Wildest Dreams

by Faith Ellis

  for you?" My eyes shift to Jamal.

  This time her laugh is big, bubbling from her belly. "Oh, sweetie, absolutely not."

  My face falls. Jamal's eyes bore into me as he stalks over and hefts me over his shoulder. I pound against his back. He's broad and thick. Mable sends her power flying for my wrists, and burning ice wraps around them, weighing them down and freezing them to- gether. The cold catches the breath in my chest.

  He lays my body onto the sheet of ice that seeps through my dress, igniting my back. Jamal chains each of my arms and legs to a post with iron, and I thrash wildly, kicking and clawing toward any part of him I can. They burn as they rest against my limbs. Before I can strike, he has me bound up tightly. The ice sur- rounding my wrists has evaporated, allowing Jamal to stretch me out spread eagle. I blink my burning eyes rapidly, and it becomes hard to breathe, as though something heavy sits upon my chest. Frantically throwing my head in Jamal's direction, anxious to see what he is doing, I try to calm myself, focusing on breathing in and out.

  Mable stalks over, her heels tapping against the tiles. Whatever the queen's extraction process of my essence is, it's likely to be as painful as possible, but I will not give it up willingly.

  As Mable stands over me, she looks down her nose at my body sprawled before her. I recall the time I sur- prised Malor and Aiden by taking Malor's ability. When we discovered a new kind of power, unknown to any fae throughout history. With that kind of potential, could I exercise a similar ability during this process? If I can take anything someone else dares do to me and use it against them, maybe I can drain Mable's own essence and weaken her. A howl of frustration rips from my throat as I thrash and pull against the chains, but they're so tight, they are scalding, and my move- ments mean nothing.

  Mable turns to Jamal with a look of utter satisfac- tion on her delicate features. The velvet cloth from the table is lying uselessly on the floor beside me. It's hard to see from my constricted position on the ground, but a shiny silver object peers over the edge closest to me. She holds out her hand, and Jamal places something into her palm. "This process is going to be such a fun experiment." Mable's voice echoes in the frozen cham-

  ber.

  A tomb, I decide. It's a frozen, empty, lonely tomb full of death.

  "It is a new form of magic from the wraith realm I have been learning." Her smile is wicked. "It requires a significant amount of blood and the shredding of the soul." She purses her lips. "I will cipher out your essence through your blood, sweat, tears, and emo- tions until you have nothing left. When your soul is destroyed and your essence is removed, you will sim-

  ply—disappear." Her light feminine laugh floats through the room and assaults my ears, making me cringe against the iron bindings, forcing out a hiss of pain.

  I lift my head, mustering what strength I can to glare up at her. Summoning all of the confidence I can, I grit out, "Fuck you, I'm not giving you anything. I don't care how much you torture me. I will do everything I can to keep this from you."

  Mable waves her free hand in dismissal. She reveals a thin blade glinting in her other hand and rotates it back and forth. "I am counting on it."

  She bends low beside me and starts at my finger- tips. My eyes squeeze shut as I brace for what comes next. Slowly, the blade glides under the skin of my in- dex finger. It fillets the skin back from my finger, down my hand and arm. The pain is slow and fiery, burn- ing every inch where the skin separates from muscle. Raw, spine-tingling screams ring in my ears, and hot blood runs down my hand and arm, pooling onto the ice below me. A presence crawls in, prodding around the most private parts of my soul. The blinding sensa- tions have me so focused on the pain that all my in- ternal barriers fall away, yawning wide open, welcoming Mable's intrusion. My only hope is for Mable to lower her barriers too in order to accept my essence into her. Her entry chills my bones, and its thick, oily darkness reminds me of the time I met myself in the Corridor of Reflection. The iron chains keeping me secured are long forgotten.

  Wraith magic and their realm are foreign to most fae folk. The wraiths are dark and more devious than any Second Court fae, with rules far different than ours. If Mable has been able to learn some of their magic, she must have made a deal with them—but what?

