by A. R. Kahler
“I hope you’re prepared to live with the repercussions of this,” the changeling whispers.
“Always am,” I say.
She stands and walks inside, leaving me wondering if I’m actually ready to live with myself for what I may have to do.
Six
When I head back inside, the changeling is in jeans and a T-shirt, and Vivienne is in much the same. I can’t help but pause when I step into the kitchen and see them standing there, doing dishes in silence together. The way Vivienne hands her presumed daughter a dish without speaking, and the changeling takes it and dries it and puts it away, as if they’re cogs in a machine, as if they’ve been doing this for years. It sends a pang through my chest, and suddenly I’m reminded of Roxie, in the kitchen while I cooked her breakfast. Before I knew she was a traitor. When I still thought she was a future I could work toward, an example of what it meant to be human. But when I watch these two, I realize that I have no idea how to be human, how to fit into someone else’s life so seamlessly.
I was raised to be an outsider. And I don’t know if that’s a conditioning I’ll ever be able to overturn.
I set the coffee mug on the table loudly, which makes Vivienne flinch and look back. The changeling doesn’t register shock—I’ve no doubt she felt me walk in.
“About ready to go?” I ask.
Vivienne looks to me, then to the duffel bag on the counter. “I think so,” she says. “How long will we be gone?”
“A few days,” I lie, because I have no clue how long this will take. Or if Vivienne will even return.
Vivienne walks over, and I try to find something in her features I recognize, something that calls out and tells me she is my mother. Sure, we look similar—same cheekbones, same eyebrows—but that’s where the similarity ends. She is meek, modest, and I have no clue how much of that is nature or magic.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look troubled.”
She reaches out, takes my hand.
And I feel it. Something inside me melts, or shifts, and suddenly I remember this—the scent of lavender air fresheners and coffee, the warmth of her touch. Are you okay, sweetie? she asks while I sob, curled on the floor, because I swear my doll was talking to me, saying it was going to take me away.
I shake my head, force the vision or memory down. I hate to admit that there are tears forming in the corners of my eyes.
Now isn’t the time to remember what it was like to have a real mother. Not when I have to use her.
You are a weapon, Claire, I remind myself. And this woman is just another tool you must use. You can be weak when you’re dead.
“I’m fine,” I say. “We should go.” I give the changeling a look, one that’s challenging her to say something about what I know she felt.
I turn and head toward the hallway. The changeling is right behind me.
“I won’t let you take her there.”
I pause. My fingers twitch toward a dagger: I don’t just want to end this bitch, I want to make her hurt.
“Excuse me?” I whisper. I pitch my voice low, layering it in ice like Mab’s. I can tell from the expression that crosses her face as I glare at her that it works.
“I’m not letting you take her.” She crosses her arms over her chest in what I’m sure she thinks is an intimidating gesture.
“Are you going to stop me?” I ask. “You know that’s stupid. Not only would it be treason against your queen, but you’d also be directly challenging me. If you haven’t heard, I’m not exactly a pushover.”
“Who are you to discuss loyalty?” she asks. She looks back to the kitchen. “This is your mother, Claire. Surely you have some love for her.”
“Rich, coming from a faerie. You don’t know what love even means.”
“But I do know loyalty,” she says. “I may not feel human emotion, but I understand it. I’ve watched it and coaxed it for nearly two decades. While you were in Winter, fighting whatever, I was here. Making sure your parents felt loved. Complete. And now you’re here to shatter them. What sort of daughter are you?”
My fist connects with a photo on the wall before I realize I’ve moved. Glass shatters and digs into my knuckles. A second later, I notice it’s a family photo. Something beachy.
“Don’t talk to me about family,” I hiss. I take a deep breath, force my pulse back to steady. Rage simmers inside me, coating everything red. No. Emotion makes you weak—even anger. Another deep breath. I won’t show weakness in front of her. “You’ve taken away everything. Everything. So don’t even try to talk to me about loyalty. I’m doing this for Mab. Who is—despite what you seem to think—more a mother to me than that woman in there ever was. She gave me up. Mab took me in. How am I supposed to feel any empathy for her when she didn’t want me in the first place?”
