The Queen's Choice

by Cayla Kluver

  “You’ll have to get used to that,” I chuckled. Shea was rustic and still a little chubby from childhood, but her large dark eyes were alluring and her wavy brown hair shone. She would draw the attention of men whether she wanted it or not.

  She gave me a slight smile and went back to her meal, her heart seeming to fill along with her stomach. Before long, her spirits had recovered and she waved to the boy at the bar. In another minute she was up and talking to him. I clutched my mug of cider and curled into a corner of our booth. Let her have fun for a night; she wouldn’t have too many of these opportunities. And I needed to work a few things out in my mind.

  Though I’d said nothing specific about our next stop to Shea, my thoughts were now on Oaray, my least favorite of the human cities I’d visited, only because I was aware of its true nature. The smiling faces and respectable businessmen were a front for a town famed for its illegalities. The place teemed with whores, of both the male and female variety, but by day they were delivery persons for the grocery or performers at the local playhouse. Accountants funded the transportation of illegal citizens to and from the big cities by filching a cent here, a dollar there from their clients. Nothing tax officials would notice without scrupulous examination, but everything to a few unlucky souls who needed passage.

  Of course, not everyone deserved passage. Sometimes the motivations of Oaray’s proprietors were so buried even their cohorts didn’t know the full purposes of the businesses. As harmless and kind as Oaray’s citizens were to prospective customers, they made possible the breaking of laws both frivolous and imperative. And they were such a cohesive unit, so good at hiding their crimes, that they couldn’t be stopped through any sanctioned legal process. Because of all this, Oaray had been nicknamed the City of False Smiles.

  Taking a long swill of lukewarm cider, I let my thoughts drift to Illumina. My younger cousin had a good two weeks’ head start on me, but she would also have needed travel documents. She would have been sent to Oaray by my father to get a forged passport. Once Shea and I reached the city, we might be able to pick up her trail. I would have less trouble tracking her than Zabriel if it came down to it, and I could revamp my strategy as needed.

  Then a new worry arose. What if Zabriel had made sure he could never return? What if he’d removed his wings like he’d tried to once before, and was now as powerless to cross the Road as was I? My dinner threatened to reemerge, and I covered my mouth with my hand, taking several deep breaths. There was no point in dwelling on this possibility. In my mind, he would remain Zabriel, Prince of the Fae, the same person I used to know, unless I found out differently.

  Thinking it time to retire, I looked across the pub for Shea. There was no sign of her. Disconcerted, I sat up and surveyed the room more thoroughly. Strong was a border town—there was no reason we should have encountered trouble with the authorities this soon. Nevertheless, she was not in sight. In desperation, I headed to the bar, flagged down the server and described Thatcher More’s daughter to him.

  “Brown hair and eyes, wearing brown leggings and a blue tunic. Last I saw, she was talking to some boy.”

  The barkeep nodded and pointed toward the side door of the Morrow Bend. “Saw ’em head out that way. They both had a bit to drink.”

  I clenched my jaw against the rising irritation in my chest. While there was no reason we should have encountered trouble, I’d apparently released a starving wildcat in the land of plenty. Problem was I couldn’t afford to have a starving wildcat along with me on this trip.

  Making for the side door, I knew what I would find even before I opened it to the cold wind. A snow-crusted alley stretched left and right, but footprints and laughter brought my attention to where Shea was pressed against the wall by the boy she’d met at the bar. He was kissing her neck, holding her hips, pinning her with his body. Grinning, she opened her mouth to his and pulled him closer.

  In two swift strides, I pulled the gent away from her and gave him a shove. Though I hadn’t intended for him to land on his rear in the snow, the result was nonetheless satisfying. Shea giggled and covered her mouth. If she was embarrassed, it was only because some fuzzy, faraway recess in her brain told her she ought to be.

  Dismayed, I pointed to the door. “We’re going inside. Now.”

  “What if I don’ wan’ to?” she mumbled in protest, her words slurred.

