Cold Dream Dawning

by A. R. Kahler

  ALSO BY A.R. KAHLER

  The Pale Queen

  Pale Queen Rising

  Cold Dream Dawning

  Black Ice Burning (forthcoming)

  Cirque des Immortels

  The Immortal Circus

  The Immortal Circus: Act Two

  The Immortal Circus: Final Act

  The Vampire Diaries

  The Tristram Cycle

  The Initiation (A Short Story)

  With Blood on His Hands (A Short Story)

  Other Titles

  Shades of Darkness (Ravenborn: Book One)

  A Child of Wight (A Short Story)

  Love Is in the Air

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 A. R. Kahler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503953567

  ISBN-10: 1503953564

  Cover photo by Kindra Nikole Photography

  Cover design by Jason Blackburn

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  There is a very strict no-assassination rule within the kingdom of Winter. Being Queen Mab’s right-hand assassin, I’m not allowed to kill within her walls unless she herself bids it—cases of political intrigue, long-standing grudges, slander, that sort of thing. Seeing as she’s the Faerie Queen, such instances are rare; no one wants to cross her. She made it very clear that if I ever killed one of her subjects without explicit permission, my neck would be on the non-proverbial chopping block. As much as I might be one of the few who do want to cross her, the risk outweighs the benefits.

  Because tonight, I don’t just want to spill blood. I need to spill it. Lots of it. And that’s why I’m in the mortal world.

  Mab’s words still thunder in my ears as I stalk down the crowded street, pushing past pedestrians without the slightest hint of apology. A few of them try to start shit, but they don’t get much further than an aggravated shout. I don’t linger long enough, not that anyone would cross me if I did. These jerks might be clueless mortals, but no one wants to fight a girl in bloodstained leather, especially when it’s clear she’s barely keeping the rage in check. I am a fired bullet, a loosed arrow. I won’t stop until I hit a target, and no one really wants to get in my way.

  My name is Claire Melody Warfield. I kill people for a living.

  Tonight, I’m killing because it’s my preferred coping mechanism.

  I force Mab’s curses down to a dull roar and turn a corner. My destination is just off of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, and the city is alive with magic and alcohol and sin. On any other night, that alone would be enough to make me feel at home. Tonight, it just reminds me that home is a broken concept. Mab ensured it.

  Halfway down the adjacent alley is a metal gate stuck in the wall, seemingly out of place against the brick and mortar surrounding it. It leads nowhere, but there it is, locked tight to the wall and revealing nothing but grey brick. The metal isn’t iron, but a heavily tarnished silver so enchanted it’s no doubt stronger than titanium. Magic meant to keep mortals like me out. Impenetrable by any weapon.

  I grab a piece of chalk from my leather coat and scrawl a series of symbols on the wall between the bars, crossing thick lines over the padlock. The symbols probably appear innocuous to anyone passing by—not that there is anyone passing by. Triangles and concentric circles and words that haven’t been spoken on this side of the Faerie/Mortal divide in centuries. I complete an Eye of Horus over the padlock, then open myself to the small amount of magic I can access and send a pulse through the symbols.

  A second later, the gate vanishes in a whirl of dust.

  No bang, no flash of light, just a silent disintegration that floats off into the night. My symbols still stain the brick wall. I glance down the empty alley, the sounds of human revelry almost as potent as the Dream cloying my nostrils like whiskey fumes. Then I press a hand to the seven-pointed star and step through the wall.

  I’m not the life of most parties. Kind of goes with the territory. Which means that when I step into the dim speakeasy-style bar, I’m not at all surprised that the room goes silent. It’s actually a little comical. If not tiresome.

  “Your highness,” someone whispers, and for a moment I go cold, worried that Mab somehow came here with me. Then I realize that the stranger is talking to—about—me. Someone wants to save their own skin by being all honorary.

  This place has been on Mab’s (and thus, my) radar for years. But a small den selling untaxed Dream in a city teeming with the resource was barely more than a prick in her side. Just thinking of Mab makes her words creep back in, but I force myself to stay in the present. Where the fun is. Or will be. The Fey in the room watch me, still as statues and tense as piano wire; some are glamoured to look like humans, but most are in their true forms—winged harpies or balls of light, thorny dryads or oil-slick shadows. Creatures to fear, all of them. And all of them currently terrified of me.

  Normally I’d feel a hint of pride at that. Now I just feel numb.

  “You’re all in violation of faerie law,” I say, my voice carrying to every corner of the room. Not that I’m talking loudly; it’s just that quiet. And no, there is no written faerie law, no “Section 3A” or whatever. But New Orleans is claimed for Winter, which means any buying or selling of Dream in this city has to go through Mab. I glance to the vials and decanters of multicolored distilled Dream stockpiled behind the bar. Enough to condemn them, and that’s only the Dream out in the open. I have no doubt there are piles of powdered or tar-like Dream under the bar. “As such, your lives are forfeit.” For the first time that night, I smile. “I suggest you start running now.”