Which is a lie, of course, because even if I shouldn’t feel emotion toward Vivienne, I do.
Her mouth opens. But for the first time, the changeling doesn’t speak her mind. She pauses. Looks at the picture and the glass glittering on the floor.
“You think that’s what happened?”
“I know that’s what happened. Faeries can’t make mortals do anything they don’t truly want to do. Mab didn’t steal me away. Vivienne had to give me up.”
No one’s told me this outright, but I know enough about faerie contracts to know it’s true. Or, at least, think it’s true. The look the changeling gives me is starting to make me question this.
“Perhaps you should ask this to the queen you follow so blindly,” she whispers.
I’m on her in an instant. After that little rumble on the front lawn, I know she’s packing a punch. I don’t care. My forearm is against her neck, and I’m pressing her against the wall.
“Give me one good reason,” I whisper into her ear. “Hell, give me one bad reason. And I will kill you without blinking an eye. Mab wouldn’t even care, not if she knew that you tried to defy me.”
“This will kill her,” she gasps. “Your own mother. Why don’t you see that?”
“My mother is the Winter Queen,” I say stoically. I make sure to look into her eyes as I say it. “And I serve her faithfully.”
“Even if she’s the one who forced Vivienne to give you up?”
“You’re lying.”
“You know I can’t.”
No. Vivienne abandoned me. Sold me to the faeries. That’s the story I’d told myself ever since I was a little girl—it’s how I stayed strong. It’s what fueled me. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t wanted. It was the crux of my whole existence. But if Mab was hiding the truth . . .
Pain lances through my head at the thought, making me wince and draw back. I nearly drop to my knees. But the moment the flash of questioning goes, so, too, does the ache.
Looks like Mab wasn’t kidding about my contract forbidding questioning.
I glare at the girl, who rubs her neck even as the glamour takes the bruise away.
“We’re going,” I say. “Now. Unless you would prefer that Vivienne goes alone, because her daughter had to leave last minute. Permanently.”
She looks at me, as if maybe she wants to prod further, demand I rethink this plan. But she’s smart. She knows I’m serious. Instead, she turns around and goes to get my mother. I reach into my pocket and pull out the chalk.
We have a show to get to, and I have a magician to torture.
We stand in an open field, staring out at rows of corn and a sky that seems to slump toward the ground. The clouds are thick and heavy and grey, and as I stare at them, I can’t help but feel as though something’s off. It’s late summer, and yet there’s a chill that doesn’t fit the Midwestern landscape. I sniff the air, but there isn’t any magic at play. Just global warming or whatever.
I glance at my mother, who’s looking at it all with a dumb sort of glaze over her eyes. Does she even know what just happened? That we literally used magic to travel hundreds of miles instantaneously? My heart clenches, and it takes a moment to realize it
’s not for her innocence—it’s for me. I want her to tell me good job or at least verbally recognize that I did something extraordinary. I know it’s stupid, but it must be ingrained: I want her to tell me I’m impressive, that she’s proud. That I’m worth paying attention to. But she just stands there and looks out at the field as if it’s the most normal, boring thing in the world.
Damn Mab and her magic. Damn her and my fucked-up childhood.
“This doesn’t look like a circus,” the changeling says. I shake my head and walk away, around the semitruck our portal linked to.
Viv and the changeling follow.
I don’t know why I keep letting my hopes get the better of me. I expect Vivienne to say something, make a noise of excitement when she sees the sprawl of the circus before her. But she is silent, still in her dazed stupor, and I look at it all with a detached sort of dejection. At least the weather mirrors my mood.