  Mable doesn't want to kill me. But she does want me to suffer, to let down my guard so she can access what she needs to. The iron chains are keeping me from healing and in constant pain and forcing me to bare my soul to her. A shock of pain flows through me again, and my eyes fly open. Mable hovers over me, her hand raised midair, still clasping the knife tightly enough that her knuckles are white. She looks as though she is in a trance, her eyes closed. The fingers of her other hand are bloody and raised to her lips. Her tongue hyp- notically licks them clean. My stomach clenches, and I turn my head to retch. The bile burns as it rises up my throat.

  The only thing that truly keeps me going, the only thing that keeps me conscious, are my thoughts of Aiden. Every time the blade glides under my skin, blackness threatens to overtake me. Death would be a welcome relief. But then my thoughts go to Malor and the fact that he is still alive. I have to find him. Killing this evil bitch queen who has taken everything from me—that keeps me strong. I hold on to that.

  Mable delves back inside of me, and my soul seeks out her dark presence. I reach out to her, checking her protection around her own soul. Does she feel me the way I feel her? Do I feel this...cold?

  There are no barricades to keep me out as I seep into her soul. The energy is pitch black and sharp, and it wraps around my throat, choking me. It makes my head spin, and nausea washes over me. It's strong, nearly overpowering, and I feel the urge to pull away, to step out. But as I begin drinking it in slowly, ac- cepting it into myself, it gives me an odd strength that makes me dizzy, in a good way. It's like a high that lightens my limbs. It even makes my body heal, de- spite the irons, against Mable's destruction. She is en- tranced; she doesn't see her brutal mutilation healing. Newfound force finds me, and I know I am stronger than either of us realizes. I will fight her.

  And I will win.

  My eyes flutter open, and Jamal is stooped over me, his black eyes narrowed in on my body as it heals it- self. He grabs an iron blade from the table and presses it against my chest. A scream rips from my throat, and I break my contact from Mable right before everything swims in a blur and goes black.

  I shift in and out of consciousness. I'm not sure when Mable steps away and pulls out of my soul. As my eyes open, the table is covered again with the heavy cloth hanging down to the tile. My body is al- most fully healed with the irons removed, but it tingles with the memory of the blades slicing through me, shredding my flesh. The sensation of my skin being peeled off the muscles, sticky, hot blood running over me, and a burning in my nerves alights. Screaming has rubbed my throat raw.

  My arms and legs shake so badly, I don't have the ability to stand. I lie on the ground, the iciness seeping through me, continuing to pierce my skin. It is a wel- come relief to have the cold drowning me, cooling off the searing pain that invaded every inch. Jamal is near my side, standing close. He appears spotless, though a rag hangs from one pocket of his breeches, stained gar- net from my blood. My eyes search for Mable. I groan as I crane my neck and find her on her throne. Her face is pale, and her eyes are a little dull.

  "Wasn't that lovely." It isn't a question, and she doesn't smile. She grips the arms of the throne and breathes deeply.

  My voice sounds strangled and choked. "It must not be easy, is it?" I laugh a little and smile up at her. "You look a little worn out, Your Majesty," I mock her. "What if you kill me, and I still don't relinquish? What if—what if I kill myself? Then it's just lost, isn't it?" I laugh, sounding hysterical to my own ears.

  My neck is tired. My head falls back against the ground with a sharp crack, and I grit my teeth against the ache. Blood mats my clothes. The fabric is ripped down the middle, cut open for Mable to get to my skin. The skin is now smooth, unharmed, but bl
ood still lies on top and has drenched the once-white slippers, and the furs are matted with it.

  Another cackle escapes my lips. Maybe the pain has driven me mad. "You won't have it. Never. I will fight you even if it kills me." I smile and close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I see who the queen re-

  ally is behind her perfect mask, and she is ugly. Her face twists in rage, and her fingers twitch with a desire to lash out at me, but she looks too exhausted. Her eyes are so dark they look nearly black.

  "Captain!" she calls instead, and the throne room doors are wrenched open. Captain Chasal enters. His footsteps sound heavier as he abides like the obedient pup he is. His boots land at my head, and I tilt back, searching his face, but he's looking at Mable.