  No, it’s not the ideal statement, but I’m not interested in eloquence. The rage inside me craves blood, and knowing that every creature within this room is guilty of a crime punishable by death makes the hunger almost painful.

  I tell myself it’s the anger. And nothing else.

  There’s maybe a half second between my final word and the first spark of movement. It comes from a floating ball of light in the back corner, a Wisp the color of blue cotton candy that beelines for the curtain behind the bar. My smile cracks wider as I stand there, silently watching the Wisp try to flee. The moment it hits the curtain, it explodes in a shower of sparks.

  “I should have mentioned,” I say, reaching into one of my coat pockets and pulling out a deck of Tarot cards. They are worn and earth-toned and humming with power. “The place is enchanted against escape. No one comes or goes. So perhaps telling you to run was a bit misleading. Sorry about that.” I fan the deck in my hand and snap my fingers. Two cards slide out a little farther, and I pull out the bottom one and study it. “Ther
e’s another way, of course. You kill me, and the magic vanishes.” My smile turns wicked as I flip the card around to face the room. The Wheel of Fate. “Who’s ready to test their luck?”

  I don’t just want to fight; fighting is easy, something I’ve been conditioned to do, like breathing. I want a challenge. Something to prove I’m alive for a reason, alive because I’ve earned it. Alive because I’m worth more alive than I am dead—worth more than the people I’m about to kill.

  As expected, no one moves. Not at first.

  “Come on, guys. I need a pick-me-up after what I’ve been through today. Don’t leave me hanging.”

  Again, silence.

  “Fine. I didn’t want to have to do this.”

  That’s a lie. I did want to have to do this. I wanted to very much. That’s the biggest perk of being a mortal, one the rest of them take for granted. We can lie through our teeth. We can make it an art. Roxie was proof enough of that.

  I pull out the second card and push down the traitor’s image in my mind. Five of Wands. On it, five men are caught in a struggle, battling each other with great wooden staves. Definitely not a happy card. Anger, frustration, violence.

  Time to get this party started.

  I pulse a small amount of power into each of the cards and toss them to the center of the room.

  The Wheel of Fate’s power is subtle, but I can taste it spreading through the bar, can hear it like the rattle of dice in a cup as it fucks with the luck of everyone in here. Even mine. With that card in play, this is anyone’s game. Any of us could slip on a banana peel and stab ourselves or throw a dart through our opponent’s skull. Tonight, luck is fluid. Devious. Which means, if I come out of this alive, I’m riding on more than luck. I’m pulling out skill. Precisely the ego boost I need.

  The Five’s power is potent. It coats my lungs like cayenne. I feel it in my veins, pumping through my blood as delicious poison. I wanted to kill before I set foot in here. But now, with the card of conflict overriding my emotions, unnecessary violence is all I can think about. Clearly, I’m not the only one.

  Before the cards even hit the floor, the nearest Fey attacks.

  It’s the harpy chick, her beaklike mouth open and emitting a strange cross between a caw and a scream. She flaps her wings and lifts her vicious clawed feet, aiming right for my head, but a second after she’s airborne a dagger is flying from my hand. It thuds straight into her chest with enough force to thrust her backward. She falls to the floor, and two dryads covered in thorns and vines race over her body as it collapses into oil.

  You wanted to know about your mother. And now, it is time for you to meet her. Mab’s words come back unhindered as I lose myself in the frenzy of battle. I leap toward the dryads, two more daggers in hand. The first dryad falls with a blade across the throat. The other one I miss. I skid on what’s left of the harpy as my luck momentarily turns south and a lash of thorns whips my back. The thorns don’t pierce my enchanted jacket, but the pressure of them still stings. I barely feel it. All I feel is the rage from Mab telling me that tomorrow morning, I would seek out my mother. My real mother, who was apparently one of the most powerful figures in history.

  My mother, whom I have never truly known.

  Something screams behind me, and I turn in time to catch the lucky dryad getting impaled on a sword held by a figure that’s nothing but bones and shadow. The two topple over, the dryad’s whip twining around the wraith’s neck and severing it clean in two. Maybe not so lucky after all.

  My rage takes over, everything cast in a haze of red as I duck and stab and move through the crowd. I don’t see my victims. I don’t hear them. I don’t even feel their flesh giving way under my blades. All I see is Mab. All I hear are her words. All I feel is the hot emptiness of battle, the void within the curl of a wave, right before it crashes down.

  No. That’s a lie.

  As I disembowel a humanoid Fey with dark skin and darker hair, I see Roxie, right before she betrayed me. I see her kneeling before that damned summoning circle and bringing something back into this world. Something that should have been locked away for eternity. Something that had fled to the Wildness beyond Mab’s kingdom, where it could build an army and march.

  A pang pierces through me, the hint of an emotion I thought I’d burned hours ago.

  A second later, a different pain stabs my side, and I look down to see a twisted rod of rebar sticking out above my hip.

