Cold Dream Dawning

by A. R. Kahler

  I squeeze her close. It’s not a Construct squeezing me back—I can feel her pulse, hear her heart.

  This feels good. So good. I could stand here forever, holding her. Being held.

  “I love you so much, Claire,” she whispers into my hair. A sob racks me, makes me shudder.

  The ground shudders, too.

  “What was that?” I ask with a sniff.

  “What was what?” she asks.

  I’m not asking her. I’m asking the princess. I lean back from Mom’s embrace and look to the glowing orb of magenta waiting a few yards back.

  “What was that?” I ask, a little louder, though I know the sprite heard me.

  She flutters back and forth for a second, clearly agitated. Clearly trying to hide it.

  “Nothing,” she replies. “Just a tremor.”

  Just a tremor. In a land that doesn’t have tremors, or any other natural disasters.

  I step back from my mother, sniff hard.

  “Claire, what’s wrong?” she asks.

  “The Pale Queen lied to you,” I say, still looking at the faerie.

  “Surely she did not,” the princess replies.

  Things click slowly, the gears of my brain stuck tight by emotion.

  “You know she did. She wanted us here to get us out of the way. That’s why she offered you safety. But Faerie can’t survive without balance between the kingdoms. You can’t survive.”

  “We survived through the chaos at the dawn of time,” the princess says, floating closer. “We can do so again.”

  “You can’t lie,” I mutter. “But that doesn’t make what you say true. You believe her. But she won’t keep her word.”

  The walls creep back up around my heart. No, they don’t creep, they rush back. Flesh becomes stone; emotions dry to dust. I glance to my mother, who’s watching this all with confusion plastered on her face.

  “Claire,” she begins.

  “She doesn’t remember, does she?” I ask. “Not really. This is all just a dream you gave her. The daughter returned. The life yet to be lived. She doesn’t know about the circus, or what happened. She doesn’t know about being the Oracle.”

  “We do not speak of such things!” Meadowsweet hisses, and it’s not my imagination—the sky actually darkens with her anger.

  “Oracle?” Viv asks. Her forehead creases at the word. “What is . . . ?”

  Meadowsweet is by my ear in an instant. “You will kill her if you speak of this.”

  “I thought she was safe here,” I say, more a demand than a question. My mother shivers, wraps her arms around herself as if it’s suddenly cold. I’m standing right by her, but her eyes skate over me as though she’s lost somewhere far, far away. “Or is your magic failing, too?”

  “Claire,” Viv whispers. “I feel . . .”

  I’m pissed. Rage boils through my veins, and it’s not just at Meadowsweet for her shortsighted lies; it’s not just at the Pale Queen for this entire damned situation. It’s at me. Because as I stare at my mother, I can’t find the coldness within I had before. All I can think of is how we could have lived the perfect life here. Could have.

  “You said this place was safe,” I say, gesturing around. “But you can’t escape this, either. The Pale Queen told you you’d be spared. But she’s not in control of Faerie any more than Mab or Oberon. When Faerie falls, you’ll go down with the ship.”

  “Faerie?” Vivienne asks. “Where is . . . ?”

  “Shut up!” I scream. I turn on her, and there are tears in my eyes. I am pissed and hurt, and I am not made to feel the latter, which pisses me off more. “Just shut the fuck up!”

  Her eyes go wide. Magic flows over my skin as Meadowsweet tries to calm or enchant me, but I’m ready for it now. The runes on my back burn white-hot. I will not be blinded again. I will not let her try to confuse me with lies of what can never be.

  Like the woman in front of me. The mother I can never have. The life I can never live.

  Even here, in the land of dreams, I’m denied this. I will never know love. Or home.

  Before, I was okay with that. But now I’ve felt it. Truly felt what it meant to have everything I’d ever wanted.

  And now, I have to kill it.

  “You are the Oracle,” I say, grabbing my mother’s arms. Her skin is already hot. “You used to work in the Immortal Circus. You were in love with a magician named Kingston. You had great, terrible powers. And you used them to save the world.”

