Wildest Dreams

by Faith Ellis

  My hair is braided into an exquisite design that keeps it out of my face and cascades down my back. She ushers me over to an old gold-plated floor-length mirror hanging on the back of the door that I hadn't noticed before. Ice congregates along the edges. Frost spiders out, closing in the middle, leaving spaces of the mirror exposed. I shiver at my reflection. The dress is beautiful, but the princess within it is pale, with

  sunken cheeks and eyes. My skin has lost the glitter- ing, making the scales flaky and grayish. The betrothal stone resting at my hollow is dull and lifeless. Tears clog my throat. My eyes meet Carla's in the mirror.

  "Do you like it?" she asks quietly, those brown eyes unwavering.

  I stare back at her. "I appear to be acceptable for the queen's presence, at the very least." My head falls to one side. "Not bad for a dead girl," I add darkly as Carla casts her eyes down, her cat ears lying back against her horns.

  "Let me lace those for you—how silly of me," she mumbles as she kneels to tie the dainty laces of the slippers. She leans over, and a small round object falls out of her apron pocket, rolling to the toe of my slip- per. It's wrapped in brown craft paper, twisted at the top, and tied off with a piece of red string. I stoop and grab it before she's realized what happened.

  Carla straightens, and she lifts her eyes back up to mine, wide with fright. She is nearly a head shorter than me. Her eyes are flecked with gold, and her brown hair is limp, the ends splitting. Her horns are peeling in spots as if they need a good polishing.

  I roll the small object between finger and thumb. "Carla. That is your name?"

  Those big eyes grow even larger, and her ears perk up.

  "Yes. Yes, ma'am." She curtsies, and her eyes flicker to my fingers and back to my face. My heart twinges for her, clearly neglected in Mable's service.

  "Carla, I am Andryad." I smile. The effort aches in my face as I use muscles that are unnatural at this point, at a time when I have suffered so much loss.

  She glances away from me nervously, taking interest in her feet.

  "It's okay, I am your friend." It takes all of my strength to kneel down to her level. I hold the item up. "What is this, Carla?"

  "No-nothing, ma'am." She refuses to meet my gaze. "Oh, come now, Carla, you can tell me." My voice is

  soft with feigned excitement.

  "I'm not supposed to have it, ma'am." Color fills her face, making those three freckles stark white in con- trast.

  "It will be our secret," I press.

  She looks at me this time, her fuzzy ears twitching slightly. Her fingers reach up and tug the string loose. The paper falls away in my fingers to reveal a bright red piece of candy, coated in sugar that looks like pow- dered snow.

  I watch as her face lights with glee. "Is this your fa- vorite?" I urge awe into my voice.

  "Yes, ma'am." Her hands fall to her sides. "But the queen wouldn't approve, I'd be in terrible trouble. Please don't tell," she whispers desperately.

  I tip my chin. "Why doesn't the queen want you to have this?"

  Her ears flatten again. "Servants shouldn't have pleasures and enjoyments such as this, ma'am. Those are best suited to the aristocratic fae."

  Of course. Mable seeks any way she can to divide her Folk.

  "I won't tell. I promise. This can be our secret."

  I hold it out to her, and she takes it, wrapping her prize back up and stuffing it safely into her pocket. A slight smile illuminates her face, and she is so beauti- ful, it makes her look more mature and healthier. How had she come to be under Mable's scrutiny? Is it possi- ble she came from the First Court? The thought makes saliva pool in my mouth from nausea. If that is the case, she likely has no other family.

  Before I can ask, Carla voices, "Captian Chasal’ll be back any moment. Let's finish you up so you’re ready." She kneels again to finish lacing the slippers before she rushes to the other side of the room, hurriedly grab- bing bottles from a small cabinet. Her steps are quiet but quick across the floorboards as she focuses on the task at hand.

  Captain, I register, tucking that tidbit of information away in the back of my mind while Carla dabs oils and powders over my skin, applying any finishing touches for my audience with the queen. Color is returning to my skin; a light glitter even falls over it. Then again, maybe it's just Carla's work.

