by A. R. Kahler
My blood is colder than ice as he talks. I can’t tell him he has a point. I’ve killed, both for pleasure and work. I’ve made faeries turn to ash and tortured mortals to reveal their masters. All without blinking. Without the slightest hint of guilt because of course I was in the clear. Even when working for the devil herself, I was on the right team. I can’t even begin to question Mab—it’s against my contract, and it’s against my upbringing.
“There is no greater good or evil,” Eli says. “There is no ruling force to take the blame. Every choice you have ever made, every murder you have ever committed, has been because you and you alone decided to go through with it. There is no celestial order to uphold. You heard the barkeep—before Mab and Oberon, there was chaos. But there was still life. And I have no doubt that in the midst of that chaos, someone else would have come along to change it had those two not risen first.
“These men are innocent in your eyes. But those you’ve killed were innocent to the eyes of others. Don’t you see? Everything is subjective. Which is why, to obtain your goal, you must be objective. You must not feel. You must not doubt. You must kill.”
I can’t take my eyes off the couple. I can’t stop their faces from becoming the countless others I’ve assassinated at Mab’s command. Murdered.
Eli is right. I can’t be soft. I can’t pretend that I’ve ever had some divine purpose. I am a killer. Killers cannot love, and they definitely can’t be loved in return. Not by lovers, not by family. I am alone. I am death incarnate.
Yet, as I pull a dagger from my coat—this one enchanted for instantaneous death—I wish I had the ability to create Dream. To pour some liquid life into the sleeping man’s throat, make him believe he’s flying with his lover, that there is some beautiful light at the end of the tunnel. I want to do this, because I want to believe I’m not as heartless as the creature standing beside me. I want to believe I’m sending him somewhere better.
I can’t.
And I don’t.
I reach over and slit the blond guy’s throat. My enchantment rolls through him, stops his heartbeat in an instant. Eli actually moans as he inhales the dregs of the man’s soul. I don’t listen. I slit the other man’s throat and drop the blade to the bed.
I’m out the door before Eli’s finished feeding.
It doesn’t matter that I want to run outside and scream and rip my hair out. I don’t care that my throat is twisting, that my stomach wants to vomit up the few meals it’s been able to take in. Because the moment that cool air hits me, the moment I’m back in the shadows and staring at another urban sky, it all falls away.
Eli’s right. There’s no great cosmic good or evil. There’s no force telling me right from wrong. I’ve played with gods, and they’re just as screwed up as the rest of us. As I stand there and stare at the clouds, I realize it all with a cold sort of clarity. I’ve never been better than anyone else. I’ve never deserved to live more than those I killed. Not really.
The key was that I thought I did.
No. The key was that I acted on it.
I take a deep breath, force it to be smooth and not ragged, not torn like I feel. I force the emotions to stillness.
When Eli steps beside me, I don’t feel any anger toward him. I don’t feel anything.
“Better now?” he asks. I should be the one asking him.
I nod.
“So why are we here?” he asks. No mention of what we’ve just done. What he’s forced me to realize. Like Mab, he doesn’t belabor points. He knows I understand—lesson learned, next chapter.
“Because you were right.”
“As always.”
“Killing Oberon won’t solve anything. We need to get to the Pale Queen. And that means getting Vivienne to open up.”
“Yet here we stand, far away from the circus that houses her.”
“Because she doesn’t remember anything,” I say. I take a leaf from his book and begin walking, letting him follow my lead. “Her husband, however, does. He’s hiding something. And if there’s a crack in his memory, we can use it to find the weak point in hers.”
“Finally, you’re thinking like a killer.”
I don’t say anything. I know it’s meant to be a compliment. But a small, dying part of me feels as if it’s a curse.
Fourteen
I fully expect Austin to be asleep when we get to the house. I have no clue what time it is beyond late, but there’s a light on in a distant room, the glow just barely peeking out the front windows.
