by AC Washer
My eyes widened.
“Caleb?” My voice caught. “What’s going on?”
“She needs to do it now,” he muttered. “Why isn’t she doing it?” He looked up at me, his eyes frantic, “Kella, let go of me now.”
“What are you talking about?” My voice was hoarse.
Murmuring circled around us, but I stayed focused on Caleb.
“You need your magic or the investiture will fail. Take back your magic now.”
“The investiture is supposed to fail!”
He shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, it isn’t. Not now. Let go of me.”
“No! And even if I wanted to, I don’t know how.”
“She might not do it in time. You have to take back your magic. You have to let me go.”
“Of course she won’t kill you in time—or ever. She promised. She’s my mother, and she promised, and everything’ll be fine and…” Even as I babbled, I recognized I no longer believed the words coming from my own mouth.
Our eye contact broke as a robed figure shoved the scepter into my view—the first clear object I’d seen since Edon sprinkled me with pixie dust. In any other circumstance, it would have been breathtaking, with its carved loops fashioned as interlocking vines, climbing up to make a knot of ivy and thorns. Someone grabbed my hand. I struggled against them but I was too weak to snatch my hand back. Another fae pried my fingers open and thrust the head of the scepter into my palm, piercing my flesh.
I gasped.
“Goodbye, Kella. I love—” Caleb cut off. I turned back toward him, but he was no longer there. I held the scepter in my hands, staring at the nothing in front of me, blood dripping down my palm onto the skirt of my dress. I thought Caleb’s name over and over again, willing myself to see his face. But nothing.
And then a spot of warmth anchored in my chest—expanding, climbing, building—worming its way to my extremities and leaving me gasping for breath.
And I knew—this was mine. This was magic. This was death.
“Caleb,” I sobbed.
He left. Dead.
I took a shuddering breath in, tears dripping onto Stuart’s fantastic gown, mingling with the blood stains. I stared at the scepter in my hands, not seeing it. Not until it started to glow—faintly at first. I wanted to drop it, but my hands spasmed around it, tightening on the scepter like a vice.
And then another warmth built, starting in my hands. I stared in morbid fascination as a glow crept around my fingers, circling, entwining. My fascination soon turned to horror as it circled up my forearms like a snake looping around its prey.
I shook my clenched hands. “Open,” I muttered. “Open!”
I looked up to see the councilors, their mouths firm, eyes unfeeling. “Stop it. Stop this,” I begged, even as the glowing tendrils continued their climb, wrapping around every inch of me.
“Help me!” I screamed. But Briana and Aaron stood still, looking on. And Maeve, a look of resignation settled on her features—Maeve turned away.
Frantically, I scoured the room for someone, anyone, that could do something. My gaze fell on Edon. How long he’d been kneeling by my side, staring up at me, I had no idea.
The tendrils of power were at my neck now, gliding up my chin.
“Help me. Please,” I choked out, abandoning any pretense of pride.
Edon didn’t look away. Instead, he reached his hand out, placing it as close to me as he dared. “You can do this,” he said.
I shook my head as the white glow rose to eye level, making everyone around me disappear like little sunspots.
And then the glowing tendrils tightened, contracting, putting pressure on the entirety of my body. A piercing scream tore through the air—it took a moment to realize it was coming from me—that I was sitting on an altar, holding a scepter that flared a bright, blinding white light, my body rigid, as a foreign magic pressed in on me.
I screamed again as it contracted, a steady, building pressure as the magic squeezed itself into every pore of my body. Edon was gone, Maeve was gone, the entire grand hall disappeared. The only thing remaining was the pain—an agony that threatened to tear me into tiny pinpricks of flesh.
Child. A voice pushed against my consciousness, interrupting my torment. Let go. Let go and I can help you. It was a loving, grandmotherly voice. A voice that made you want to curl up in its lap and let it make everything all better—nothing like my mother’s.
And it wanted to help me.
Help me, like my mother helped Caleb?
Anger stirred within me. Let go, it said. I didn’t even know what it wanted me to let go of.
Let me in. I can help, the voice said. Do not fight the investiture. Fighting causes the pain.
Fighting causes the pain. Since when had fighting caused anyone pain? No. Dads who should have loved you, been there for you, but beat you up instead—they caused pain. Moms who deserted you and then lied about saving your brother—they caused pain. Trusting in people—in fae—and letting them “help” caused pain. Fighting never did anything other than make me feel alive, and I’d be damned if I was going to lose my fight, too.
So I pushed. I pushed against that power, that energy with every single strained muscle in my body. I screamed and pressed against it like I could funnel all that power into the hole Caleb had left—the void my mom and my dad tore open.
Sweat ran down my temples as I convulsed. I toppled off of the altar, but my body hardly registered it.
I focused on the warmth of my magic from earlier—the one thing I had left, as alien as it was—and imagined it wrapping around me, shielding me.
The voice screamed in my mind as I held my hands to my ears, my throat raw as I forced her out of my thoughts, feeling claws scraping across my mind, my memories, as I mentally shoved her as far out as I could get her.
I laid on the floor panting, my dress sticking to me like I’d broken a fever.
My throat burned as I breathed in and out. When I looked up, the council members stood in a stunned huddle, alarm etched in their faces. I looked away. Opposite was Edon, and the side doors jerked open, Mickey storming in. I saw it in his face—hope mixed with dread.
Hope that came from Caleb’s death. Dread that it might not have been enough.
At the thought of Caleb, power built in me again—the same power that consumed me as I laid dying on my driveway. The same power I’d ripped from my body to save my brother’s life.
