Wildest Dreams

by Faith Ellis

  Just as I mull over how to prompt him to continue, the instruments stop playing and the crowd silences as a well-dressed servant, an elegant male fawn with small, pointed ears and graceful antlers, stands at the entrance. The announcer. The lower half of his body is covered with dark trousers, but his legs end in fine hooves. He introduces Queen Mable in a boisterous and solid voice. Upon her appearance, the crowd bows low. Chasal tugs me down when I remain upright.

  "Choose your fights wisely," he growls, and I con- sider his words before dipping into a sloppy, quick curtsy.

  The queen waltzes to her throne on the other side of the room, greeting a few aristocrats along the way. Once she is seated on the throne, the crowd rises and cheers with adoration. I want to laugh or cry—I'm not sure which.

  With a flourish of her hand, the instruments begin again, and the room resumes with multiple conver- sations buzzing. Folk dance rowdily in the middle of the crowd, sipping faery wine that stains their lips red and sloshes down their fronts recklessly. The queen watches her Folk laugh, drink, and dance while she sips from her own goblet and takes a small purple berry in a shiny glaze a servant offers. As the Folk drink more and more, they get louder and unrulier, jostling into each other, hissing, and shouting. Servants cower more than before, slinking through as unnoticeably as they can.

  My attention snaps back to Mable, who rises from her throne and stalks toward us. The fae bow as she passes. Her eyes aren't on me; they are glued to Chasal, and I feel his arm stiffen beneath my hand. He holds his breath in dread. Close to Mable's heels, her lapdog Jamal appears and prowls close, causing fae to scurry in his path. They dart back, giving him a wide berth. A hand squeezes tight in my chest as my breath catches too.

  "Captain, do you deign a dance?" Mable says sweetly as she stands before Chasal.

  He grits out, "Indeed, Your Majesty. I would be hon- ored." He looks at me questioningly.

  Mable promises, "Don't worry. Jamal here will watch your prisoner."

  Jamal steps forward, glaring at Chasal until he moves and offers his elbow to Mable. I clasp my hands in front of myself as Jamal takes Chasal's place, an

  eerie cold radiating off him. Mable and Chasal sashay toward the middle of the crowd, which parts to give them space. Chasal spins Mable around effortlessly. In- deed, if I didn't know her, I'd say they look great to- gether.

  Jamal makes me tense, as his presence is uninviting. "You look ravishing tonight. If I were one to dance, I’d ask you to the floor." His voice is devilish. "But there’re other ways to make this evening more enjoyable, don't you agree?" His eyes turn dark as pits as they rake over my body.

  "Such as burning you to ash and releasing your re- mains to the wind? Perhaps. That would be much more pleasant than spending a second longer at your side." My voice comes out stronger than I feel.

  He laughs. "Wicked nymph. I’d enjoy seeing you try. You know," he whispers close to my ear, his breath hot. It makes me shiver. "If you like things rough, I can oblige that." His tongue slides up along the base of my ear to the point, making me jump and my lip curl in disgust. Some of the Folk nearby snicker. I wipe it against my shoulder to ward off the feeling.

  It feels far too long before Chasal finally comes back to me, and relief floods me as well as warmth when he bows to Jamal, relieving him of his duty. A sigh es- capes my lips as I place my hand back into the crook of Chasal's arm.

  "Is all well?" he asks stiffly.

  I ignore his question. "You are a wonderful dancer." He actually looks at me, a slight curve in his mouth.

  "My sister taught me," he confides in me.

  The fawn announcer gathers our attention. "Dinner is served." The fae roar in elation. "Followed by our feast is the evening's entertainment." He waggles his bushy eyebrows. "And that is the real party," he says in exaggerated suspense. Jeers explode from the crowd, and I cringe to think about what that entails.

  Chapter 22 Andryad

  Dinner is as icy as the whole of the Second Seasons Court, cold as it melts and curdles in my mouth taste- lessly. Or maybe it is just me. Everything makes my stomach turn, and each bite feels mechanic, unsatis- fying. Like a frigid mush on my tongue. I would have much preferred bread and cheese in my cell. But here I am: seated at one of the massive tables, scrunched be- tween Captain Chasal and some old codger druid, who laughs as he drones on about the First Seasons Court's weaknesses.