  Her skin gets hotter as I speak, and at some point I realize I’m not holding her, I’m holding her up. A whimper comes from her lips.

  “You’re killing her!” Meadowsweet screams.

  “I know,” I whisper. I don’t look away from my mother’s eyes, which are rolling around wildly. “You must remember, Viv. Mom. You are my mother. You gave me up to the Faerie Queen. Your own daughter. To save the world. And now I have to do that to you. I have to give you up. To save the world.”

  Maybe it’s the pain. Maybe she remembers. But a tear rolls from her eyes and a moan escapes her lips and her shaking gets worse. She crumples to the ground despite my grip.

  But I feel it. The power inside her. It grows and glows with golden heat, as if she is a sun, a burst of light burning at the center of her chest. I feel her power, and I feel the spark within me—my own blood grows hot, and as I kneel beside her, I realize my hands glow faintly.

  “What are you doing?” Meadowsweet shrieks. “You’ve ruined everything!”

  I know. I know I’ve ruined everything.

  I grab a dagger from my boot. Simple iron. No enchantments. Nothing to numb or cause pain. My mother shakes. The light around her grows, becomes blinding, and I know it hurts her so much that she can’t find the strength to scream.

  I’m not bound by contracts. I’m not moved by anger, or coldness. I look at my mother on the ground, the woman who loved me more than anything else in her world. The woman I wanted to love more than anything else in mine.

  I drag the dagger across my palm. Blood pools and glows in the light. Like honey.

  “I love you,” I say through my tears.

  And I lift my hand to her lips, let my blood pour across her tongue. Blood pumps. Light spills from my veins. Through hers. Through mine. The light. The light.

  “Tell me,” I gasp through the pain. “Tell me where to find her. Tell me how to kill the Pale Queen.”

  My mother screams. But she is not my mother, not anymore—her flesh is golden, her flesh is light. It spills around me as my flesh burns with hers, and I’m screaming, too. On my finger, the ring goes colder than ice.

  “Her name is writ in hell!” she cries out, “In blood and twilight, her name is spelled, and this name shall be her downfall. She must die where her shadow began. Where she ended, she must end again.”

  The light blinds. Screams through my ears. I see her, my mother, standing before the circus with bloody jeans, Kingston holding her hand. I see her, golden and powerful, light streaming through her fingers as the circus bursts into flame and Kingston holds her close.

  I see her, lying in a hospital bed, holding me in her arms.

  “Claire! Claire! My baby! My Claire!” Her words strike deeper than daggers.

  Then the light dies, and I no longer see her.

  The ground before me is empty. Blackened.

  The only trace I have left is her blood on my palm, staining the frosted ring red, and the wound within that is burned deeper than flame.

  Twenty

  “Out. Get out.”

  The princess is at my side. She doesn’t touch me, but her words strike like hammers.

  I can’t look away from the space before me. Tears roll down my face. They evaporate the moment they touch the ground.

  I can’t move. I can’t force myself to believe that this has happened. I killed my mother. I killed my own mother. I can’t even blame a contract. I killed her. In cold blood.

  “I said, get out!”

  I do move then. B
efore I can think, I am on my feet and Meadowsweet is gripped in my bloody hand.

  “You. You did this.” My words are bitten off, my teeth gritted so hard my jaw could shatter.

  “I did nothing.”

  “You did. You—you showed me. You lied to me.”

  “I showed you what could be,” she says. Her sweet voice is laced with malice. “It is not my fault that it broke you.”

  “I’m not broken!” I scream, throwing her to the side. I fall back to my knees, my hands pressed to the scorched earth. Trying to find a trace of her. Praying she will come back. I’m not broken. I am strong. I am strong.

  “You are weak,” whispers the princess. “And you have committed the gravest crime. The world of dreams is closed to you. May you forever walk the earth in a nightmare. May even your death fail to be a release.”

  I turn around to face her, to tell her to fuck off. But the moment I shift, the world falls away, and Tír na nÓg is replaced by darkness.

  Twenty-One

  “There you are,” Eli says. “That was positively maddening.”

