Wildest Dreams

by Faith Ellis

  "Look at me. Just focus on me." I open my eyes, tears welling in them, and focus on him. Chasal's hold only tightens around me as he swivels me into his arms, clenching me to his chest padded with leather. I press my eyes shut again.

  He will not let me save my best friend. It's easier to blame him....

  I cannot breathe with this weight sitting heavily on my chest.

  When I finally open my eyes, the crowd still circles Malor, but they part, and I find he's on the ground. Time ticks by in slow motion. I want to crawl to him, but Chasal holds me fast. My rage should be directed at Chasal. There should be an overwhelming urge to singe him to a crisp. But instead, I feel…empty. No—out of body. Like I am watching someone else's life unfold, and it doesn't affect me in any way.

  The sharp, metallic scent of blood is thick, and it makes my stomach tense. Mable organizes her guests into the adjoining parlor room for wine and small cakes to end the evening. As if this is a normal part of every- day festivities. When they move on, Chasal helps me sink slowly to the floor. The cold of the tile seeps through my dress, piercing my knees. I study my hands, afraid of what I might find if I look at Malor a few feet in front of me. Tears fall freely now. I catch something moving in front of me and lift my eyes slightly.

  Blood flows across the icy marble floor. A pathetic whimper creeps through my throat. Up from the river

  of blood lies an unrecognizable mass of what once was my best friend. Some wounds appear to have tried healing before being split back open, creating awkward, sickening chunks of gaping, puckered flesh. My chest hurts so much, this must be what it feels like to die. This is heartbreak.

  Ruining the dress, soaking myself in blood, I crawl tentatively on my hands and knees to my friend’s re- mains. The blood sticks to me like glue, and hot tears stream down my face as I draw nearer. Nothing resem- bling Malor is left. My breath catches at the gruesome sight. Bile rises up my throat, and my saliva turns sour. I fight to keep it down. I can't vomit now; I have to be strong for this.

  It's a nightmare. Surely this isn't real. Chunks of flesh are torn and strewn, littering the tile around his body. Weapons are tossed here and there, and his limbs are at odd angles. It's hard to distinguish heads from tails except for a few rowdy curls, still blond, peeking out from his once-handsome face. How has the blood not yet soaked those few curls? Where his face had been is nothing but a bloody, mangled mass of flesh and bones. The feelings of fear turn into blinding rage. I failed him. An echo of blackness oozes through me, numbing me.

  Soft, sure steps come up behind, and strong hands grab under my arms and lift me up. Chasal sighs. "Can you stand? I need to get the key from Jamal to remove your irons."

  I forgot the captain is here, that the irons have me in their grip. My eyes stare at Malor's body, not ac- knowledging Chasal, but I hear his boots against the tile and know he walks out for the key. He returns quickly. Holding out a key covered in black leather, Chasal unlocks my irons, and they fall away, leaving my skin red and raw.

  "There was nothing you could have done." Chasal reaches for me. It sounds almost genuinely remorseful. My wrists heal slowly, the skin turning from angry red to a soft pink. My hands shove against his chest and flail out in an effort to slap him, but he pins my arms to my sides and pulls me close.

  "You bastard! You should have done something. You should have let me do something!" Hurt flickers in his eyes, and his mouth sets in a hard line.

  "An—"

  "I should have you executed." My voice is low. The fight snuffs out of me.

  "I'm so sorry." He sighs. "Let's get you cleaned up." He wraps me in an embrace, and I weep into his chest as waves of defeat, dread, and loss roar and slam into me. Terrible, choking sobs leave me gasping for air. Chasal stands there, holding me against him and let- ting me unleash all my anguish into him. Once I ex- haust myself, Chasal carries me out of the cold, bloody room and away from the gruesome, lifeless body.

  Chapter 23 Chasal

  As I patrol the pristine, shining halls of the icy cas- tle, I nod to my brothers, performing a normal routine. Many of them stand still, close against the glassy walls but not quite touching them. Their faces remain neu- tral aside from a ghost of a smile with the return of ac- knowledgment in the tilt of their heads and a fist over their hearts.