  My body aches, my mind is running, my stomach is empty, and I am drained of all emotion. Prodding my core, I seek that fire out but find nothing more than a few embers sizzling within me—courtesy of iron. I roll my eyes back, annoyed. The thought of coming face-

  to-face with the queen again makes my entire body clench.

  Murderer.

  My hatred feeds my adrenaline. Even if I can't sum- mon my fire, maybe I can still find a way to sneak out. Maybe I can find Malor. He'd know how to get us out of the castle. There hasn't been an opportunity to see what becomes of the other ability to take another's power. The uncertainty and lack of confidence in my- self makes me nervous, it puts me and those around me in danger.

  As I continue to contemplate this, the door swings silent on its hinges. Captain Chasal comes to retrieve me as just as Carla puts away her many bottles of oils and powders, arranging them back onto the shelf. He stares at me, not looking into my eyes. Marching to- ward me, one of his gloved hands shoots out and grabs my elbow firmly. His face remains neutral as he looks toward Carla. Her face is set with a sweet, innocent smile, and her ears are perked up.

  He cares for her. It's obvious in the way his face smooths and softens when she turns those eyes on him. His shoulders relax under her gaze, and his mouth curls up gently. Maybe he is looking out for her under Mable's presence. Maybe not all the Second Court fae are cruel. At least not to each other.

  Then again, maybe they aren't from the Second Court. Carla and Chasal could both be from the First Court, and I let them down. I left them, and now

  they're here, enslaved by Mable to face whatever unimaginable brutality she throws at them.

  Chasal hauls me to my feet as the loathing I have for Mable brews deep inside of me. Without my fire, I cannot fight my way out, nor do I have any sort of weapon. I need to find Malor, but I can't just leave my Folk, not Chasal, not Carla, not anyone who is a part of my court. And not without avenging Aiden's death. I sense Chasal's eyes on me as my breathing speeds up and the rage toward Mable, saturating every nerve, threatens to consume me. The room tilts until Chasal's fingers dig into my bicep, making me gasp and spin my eyes to him. But he's not looking at me.

  The raw memory of Aiden's death nearly brings fresh tears to my eyes. My heart aches for him so much. The stone, once a symbol connecting us, feels as though I'm on one end and the other end is blank. Nothing but an empty space of air. I cannot allow my- self to dwell on this, to let my emotions muddle my thoughts. I need to remain focused. To stay strong, to find Malor, to rescue any I can, and to send that bitch back into the ground from which she came.

  As the captain leads us from Carla's room, my fin- gers prod the opal at my throat. I watch him from the corner of my eye. He remains focused ahead. As in- conspicuously as I can, I take a deep breath and pry a fingernail beneath the edge of the stone. For just a sec- ond, I close my eyes, listening to our steps echo across the hall. Biting my lip against the pain, I pull—hard. The stone rips through my flesh, its stinging a wel-

  come relief to the searing pain in my soul. As I catch the stone in my palm, blood trickles down my chest and slithers beneath my dress. I tug my shawl up a lit- tle higher in an effort to conceal the hole. I eye Chasal again. If he notices anything, he doesn't acknowledge it. I slide the opal under the snug ribbon at my waist. Starting now, those emotions are not a part of me for the world to see. I wrap myself in a dull, still white aura—no one will see me as I am.

  We walk down and past a series of hallways, lit brightly by a variety of candles strung along the wall. The sun outside the many windows doesn't shine off the icy walls and floor tiles; it's hidden by gray clouds. The space is regal, bu
t it feels empty and cold. I wish I could feel the sun on my face, that it could restore some of my energy. I lean backward to look around, but Chasal tugs me upright.

  "Eyes front." A simple command.

  Servants, dressed in pristine brown or black uni- forms, noiselessly move about, carrying laundry, food trays, cleaning items, and the like. They don't look at us and keep their eyes downcast. Every now and again we meet another guard, and they stop to salute their captain by a fist to their hearts, over the M insignia. Captain Chasal acknowledges with a nod, but other- wise, we continue walking. The quietness of the cas- tle is eerie. The captain's grip is solid on my elbow but not painful as he steers me from room to room. Mean- while, I take mental notes in my mind of each room we pass in case I can get away and find Malor. As a means

  of distraction, I attempt to engage Chasal in conversa- tion. "Captain Chasal, is it?"

