by A. R. Kahler
I don’t exactly look put together, but at least I’m no longer as sleep deprived and bloody as I was last night. I actually roll my eyes as I consider all this, but today, I want to impress. I’m meeting my estranged mother. I have to look good. Or, at least, presentable. Like a daughter she’d want to have. A daughter worth missing. I don’t own any makeup. Don’t need it. Mainly because, again, I kill people for a living, and it doesn’t matter what they think of my appearance—they’re going to hate me showing up no matter what. And also because there’s a reason faerie magic is called glamour. I pick up the small golden canister on the vanity and pop it open. No salve or glitter inside, just a ruby that glows faintly. I press a finger to it, and warmth floods across my hand; I bring my finger to my face, and the energy flows off, running across my cheeks and over my forehead and through my lips, enchanting me. Changing me.
The effects aren’t drastic—I don’t immediately look like some airbrushed model after a Botox binge. But the glamour does clear away the bags under my eyes and smooth out the scars scratched across my cheeks. My pale skin gets a little more lush, my lips a little plumper. When the magic is done, I look . . . well, I look like I have a perfectly respectable job and lifestyle, one that involves a lot of smoothies and something called beauty rest and probably yoga. It kind of looks out of place with the leather bomber bulging with its odd pockets of weapons and chalk, but I’m not about to change all my habits. Especially not the ones that keep me alive.
“Is that how you plan on leaving the house?” comes a voice from behind me.
Instantly, my skin goes cold.
“I thought I asked you to knock,” I say, not looking from the mirror. I don’t need to; frost is already starting to rime the edges of the glass. There’s only one person in this kingdom with that sort of entrance.
“My palace, my rules,” she replies. Her voice is smooth as velvet and deep as night.
“What do you want, Mab?” I make it a point not to call her Mother or any derivation thereof. Not anymore. I also make it a point to keep my mind clear—no thoughts of dreams or the Pale Queen. Mab knows everything that happens under her roof. And she knows everything that passes through my mind.
“To check in on you,” she says. My heart gives a small sigh of relief when she says nothing about dreams or sleeping. She glides forward—actually floats, I think—and comes into the mirror’s reflection. Save for pallid skin tone, she is my complete opposite: short where I am tall, long black hair where mine is shoulder length and ashen, lush lips and green eyes where I honestly look a little faded out. As if when I’m around her, I don’t exist in the same capacity. Even the sheer black dress she wears appears more vibrant compared to my dusty leather. I am the pale shadow to her moonlight.
When I blink, I can’t help but see her coated with blood.
“You might not be able to lie,” I force myself to say, “but that’s a real shitty half-truth and you know it.”
She smiles, her lips full and painted a color that’s probably called “Bad Girl” or “Baby’s Blood.”
“I’ve heard you made a house call last night.”
I turn from the mirror and lean back against the vanity. I almost expect her to vanish when I meet her gaze, but I’m not that lucky—she’s definitely not all in my head.
“Why are you here?” I ask again. I try to keep my voice level and fail miserably. “Yes, I killed some wayward Fey; I know you don’t give two shits about that. What are you here to rub in my face?”
The smile slips.
“You think so poorly of me, Daughter,” she says. Her voice is as smooth as her expression—if she’s actually hurt by any of my anger, she’ll never let it show.
“I’m not your daughter. Or did you already forget my mission?”
And there it is, that small crack in her demeanor that lets me know I’ve hit my mark. It’s the slightest narrowing of her eyes, but after spending my entire life trying to glean the slightest bit of any sort of emotion from her face, I know her tells well. Faeries don’t feel much beyond lust or hatred, and they reveal even less.
“I have not forgotten. And that is precisely why I am here.”
“What?”
Faeries also have never been good at getting to the point, and Mab—being their Queen—is the worst of the bunch.
“While you were . . . away . . . last night,” she says, glancing to a corner of the room, which lets me know just how much it pains her to deliver whatever it is she’s about to say, “there was an exodus.”