  Last night's events turned into a shit show, there's no other way to explain it. Just another excuse for Folk to act like predators, hungry for blood and misery no matter whose it is. They just wanted it. Needed it, rather. It’s a disease among this court. One I’ve been forced to stomach for any chance to survive and have some sort of freedom. For now, it requires playing cap- tain for Queen Mable's Elite team. She trusts me, and that means being able to plot under her nose and act if and when the time comes for it. It also means being a part of things I despise. Such as last night's party of savagery and murder. And sometimes it means acting as if I don't know my own queen is my prisoner, under my care.

  My true queen.

  I know exactly whom I hold roughly by the arm. Whom I lead to be tortured by Queen Mable. I’m play- ing an act Queen Mable can’t see through in order to protect Her Highness. An act strategically planned by her betrothed. I know she’s suffering. I know she’s watched both her lover and her friend be slaughtered. But there’s a bigger picture she is part of, and I’m doing the only thing I know in order to keep her safe.

  Well, no one is truly safe in Queen Mable's hands. But to keep her alive, at least. I can't get her face out of my mind, though, or the horror. Her sobs, her grief, ripping her soul apart. I worry about what this might mean for the First Seasons Court when she finally rises and reigns, as is her right. I worry about her safety. I stay close to her cell every night and listen to her weeping until it exhausts her and she drifts into a fitful sleep. Wrapped in the stiff leathers and stifling mask to ward off the dangers of the iron, I stay posted just outside.

  I put her in Carla’s quarters last night, where I knew she would find some comfort. She’s strong, and I know she can pull herself together if only by her need for vengeance.

  Servants bow to me as I pass under the archway leading into the main entry room andthrough the mas- sive entry doors of the castle. The Elites snicker at them but sober as I waltz through.

  I’ve heard rumors about Andryad's powers, but last night, seeing what she did to the court members makes

  me wonder what she’s capable of if she had the free- dom to access her ability fully.

  I take the servants’ hall and head back to Carla's quarters to see if my queen is awake yet. The servants’ quarters are dark and freezing, but they're quiet and mostly empty. The floors here are wooden and creak with age. Andryad was in a stricken state when I carried her from that ghastly display. She’s fallen ill from heartbreak and anguish. And there wasn't a thing I could do except to allow her rest. Queen Mable accom- plished exactly what she wanted. Her court enjoyed intense, outrageous behavior and saw the First Court heir in Queen Mable's control and in none of her own, unable even to save her friend. It was a simple dis- play to showcase Andryad's weakness and crush the rumors about An's strength.

  I meet Carla outside of her room. She’s carrying the bloodied, ruined gown Andryad wore last night. She must have washed and changed my queen while she slept. I take the gown from her small arms. "I'll burn this for you. Is there anything more I can do?" My hands shake, and I fist them into the folds of the dress. Carla runs her hands down her apron. Dark circles line beneath her eyes, and her ears droop with weari- ness. "I think we just need to let her rest for now. I'll get some clean clothes for when she wakes. What kind of display was Queen Mable going for?" Her face is lit with anger. "What’s our queen waiting on? I don't un- derstand why she won't stand up to Queen Mable." Carla puts a hand against the cold stone wall to steady

  herself. Frost has started to accumulate between the stones again. It does that often down here where it gets so much colder than the rest of the castle. I make a mental note to remind th
e servants to keep it cleared.

  Seeing anger upon sweet Carla's face is so rare. She looks older in her rage. The ragged clothes don't help that. "She has a plan, I know it. We have to trust she knows what she's doing. And trust that Aiden and Malor knew what they were doing."

  "But they deviated from the plan, Erek. They showed up here far sooner than expected," Carla says in a rush.

  "We must continue our parts anyways." I kneel down to eye level with my friend. "I know it's hard, Carla, but it's our sacrifice for our people and our queen."

  "Chasal, I can't bear to keep watching her suffer." Her big eyes fill with tears.

  I squeeze her shoulder in an affectionate way and attempt a smile, which probably comes off as more of a grimace.