  "Take this piece of filth back to her iron prison. Make sure she eats too; she needs her strength. Force her if you have to." His jaw clenches, a tick near the bone as Mable turns on her heel. Sharp steps echo throughout the room as she leaves. I lie on the cool floor, breathing heavily, making no move to get up, and close my eyes. That feels nice. I could go to sleep. Captain Chasal lifts me from the ice, carrying me in his arms, and walks out of the throne room without a word.

  My head lolls against his chest, and my arm hangs, the other between his chest and my own. Dizziness and exhaustion rake through me. While he carries me down the many long corridors, I look at him, trying to focus and maintain consciousness. My body might have healed, but I still feel a phantom pain pulsing un- der my skin. The captain is rigid and quiet as we pass through the silent hallways of the castle and down the stairs that lead to my cell.

  When we arrive back at my iron prison, I immedi- ately feel the iron seeping into me, and I cringe re-

  membering of its effects. The captain lays me down, gently, on the cold, hard tile, in a small corner the ice doesn't glaze over. He shuffles out when I notice he hasn't bothered to dress in his leathery protection. The door shuts softly and clicks into place before every- thing goes black and numbness consumes me.

  Licking the stone and ice structures, flames con- sume the buildings, and screams float up, filling the air. I watch them run, frantic like ants rushing out of their newly destroyed hill. My yellow and orange dress spills to the floor, curling back up around me like living flames, the tips black as ash. I'm me, but I'm the ver- sion of myself I fear most. The flames along my finger- tips burn brighter and stronger as my lips stretch into a smile, pride swelling in my chest. The fire below melts the frigid ice, overrunning the Second Court entirely.

  Fire reigns in the city below the ice castle. The court members are running through the streets, screaming and trying to get out. But they don't know I closed off access to all exits long ago. They are trapped, and all I feel is pure satisfaction and vengeance coursing through my veins, making my blood sing. They will burn. Everything the Second Court is, everyone who helped make it that way, will burn by my hand. Every court member, every fae who followed her. Female or male, none will be safe.

  They. Will. Burn.

  Their skin will crisp and fall from their bones. Shrivel to ashes. I will shove my fire down their throats and burn them from the inside out while they claw at

  their flesh, begging for relief. Their lives, their homes, their existence, it will all be gone. Because of me.

  I smile.

  What would Aiden think? And Malor? Would they be proud of me or disappointed with what I have done? Would Mable have approved of my cruelty or feared me? I can't be sure, though I know what Aiden stood for. But that doesn't matter anymore; Aiden's dead. They are gone. Everyone I cared about, everyone who hurt me, loved me—they are no longer here to care or consult. Mable, her guards, her followers, they took those Folk from me. This is their punishment and jus- tice to right the wrongs they did, to cleanse Faery of all the ways and rules they followed under Mable's com- mand.

  I turn my back to the window and the Folk in the city below. Waltzing across the icy tiles of the room, I take up the cold throne that once belonged to Mable and fan my skirts out around me like a pool of flames. My guards line the walls, trusted members from the First Court, while Mable's ride the wind as ash.

  The massive doors are open always. I have no one to fear. There is no one to fight me. All I have is a desire to watch everything around me, everyone, dissolve. I will be a queen like they have never seen. Dealing out well- deserved punishments. The entire world will burn by my hands, will turn to dust, to absolute nothingness.

  I lean back in my icy containment and grin crazily with this satisfaction. My eyes shut as I savor my vic- tory and relish in my plans for the future. The first and

  current task is to cleanse this realm. And then we can rebuild.

  Sweat covers my body and cause me to violently shiver on the frigid floor. The temperature in the air saturates my lungs, and I fear I am suffering from a rag- ing fever. I struggle to open my eyes, not that there's much to look at in the empty confinement. My cell is always dark, with only a small sliver of light seeping around the main door and down the hall toward my prison. The walls, ceiling, floor—they’re all empty. There's nothing to see. I roll onto my back, and every- thing aches. I gasp. Putting a hand to my forehead, I find it's damp and hot.