The Cirque des Immortels spreads before us, a collection of tents and trailers and booths, all crowned by the massive tent in the middle, the black-and-violet chapiteau. Fencing encircles the enclave, a great archway with “CIRQUE DES IMMORTELS” in dimmed neon stretched over the dirt path leading in. It’s early afternoon, and the circus grounds are alive with performers practicing and vendors stocking their booths with giant puffs of cotton candy and popcorn boxes. This is where Mab harvests most of her Dream. This is the axis on which the health of her entire kingdom turns.
And to anyone else, it just looks like another dusty show.
I stride forward, not looking to see if my entourage is following. It’s not until I’m past the archway that I realize they aren’t.
I pause and look back. The two of them stand just beyond the entrance. Vivienne stares up at it, her mouth slightly open. The changeling’s hand is tight in hers.
“We cannot bring her in here,” the changeling says.
“What . . . what . . . ?” Vivienne mumbles.
“Fuck,” I reply, and walk toward them. If I have to drag the woman’s ass in here, I will. I need her memories to unravel, but I need to actually be prepared for it. And for that, I need—
“What the hell is she doing here?”
I freeze. Kingston’s voice sends memories coursing through my veins—his breath on my neck, his hands on my hips, my mother’s name on his lips after we fucked. Rage and desire battle within, and I do what I can to let the rage win out.
I turn and stare down the magician. And oh, how I want to make him hurt.
He stands there in loose jeans and a looser V-neck, his long hair pulled back in a bun and his eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. He looks like a rock star, one used to late nights partying and more drugs than his body can afford. And in spite of everything, I still can’t help but find that washed-out persona incredibly appealing.
Something about train wrecks. I just don’t want to avoid them.
He’s not alone, either. The Melody whose name I’m stealing stands beside him, looking just as unhappy to see me as he is. We had a heart-to-heart last time I saw her. Now, with her fists balled at her sides and her eyes tight, I have a feeling the only thing heartfelt she wants to do right now is scream at me.
Kingston’s coffee-colored eyes glare as sharply as Mab’s ever have. If I were the type of girl to back down from a stare, I would. Instead, I just stand up straighter and return the look.
“What is she doing here, Claire?”
“Claire?” Vivienne asks, suddenly snapped from her stupor. She looks from the changeling to me. “I thought . . .”
“Shut up,” I snap. I put a hand to my head; I can feel the edge of a headache coming on. I’m so tired of putting up with this shit, and I haven’t had nearly enough coffee to cope.
“Answer the question,” Kingston demands.
“She needs protection,” I reply. “Her cover is blown. Oberon’s after her, and this is the only place she’s safe.”
He shakes his head. Maybe he reads the lie within my words, but he doesn’t say it. I’m certain he would never agree to let her in if he knew why I brought her. If he knew what I had to do to her. And what I needed him to help me do to her.
I didn’t bring them here just because the circus is safe from Oberon, but also because I need Kingston to undo his magic. That might take time. I can’t keep her on the run from Oberon, and Oberon can’t set foot in here. This was the closest I could come to giving Vivienne a safe place to, well, unravel. Kingston just needs to help me pull the threads.
Then the memory of the cavern filters back. Maybe he wouldn’t be opposed to making her powers return. He lied to her for Mab before. I’m sure he could hurt her again without blinking, no matter how many crocodile tears he’s shed around me. He told me he loved my mother, missed her like hell. Was that just another line said in the role Mab cast him in? Not that that would make much sense, since there wasn’t much he could manipulate me to do.
“It doesn’t work like that,” he says. “She’s not contracted anymore. She isn’t immortal and isn’t safe here. She can’t just walk in and—”
“She can and she will,” I say. I step up to him, until we are only inches from touching. The sparks between us are powerful, almost literal. “I’ve brought her under Mab’s orders. You will keep her safe. There will be no arguing. Do you fucking hear me?”
I keep my words low, quiet.
“She can’t be here.” But it’s not him replying—his lips are tight, a thin line even a tightrope walker would be hard-pressed to travel.
