Cold Dream Dawning

by A. R. Kahler

  She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t twitch her lips into a frown or grin. She might play a human, but she’s Fey through and through. No other creature is so completely emotionless when they want to be.

  “Why are you here?” she asks again.

  “I’m just going to help myself to the coffee, then,” I say. “Mugs are?”

  She doesn’t move, so I slide off the stool and rummage through the cabinets, finally finding a thick terra-cotta-colored mug. Normally, I take my coffee black, but I want to piss this girl off as much as I can, even though I know my issue isn’t with her. So I brush past her and open the fridge and pull out the creamer, then open a few of the jars lining the counter and find the sugar. I figure it would be rude to search for a spoon, so I reach around her and grab the one from her mug, doling out two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into my cup before pouring in the creamer and coffee. She doesn’t say a thing throughout the entire episode, barely even looks my way. But I can feel the energy radiating off her; she might be pretending to be an emotionless twat, but she’s actually quite pissed.

  Good.

  When I’m done, I sit back on the stool and take a long inhale over the mug, making sure to do a complete “Mmm” after. It’s cheesy and we both know it, but I’m okay playing this game as long as it takes. It kind of feels nice to be the one toying with someone else. At least it’s a change of pace.

  I take a sip. It’s not nearly as strong as I’d like, and it’s clearly not single-origin, but whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Much better,” I say. “As I’m sure you know, Winter sucks at making coffee. Or maybe you don’t know. I haven’t seen you around before.”

  Yes, her current appearance is just glamour, but I can sense her energy like a calling card. I would have remembered it. I have a mind for faces and energies; Mab ensured it.

  Her eyes tighten. Oh yes, she clearly feels that pretending to be mortal is a jail sentence. Most Fey do. Being in the mortal world might give them direct access to Dream and playthings, but it cuts them off from Faerie. There’s a magic in that world that infuses everything. Being away from it for too long? Things feel flat and empty. It’s like a greyscale nightmare you just can’t escape.

  “So, how’s life? How goes pretending to be me?”

  She says nothing for a long time, which means I just take another drink of coffee and look around the kitchen. Rooster artwork on the walls. An orchid on the kitchen table. But all I can really focus on are the presences I feel upstairs, the two sleeping bodies slowly spiraling Dream into the ether.

  For a moment, I wonder if they have one of Laura’s figurines. She might have tried to crush me with her stone creations, but I have to admit, using kitschy décor to harvest Dream from sleeping mortals was pretty ingenious. The Pale Queen chose her vassals wisely. I still managed to kill all of them, though.

  “Queen Mab did not say you would be coming,” the changeling finally says. “But I knew your energy the moment you crossed our threshold. Which Mab assured me you would never be allowed to do. So why are you here?”

  She sounds like a broken record, and I’m tired of listening to the skip.

  “I’m here because Mab sent me here. How else would I have found you?”

  Because that was another thing I’d noticed when standing outside the house—it was blank. Not a trace of magic or anything unusual, nothing to give it away. But now that I’m inside, I can see the traces of power and runes in the walls, the wards and protective circles. This place was made to deter unwanted visitors, but the devices used were expertly hidden. Basically, a shit ton of magic to hide that this place houses a shit ton of magic. Faerie glamour and misdirection at its finest, which means this girl is no pushover.

  “But why did she send you?” she asks. “I have everything under control. You are not supposed to be here—it is a threat to Vivienne’s well-being, and thus a threat to my purpose.”

  She still hasn’t taken a sip of coffee, and I’m suddenly struck with the question of whether or not she makes herself sick eating human food all the time. Then I wonder what it is that she’s supposed to have under control and feel like an idiot for not jumping to that question first.

  “That’s none of your concern,” I say. “I need to see her.”

  It’s the first time there’s been a hint of a chink in her armor. Her knuckles are white on the coffee mug; I’m impressed it doesn’t shatter.

  “You cannot.”

  “I can and I will,” I say.