  He stiffens beside me, but his steps don't falter, and he dare not look down at me. The only sounds after my voice are my snowy slippers softly padding against the chilly tiles. There is nothing from the captain's preda- tory stalking. I glance at him from the side, but he is refusing to acknowledge my existence as more than a form of duty.

  I prod on. "Carla seems to think a great deal of you, you know?" It is so discreet I nearly miss it, but I swear his eyes dart my way for a second. Finally, some sort of reaction, however small it is. "As a child, I had an aw- ful sweet tooth." I smile and look at him as he keeps his hold on my elbow and continues to lead me down the long corridors. Looking at him makes me sick. He is handsome, with those gold waves swooped back and his fair complexion, but all I see when I look at him is Mable.

  The area we walk through looks vaguely familiar. "I used to love candy, and it made my mother furious." I feign a small giggle, reminiscing on my time as a young fae when my mother and father were alive. When we were a family. "My parents agreed that candy was not appropriate for a young princess, but Father often snuck me pieces. My favorite as a young girl were these little green candies he got from the Oceanic Court. They opened just like a clam, and inside would be a pearl of pure sugar that melted the instant it hit your tongue. I can't remember what they were called. My fa-

  ther brought them to me whenever he returned from his trips there. It was our little secret. We felt so devi- ous."

  The captain's jaw works, but he manages to stare straight ahead. "If you say anything, Queen Mable’ll hurt her."

  So he does care.

  My body stiffens, and I swallow hard to keep the tears at bay, sniffling. I have cried enough at the hands of these Folk. I refuse to shed one more tear. Through clenched teeth, Chasal bites out, "Control yourself."

  His command shocks me enough to forget the building tears. But he's right. My chin lifts, and we walk the rest of the way in silence. I feel as though all I've accomplished is making myself more miserable.

  It occurs to me why the area seems all too familiar as we approach a set of massive doors. Impulsively, my feet stop moving, heels digging into the tiles, although my slippers simply slide over the polished floor as Cap- tain Chasal jerks me with him, realizing too late that I have stopped.

  The impact forces me forward and causes me to land straight into his chest as he turns to look at me. For just a moment, he actually looks into my face, his lashes fluttering rapidly in confusion, and I see some- thing in his eyes, but then he hides it quickly. Empa- thy? Understanding? His eyes drop to my throat, and I pull my shawl higher, hiding the dried blood and clos- ing hole; it must have slipped at the impact.

  He looks anywhere but at me as he regains his com- posure and rights himself to stroll through those doors. My body shakes uncontrollably, and I struggle to plant a defiant appearance on the outside. I am pan- icking; my breath quickens, and I fight to steady it. To maintain the white blanket of aura covering myself. My hands shake, so I clench and unclench my fists in an effort to get them to stop. Rolling back my shoul- ders, I straighten my spine and allow indifference to shield my face. I tug my elbow free from the captain's grasp. He side-eyes me but allows it, interestingly.

  Together, we place our palms against the smooth, solid wood of the heavy doors and push. We walk into the throne room.

  Chapter 20 Andryad

  The throne room is quiet aside from the soft rustling of my luxurious skirts around my legs as we walk farther into the hollow room. Snow-white marble edges the windows, and an enormous chandelier of human bodies hangs heavy from the ceiling. Each is frozen in a layer of ice, their screaming mouths open and their eyes empty holes stuffed with a lit candle surrounded by blown glass, protecting the ice from the fire's heat. My breath hitches at the awful sight. Images of all that happened last time I was here crash over me, and I force them away and continue propelling my body forward.

  Mable sits on her throne in the middle of the room. It is the farthest walk of my life from those doors to the dais. Ice coats the windows, and frost hangs in the air. My breath comes out in little puffs. Mable wears a fitted red velvet gown lined with black fur, and her long raven hair is twisted away from her sharp-featured face, running in cascades down her back. Garnets dec- orate the high arches of her ears. As we walk closer, her

  lips widen in a broad, mocking smile, and I remind my- self to breathe. In and out. In and out.