  I don’t move. I’m still crouched on the ground, but this earth is cold. Covered in small bones. I can’t stop seeing her. My mother in the hospital bed. Her blood on my hand.

  “Claire?” he whispers. “Claire, what’s wrong? Are you crying?”

  I don’t respond. I don’t tell him to shut up or fuck off. I can’t move and I can’t speak. He kneels by my side and puts a tentative hand on my shoulder.

  “Claire? What happened?”

  “I found her,” I whisper. It comes out as a sob. Eli’s seen me covered in blood. He’s seen me having sex. But he’s never seen me cry. I feel exposed, but I’m too broken to cover it up.

  “Who?”

  I say nothing.

  “Ah.” He pauses, brushes my bloody hand with his. “And I take it things did not go well.”

  I shake my head.

  “Where did you go?” he asks. Not what happened? Not why are you in tears?

  “Tír na nÓg.”

  “Ah,” he repeats. As though that explains everything. Maybe it does. I killed my own mother without the pull of a contract. I am a monster.

  And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel any pride in that.

  “I have no doubt they showed you many wonderful things,” he says quietly. “But they don’t change our reality. They are dreams, Claire. That is how those faeries feed. The world still turns.”

  “I killed her,” I say. I sniff hard. I try shoving down the emotions. Try burying them deep below Roxie and every other betrayal I’ve faced. I can’t. Because I felt my mother’s love, and then I killed her.

  “You had to.” His voice is soft. So soft. Like he actually cares. I want to lean against him and take comfort.

  I don’t.

  “I know,” I say.

  “What did you discover?”

  I take a shaky breath.

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Tell me.”

  It’s hard to remember through the tears. Through the light. “Something about her name being written in hell. That I have to kill her where she began and ended.”

  He sighs. Like me, he realizes it’s not at all helpful.

  “Was it worth it?” I whisper. I can’t even hate myself for being weak around him. I can’t be anything else. “Was that worth her life?”

  “It will have to be.”

  He stands. “Come on, we should get you—”

  “Claire.”

  Oberon’s voice cuts through the darkness. I look up, wiping the tears from my eyes. I won’t ever be weak around him. But when I see him, I realize that’s not a problem.

  “Claire, please,” he says. His voice cracks along with his image. He glows in the darkness, and I know it’s a vision, some sort of magic. “Please. I need.”

  He looks away, and the vision shatters.

  “Curious,” Eli says. He brushes dust off his pants. “I didn’t peg Oberon as one to send a booty call.”

  “He isn’t.”

  “Let’s go. You’ve done what you were sent to do. I’ll take you back to Winter. I think you deserve a bath. And this time, the drinks are on me.”

  He extends his hand. I look at it for a moment.

  My world has just shattered. I killed my mother. I destroyed the one person who could ever truly love me.

  “She’s going to him next,” I whisper.

  “Who?”

  “The Oracle. I killed her. And now she’ll be reincarnated in his service.”

  Eli doesn’t speak for a moment.

  “We cannot think of that. Come on. You’ve done your job. It’s time to go home.”

  He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what this blow to the gut feels like. I can’t move. I can’t go home. I was a weapon before, but I am broken. No one has use for a broken weapon.

  I’ve betrayed my mother a thousand times over. Is that why Oberon appeared? Did he feel it, her death? Did he want to gloat? Eli said the Wildness obscured magic. That would account for the faulty projection.

  “Come on, Claire. Don’t make me drag you.”

  I look up at him. Unflappable Eli. The biggest asshole I’ve ever known. And now he’s trying to take care of me.

  He’s right, though. I shudder as I try once more to shove my feelings down. He’s right: the job is done. The past is dead. It’s time to go home and tell Mab.

  I take his hand and let him pull me up to standing. It’s the second time in a week I’ve killed someone I cared for. The second time my victory felt like a failure. Not even the promise of a hot bath and two bottles of bourbon makes me feel better. I am numb. Cold. As if everything has been burned out. The ring on my finger is still frosted with iced blood. It’s all I have left of my mother. A reminder of my failure. But a reminder of her love. I consider tossing it, but don’t. I will remember this. Her. I won’t let her death be in vain. Ever.