  "I know. Neither can I. Just a little while longer, I promise." I get up and raise the bundle in my arms. "I'll take these down and be back up in a bit." Eyeing the bloodstained fabric, I turn down the darkly lit servants’ hall again to the kitchens, where a big fire roars. I toss in the bundle and watch it burn the fabric to ash, stow- ing the memories away in a safe place where I’ll for- ever remember what they did to my queen and to my

  friend. I curl my fingers into a fist and pound it over my heart in honor of Malor.

  Once the ashes are no longer visible, I return to Carla's room, but she’s stepped out. Probably in search of new clothes for when our queen wakes up. The door creaks quietly as I nudge it open just enough to peek in and ensure Andryad’s still asleep. She is, a fit- ful sleep filled with anguish and nightmares. It shows in the way she tosses and turns. Her brow knits to- gether in constant battle. Sweat seeps through the shift Carla has changed her into, and it clings to her damp skin. Her hair’s in disarray, and her skin looks eerily pale. The bland lighting overhead casts shadows across her drawn face. She’s kicked off the thin cover, and I consider pulling it up to conceal her more but de- cide against it.

  "Malor?" she whispers feverishly in her dreams.

  There’s a small wash bin with a white cloth near the bed. I dampen the rough cloth in the cool water, wring it out, and pat it to her forehead, where the hair is plastered from sweat and tears. Carla’s cleaned her up well. Makeup no longer runs in dark marks down her face where tears trailed. Her hair and skin no longer carry traces of our friend’s blood. She’s been bathed and freshly clothed; she just needs rest.

  Through the sweat clinging to her skin, there are hints of lavender and vanilla. It reminds me of the days back in the First Court where the line of the Sum- mer Sector bridges with the Spring Sector. The breeze

  was infused with the scent of flowers and fresh, plush grass.

  She’s never going to relax enough in this state to rest. I lay my hand atop her shift, over her heart, and inspire calm feelings into her energy. She relaxes, and soon her breathing deepens as she delves into a solid, peaceful state of sleep. I hope she’ll forgive me for us- ing my ability on her.

  The washcloth flops back into the basin, and I qui- etly walk out of the small room, shutting the door be- hind me. There I wait until my queen finally awakens.

  Chapter 24 Andryad

  It feels as if I have slept for days. The bed is warm. It engulfs me in a gentleness I have not felt in ages. The dimly lit room showcases the tub in the middle of the floor.

  Carla's room.

  She is not here with me. It's quiet and calm. My chest feels hollow. Every inhale feels like fire against my throat; the cold stings. Gathering my senses, im- ages of the party swirl around my mind. Those wild, beastly guests, Mable, triumphant, and Malor. A hand drifts to support my throbbing head.

  I close my eyes tight, fighting tears, but none come anyways. My body is dehydrated and drained. There was so much blood, so much gore, all of which are still vivid. Why him? Why did it have to be him? And why couldn't I stop it? Why did Chasal hold me back? Maybe I could lie here forever, never see Mable or any- one again. Would they come to get me, pull me up and shove me to Mable's feet, or would they let me rot in peace? I could have prevented all of this—that's the worst of it. I could have held firm against Aiden in

  the first place, demanded we stay in his realm longer. No—I should've never left Faery to begin with. Never should have left my parents alone when I could have stood by their sides, even if that meant dying with them.

  I turn over to face the wall and draw my knees up to my chest, curling into a fetal position. What's done is done. I'm here now. The only option I have is to keep pushing forward. If I wallow in my loss, their deaths are for nothing. It isn't just Aiden that fuels me to push forward; it isn't just my parents or Malor. This is for every one of my Folk, dead or alive or trapped under Mable's control, that I need revenge for. They don't have the strength to fight Mable, but I do. I have the power to take hers, and that means I need another ses- sion with the bitch.