  In front of her is a small wooden stool, and beside that is what appears to be some sort of table, but it is covered with a heavy black velvet cloth. We stop in front of her throne with the stool between us, and Captain Chasal bows at the waist. For a moment, Mable watches him, something like a longing in her dark eyes. He stays that way until Mable commands, "Rise, Cap- tain," which she takes her time in doing, her eyes mov- ing to mine.

  I break her stare by looking around the room. Noth- ing remains to haunt me. There is no cold body, no blood. The tiles gleam just as white as before. No one would know that my male was murdered just a few feet from where I stand now. It feels surreal. Did it re- ally happen? Maybe it was just an awful dream. Maybe Aiden never was caught under Mable's control, forced to lead us here. He might still be out on one of his quests, surveying the courts or gathering the Folk. Al- though it's closed, the hollow of my throat throbs in remembrance.

  More warriors line the walls, dressed in their leathers and armed, standing as still and motionless as the bodies in the chandelier above us. Finally, I turn my eyes back to the queen, hold my head high, and find her eyes boring into me. Looking at her, I remem- ber vividly. Yes, it did happen. And she caused it. She did it. She forced the result to be the loss of Aiden's life. Her eyes do not hold any regret. There's no flash

  of sorrow. The cold-hearted bitch doesn't have a hint of remorse for her own son.

  She expects the honor of a bow from me, but I owe her nothing. For what seems like an eternity, there is nothing but thick silence. Captain Chasal stares ahead dutifully, while the queen and I glare at each other, unblinking. Two queens refusing to back down. I'll be damned.

  "You may leave us." Mable waves an elegant hand toward the captain, but her eyes don't leave mine. Chasal bows again and turns to leave, his heels clipping lightly over the tiles. The other warriors file out, and the heavy doors shut with a soft click, leaving the queen and me alone. Or so I think.

  "Andryad." Her voice is smooth and thick like sap, and her smile shows off pretty, perfect white teeth. "I hope you're enjoying your stay. Tell me, how are you feeling?"

  Ignoring her goading and getting to the point, I take a small step forward. Instantly I miss Chasal’s solidity. "Where is Malor?" My voice is surprisingly solid and cold, far more confident than I feel. The queen tilts her head and leans back in her throne, making herself more comfortable and disinterested.

  "Somewhere secure." She waves a hand in dismissal. "He will not stop screeching for you, though." Her eyes darken in pleasure.

  A shock goes through me, and my composure fal- ters momentarily as realization dawns. He's somewhere. "He's alive, then?"

  "That's not your con
cern just now, dear. We have more important matters to attend." The regal queen stands and clasps her hands in front of her. "Jamal." An intensely dark warrior appears at her side. Where did he come from? He appears similar to the Elites, with dark, ashen skin, but he's larger than them. "It's time to begin."

  Instinctively, I back up, taking a few steps to the door. My eyes roam over the room, seeking an exit, the door at my back the only option. Without a doubt, I know Elites stand guard on the other side. Even if my ability was strong, the iron still has me weak. Inside, I can feel the heat, a small flame burning up from the embers now, but it's not enough.

  The warrior, Jamal, might be handsome if he didn't appear so hateful, cold, and distant. He, too, is dressed in warrior leathers, but he wears no armor as his tall and solid form prowls toward me. He moves with a fe- line-like grace similar to that of a tiger. It makes my instincts rise at attention in his presence. He stops coming toward me and instead turns to the table, where he removes the heavy velvet cloth.

  Off to one side, the glistening tiles are covered with a large smooth sheet of ice, something to protect against a mess on the floor. At each of the four corners are posts hammered into the ground, busting up the tile around them. Jamal pushes the table closer to that slab of ice and moves the stool there too, not paying me any attention. My eyes dart to Mable, and I let out

  a small laugh. I brace myself; there's nowhere to run. Shivers coat my skin and crawl the ladder of my spine. My voice is scratchy as I taunt her, "You are such a coward that you need someone else do your dirty work