  “The only reason I let you in here is because they are asleep. It is against my orders to allow her to see you.”

  “And it’s against my orders to kill you,” I say, idly stroking the rim of the mug. “But one of us is going to crack, and I can assure you, it’s not going to be me. I’ve already killed a few dozen of your kind in the last twenty-four hours. Adding one more to the mix won’t hurt.”

  And no, it’s not actually against my orders to kill her. I just find lying much more amusing.

  She opens her mouth—hopefully to disagree with me—but then there’s a creak upstairs. We both go silent, looking up to the ceiling.

  “You must leave,” she says. She doesn’t sound cool and collected anymore. She sounds terrified.

  “Like hell,” I say, still not looking at her.

  “I said leave!”

  The coffee cup smashes, and I don’t know if she’s dropped it or if she actually did break the thing with her bare hands. I don’t look. I shove off the stool and start heading toward the stairway in the hall.

  Her hands are on me before I take two steps. She’s strong, much stronger than I gave her credit for, but I’m stronger. I shake her off, and when she tries to grab me again, I spin around and have an iron blade to her throat before she can blink.

  “Give me one good reason,” I whisper, staring into her dead eyes. “You’ve stolen my life for the last eighteen years. Give me one reason, and I’ll steal yours.”

  She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move a damned muscle—good girl—and I back off as I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Don’t want to meet my mother while smeared in faerie blood.

  “Claire?” the approaching figure calls. Feminine voice. My mother. My heart leaps in my throat at the sound of my name. And then the changeling girl steps forward, and it takes all my self-control not to shove my recently sheathed knife between her ribs.

  “Yeah, Mom?” she asks. Her voice is different. I’ll be damned if it doesn’t sound more like mine.

  “I thought I heard something. Everything okay?”

  “Yep. Just dropped a mug.” She hesitates, looks back toward me while my mother reaches the end of the stairs. “We have . . . company.”

  “Company?” the woman—No, your mother, get it through your brain—asks. But then she rounds the corner and sees me, and I expect the world to stop.

  She stands there in sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, the golden strands streaked with grey and white. I can see the trace of her, the girl from my visions—it’s in the angle of her cheekbones, the length of her neck. But that is where the similarity ends. This woman is in her early fifties, and there isn’t the slightest hint of power to her. She doesn’t glow with energy, doesn’t carry herself with any sort of kick-ass charisma. She looks like she’s spent the last twenty years of her life sitting at a desk. And, to be fair, that might be precisely the case.

  I want to kill Mab.

  When her eyes lock on me, I expect to feel something. Anything. Or for her to feel something. For there to be the slightest iota of a registration of familiarity. But there is nothing, and that hits harder than being shot in the chest.

  Trust me, I know.

  “Good morning,” she says. She looks from me to the changeling. “Um, is this your friend?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I say. I step forward, trying to cover up my wounded feelings by staying on the attack. “I’m Melody. Claire’s friend. From work.”
I wonder briefly if the changeling stole my middle name as well, but if she did, neither she nor Vivienne take notice. At least there’s some part of my history that’s actually mine.

  Either that or Mab wanted to ensure there was absolutely no reference to the Immortal Circus in Vivienne’s life—even the name of Viv’s former best friend.

  The changeling’s eyes flicker to me, then back to her mother. My mother. Not her mother. Jesus, this is confusing. Does the name Melody make anything click in my mother’s head? Some memory of a life once lived? Melody had said that she and Vivienne were best friends in the circus, which was probably why my mom subconsciously named me after her. But the name doesn’t seem to register, and the changeling doesn’t give her a chance to process.

  “Yeah,” she says, picking up my slack. “Before I got laid off. Melody and I worked at the office together. I thought I’d mentioned her.”

  My mother shakes her head.

  “Sorry, I didn’t remember.”

  Clearly she’s still confused as to why I’m here at six in the morning, so I make up the first excuse I can.