“Exodus? How surprising. You keep this kingdom so cozy.”
I know it’s a step too far, but Mab doesn’t react. Not the way she should. On any other occasion there’d be a handprint across my face or, at the very least, a trip to the dungeons. Instead, she looks to the floor and takes a deep, unsettling breath.
“The Pale Queen has been in Faerie for less than a day,” Mab whispers, “but she has already taken in over half of my subjects. Last night, when she was released, I lost thousands. My kingdom is dying, Claire. Soon, I will have no one left to govern. We will have no one left to protect. As the Pale Queen grows in power, mine wanes. And a world without Winter is thrown terribly out of balance.”
I raise an eyebrow in an attempt to play this off. In reality, her fear makes me want to collapse to the tiles. Mab is never afraid. Mab is never uncertain. Mab is the icy Queen of Winter; she is as soft and insecure as a glacier.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask. One of us has to play calm and collected in this scenario. I’m surprised it’s me.
“Because you must know the burden you bear. When you find the Oracle, you must do whatever it takes to learn the whereabouts of the Pale Queen. Only the Oracle will be able to trace her exact location, and only her insight will show you how to kill her. You know how the Wildness functions—in there, those who wander are indeed lost.”
Oh, I know about the Wildness, that fathomless expanse of forest that separates the kingdoms of Winter and Summer. There are no paths, no clear ways in or out. And, like a living thing, it changes by the moment, providing haven for those seeking refuge within and deterring any from without. Finding the Pale Queen in there would be impossible—those seeking her out for sanctuary would find her easily, but me? The Wildness would know my purpose, and it would see to it that I never reached her. Unless, apparently, the Oracle could tell me exactly where to go.
“You haven’t even told me where she is,” I say, brushing past Mab. I don’t have anything left to do, but being active while talking to her keeps me from feeling trapped. “My true mother, I mean. Since you obviously don’t know where or who this Pale Queen chick is.”
Again, Mab lets the slight slide off. I’m impressed. With this new change of heart, I could literally get away with murder.
Mab follows me into the living room.
“You will find her in her home,” she says. “With her husband—your father—and the changeling looking after them both. I trust you won’t cause trouble with the changeling; I needed someone who could look after your mother. Protect her. You were just a little girl, and I couldn’t watch over Vivienne from afar forever. This was for her own safety.”
Yeah, right. Like you’ve ever thought of anyone else’s best interest.
Her lips thin, and I wonder if my thoughts went too far. That’s what you get for reading my mind.
“Where is it?” I say.
“Hidden,” she replies. She steps forward and places a hand on my arm. I feel the magic snake through my limbs. It is cold and burning like frostbite, and as it slithers up to my brain I hold back a gasp from the ache of it. When she steps away, I know how to find my mother. The coordinates are seared into my mind like a brand. A very cold brand.
It pisses me off to think that she could have done this at any time. And that the location was probably hidden not only for the sake of Vivienne, but also to keep me away. Why would she need to be kept safe, though?
Mab doesn’t answer my unspoken question.
“I have something for you,” she says instead. I honestly feel a little giddy in spite of everything. Mab gives me only two things in this world: orders and weapons. And since she’s already given me the first . . .
Shadows and pale lightning curl in her palm, and when they congeal, I expect her to be holding a dagger of ice or something equally cool. Instead, she holds a small black box. The sort you’d give your wife on a particularly boring anniversary.
“Whatever’s in there better be poisoned or alive,” I say.
“It is neither. It belonged to your mother.”
My heart thuds.
“How long?” I ask.
“I do not know how long she wore—”
“No. How long have you had it?” How long have you been hiding another piece of my mother from me? How long have you been hiding away another piece of her life from her?
Mab doesn’t answer. Instead, she holds out the gift. Despite myself, I shake as I reach for it. Gifts from faeries are dangerous things—never without a catch or promise. But if this is my mother’s, I’ll take whatever curse goes with it. It’s not like I have another choice.