  We trudge through the forest together, Eli’s eyes casting everything in a faint-blue haze. Not that I pay much attention. Everywhere I look I see my mother. I am cold. Too cold. Will I ever feel warm again?

  Light ripples through the trees.

  “Claire. Claire, please.” I look over to Oberon’s projection. His eyes are wide, frantic.

  No way. Oberon looks scared.

  “Please help. She’s—”

  The projection fades.

  Despite the chill in my veins, sweat breaks over my skin. Oberon is never afraid.

  Then I remember the Pale Queen’s promise. A distraction.

  My hand grips Eli’s arm. “It’s her. She’s attacking Summer.”

  He shrugs and continues walking. “Not your circus, not your monkeys. You’ve done your job. Now you deserve a break.”

  The ground trembles.

  “I can’t.” My words come out as a gasp. Because I know that if Summer falls, Faerie won’t last long. I can’t rest. I can’t let this slide by. Even after what I’ve done. My job isn’t over yet. “I can’t let her overthrow him.”

  The cold in my veins makes it impossible to move, but I drop to my knees and pull out my chalk and begin scraping a portal into frozen ground.

  Frozen.

  “Eli, is it colder than before?” I ask as I draw.

  “So it seems. In a land without seasons . . . Perhaps your Summer King is already gone.”

  “He can’t be,” I say. I press the chalk deeper, digging into the frozen earth. My arm is going numb, the magic that usually filters down my skin seemingly muted.

  “That won’t work, you know. I told you, magic works differently here.”

  “And the Wildness responds to need,” I say. This place has a sentience. Eli said that. I just hope he’s right. “Right now, it needs us as much as we need this to work.”

  He can’t be dead. The Summer King can’t die.

  I sketch faster.

  When I grind up the chalk and blow it over the sigils, the dust falls flat. No whirl
of magic. No flare of heat. I press my hand to a symbol, will my power into it.

  But there is no power.

  “Eli, I . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “My magic. It’s gone.”

  You carry her spark . . . Did I lose it? In giving her my blood, did I lose my power?

  I can’t even feel frightened by it. I’m already broken. This should not surprise me in the least.

  He gives me a look. One that says he fully expects me to explain myself. Soon. But he also seems to catch the gravity of our situation. Rather than interrogate, he kneels at my side and lays his hand on the chalk next to mine.

  “Well then,” he mutters. “Looks like I’m saving your ass once again.”

  Twenty-Two

  We step through the portal in a silent fugue. I have a dagger in hand, the blade held between numb fingers, and the cane Eli normally walks with has turned into a wicked rapier—proof enough that even he is on edge. I am broken. I am weak. I can’t save anyone.

  The moment we enter the throne room, we’re ambushed.

  It happens in a heartbeat, so fast that neither of us have time to react. Hands on my wrists, ropes around my ankles, my dagger knocked free, and my legs kicked out from under me. From the grunt I hear, Eli doesn’t fare any better. Before I can even take in the room, we are both brought to our knees.

  The throne room is ringed with Fey, and in the center, standing before the throne like an angel of death, is the Pale Queen. Her robes of the palest aquamarine glow in the light cast from a high stained glass window, her lace mask obscuring everything but a smile. And at her feet, lying in a pool of sap-like blood that stains her blue hem brown, is Oberon.

  “I had hoped,” the Pale Queen says, “that you would arrive in time for this.”

  She doesn’t look at us as she speaks, doesn’t tilt her masked gaze from Oberon’s gasping body. I don’t see any wounds or slashes in his suit, but blood flows freely from him, as though his skin is nothing more than cheesecloth. He gasps blood; rivulets trickle down his face, and more mats his curled hair and antlers. Everything the blood touches withers brown.

  “Let him go,” I say, and am immediately rewarded with a slap across the face. Hard. My jaw nearly dislocates, but I don’t feel the pain. I am too far gone to feel anything right now; this is all just a thin dream.