  The young man stumbled to his feet, his coordination poor in his drunken state. He crashed into the opposite alley wall before righting himself, and I cocked an eyebrow, wondering if he’d remember in the morning how he’d gotten his bruises. At last getting his bearings, he lurched forward, his momentum allowing him to push past me and put an arm around the girl he hoped to seduce.

  “Who’s this bitch, honey? Tellin’ you what to do. You wanna stay with me, don’cha? Maybe I should do yah a favor and shut her up.”

  Shea’s eyes widened, perhaps realizing through her inebriation that her partner in lust had more in mind than she did. She tried to remove his arm, but didn’t have a good angle or leverage, and ended up feebly swiping at it. Viewing her actions as a request for help, I grabbed him by the collar and slung him once more against the alley wall, hoping he would crack his head on the stone and be incapacitated. But he put his hands out in time to catch himself. He turned around and raised his fists, his manhood apparently challenged. He was broad-shouldered and tall enough that I could have hidden behind him, and a sardonic, fatalistic part of my brain acknowledged that this was going to hurt.

  More as a reflex than anything else, I called on my elemental connection to the water to help me, but all I felt was a strange, dilating hollowness in my core—I no longer had the ability to make the wet snow slippery and knock my adversary out cold. Neither could I hover into the air to confuse him or attack from above. I was left with no distinct advantage aside from my sobriety, and his threat suddenly carried more weight. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, for this sort of weakness was a new feeling, one that made me want to run even though I’d never retreated from a lone combatant before. I detested the boy for making me feel afraid; at the same time, I was too afraid to provoke him.

  In the end, only one thing occurred to me. I likewise balled my fists, reluctant to pull and potentially lose possession of the Anlace, and when he was close enough, drilled him in the crotch with one of my boots. He yelped at a soprano pitch and went down faster than anyone I’d ever seen.

  “Hurry,” I shouted to Shea, snatching her arm and tugging her back inside the pub, letting the door slam behind us.

  Though Shea swayed on her feet, I kept her moving, past the bar and tables, and up the staircase to our room, fuming inside. If she hadn’t come with me, I would have been tucked away in bed already, warm and sleeping, and not worried about pursuit by a man who I could only hope was still clutching himself between his legs in agony. This was how she thanked me for taking a chance on her?

  After forcing all the water I could down Shea’s throat to reduce the likelihood of illness in the morning, I cracked open the window, hoping the cool air would help to sober her up. Then I tucked her into bed. She was asleep within fifteen minutes, but the same peace eluded me. Seeing Shea with that boy had reawakened thoughts of Davic. What was he doing in Chrior this night? Cavorting with friends? Visiting his parents and sister on the other side of the city? Or was he reading a book, safe and warm in his alcove? I closed my eyes at that image, aching to be warm in his arms, to lay my head on his shoulder. A lump rose in my throat, and I rubbed my hands over my face, refusing to wallow in longing. It was time I accepted the simple truth. Even if Davic realized something was wrong, convinced Ubiqua and my father and Ione, and they all came looking for me, there was nothing they could do to change my circumstances.

  I continued to toss and turn, dozing in and out without really resting. The darkness did not lift, only shifted, and I knew in the morning this ni
ght would seem surreal and distant.

  Shea was sniffing between her heavy breaths, and though that wasn’t the reason I couldn’t sleep, the repetitive noise irked me. Worse, now that I’d noticed it, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I snugged my pillow against my ears, then sat up and threw it at her, realizing too late that I’d have to get up to retrieve it. With a sigh, I rolled out of bed to snatch it back, and froze.

  The wheezing wasn’t coming from Shea.

  My breath caught, magnifying the earnest beating of my heart. As unobtrusively as I could, I swiveled to check the room, trying not to imagine what might be behind me. The light from a street lamp fought its way through the ratty curtains, casting knotted shadows across the floor. A creature—luminescent yet deathly gray—was slipping from underneath my bed, using the foot post to hoist itself up. It wasn’t facing me, and I praised Nature that I’d gotten up. It sniffed at my mattress and groped about with its glowing spearlike fingers, its emaciated body following waiflike behind those strong digits that were slithering up the coverlet. It had neither the size of a human adult nor the smallness of a child, and its legs, if legs they could be called, were bound together by intricate spider webs of skin, stretched to their limit. The lower half of its body was almost useless, but nevertheless the thing moved with a perverse grace.