  Remembering my dream lights an ember within my core, but it's not enough. It burns out quickly, extin- guished by my weakness. Movement down the hall forces me to sit upright, groaning as I push farther into the darkness along the back wall of my cell. I hug my knees to my chest, and my fae sight searches the dark- ness.

  Dressed in his leathers and mask to protect against the ever-present iron bars, Captain Chasal enters car- rying a tray and a pitcher. He balances the pitcher on one hip to insert a key and unlock the ridiculous con- traption of a lock. The iron doors slide back with a clang and bang. The captain enters the cell and sits the tray and the pitcher inside, staying a slight distance from me. The smell of food hits me, and my stomach involuntarily responds. The captain looks at me and moves away, shutting the iron bars back into place as

  I crawl out of the shadows. His voice is gruff and muf- fled through the mask.

  "I will be back in a little while to take you to Carla. She has been instructed to get you cleaned up and dressed for an event tonight. The queen requires your attendance."

  I look up through the dark and blink at the captain. His eyes glisten when they meet mine. Strange—he doesn't show an aura at all. While many fae may con- trol theirs, keeping it blank gray or white, Chasal has…nothing. Whatever he's feeling, I have no clue. My heart changes its pattern a little, skipping a beat at the look he gives me. Though I can't see his aura, his eyes show something like empathy.

  My voice is raw and empty. "An event? For what? And what's the point?" I scoot closer to the tray and lift the linen cover to reveal an assortment of mouth- watering miniature muffins, sweet cakes, and faery fruits.

  How respectable. A scoff resonates from my throat. I inhale deeply, savoring the aroma of sugary but- ter. The pitcher is filled with icy water, and a small

  glass sits upside down on the tray.

  The captain still stands outside my cell, so I glare at him through the bars. The iron makes me fuzzy and weak. I am dressed in the shredded gown from yester- day, cut straight down the middle, and I hug it tighter around my body. Was that only yesterday? Was it just a few hours ago that Mable tormented me and vio- lated my soul? My body feels feverish. A tremble runs

  through me as I lean up against the wall beside the tray.

  The captain shrugs and finally responds. "It's a court. There's always an event. I'll return shortly." He turns on his heel and marches out, leaving me to my food in peace, which I force myself to try to eat.

  Chapter 21 Andryad

  By the time Captain Chasal returns, the food sits barely touched, but I am on my third glass of water. The dream, the torture, the iron—they've all depleted my body of fluids through sweat and blood, and my throat is parched. The cool water is refreshing and re- hydrating as it fills my throa
t.

  The captain is still dressed in his protective leathers and the hideous, thick mask. When he enters the area, he turns all business, inside and out, stiff, versus when he lets those walls down around Carla or some of the other males he passes in the halls. Although I can't see the iron affecting him, it has to make him uncomfort- able, even under those layers. It keeps me sluggish, and a deep ache reverberates throughout my bones.

  Slowly, I set the water down and slump over in the corner of my cell. Chasal's eyes skim over me and glance at the nearly untouched tray before his mouth sets into a grim line. I wish I had my fire. I wish I could blast it at him and rush out to search for Malor. Leav- ing without my best friend is not an option, especially after losing Aiden. Shit, I wish I had my fire to oblit-

  erate Mable. Surely the captain knows where Malor is, but why would he tell me? If Carla knows, she might share, and if she doesn't, maybe I could encourage her to find out from Chasal. My throat burns as tears build up. I've cried so many tears.

  Metal scrapes together as Captain Chasal inserts his key and the iron locks twist and turn with clangs be- fore the door slams against itself, rolling back. I don't attempt to stand. My body's weak; I don't trust my legs to hold me. The captain stands over me, evaluating, be- fore he gathers me in his arms, surprisingly gentle, not- ing my weakness. Though he wasn’t watching in the room, surely he can imagine the damage done. Faeries don't extract one another's essence. It is unheard of, for understandable reasons. It's an invisible line that we know not to cross.