Here I was hoping for a slightly more dramatic entry.
“He works fast,” Eli says. I look to him, and he gestures at the door and the lawn. Both are perfectly intact. You couldn’t even tell a motorcycle gang had ripped through here three days ago.
Rather than break down the door, I knock. It opens barely ten seconds later, revealing Austin in all of his sleepy glory.
And yes, I know he’s my father, but there’s still a small part of me that finds it devilishly attractive—him standing there in loose boxers and tank top, his grey hair mussed. He doesn’t look confused to see me, though he does give Eli a guarded once-over.
“Melody,” Austin says. His voice is a gruff whisper.
Dad, I want to say.
“Austin,” I reply instead. “Sorry, I know it’s late.”
He waves it away and opens the door for us to step in.
“Don’t worry about it. I was up anyway. Work in an hour.”
Right. Mom had said he worked odd shifts. Doing . . . whatever it was he did.
Eli steps inside smoothly, like a king entering his castle, looking loftily at the portraits and décor on the walls.
“Who’s your friend?” Austin asks, nodding to Eli. “And why’s he dressed like a pimp?” He looks back to me with an eyebrow raised, as though asking if I’m in perhaps a different business. One that requires late hours.
Despite everything I’ve just seen, I actually laugh.
“Business partner,” I say. “And no. Not that sort of business. He’s just an eccentric.”
“Uh-huh.”
Eli steps over and introduces himself, offering Austin his hand. Austin doesn’t take it. Instead, he once more looks at me. I don’t like that look. There’s a great deal of hidden information in those eyes, and it’s clear he isn’t certain he can say any of it with Eli around.
“Why don’t you go outside,” I say to Eli. It’s not a question. “Amuse yourself. But don’t get into trouble.”
I expect Eli to put up a fight, but maybe he’s realized he’s already pushed me too far tonight. He just nods, says “a pleasure” to Austin, and slinks off into the front yard.
“He’s . . .”
“Unique?” I ask.
“Inhuman,” Austin replies. My heart gives a little lurch. Was that metaphorical? He motions to the kitchen. “Come on. I’ve got coffee going.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.” I wish I weren’t being serious.
Austin hands me a mug the moment I’m in the kitchen, then leans back against the counter while I settle myself on the stool.
“I’d offer you cream and sugar, but you don’t seem like that type of girl.”
“You’re right. I like it like I like my men: strong and bitter.”
He chuckles. It’s short-lived.
“Are we dropping the facade now?” he asks.
“What facade?” Because this could be anything. I’m acutely aware of the way he’s been looking at me, and the fact that I’m here in leather at—according to the microwave—three in the morning, and his wife and family are away. But I’m also holding on to that inhuman comment, and the fact that he said I had a performer’s name when we first met. I don’t know what he knows. Being raised by Mab, I’m used to playing this game—who spills first?
He takes a long drink, considering his words. When he speaks, he doesn’t look at me. He looks at the photo of him and Vivienne and their changeling daughter on the fridge.
“It started a few years ago,” he says softly. “When Claire became a teenager. At first I thought it was just stress, you know? I thought I was getting laid off, and Claire was exceptionally moody, and Vivienne . . . she just kept retreating into herself. I didn’t know how to cope. And then the nightmares came.”
“Nightmares?”
“I didn’t pay much attention, at first. But they kept returning. Every night I’d dream the same thing. Viv crouched over a little girl, holding a knife. Blood everywhere. Some nights I saw different faces—Viv’s father, rather than the girl. And some nights it wasn’t Viv at all, but this glowing . . . thing. I tried to tell her about them, but the moment I mentioned anything about dreams she would shut down, tell me they were stupid.”
Dreams are many things. Stupid is not one of them.
“Eventually I stopped saying anything. The dreams would go away for a few weeks or months. But they always came back. Always. And stronger.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask. Clearly he doesn’t think I’m some sort of shrink.