  “I just got back into town for a vacation,” I say. “Early flight. Claire said I could stop by for some coffee.”

  “Oh, that’s just like my Claire,” my mother says, and I want to punch the changeling in her face. I want to punch her every time my mother says my name. Every second that goes by without her realizing who I am. Why had I not considered this? That my mother wouldn’t even recognize me, that Kingston’s magic would be so ironclad? I’d figured Vivienne would see me and there would be recognition and tears and magic. Instead, the woman stares at me as though I’m an unwanted stranger, and I have no idea how I’ll ever be able to change that.

  Screaming I’m your daughter, and this is just a faerie before stabbing the changeling in the back probably wouldn’t work. Even if the faerie bitch did explode into leaves, or whatever, in the process.

  Something tells me Vivienne isn’t wired to recognize magic. Not anymore.

  Mab wanted me to coax out Vivienne’s power, said that my spark would bring hers to life or something like that. But the woman doesn’t become some glowing magical figure at my appearance, doesn’t start prophesying the end or the location of the Pale Queen. She just looks confused as shit and a little miffed that I’m here before she’s had her coffee. I consider handing her the pendant to see if that does anything, but for some reason I don’t want to do that with the changeling around. That’s what I tell myself. In reality, I’m not ready for the consequence.

  “Speaking of coffee,” I say, looking to the changeling. I refuse to call her Claire, not unless I have to. It feels like holding on to a piece of myself. “I could use another cup. We have so much to catch up on.”

  The changeling glares at me, and I smile back widely. Then I look to Vivienne, who misses the entire exchange, and try to find some hint of emotion toward me in her eyes. This shouldn’t hurt. I shouldn’t care that she acts like I’m nothing, that I don’t belong here. But deep in my heart, in the shadows I’ve let frost over, there’s a hint of something there. Something that tells me that the little girl who’d grown up with this woman for seven or so years is crying out with recognition and longing. I can’t let myself feel it, though. I shouldn’t. Yet it’s there. Scratching its way out.

  I want her to love me. To recognize me. Because a part of me I’ve long forgotten is trying to recognize her. I might not feel it, not fully, but the glimmer of it is there. Like a ghost limb. Even with the emptiness ringing between us, a part of me is scrabbling for recognition.

  That’s when I realize it: she’s not the only one I wish would wake from this magical illusion. I want to feel this as well. I want whatever magic is binding my own memories to shatter with hers, for this to be a reunion. Rather than a very awkward dance where neither of us knows the right steps.

  I sigh inside. That’s not going to happen. I know it in my gut—this won’t be as easy as I’d hoped. I try to think of cover stories, elaborate lies to explain why I’m here and why I have to stay in their lives until . . . until whatever is supposed to happen, happens. As the changeling leads us into the kitchen, I watch my mother’s retreating back and remember what Mab said.

  I might have to kill her to get this information out of her.

  For the first time in my life, I might actually not be lying when I say that would hurt me more than it hurts her.

  We spend the morning talking about trivial things. Or, they do. I lie through my teeth the entire time, telling them I am back here to visit family (at least it’s partly true). Vivienne’s husband—my father—is asleep the entire time. Apparently he works in a factory and didn’t get home until three in the morning.

  I want to scream at the two of them as they sit at the table over their mugs of coffee. They sit the same—the same slight hunch, the same rise of their shoulders, the same flicker of their eyes to the corners of the room when talking. The changeling has done her research. She’s fit herself into this world, this life, without breaking a sweat. And I . . . I feel like I’m that one dancer in the chorus who just can’t get her steps in sync. Everything I do feels clunky around them, wrong. I should be in the changeling’s shoes—my traits should mirror my mother’s, my habits ingrained from years of watching her interact with the world. Instead, it takes focus not to fuck up, not to give any tells that I was raised far from human, that every inch of me yearns to fit into this pattern that I was made for but not conditioned to. The pattern someone else fit into before me.