  "It's a debilitating thing, really. A court with such weaker species of our Folk. So emotional." The druid clucks his tongue.

  My anger boils at the disrespect for my court, my people, until I realize it is a First Seasons aristocrat he is speaking to, who wholly agrees and eggs it on.

  "Indeed." The aristocrat nods. "It's embarrassing. What an honor it's been to have this opportunity to follow such a great leader—a true leader—as Mable." He smiles rigidly in Mable's direction at the head of the table. She pays no mind to either of them.

  My eyes narrow. Setting down my fork, pushing back the plate of cold eel, I stare into my lap at my folded hands and focus instead on breathing. Surely these people know who I am. Was this Mable's plan? To sit me among the crowd, clear as day, and see how they blend in so well? If it weren't for the skin color, the fae would blur into one court in front of me.

  I can feel his eyes on me. The captain’s. But I refuse to look up and allow him to see the anger in my eyes. He barely eats what arrives on crystal plates in front of him and mostly nurses a glass of half-frozen water. He doesn't speak to anyone, though a couple of very beautiful and young female nymphs approach him a few times, giggling behind their extravagant feathered fans and dressed in gowns more daring than mine.

  "Captain," one with luxurious wood-brown locks curling past her waist purrs at him in greeting. "You didn't get to dance with me," she whispers close to his ear as she drapes her arms around his neck, over each shoulder, nearly pushing her cleavage into the back of his head. He quickly unhooks her arms and scoots up closer to the table, inclining his head toward me.

  "Aurae, you'll have to excuse us," he says to the girl, not even looking at her as he directs his voice to me. "How are you enjoying your evening?"

  I blink before gathering my bearings as the nymph, Aurae, and her dark-skinned female companion huff and trot off, clearly perturbed by Chasal's cold shoul- der. Once they are far enough away, he quickly allows

  for more space between us and resumes his normal statuesque and quiet self.

  "Clever," I whisper, turning back to study my hands. His eyes are glued to me. I lift my chin, shoot him daggers. He smirks, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes and something else. Sadness? Understanding? He reaches toward my hands, but when my eyes flick down in the direction of the movement, he pulls back and clears his throat, leaning in with a rushed "Are you

  well?"

  "All things considered, I'd say I'm managing." My gaze remains on his, hoping it will make him uncom- fortable, but it doesn't seem to be very effective. He still looks like he wants to reach out to me, which we both know is a horrible idea. Jamal’s boldness and do- ing what he wants is one thing. But I've seen the way Mable looks at Chasal. He's hers. Maybe not intimately, but she considers him her plaything, and I'll bet she doesn't like to share.

  He is just about to say something else when a ser- vant dashes between us to remove the last course of dinner and place dessert in front of us. A beautiful, flaky treat of pastry filled with thick cream and wrapped in spun sugar so fine, colored a whitish blue to resemble ice. Though it smells and looks decadent, I cannot bring myself to enjoy something of such del- icacy within my enemy's home. While my people are being driven from theirs, murdered, or enslaved. While some of them sit here being manipulated and cor- rupted like her own Folk. My eyes flicker over the First

  Court aristocrat across from me. Fluffy white cream sticks to his upper lip, and the old druid leans over. His serpent-like tongue flicks out and slurps it off. A shud- der runs through me.

  There's nothing to indulge in here—
no sense of en- joyment while the bitch who sits on her throne at the head of the table still lives. Again I scan the many faces, watching them gorge on the sugary treats and down that wine. My lip curls in disgust. No blond curls stand out against the preposterous hats. If he's here, would he be wearing a similar ensemble? I need to find him. Not sit here and be a part of whatever event Mable has put into play. I need to destroy Mable. I need to go home and get my court together, heal it so that we can stand against Mable as a whole.