Melody steps up beside me, puts a hand on my arm. It’s proof she doesn’t know me well at all. If she did, she’d know that touching me is never a good idea.
Still, I’m not about to snap her arm in two; she’s the one person in this show I can somewhat consider an ally, and I’m not stupid enough to burn that bridge just yet. And as I turn my glare to her, I realize she’s not the same girl I saw a few days back. There are crow’s-feet at the edges of her eyes, and maybe it’s the light, but I swear there are lines of grey in her pixie-cut brown hair. In a circus where everyone is expected to be hot and young forever, the small flaws are smoke signals. Especially since her life is tied to the magic keeping the whole system running. Apparently Mab’s kingdom isn’t the only thing falling apart.
The strange thing is, I don’t actually care.
“Claire,” she whispers. Her eyes dart between me and my mother. There’s no doubt about it—she looks scared. “You can’t bring her here. It’s not safe.”
“For who?” I ask. I shake off her touch. “For her? Because, reality check, her house is no longer safe.” She stopped being safe the moment I walked into her world.
“I wonder who brought that about,” Kingston mutters. I ignore him.
“Or is it unsafe for you?” I ask, poking Melody in the chest.
“What?” The fear in her eyes melts into hurt as she takes a step back.
“You know precisely what I’m talking about. You don’t want to see the truth. You don’t want to see the repercussions of what you’ve done to her.” I make sure to look at Kingston for the last part, but he’s studiously looking away. At Viv.
“That’s not at all what this is about,” Melody says. “This place . . . it was her home. It has too many memories. If she starts remembering . . .”
I take a step forward, making her back up more. I don’t want to burn this bridge, but it’s too late. I already smell the smoke.
“Don’t forget for one moment who runs this place,” I growl. “You are in no position to question me. My orders come straight from the lips of your queen. You might run the show, but I run you, understood? Now, turn around, find her a place to stay, and get the fuck out of my face before I terminate your employment here and now.”
Melody opens her mouth, but Kingston has a hand on her shoulder before she can speak. I know he wants to argue. I can practically feel it. Moreover, I can feel how much this hurts him, having her here.
I’d thought that would feel so, so go
od after what he’d done to me. I feel no retribution. Having her around isn’t a cakewalk for me, either—he’s not the only one being reminded about the consequences of his actions. Mine just haven’t taken place yet.
“How long?” he asks.
“As long as it takes, magic man.” I reach out and pat his cheek. “Don’t worry, she’s only here so long as she’s useful. You should be used to treating her that way.”
He flinches back from my touch.
“What are you—”
“At least this time you don’t have to pretend to love her,” I say. Then I shove past him and head toward the food cart. If I’m around him any longer, I’ll kill him. Magical immortality contract or not.
Seven
I spend the rest of the afternoon avoiding my mother and the changeling. I should be finding Kingston, forcing him to get this show on the road. I have a Pale Queen to track, and right now, I want nothing more than her blood on my hands and her throat in my teeth. But . . .
If I’m being honest, I’m not ready. I found my mother this morning. I’m not ready to lose her again.
My chest constricts at the thought, and it’s not just from the emotion of it. My contract snarls in my lungs; I need to find the Pale Queen. I need to follow Mab’s orders. I need to end this. And I will. I will. The pain dies down.
I just need to be in the right mind-set to strike. I can’t be sloppy, can’t strike out of haste. It’s the surest way to screw things up. No different from any other hit.
No different.
So I do what I can to distract myself as the afternoon drags by in a constant stream of grey clouds and strange magic. Even in here, in the crazy Eden Mab created, I can taste the wrongness just outside the circus’s bounds—something is off out there. It’s in the clouds, stuck on the wind like the scent of manure. But this is a completely different sort of shit going down. One that’s staining everything a much heavier shade of screwed. Or maybe I’m just too stressed for my own good.