Everbright

by Ken Altabef

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “And replaced by another faery. A true changeling child. Someone who took your place here all that time? Someone pretending to be a child and then an adult? Who was it? What was that faery’s name? Was it Willowvine?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care to know. And I don’t care to know you either. Forgive me, but you’re just not my type.”

  Chapter 35

  Dresdemona stormed out of the military barracks. If her scent magic didn’t work on some neutered old army officer, that was one thing, but Abercrombie had actually laughed at her. He’d curled his upper lip, displaying a top row of stained and crooked teeth and guffawed. Guffawed! She could not abide that. He actually thought he had the upper hand here.

  She hadn’t felt so humiliated since Aldebaran. The first night Aldebaran had come to her—well, this sleight wasn’t nearly as devastating as the helplessness she’d felt then.

  The first night Aldebaran had come to her, so very long ago. She woke early, several hours before dawn. A terrible sensation of doom had invaded her dreams, rousing her like a cold, wet slap in the face. She sat up, certain the ceiling was about to fall or, failing that, a newly-formed crevasse loomed just under the bed or, failing that, a giant spider hung from the wall dripping venom. Of course none of that was true. She glanced over at Threadneedle, still asleep in their bed. He always slept peacefully. And there was something charming about him in that state. He could be so strong and arrogant when he wanted to be, but asleep, he seemed an innocent babe.

  She got up and walked the floor. The witch-wood that formed the Green Briar sometimes whispered to her at night. But now, all was quiet. Coming off a late-night debauch, everyone in the great house lay exhausted and spent. Even the walls were asleep.

  In the year since she and Threadneedle had wrested control, the Winter Court had experienced a renaissance of thought and creativity. Dresdemona had abolished the Wild Hunt, forbidding persecution of human folk. Her elite faery architects had raised a protective illusion over all of the Tremblay woods, certain to keep prying eyes and human intrusions away. The faeries had been free to frolic and dance without interruption, to love and sing and revel in poetry and music. It was far short of Avalon but Dresdemona had begun to guide them in the ways of the Effranil. In time she would prove herself to be a great faery leader, a transformative figure. She would prove herself to the Effranil. If only there were some way to contact them again, but she knew no secret for traversing the barriers they had raised to her. There was no way back in. Unless she gave them reason to notice. That was her hope. They might notice and be pleased, and call their lost daughter home. She longed to see Horaus again, to show that arrogant, beak-faced tyrant all she’d achieved.

  But as she introduced the Winter Court to the exquisite music of the Effranil, she felt the presence of the dark song still there, lurking deep inside her soul. She repressed the urge to let it out. She didn’t need to be a rebel, she told herself, when she was the establishment. She must deny the lure of that chaotic song, and she was certain she could so long as she had Threadneedle. Her love for Threadneedle was the key. He made her want to sing in tune. She could well be satisfied with that.

  But still… the feeling that something was wrong would not leave her. Maybe it was just her own perverse inner voice again. When things were going so right, must she always force them to go wrong?

  But this was not mere emotion. The far wall of the room fizzed and crackled and she felt a rising nausea. She glanced at the bed but Threadneedle was still sleeping soundly. The disturbance grew in front of her, blurring the room, distorting the air like waves of intense heat, hurting her eyes. Her mouth watered and she knew she was going to vomit. Her legs felt weak and she dropped to her knees. She wanted to put her head down, thinking maybe that would help, but she needed to see what was happening. If this was some type of attack…

  He materialized before her, trailing the bitter scent of brimstone. His face had such a strong resemblance to Oggdon it suggested a close familial relation but was not exactly the same. His skin was such a deep purple it seemed almost black in the semi-darkness of the unlit bedroom. Strong-jawed and heavy-browed, a face that could neither be called beautiful nor particularly ugly. His horns were black and heavy, curving up and away from his temples like a bull’s horns.

  He was a huge man, with shoulders as broad as a house. Naked to the waist, his upper body sported thick skin plates that resembled natural armor growing over huge slabs of muscle. He wore an exaggerated codpiece over his black ermine-skin trousers—at least Dresdemona assumed it was exaggerated.

  “Ahh, that’s the way I like to find you,” he said, “down on your knees before me.”

  Dresdemona knew true helplessness then. His voice was so confident, so deep and terrible. She knew she was doomed. She turned her head and vomited across the tiled floor.

  Aldebaran laughed. His laugh was absolutely hideous, a melodic grunt capable only of expressing joy at the suffering of others.

  “What do you want?” she managed to say.

  “Everything.”

  She wiped the spittle from her lips and gathered strength in her legs. She would not continue this conversation on her knees. She forced herself to her feet.

  “I’m not going to give you anything.”

  “That hardly seems fair. I’m only calling in a debt. We, the Nephilim, gave you the means to achieve whatever you wanted. That power was not a gift.”

  Dresdemona felt as if she couldn’t breathe. This Nephilim was even more imposing than Oggdon. Much more. In time she might devise some plan against him but at the present she was completely without means to fight him.

  “I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’re after.”

  “I want the Winter Court,” Aldebaran said. “I want to sleep in that bed, and you to share it with me.”