  My body goes numb, and whatever bloodlust I felt before pales in comparison to the rage that takes over, transforms pain and weakness into strength and fury. I drop my blades and grab the bar in both hands and yank. It slides out of my flesh like a sword from a bloody sheath, scraping against my pelvis as it goes, the grating a vibration I feel in my toes but don’t even register as painful. Already, the runes along my spine are hot, coursing magic through my tissues, spells for healing and reflexes and endurance. The Fey that stabbed me has no such runes. The moment I yank the bar from my body, I twist and stab him right through the eye. He screams, just for a second, before dissolving into ash.

  I slide my fingers over the freshly knit wound in my side as the other hand goes for a knife. But there’s no one else to kill.

  My breath is barely a pant, and my heart races no faster than if I’d run a block. Even with The Wheel in play, this was too easy. The blood not enough. It still hurts, the wound Roxie left me with. Mab’s promise of finding my mother—an act that surely comes at great cost—still burns.

  Then something clinks behind the bar. I tense, ready for another throat to slit, another potential release from the hell I know I’ll never be free from. But the bartender isn’t readying a weapon. The suave Fey with flowers in his hipster beard barely seems to notice the bodies littering his bar as he grabs a bottle of bourbon from the well and pours it into a large tumbler. Save for those flowers, he looks like your average dude.

  “Rough night?” he asks as he pours.

  “Poison?” I reply.

  “And kill the queen’s daughter? Please. These assholes aren’t worth that much to me.”

  “I’m not her daughter,” I respond. “And you’re still breaking the law.”

  He shrugs and slides the tumbler toward me. I eye it. I don’t take it.

  “Suit yourself,” he says, and takes a swig from the bottle before setting it on the bar. Fey don’t normally drink regular alcohol—does nothing for them—but I recognize the gesture. It’s safe. I still don’t grab the glass, though.

  “It’s getting worse, you know,” he says conversationally as he pushes the mossy entrails of a dryad I don’t remember killing off the bar. “Times are hard for everyone—have been for years. But it’s getting worse.”

  “What are you talking about?” I walk closer to him, careful not to slip on any blood. I can still feel the lingering effects of The Wheel. I’m not about to take any chances.

  He gives me a level stare.

  “You know precisely what I’m talking about.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out, tossing the slip of paper toward me. I catch it, or try to—it slips from my fingers and flutters to the floor, landing in a pile of orange goo. I suddenly regret using that damned card. Still, I lean down and extract it and wipe off the slime the selkie left behind. The moment my fingers touch the card stock, I feel the familiar tingle of latent magic.

  “Where did you get this?” I ask. I twirl the small ticket in front of my face. Cirque des Immortels is on one side, the generic Admit One on the other. Perfectly innocent, if not for the magic underneath it all. The Immortal Circus is Mab’s gig, but this ticket isn’t from her. This is from the Pale Queen—the figure I unwittingly released from her astral prison hours ago.

  “We all got one,” he says. “Summer or Winter or unclaimed—every Fey out there has gotten the invite. The smart ones have already taken up the offer.”

  I flick the ticket to the counter and grab the tumbler of bour
bon. I sniff it. It doesn’t smell like poison, but when I raise it to my lips, I don’t actually take a drink. I wasn’t born yesterday. There are plenty of toxins out there that do nothing to the Fey and would kill a mortal in a heartbeat. I can practically feel the bartender relax when I fake it, though, which means it either is poison or he’s hoping it loosens me up.

  “What does that make you?” I ask.

  “An entrepreneur.” He gives me a sly wink. The smoothness of it makes me want to gag. “There’s always a profit in war. But you know all about that, don’t you?”

  I raise my glass in a mock toast. I want to strangle this guy. Slowly. But bartenders are great at amassing information. Especially from an unhappy populace.

  “What do you know about her?” I ask. “This Pale Queen.”

  He starts idly wiping down the bar as he talks. “Just that she’s set up shop in the Wildness and is looking for willing subjects. Promises freedom from Mab and Oberon and their games. All the Dream you could ask for. Et cetera, et cetera.”

  I glance to the ticket on the table. I need to find this Pale Queen. Have to kill her before she can destroy Mab’s kingdom. And for that, I need to find my mother, the Oracle. Because apparently, she has the power to find someone in a place where no one can be found.

  “And yet here you are, selling untaxed Dream to riffraff right under Mab’s nose.”

  “It’s a living,” he says. “Which, speaking of, you shouldn’t be doing anymore.”

  I laugh.

  “You really thought I’d fall for poison?”

  “I’d hoped.” He looks completely nonchalant about it, as if he’s discussing a shipment of beer and not my botched murder. Not that I blame him in the slightest. I did just kill his entire clientele.

  I push myself from the bar.

  “Clean up your act,” I say as I head to the exit.

  “It won’t matter,” he says. “The Pale Queen’s coming. And when she rises to power, Mab will have much bigger things to worry about than a few rogue Dream Traders.”

  “You’re right,” I say, my hand on the door. “It won’t matter.” Then I step forward, through the magical portal, and out into the hot Louisiana night.