  “So what do you do now?” she asks, sitting at the table with her black coffee and tired gaze. It’s clear she’s not used to being up this early. And also clear she doesn’t enjoy it.

  “I work for a few philanthropic organizations,” I say, because—like Mab—I’ve never been able to resist the irony. “You know, general charity work. I just got back from some time in Uganda, feeding orphans.”

  “And yet you’re still so pale,” the changeling mutters.

  “SPF eighty,” I retort, and look back to my mother. “I love helping people. It makes living worthwhile.”

  Vivienne smiles. The hint of something glows inside me, as though I’ve said something that makes her pleased. Or proud. And I want to feel it again.

  “I’d love to travel like that. Sadly, I just never seem to be able to leave the city. Something always manages to pull me back.”

  “You don’t say. Well, maybe I can bring you along sometime. We’re always looking for extra help.”

  Another smile, and I realize I actually mean it. Pull yourself together. She’s not going to join you on your escapades. But I kind of wish she could.

  “I doubt she’d enjoy falling into your line of work,” the changeling says. “Seems rather dangerous, don’t you think?”

  I shrug. “Not if you stick with me. Besides, I’m sure Viv is more than ready to see the world. Something makes me think she’d do great on the road. You know, nomadic. Circus style.”

  I watch Vivienne’s expression the entire time, but despite the small twitch of a smile at the word circus, she doesn’t give any tell.

  “That could be fun,” she finally says. Her eyes flick to her imposter daughter, as if she’s scared to be admitting this. Okay, maybe I’m projecting the scared part, but there’s definitely some strange power dynamic going on. “But I don’t know if I’m cut out for that sort of thing. I’ve never really been good with travel.”

  “I find that hard to believe. I’m sure somewhere, deep down, you’ve got the spark.”

  “Mom’s busy,” the changeling butts in. “She has to work overtime a lot, and it’s hard for them to get replacements. No one is as good at her job as she is.”

  “Which is?” I ask, somewhat hoping it will be something really cool, like stuntwoman or even a damn marine biologist.

  “I’m a substitute teacher at the elementary school.”

  Bang. It’s like a fucking punch to the chest. Vivienne Warfield, savior of
the faerie and mortal worlds, now working as a substitute teacher. Mab couldn’t even swing it so Viv was tenured at a college or something?

  It’s so unfair, I want to punch something. Preferably Mab. Instead, I take a drink of my coffee and try to keep my eyes on the prize. I’m not here to make small talk or reconnect, even if a part of me really wants to. There’s a little girl inside me screaming out for my mommy, begging for a hug or a handshake or a meaningful smile that says it will all be all right. I squash her down, along with all the other negative things in my life that are best forgotten. Like Roxie. And emotions in general.

  “Well then,” I say. “Sounds like you’re a busy woman. Tell me, though. What do you dream of doing? You know, if you weren’t working with kids?”

  I expect a quick answer, an I don’t know or some other ingrained BS. Instead, she looks into her mug for a long time.

  “It’s stupid,” she finally says, and it sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself.

  “Try me.”

  If the changeling could kill me in front of Viv right now, I’m sure she would. She’s glaring daggers. That’s fine. I have dozens of daggers in my coat to throw right back.

  “Well,” Vivienne says, “I have always thought about taking dance classes. Maybe trapeze. It just seems so graceful and elegant, you know? Like magic.”

  “Like magic,” I repeat. “Tell me more.”

  She shrugs, eyes once more flickering to the changeling. “I guess when you work every day, you start to wonder if there’s something else. Something more glamorous. Not that I’m not grateful! It’s just, you know . . . I wonder if there’s another world out there I’ll never touch.” She laughs and shakes her head and looks at me. “But what am I saying? I’m way too old for dreams like that. I’ve got a loving husband and a great daughter. That’s all I need.”

  The changeling beams at Viv. Then, when her mother isn’t looking, she glares once more at me.

  “What about you?” I ask her sweetly. “It’s been so long since we worked together. What do you want to do next with your life?”