“No.” I sunk to my knees, the scepter falling to the ground with a dull clatter. “No.” When I looked up, I blinked, rubbing eyes blurry from tears creating rivulets down my chin. The only sound around me was that of my own gasping breaths. Everyone stood in place exactly as they last were. Not a single person moved.
I found myself staring around the room, empty.
Their eyes moved, but Mickey was frozen in place, weight on one leg, as if he’d been walking toward me. Edon’s arm was outstretched a foot away from my face. And the council members…They were, for the most part, huddled away from me, their faces frozen in shock and fear. I swallowed and stood up. I knew, without knowing how, that I was queen of the fae. That their inability to move was temporary—the burst of magic would last an hour or two at most.
I also knew that I hated them—each and every one. Maeve for pretending she had my best interest at heart. Mickey for being the dad that sacrificed me instead of saving me. The council for loving power more than decency. And Edon. Edon for forcing me into a relationship that neither of us wanted—one I was trapped in for the rest of my life now that I was queen.
No. They couldn’t trap me. I wouldn’t let myself be trapped again—not by carefully-worded promises, not by a loveless relationship, and not by the fae, who cared more about their power than they would ever care about me, a changeling who would never belong in their world. No. I wouldn’t let them force this life on me—manipulate me for the rest of my life. Let one of their own have that honor.
I bent over and grabbed the scepter
, dragging it to rest at Edon’s feet.
“Here,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Rule the fae without me.” I looked around, tears clouding up my vision even as I sought to blink them away.
“I suppose I am your queen now,” I said to the frozen council surrounding me—to the audience seated beyond the platform. My voice amplified, but I had no idea how. “Here is my first command. Leave. Me. Alone.” Silence followed, their voices unable to respond.
The consequences of disobeying a direct command from a fae queen flashed through my mind like lightning, illuminating the aftermath in all its gory detail. My head spun. I pushed back the nauseating images of skinned fae, but not before I turned to puke on the marble floor.
What was that? Was something wrong with me? I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve, fresh tears blurring my vision. Had the fae destroyed my sanity, too?
Killed. Caleb was dead. I had no one, nothing. And now? I might be crazy as well—as crazy as the druggie mom who killed my brother.
The thought was like a blow to the face. I choked down a sob, my fist stuffed in my mouth. The enormity of what had happened crowded in on me, threatening to pull me apart—Caleb’s death, my mother’s betrayal, being queen of the fae I hated, my mind going crazy—crazy and magicky and without Caleb.
I needed to leave. Now.
Dashing toward the exit, I pushed the doors open, distantly hearing them splinter as I rushed out. I had to get out of here. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe. I was dying inside.
Chapter 22
I didn’t go to Caleb’s funeral. I told myself it was because they would weasel a way around my command so they could lie to me more. Twist me until I did exactly what they wanted me to do. But really, in my quiet moments, I knew it was because I wanted Caleb to be alive. Seeing his dead body was too permanent.
No. Caleb had to stay alive, at least in my mind. I couldn’t live with him dead.
For now, I needed it to be that way.
I shoved my pack over a couple of inches, waiting for another bus, eying every stranger that walked within twenty feet. Every time someone’s gaze lingered too long, I felt myself stiffen, tamping down the urge to run—not that anyone ever did anything to me.
I’d seen glamoured fae often enough in New York. They left me alone, never coming within ten feet unless by accident. But, just like Atlanta and DC, more and more seemed to congregate in my usual haunts over time, suffocating me with reminders of how the fae had betrayed me and my brother.
I hugged myself. The winter air in New York bit through my thin jacket, but I wouldn’t be staying here for long. I never stayed anywhere for long.
Return.
I ignored the thought.
Return.
I clenched my jaw and stood, lugging my pack with me, staring up at the bus schedule.
Twenty minutes. I could do twenty minutes.
Return!
I ground my teeth, counted one, two, three, imagining each number was a blow, and I pummeled the thought back.
By the time I opened my eyes, sweat beaded on my temples. It was time to board. I stood in line for the bus and swept a cursory glance across the other passengers when I stepped into the aisle. No fae. I headed straight toward the back where no one else was eager to go, unable to stomach anyone sitting behind me. Better the smell of waste than driving myself insane with paranoia. As it was, my sanity was already in question.
I sat down with a thump, the smell of cleaning fluid making my stomach churn. Twenty-four hours to go until I could escape from the unique odor that was the bus latrine. Then maybe a few weeks at a new place. Or, since it was a smaller town, perhaps I could last there for a month this time. I hoped so. Unless the queen acted up again, crowding out my thoughts until I had to pay attention to her. Whenever that happened, I’d run again. Running helped—it meant figuring out how to feed myself, find a safe place to crash, get another minimum-wage job. I got so focused on survival that I didn’t have any spare space in my mind for the queen to grab hold of.
But running for the rest of my life? I shuddered. One day, I’d tire of the running—of fighting. I was already exhausted. How much longer before I gave up? I shook my head, unwilling to think on it too much. For now, I focused on visions of Texas at Christmastime, a welcome change from New York’s bitter-cold winter. I needed to research busy jobs—see what was out there that could keep my mind occupied. Out of her grasp. Maybe I needed to work two jobs. Or three. Whatever it took so I didn’t have to run so much.
I could do this. I could beat her.
THE END
Afterword
Thank you for reading Hidden Ashes, my debut novel! If you want to read more, sign up for my newsletter to receive a free short story prequel, Clouded Smoke.
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About the Author
AC Washer is a chocaholic masquerading as an author.
To learn more about the dangers of early exposure to chocolate and its life-long effects, visit acwasher.com… Okay, not really. But you will get the inside scoop on all things Reigning Fae!