  “It’s already occupied.”

  Aldebaran glanced over. “I see. That’s the king of the Winter Court? That little piece of fluff?”

  There seemed no point in denying it.

  “So, the way I understand it,” Aldebaran continued, “as soon as I kill him, all of this belongs to me? Can you arrange things so that everyone can watch?”

  “You don’t have to kill him. Just let him leave.”

  “Running away? But that’s so much less satisfying.”

  “I want you to leave him alone.”

  “I’ll kill him now and take what I want.”

  Dresdemona glared up at him. “You won’t have me, not unless you want to sleep with a corpse.”

  “It’s an idea. Wouldn’t be the first time, you know. Can you guess what they call dead little Queens where I come from?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Cold but cooperative.” He licked his lips.

  Dresdemona knew she had the right idea. She understood how these devils operated. She’d learned the lesson from Oggdon. It wasn’t enough just to take what he wanted. He didn’t just want to have her, he wanted to corrupt her. To bend her to his will, to make her willingly perform whatever perverse acts disgusted her the most. She could already feel his desire building.

  “Why settle for a snack when you could have a full meal?” she added.

  “Oh, it will be a feast. I’ll devour you bit by bit.”

  “Give me one day to get him to leave.”

  “One day.”

  He turned to go, but she couldn’t let him go. Not yet.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “What’s your hurry?”

  Dresdemona forced herself to meet his hungry gaze. She still felt a bit dizzy and had the taste of vomit in her mouth. She pressed herself close to him. His lecherous gaze was painful, like knives cutting straight through her. She held down her disgust and kissed him.

  Chapter 36

  Threadneedle watched Dresdemona as she came storming out of the military barracks. From the window of Moonshadow’s house, high atop one of the new buildings fronting the
park, he had resumed his habit of watching, and closely observing, everything that happened on the streets below. This was second nature to him. It was the same in any city, and he had known the best of them—London, Paris, Rome. To get the feel of a place, just watch the streets, watch the comings and goings, see who the players are, and what they might be up to. Dresdemona’s appearance at Everbright was not exactly unexpected. She craved nothing more than power and influence and Threadneedle could not imagine her staying away from such a momentous endeavor as this one. He’d had no doubt she would come and that she was now well on her way to scheming some way to take control of the place. In order to stop her, one must understand her. And no one understood Dresdemona better than he did.

  Now, what was she doing at the army base? Whatever she was planning, it would involve something much more insidious than simply crossing swords.

  The expression on her face as she left the barracks struck him as particularly unusual. Something untoward had happened in there. She hadn’t gotten her way. But why had she gone there? He’d watched her flirt with Simms at the doorway, but that was irrelevant. She must have gone in to see Abercrombie. Nobody else would interest her in there. They’d had a meeting and it hadn’t gone to Dresdemona’s liking.

  There was an exaggerated look of helplessness on her face. He doubted Abercrombie could be completely responsible for that. That far-away look—as if she was recalling something from her past. He remembered seeing that same expression one time before, on a fateful morning nearly a hundred years ago, when they had ruled the Winter Court. The night Aldebaran came.

  “You’ve got to leave,” she had said. “Or he will kill you.”

  “A Nephilim? I’ve never seen one.”

  “Count yourself lucky.”

  Threadneedle smirked. “Can’t you do that thing…you know, make him lose?”

  “It won’t work on him.”

  “So he just walks in here and takes everything?”

  And there was that look on her face. A helplessness that troubled him even then. There was something else she wasn’t telling him.

  “How good is he with a sword?” Threadneedle asked.

  “You’ve no chance,” she insisted. “He will kill you. Tomorrow.”

  “Then let us go. You and I. I have contacts in several human cities, I have places we can go.”

  “Human cities? I’ve been there. I didn’t like it.”

  “You’re not suggesting you stay?”

  “I have to. These are my people now.”

  “Your people? I thought I was in charge.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I wish I did. We stay or we go. Together. I love you, Dresdemona. I’m not leaving you here with some monster.”

  “I thought you’d say that.” She threw her arms around him and kissed him. She kissed him so passionately she drove him back toward the bed. It’s sudden appearance behind his knees sent him sprawling backward and, wasting not a second, she climbed on top.

  “Does this mean…?”

  “No more talking,” she said between kisses. “Just make love to me.”

  Threadneedle was happy to oblige. Perhaps after the lovemaking their spirits would be more aligned and better able to resolve this problem, though there seemed only one option. They must go.

  He pulled his nightshirt up over his head. As he had not yet put on his pants, this left him completely naked. Dresdemona cast off her night gown.

  Threadneedle relaxed his mind. He had merged with Dresdemona so many times before, the process was comfortable and almost automatic. He was surprised by her eagerness, her desperation. She was certainly rattled. She didn’t even bother with foreplay; she just climbed on top of him, easing him into her.

  He was ready for the spiritual merging as well, his mind open and receptive but she had not yet come to meet him. He was disappointed and confused by that but thoroughly enjoying the rest of it—holding her close, skin on skin, her lips hungrily devouring his neck, her arms clenched so tight around his back he could hardly breathe. She thrust against him until he was completely lost in the pleasure of the thing.