  Mable rises elegantly as the servants clear the last of the dishes. She wears her plastered-on smile, and her voice echoes throughout the rooms, level and strong. "Distinguished guests." Her arms roam the width of the room. "Welcome. We have a very special treat for you this evening. A very intriguing form of en- tertainment.—"

  The doors burst open at the front of the room as two massive Vhaeraths enter carrying another form between them. The hidden fae's face is covered with a thick leather mask with one mesh hole where the mouth should be. His hands are behind him, and the clank of metal bounds off the walls. Iron. A metal col- lar wraps around his throat. The rawness crawling its way up his neck tells me the collar is also made of iron.

  The chains are directly on his skin, yet he isn't crying out in pain.

  He appears to have trouble staying on his own two feet without the guards needing to heft him up and ba- sically carry him. One leg is at a slightly odd angle, as if it was broken and healed wrong. To do something like that, a fae would have to be holding it during the heal- ing process. Likely an unfixable situation now. The bat- tle leathers he's wearing are old, dirty, shredded filth from days ago and matted with brown stains of dried blood.

  My heart speeds up in my chest, battering against my ribs. My mind starts to strain and run wild with questions.

  What's she doing now.

  "Tonight we will play a game," Mable continues as the guards bring the broken fae to the center of the room. Everyone stands, and the servants quickly break down and remove the drop-leaf table, leaving a great open space where the form stands awkwardly, alone, struggling to remain upright.

  More tables line the walls to the sides of us, large and sturdy, covered with heavy white sheets, conceal- ing what lies beneath. As murmurs arise within the crowd, servants lift the sheets from the tables, and at the same time, the guards lift the fae's mask. Time stops. My knees buckle, but Captain Chasal must have felt my energy shift, because his hand moves beneath my elbow, steadying me as he whispers urgently, "I've got you, just breathe."

  I take a large gulp of air, and it aches going down, burning my throat.

  Beneath that mask are the same rowdy blond curls I know and love. But the once-handsome face is now thin, his cheeks hollow, pale, and dirty. The eyes are hazy, looking down at nothing.

  How has this happened so quickly?

  The iron binding his hands and wrapped around his throat seems to have lost its effect, or is he past feel- ing pain? Dread seeps down deep inside of me, curl- ing up low in my belly. Malor isn't coherent; he seems unaware of where he is or who is surrounding him. He looks nearly dead. Whatever they did to him, the iron has seeped in, preventing his body from healing. There is nothing resembling my handsome, arrogant best friend.

  It takes every ounce of energy I have to stay rooted where I am. My imagination takes hold: blood obscures my vision, and it is Mable's. My heart beats furiously against my bones, both in anger and anticipation. The scent of dirt and sweat fills my nostrils, and the thought of what Malor has gone through weighs heav- ily on my chest, as though someone stands on it.

  The queen shouts instructions: "Grab a party favor, my pets." Her dark eyes glint as they turn toward me. "Let the fun begin."

  Guests run in excitement to the tables, uncovered to reveal an assortment of cruel, vicious-looking weapons and gadgets. Many look to be ancient tortur- ing devices with prongs and spikes of iron. Fire burns

  in me and races up, ready to be released. Are they going to torture him? Malor stands, looking dazed, ex- hausted—utterly unaware. He barely gazes at the crowd, but then his eyes meet mine, and he does a dou- ble take, staring at me. My breath hitches, and the fire sizzles in my veins, waiting. My eyes sting and threaten to spill when, for a second, a familiar, arrogant smile touches Malor's lips.

  Then a bell chimes loudly, and all hell breaks loose. Chasal holds on to me, wrapping his arms completely around my body as I try to reach my best friend, des- perate to save someone.

  Desperate not to fail again. Desperate to not be alone.

  My fear overrides me, and I turn to Chasal, pleading with my face. He looks at me, and there's something in his eyes. He knows, maybe even sympathizes with me. A scream rips from my own throat as I pull that fire up. Chasal catches my hands, hissing at the pain.

  "No," he grits out firmly. "If you use it now, you might lose the power required to defeat Mable. Think, An."

  My eyes snap up to him. My teeth are bared at him. "He will die for me; I will do the same for him."

  "Then you will both die, and for nothing."

