt! There it goes again.
The only predictable thing about Faerie is that it’s unpredictable, I guess.
Bzzzt…bzzzt!
It’s not Syl. I haven’t deleted her special ringtone. Yet.
Jardin gives me a look, and I glare at her until she drops her gaze. On my other side, the bain sidhe nonchalantly picks her teeth with a bit of blackthorn. We bank a Snickleways corner, veering around the bright side of the castle.
Here, the brooding sky splits with Summer light, a slicing curve of Fair Faerie planing directly into Dark Faerie’s orbit, scything down into the land to poison it with brilliance. I squint against it. Near that shining fissure, all the beautiful icy trees have melted to mush, the flowers black, my people fled to avoid burning. Nothing can live there.
My lands cries out at the bright wound. A wound I want so much to heal.
I touch my own heart. I know what it’s like to be injured to your core. Bleeding without hope of ever stopping.
My cell buzzes again. Another text. It’ll have to wait.
Below, Castle Knockma sprawls like the dark, knotted spine of some massive monster. Whoosh! I peel the Shroud back, the shimmering black curtain like silk in my hand, and we circle downward to land in the courtyard. Snow crunches pleasantly under my feet, the chill of the wintry air a balm to my ragged soul.
Jardin and the bain sidhe touch down next to me, and I hitch Wasteland higher up on my shoulder.
We’re not alone.
Griffa Gris, arch-Eld of the monstrous Grendelkin, and Vanya Visya, arch-Eld of the shapeshifting Brood, await. A brumal troll, Griffa’s mountainous form and blue skin make her appear carved of ice, while Vanya looks vibrantly alive, with her glowing tiger eyes, orange and white fur whipped by the wind. A rakshasi shapeshifter, she’s clad in a sari and arm wraps, bangles on her wrists. They both bow as I approach.
“Majesty.” Griffa’s voice grinds, stone against ice. “Was your mission successful?”
I keep all emotion off my face. “Yes. Let us to the War Room.”
The two huge dark Fae flank us as we cross the courtyard. Vanya’s tiger face is devoid of any expression. She seems so unlike Kshirin, but I can see in her eyes the same fire that drives her daughter. “We have but seven days before Utter War.”
Utter War. That was my mother’s name for the last great battle that was prophesied between the dark Fae and fair Fae.
The battle I will have to lead.
“Go.” Jardin nudges me. “Do you not want to protect your people and their children?”
All right, that was a low blow. Even for a malicious púca. I bare my fangs. “Give me the hearthstones, and I will.”
Jardin only chuckles, adjusts her glasses. “I don’t think so.” She smacks her lips. “Majesty.”
Anger sweeps through me, and I adopt my most threatening voice. “That’s right. I am the queen.” I step in, my five-foot-ten looming over her five-foot-sixish. Behind me, Griffa and Vanya form two grim bookends, menace coming off them in waves. “What’s to keep me from shaking them off you right now?”
Jardin backs up a pace, a snarl on her lips. “You know that won’t work. They have to be given freely.”
“Really?” With a single thought, ice spills off my fingers, forming a wicked-looking blade. “You stole them.”
“Ah-ah.” She raises a finger. “Glamma gave them to me.”
I growl deep in my throat. She’s got me. Because, as it turns out Glamma was once Gloriana, one of the two True Queens of Faerie, and if anyone can give the hearthstones away, it’s her. Frustration seizes me, but there’s nothing I can do.
The rules of Faerie are the rules of Faerie.
I glare at Jardin. “Beat it.”
The one good thing about being queen? People listen to you.
The second I tell her to shove off, Griffa looms like a mountain, gemlike eyes boring into Jardin like she could freeze her soul. I wish. I’m exhausted from all her scheming. On my shoulder, Wasteland rumbles soothingly. I pat it gently.
Jardin purses her lips, annoyed. She pushes up her glasses. “I’m simply trying to help you.”
“Help me from over there.” I point to a random spot on the far horizon, ignoring the bain sidhe’s not-at-all-subtle chortling, then I straighten up. This is my duty, like it or not. I must prepare for war.
I brush past the pocket púca. “Lead on, Griffa.”
In minutes, we’re in the War Room. Someone (Mizumichi, I think) redecorated for my return. Everything covered in black and sapphire tapestries shot through with glimmering pale icy blue. The colors of war and Winter. Dark columns hold up the sagging vaults over a massive black oak table.
A three-dimensional topographical map of Faerie sprawls out on it.
Shadowy figures hunch around it, my arch-Eld brooding over the Ravagings and the Fair Faerie’s bright intrusions into our dark realm. Mizumichi lounges near Etana, his pin-straight black hair a curtain over one eye, the koi and dragon tattoos on his bare arms shimmering in the dimness. Mag Mucklemouth, arch-Eld of the haglike Uldra-Yaga, shuggles over, trailing swamp water. Looking up through scraggly hair, she pats my shoulder—and by “pats,” I mean, her 12-inch-long claws kind of thwap, thwap me. Gusts of wind announce Zoba’ah, my Ifrit general, his wind and fire swirling around him. Next to him, Prattlerattadooley, arch-Eld of the Hobsngobs, stumps over on his short legs and peers at the map. The bain sidhe lingers in the shadows. As the one who calls for Death, she’s my Morrigan on the battlefield.
My War Council.
I face them, trying my best to look regal, channeling my mother. I touch Wasteland for strength. “Report.”
Vanya stands before the map. “The fair Fae are marshaling their forces. Our spies indicat
e that they’ve infiltrated the mortal realm here.” She touches the map—Etana’s creation—and it revolves. All the glowing points run together then split apart as it changes from a map of Faerie to a map of the mortal realm.
Brown’s Island is all lit up in gold and red. Summer colors.
Etana’s gaze meets mine in the gloom. “They purified Your Majesty’s Bleed bomb.”
Relief sings through me, but Vanya and the others watch my every twitch and expression. I fold my hands over the violin. Its humming drone soothes me, the Moribund purring. “We knew she would.”
“What is your Majesty’s command?” Dooley leaps off his seat and stumps over, looking up at me from his three-foot-five stature. His bloodshot eyes don’t miss a trick, and he can smell a lie at twenty paces.
I’m not lying when I say, “We’ll just have to drop more Bleed bombs then, won’t we?” I step to the map, eying the city of Richmond as it lazily revolves. “Etana, have your redcaps been deployed?”
“Yes, Majesty.” The redheaded liannan sidhe touches the map, and several hot-spots light up. “These are the next locations where we’ll detonate bombs. My redcaps are in place, disguised and ready. We only await Your Majesty’s word.”
“Good.” Feeling more queenly by the moment, I look to Vanya. “And the Guard?”
“Majesty.” She bows at the waist, bangles jingling. “Even now, the Adamant Guard gathers your faithful for war. The Xi is with them.”
Dooley chimes in. “The forges have been lit in the Greymoors, Majesty. You will have weapons of wintersteel, gobsteel, and adamant.”
Pride swells my chest. My people are powerful, capable, and they do not mess around. “Once Syl has her hands full purifying the Bleeds, we’ll strike.”
From the sharp smiles glinting in the darkness, I can tell. They like my war plan.
“Everyone, you have your assignments.” My head pounds, and I’m desperate for some alone time so I can untangle the knot of pride, duty, and self-loathing in my guts. I wave them off. “Dismissed.”
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