He looks at me then. His eyes waver; he looks scared of himself.
“Because then they stopped being dreams. People started to . . . change.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, some days at breakfast I’d look over and it wasn’t my little girl staring back, but a monster. Or the mailman would come and he wouldn’t be our usual guy. I mean, he was, but it was like I could see through him, almost, and it was someone else—someone with a snake tattoo around his neck.”
Kingston. Coming in for his regular checkup.
Austin shakes his head. “I’d see people on the street, and when I looked back, they wouldn’t be there. Or they would, and they’d have wings, or thorns growing out of their heads. I figured I was just going insane. I saw someone about it. Got medication. It helped a bit with the nightmares. For a time. Then the meds would wear off or stop cutting through and I’d be hallucinating again. Eventually I just stopped telling anyone anything was happening—it seemed easier than the alternative. But I knew . . . I knew I wasn’t crazy.”
“Maybe you are,” I say. I’m not going to give ground—a lot of mortals hallucinate, and it has nothing to do with the Fey. Not that I think that’s the case here. I have no doubt this guy’s brain has been screwed with so much, it’s practically putty. “What does it have to do with me?”
He takes another drink and makes a face. I know that face—he’s wishing the drink were alcoholic.
“Do you know what it’s like to wake up one day and know without a doubt that everything in your life is a lie?”
I don’t answer. He continues.
“It was like something cracked. I woke up and looked at Vivienne and knew she wasn’t the woman I loved. At least, not anymore. And when I saw Claire . . . I saw her as something else. Something not quite human. Kind of like that Eli guy, but different.”
“Sounds like a mental breakdown to me.”
He shakes his head. “That’s what I thought at first. Then I started looking at my life. Really looking at it. Trying to remember my life before I got married, before I had a kid. And I couldn’t remember any of it. I didn’t have any photos or journals. My parents were useless—just kept saying I was a good kid whenever I asked about my past. It felt like a lie.
“Then, one afternoon when Viv was at work and Claire was in class, I started looking through the few photos we did have. Trying to remember the picnics or vacations or school assemblies. The memories were there, but it was like remembering something I’d read; I couldn’t feel anything. And it was horrible, because this was my family, and I felt nothing toward them. Not even the wedding photos sparked an emotion. I felt awful.”
Again, I don’t see where he’s going with this, or what it has to do with me, but it’s like watching the floodgates open; I know he’s been wanting to say this for a long, long time.
“There was . . . there was this envelope. At the bottom of a shoe box. And it was weird, because it was sealed with wax, and there was a K on the seal. I thought maybe it was just some old wedding card that got misplaced. But it had never been opened. It felt . . . I don’t know, it felt forbidden, in a way. But I opened it anyway, and inside was a photograph. It was Viv and me, at the hospital. Holding our baby. The doctor was beside her, and we were all smiling.”
He trails off and looks into his mug. Whatever he sees in there isn’t comforting.
“Two things hit me at once. First, the doctor was the same guy I’d seen snooping around—had the same tattoo and everything. The second hit harder. I knew, the moment I looked at that little bundle, that that was my daughter. And I knew it wasn’t the girl I’d raised the last eighteen years.”
He goes silent again.
I wait.
“I’ve known there was something off about this family for years. The dreams keep changing, start feeling like memories. I remember helping Vivienne escape from her family. I remember losing her. I remember being in a circus. And then . . . I’m here, with a kid and a wife, and I don’t know how I got here.”
“Sounds rather delusional.”
“I’m not delusional,” he says. His words are very calm and very quiet. Clearly, my temper is from my mother. “I don’t know why you came here, or how you’re involved in any of this. But I knew the moment you stepped in here.
“You’re my daughter. You’re the girl I saw in that photo. And I’ve been waiting a very long time for you to come home.”
I don’t speak. I don’t know what sort of response he expects. Had I not just witnessed and partaken in the death of an innocent, adorable couple, I might have had the emotional depth to break down and fling myself into his arms and cry Daddy. Not anymore. I take another drink from my coffee and consider my words as he considers his. What can he know? More importantly, how can I use him?