  Only then did she relax her own mind, reaching out for him, seeking the bond of souls that came with true lovemaking. He accepted her readily and their spirits merged. Body and mind became one. He felt the pleasure he was giving her as well as his own, and felt her pleasure at his pleasure, magnifying the experience like reflections in a room full of mirrors.

  There were no secrets now. They were one. He saw the way the arrival of the Nephilim wore heavily on her soul, a dark stain, intensely worrisome. But there was something else she was trying to hide from him. She held him tight, pumping her hips, desperately driving him toward climax. But he couldn’t leave it alone. Secrets bothered him too much. He had to look…

  He caught a glimpse of what had transpired earlier in the morning, reliving the event from Dresdemona’s point of view. She was naked and riding atop… someone else? It was the Nephilim. He was huge and thorny inside her; she moaned so strangely, he could not tell if it was pleasure or pain.

  Threadneedle broke contact. Dresdemona was still working atop him but he cast her off.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “You saw?”

  “Yes of course I saw.”

  “You have to go.” Her tone left no room for discussion.

  Threadneedle felt his throat tighten. He hadn’t cried in a long time, not since he’d been a child, but now tears burned his eyes. This was a final farewell. He couldn’t believe what he’d just seen but it was real, it was raw. It was true. He’d seen it.

  He stared at her, afraid to say anything more.

  She turned away, reached for her discarded night gown. “I don’t want you anymore,” she said. “I’ve found something better. Please go before he kills you.”

  “We stay or we go,” he’d said, the night Aldebaran came.

  As she walked away from the military barracks, Dresdemona remembered his words as if it were yesterday. She headed for her apartment. She wanted to be alone to think.

  “We stay or we go,” he’d said. “Together. I love you.”

  She’d wanted to say it back. She’d wanted to scream it back. But she couldn’t.

  Instead she threw her arms around him and kissed him long and hard and drove him back toward the bed. She felt him open up his mind and she wanted to be with him, soul as well as body, but she held off. She wanted to feel him inside her just a little longer. She knew when they merged he would see what she’d done. And that would be the end. She didn’t want it to end. Just a little longer, this time, the last time, but it wasn’t fair. She was just using him now. She must show him. It was the only way she could possibly save his life.

  And so she relaxed her mind at last, opening herself up to the true merging.

  He threw her off. She turned away and reached for her nightgown.

  “I don’t want you anymore,” she’d said. Contact broken, he would not know it was a lie. She could hardly bear to look at him, to see the pain in his eyes, his torment at her betrayal.

  Which was no betrayal at all.

  Chapter 37

  Climbing the tree, Theodora felt like a child again.

  She had never climbed this particular tree before. She’d come to Grayson Hall as a young bride, a newly-minted Englishwoman, a lady. Ladies don’t climb trees. But now everything was different. Now she was just a faery again, a lover of the open sky and forest, at one with nature.

  It was harder than she thought. The branches were unevenly spaced and she had to levitate slightly when her arms weren’t long enough to reach the next level. Eventually she reached a conveniently forked branch somewhere near the top, comfortably hidden by leaves. She certainly hoped none of the staff had seen her climb up, but if they had what should she do? She was a faery. She would just laugh.

  The objective of this whole exercise, a view of the bedroom of Grayson Hall, lay just across the cobbled courtyard. The
curtains drawn, she couldn’t see if Eric was inside. Suddenly a flash went through her mind, something remembered from the brief meeting of the minds she had experienced when she’d kissed Meadowlark. Many times he had sat in this exact place, gazing at the bedroom window. Theodora would have felt outraged at the idea of him spying on her years ago. But now he’d shared some of the emotion he’d been experiencing in those days, and she felt it now, a sad and genuine longing. A longing to be near her. And it was difficult to be angry at that. It was so easy to underestimate Meadowlark, but now she had come to really know him, things took on a different cast.

  The last time she’d come here she’d been reluctant to knock on the door. She belonged here, she’d thought; she shouldn’t have to beg entrance. After what had happened that day, she was even less interested in knocking. Eric might just as well have her turned away or not answer at all. This time, a subtler approach was necessary.

  Finally she saw something of interest, a sudden burst of activity at the carriage house. The ostler brought one of Eric’s horses round the front and was fussing over it, straightening the saddle and checking the straps. Eric would be there any minute. Theodora swung down from the tree.

  Eric had only a short head start and Graymane was more than up to the task of catching up. Theodora urged him on, though he needed no urging at all. He flew along the country lane in hot pursuit. In a minute she saw Eric just ahead, taking his stallion for a run toward the south. They had used this route often twenty years ago when he’d been courting her. In those days they had both enjoyed nothing more than a raucous ride in the country.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw her coming, but neither sped up nor slowed the pace. She easily caught up. But just as she pulled alongside, Eric spurred his mount. He veered off the beaten track and into a grassy dell to one side. Pushing his horse as fast as it would go, Eric tore across the grassy meadow. When he glanced again over his shoulder Theodora thought she saw him smiling.