Inside is a piece of grey silk, a necklace coiled on top. The pendant is smooth and black, simple obsidian, the chain just as unremarkable. It doesn’t look like something my mother would wear, at least not the version of my mother I’d been harboring for so long. This looks like something a Goth princess would covet.
When I pick it up, however, my fingertips buzz with power.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The stone is hewn from my castle,” she says. “How your mother got her hands on it, I cannot say. But it is mine by right, and now, I bequeath it to you.”
Only Mab would say something as ridiculous as bequeath and pull it off.
“What does it do?” I glance from the necklace to her. Anything from Mab’s kingdom has a trace of magic, and I have no doubt this thing packs more than even I can pick up on.
“It stores memories,” she says. “Sadly, your mother was unable to do so in her later years, so I’m afraid it is now merely a necklace. What it does contain are fragments of her energy. Perhaps, in uniting owner and owned, her powers will manifest.”
“And what if they don’t? You still haven’t told me how I’m supposed to get her to, I dunno, awaken to her inner Oracle nature or whatever.” I feel like an idiot saying that—it sounds like something from a talk show about reclaiming your inner goddess.
“The magic that binds her memories is beyond my realm of control,” she says. “It was the work of the magician.”
I nearly laugh out loud, but the stake to my heart prevents it. I should have known.
Of course Kingston had something to do with it. He seemed to have a finger in everything. Pun intended.
“So I bring her back to the circus to get him to undo it?”
She nods.
“Why couldn’t you bring her there yourself?” I ask. “Or have him make a house call? I’m an assassin—shouldn’t I be using my expertise for something other than human trafficking?”
She raises an eyebrow, the curve of her expression drawing up like a nocked bow.
“I am needed here. If you hadn’t heard, we have a terrible enemy on the loose, thanks to you. One with her sights set on my throne. I believe your strengths will be perfectly fitted to this task. And you would do well not to question my motives. You’ll quickly find your contract looks poorly upon such thinking.”
Just that phrase, your contract, feels like a noose drawing across my windpipe. I don’t even want to know what else is forbidden.
If she outlawed sex with her subjects . . .
It’s then I realize she made no response about Kingston.
I sigh and slide the pendant around my neck, then toss the box into the flames of a nearby fireplace. My stomach is suddenly in knots—I’m wearing something of my mother’s. I’m connected to her. I’m about to see her—but I don’t let it show. I can’t let Mab see how much this gets under my skin. I can’t let her see just how badly I want this reunion. Which is funny, since a month ago I couldn’t have cared less about my mother. I guess that’s just the way of things—when you live your life thinking something’s a myth, you don’t give it much thought. But when you’re about to face a dragon . . .
I grab a piece of chalk from my coat and head toward the study, where I normally create my portals.
“Claire,” she says, and I can’t tell if it’s a question or statement.
I halt. It’s answer enough.
“You’ll need to go through the front gate.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. Not that it’s a big deal; I just don’t like being told what to do. Not when the rest of my life is micromanaged by her.
“In light of recent events, I have made it impossible to enter or leave the kingdom via magic.”
Another big sigh.
“Fine,” I reply. “Anything else, your highness?”
Mab bites her lip, a movement so small and fast I should have missed it.
“Your mother has sacrificed a great many things for the good of my kingdom,” she says. “But do not, for one second, believe I would not do anything to save us from destruction. Your mother holds the answers we seek. You will recover them. No matter the cost.”
“I’m not killing my own mother,” I reply.
In response, she turns and strides away.
“You will do what must be done,” she says. “Or have you already forgotten? Your new contract demands it.”
When the door closes behind her, I chuck my piece of chalk at the space her head just occupied.
“Bitch,” I whisper. Then I head after her, the hallway already deserted.
Three
The moment I step from my room I’m ensconced in cold. The air in the hallway beyond is subzero, and ice cracks in thin panes over the onyx walls like the graffiti of a frost sprite. Though I’ve learned all the Fey curse words in their native script, and the fractals along the wall don’t make the cut.