  My heart thumps loudly. It pounds in my ears. If I go after Malor, I risk Mable killing us both and any chance I might have of saving Faery. My teeth grind to- gether so hard I fear they'll break. I turn on my heel toward the chaos surrounding Malor. Fae run back and

  forth, hissing and laughing at him, taunting him. Some skip over to the tables, selecting a weapon, as though it were a gift, with care and consideration.

  I cannot think clearly over the clanging of weapons and animal-like growls and roaring. Pulling the fire up through me, my palms rise toward the center of the room, and I close my eyes to concentrate on my breathing. Sharp boots click against the tile, running as I focus on putting all of my strength into this power. Exhaling with a growl, I shoot it out of my palms like streams of light, making contact with some of the fae, who look down on Malor like predators. They scream when my fire collides with them and drop to the floor, rolling and tossing wildly but unable to put it out.

  Everything else around me does not exist right now; it's just me and them, ensuring they stay away from Malor. I retract it for a beat to adjust my aim, but before my hands can come back up, someone knocks into my side hard, sending us both crashing to the floor. The tile bites into my skin as I'm crushed flush against it, immediately pushing the weight off to get back up. Cold iron is clapped over both of my wrists, and I holler in pain as the weight on top of me lifts and Jamal crouches directly in front of my face. Grabbing a fist- ful of my hair, he pulls my head up.

  "I like a nymph with fight in her, but now's not the time. Maybe later." His smile reveals sharp, pointed teeth. "Now you get to watch." He hikes me to my feet, and his gloved hands push me backward, into Chasal's chest.

  I turn to him, commanding, "Help him." Tears stream down my cheeks, leaving hot trails and dripping from my chin onto my hands clasped in front of me, the pain from the iron forgotten by my desperation.

  He doesn't look at me. "There's nothing we can do." His voice is heavy, saturated with regret.

  "Chasal, as a member of my court, as your rightful queen, I order you to help him."

  He sets his jaw, yet still he does nothing.

  "You fucking coward," I whisper harshly and slam my fists into his chest, but he barely reacts. My eyes shift back to the middle of the room. The fae my fire consumed are nothing but a pile of stacked gray ash. The other Folk have no issues traipsing right through, leaving dusty gray footprints in their wake. Clearly my effort encouraged them and added to their evening.

  "Stop!" My shout rings out across the room, but the chaos muffles it. Seeking Mable, my eyes frantically search over the crowd of Folk. She sways off to one side, staring at me in a way that chills my blood. As if the proceedings in front of us are an orchestra, her hips rocking effortlessly to the music.

  "Please?" I mouth to her, begging with my eyes. Openly she laughs.

  "You can have it—take me!" I shout to her. She sim- ply blows me a kiss a
nd disappears into the crowd. She's toying with me. Another layer to the torturing, the suffering she issues.

  Fae continue running frantically back and forth from the table to Malor's standing figure. Some carry

  whips, and others shoulder short spears or clubs with spikes on them. A few begin with one weapon, drop it, race back for a new weapon, and begin again. Each one ripping into Malor's skin, breaking bones. The sound is deafening as they crack, and his screams tear through the air, and he screams out my name. They spill his blood, killing him.

  I can't take it. I lower my head and push my hands tightly over my ears, growling. My head bucks upward, and an unexpecting Chasal stumbles back as I connect with his chin—hard. I drop to the floor. The heavy iron chains make me sluggish, but my adrenaline pushes me forward. I elbow my way across the floor toward Malor. The surrounding Folk nearly trample me as I crawl around their feet. A strong hand wraps around my ankle, and I kick with my free foot, trying to shake off my assailant. But he's strong and pulls me back.

  "What the fuck are you doing, Andryad? Have you gone mad?" Chasal hisses in my face as he pulls me to my feet. He looks fine; my headbutt to his chin must have served as more of a shock than anything else.

  "I have to do something!" I fight back.

  "You can't." His voice turns softer. "I'm sorry, but you can't. It won't fix it, it won't stop it." He holds my eyes.

  The smell of the iron singes as it enters my nostrils. I close my eyes, squeezing them so hard my head aches. I feel broken along with my friend. I am so torn. Logically, I know Chasal's right. He grabs my shoulder.