  Inhaling another burning breath, I stand up. My legs wobble at first, but strengthen. For the first time, I notice someone has changed my clothes. No longer am I in the ruined, bloodstained gown, but a simple white nightdress. In just a few steps, I cross the floor to the door and open it to find Captain Chasal standing nearby, and my eyes widen in surprise. He immediately stands at attention and, for a second, looks at me with assessing blue eyes, then adjusts his focus over my head. His blond waves appear untamed, as if he hasn't slept for hours and has kept tugging at his hair or run- ning his hands through it.

  "Carla," he calls, and she appears, bobbing up the steps, smiling at me as she rushes inside and shuts the door behind her, closing Chasal off from our privacy.

  "You gave us both quite a scare, ma’am." Carla moves farther into the room. Her horns are brushed with gold glitter, and they glint under the feeble light. I follow her to the chair in the far corner where she mo- tions for me to sit so she can brush my hair and pull it back into a simple down do. "I have you some break- fast on the way, figured you might be famished." Her nimble fingers work quickly. "I'm afraid the queen re- quests your presence." She presses her lips into a thin line as she smooths some flyaways and sets down the brush.

  "A session, I'm sure." A sad smile tugs at my face. Carla puts her hands on her hips with a small huff.

  "Oh, ma’am." She kneels in front of me. "I know he was your friend." Her words nearly bring fresh tears to my eyes. Her hands feel warm as she wraps them over mine. "But you can fight this, Your Highness." Brown eyes look deeply into mine, fierce and defiant. "Tell me what I can do to help."

  I think about this for a long moment. "You're close with the captain."

  She sits back on her heels, ears perked. "I’d say so, yes."

  "We need him. But I need to know I can trust him." "I'll see what I can do without revealing anything

  we mention here. In the meantime…" Carla steps over

  to the small closet and shuffles through an array of clothes. "Let's get you dressed."

  The ensemble she chooses is simple. After all, an- other session with Mable just means another ruined gown. Still, she does yet another excellent job, making me presentable and fresh-faced, as though I've slept wondrously and hadn't just watched a dear friend be torn apart by savages right in front of my eyes. The thought, the memory—it no longer carries the sorrow- ful weight of grief in my chest. Instead, my fire burns within my core, transforming the depression into an ever-growing rage.

  A simple white tunic hangs loosely over black leg- gings with tall boots. She has draped a long fur cape over me and stuffed my hands into a black muff. My hair hangs down, pulled back on the sides, meeting to- gether in a knot at the back of my head. After giving my face an ice bath, my skin feels fresh and soft and glows with new life and strength. It shimmers health- ily; the scale-like elements are smooth and have taken on an appearance that reminds me of the opal stone that once shone at the base of my throat. I pull the clasp of the cape a little higher.

  The captain escorts me as usual. Dressed in his typi- cal black leathers, a gloved hand rests under my elbow, gently guiding me to the throne ro
om. He looks more like himself. A leather tie keeps his waves better man- aged. His eyes shine when they meet mine briefly, but he looks as grim as ever, and I can't help but wonder what his thoughts are of the other night’s party. After

  all, he is Mable's captain. He guides her entire troop of warriors and is the leader of the Elite. Did he know that was going to happen?

  We enter through the massive doors that already stand wide open. Mable rests on her throne, stretching her neck while the brute, Jamal, stands nearby, already admiring one of the devices displayed on the table, a fresh sheet of ice next to that. When he sees us, Ja- mal's dark eyes meet mine, and he flashes a sinister grin that makes me want to squirm. Chasal's eyes flicker briefly to Jamal, and they darken for a moment before staring ahead once again. For the first time, Mable seems unwell. Frost sits in her hair, and a layer covers her shoulders. There is no color in her cheeks, and her eyes appear hazy and a little unfocused.

  At the foot of Mable's throne, Chasal bows low and waits for her approval before straightening. As he walks out, he pulls the doors closed behind him. I don't bother bowing; I walk straight to the iced marble floor, lie down, and stretch out my arms and legs without a word. The cold from the ice immediately seeps through my tunic and quickly turns from uncomfort- able to burning. But the quicker we get on with it, the quicker she has to drop her walls to receive my essence, only for me to drain hers.

  So bring it on, evil bitch. I'm waiting.