Mab is pissed.
The castle is like her mood ring, and I know the moment the first wave of goose bumps races across my skin that she’s in the worst mood I’ve ever seen her in. Even if she was hiding it well.
The hall stretches before me and fades off into shadows, the floor covered in a fine coating of snow that glows faintly. Which is good, because the torches that usually give trace amounts of warmth and light along the wall have all gone out. More snow falls, tiny glowing pieces of dust, and a part of me thinks it’s beautiful. Magical. The rest of me thinks it’s a sign of the end.
Mab’s palace always feels empty. It’s part of its charm, I guess. But today, it feels like a vacuum, like being void of bodies is an active thing. As if at any moment it could just suck me out into the ether and I’d never be heard from again. Not that that would be a bad thing.
I walk quickly, my footsteps not making a sound, and honestly, it feels as if I’m being chased. Shadows congeal behind me, covering up the door to my room. With every step, I expect them to lash forward and swallow me up. Maybe it’s just my imagination, or fragments from my dream. I highly doubt it. The castle is like Mab, out for blood and not picky about who pays the price.
Normally, I’d be out the front door in a matter of seconds. Being enchanted, the castle has always been good at granting a quick exit. But as I walk, I realize today’s just not going to be that day. My hand doesn’t leave the pendant around my neck; the other stays close to a knife. I keep walking, turning down corridors I’ve never seen before as a sense of weight settles on my shoulders, as though I’m going deep, deep underground. And yet the halls don’t get darker. They get lighter, whiter, more filled with ice and snow and an azure light that filters through it all. I’ve seen a hall like this once before, but it was a fleeting thing. Now, every corridor is the same icy blue and white. What the serious fuck?
And then the hall opens.
The snowy corridor ends in two s
talagmites of ice that jut toward the ceiling like inverted walrus tusks.
“Seriously?” I whisper as I walk into the room.
Because it is a room. Cavern, really. Filled with mounds of ice that rise from the ground like waves on a torrid sea. More drip from the ceiling. I edge around a rather large ice chunk and stare. I’ve never been here before. And I’ve scoured every edge of Mab’s castle—sometimes inadvertently. Whatever this place is, it wanted to stay hidden until now.
A low hum wavers in the air, the sound of a distant river, or like the stones themselves are vibrating. It makes more goose bumps ripple over my skin. Something about this place seethes with power, but it’s not vibrant Dream or even the wild Fey magic. This is something older. Something dormant. And, I think, something outside of even Mab’s control.
“Where the hell am I?” I ask the ice shards that mirror my reflection in paler hues.
Smoke or fog curls at my feet, and as I walk through the maze of ice, I can’t help but feel the first pang of fear. If I’m stuck in Mab’s castle with no magic to get me out, I’m screwed. And I really, really don’t want to have to eat a limb. I need all of them.
Then I round the corner, and there, in a small clearing, is a slab of ice. I don’t know why I’m drawn to it—it’s no different than any other chunk of ice in here, though this one is mostly horizontal—but there’s a gravity I can’t escape, a hum in my bones that drags me forward. The pendant around my neck is heavy. Pulsing. And in a far-off corner of my mind, I know that the necklace is what dragged me here. My hand curls tighter around the stone at my chest. I expect it to be hot, but it’s colder than ice, and the energy coursing off it is like needles.
I pause when I near the slab. Something about this feels momentous, but I can’t place why. Still clutching the necklace in one hand, I reach out and touch the ice.
A shock ricochets through me, dropping me to my knees in a heartbeat, and when I glance up to the slab, I nearly gasp. It’s no longer empty.
Kingston lies across it like some rugged Sleeping Beauty. His lank black hair is frozen to the ice, and he is clothed in flowing black linen like some medieval royalty. He isn’t moving. He looks very much not alive. The slash across his neck doesn’t help matters. Suddenly I’m reminded of him showing up in my room, jokingly wondering what it was about his neck that begged to be cut.