He doesn’t break the silence, either, but I can feel his eyes on me even as I stare everywhere but at him.
“Okay,” I say after a while. “Let’s say what you’re talking about is true.”
“It is true.”
“If,” I continue, “then what are you insinuating? What you’re talking about is—”
“Magic? Demons? I don’t know, Claire, but whatever it is, it’s happening.”
I sigh. I thought perhaps it would feel good, having my name spoken through his lips. It just feels like another thing pushing us apart.
“It’s all true,” I say. “Mostly. The girl you’ve been raising isn’t human, and she’s definitely not your daughter. She’s a faerie. A changeling, if you will—put in my place so you wouldn’t know your real daughter was missing.”
He opens his mouth, and I can practically feel the questions he wants to ask: Where have you been? What are you doing back? I don’t have time or patience for any of them.
“Listen,” I say before he can speak, “I’m not here to cover lost ground. I have a mission. And it involves your wife.”
“Your mother.”
“Yes.” I shake my head. Here I thought this would be easier, him knowing the truth. Turns out it’s more difficult—not because he knows, but because he doesn’t know enough. And I’m just not the right person to tell him. “She’s important. She has a power. One that I need to unlock. But the very magic that has kept you in the dark is keeping her powers locked away.”
“That’s all you have to say?” he asks. “You come home, and I’ve told you . . . told you all this. And all you have to talk about is some mission?”
“You wanted the truth,” I say. I gesture to myself. “This is the truth. I’m not the daughter you always wanted. I’m not the answer to all your problems. Knowledge isn’t power. I have a job to do, and it involves killing a lot of people so, hopefully, the rest of us can survive. So we can save the touchy-feely bullshit for later. If I don’t get the key to Vivienne’s powers, there won’t be a later anyway.”
I can tell he wants to put up a fight. He wants to know, and yes, he prob
ably has a right to know. Where I’ve been, what I’ve done. But all he gets is what I’ve become. I flourish my hand, and one of the daggers I’d hidden in my flesh appears with a whirl of green smoke.
“I’m an assassin, Dad. And right now I’m trying to save the world. You either help me in that, or you get out of my way. I don’t have time for anything else.”
He stares from the dagger to my eyes. As though he’s trying to find a hint of the daughter he saw in that photo. As though he’s trying to see if there’s any humanity left.
“What do you need?” he asks.
Clearly, he didn’t find it.
Fifteen
Interrogating Austin isn’t nearly as fruitful as I’d hoped. As far as he knows, Vivienne has never had any sort of flashbacks or flares of power. She’s never been exposed to any trigger, has never registered anything beyond bemusement toward life. My heart drops with every answer he gives, not just because I’m not getting anywhere, but because her life truly sounds miserable. And with every bit of despair comes a hint of rage. Toward Mab for doing this to her, for making the rest of my mother’s life as exciting as tapioca.
By the end, all I’ve learned is that Vivienne has always become a little nostalgic around the circus, which is why they haven’t gone in years. And that the changeling daughter has barely ever left the house. She went to a local college and lived at home, and even though he swears she moved out at one point, he can’t actually remember when, or for how long. Which just has me believing that that was another implanted memory. I have no doubt the faerie has never left my mother’s side.
“What do you need her for?” he finally asks, when both of our coffees are cold, and it’s clear he’s missed work.
“It’s complicated.”
“All of this is complicated.”
I stare at him. I’m starting to understand why Vivienne chose him over Kingston. Sure, Kingston’s flashy, but Austin’s hot in a different way. Beyond good looks, the guy seems steady. And if my mother is anything like me, stability is something she probably desperately lacks. Not to mention, his ability to deal with this is incredible. He should be a blithering idiot by now. Instead, it’s as if he’s known about this shit his entire life.