  I shook Shea violently by the shoulder.

  “What?” she murmured.

  The creature’s head whipped around, and I choked on the cry in my throat—the same shredded skin adorned its face, looking like bruise-colored scars across its pallid cheeks. Its eyes were pupil-less, nothing more than phosphorescent orbs of sickly green, and my insides twisted as I saw that it had no mouth or nose. How was it making that ragged noise? Through its pores?

  The ghastly visitor made a high-pitched keening noise and threw itself from my bed to the floor, where it crawled toward us at an uncanny speed, its long fingers reaching well in front of the rest of its body. Shea scrambled to her feet, letting out the scream that I could not. My weapons were on the other side of the room, past our intruder, but Shea lurched toward her coat, searching through it with frantic hands. She needn’t have hurried for her own sake—the creature had no interest in her.

  I bumped into Shea’s bedpost, almost losing my footing as I retreated backward until I was pinned against the wall, the creature never more than a few inches away. It grabbed my ankle, my calf, the hem of my shirt, finally coming face-to-face with me. I could feel the tug and release of its breathing, its hungry inhalation, cold exhalation. It was near weightless, but its odor was sweet like death. I knew what it wanted, why it was interested in me and not Shea. It wanted magic, and it had followed my trail in the same way a hound followed a scent. How it would go about draining the little magic I had left was the true mystery, the true terror. I flattened myself out as much as I could, eyes shut tight, afraid it would rob me of my very soul.

  At the report of a gun, the creature squealed and retreated, and I fell to my knees. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Shea, the silver pistol shaking alarmingly in her hands, and the muscles of my chest threatened to strangle my heart. That bullet could easily have hit me.

  Rolling and writhing, the wounded creature crashed into my bed, Shea following it with her outstretched arm. Once more she fired, but the weapon clicked hollowly, for only a single bullet had rested in its chamber. Thatcher had removed the rest, and Shea had not thought to reload.

  Further violence wasn’t necessary, however, for the spindly thing was no longer interested in us. It had knocked over my bag, spilling its contents across the floor, and had picked up my only hope of returning home—the flask of Sale that might kill or save me. I tried to reclaim my feet to take back what was mine, but my trembling body gave out. Shea inched toward the door, one hand on the wall for support, the other gripping her gun and shaking so hard the weapon continually bumped against her leg.

  I shrieked, but there was nothing I could do to stop that unnatural being from using its tendril-like fingers to remove the cork from my flask and pour the Sale over its head. The liquid dripped down its body, hissing and creating a steam through which I couldn’t see. But I heard its deep, pleasured sigh. Next instant, the room was empty except for Shea and me, the creature having left the way it had entered, through the open window.

  “No,” I moaned, crawling to the remains of my belongings. “No, no, no!”

  But it was too late. Nary a drop of Sale remained. Breaking into staccato sobs, I crumpled to the floor, hating the thing that had stolen my only chance of living a life with Davic and my family in Chrior, hating the hunters who had reduced me to a single, feeble hope, hating myself for being so, so stupid. If I had followed my own advice to Illumina, I would never have been a victim. If I had listened to Davic and stayed with him, I would never have been in the vicinity of the humans who’d maimed me.

  I felt more than heard Shea’s approach. She wrapped her arms around me, and I leaned heavily against her. The immediate fear for my life had dissipated, but a greater, overriding terror was moving in. A long time ago, before I’d lost my wings, I’d thought that bravery could be attained with an open mind and heart, by pursuing and facing my demons. Now I considered that fearlessness was the luxury of the cloistered and the blind, and that it was too late for me.

  “You were right, Shea,” I whispered. “About the Sepulchres. The curse didn’t kill them. It turned them into monsters.”

  “You couldn’t have known those...things exist. You’re not superhuman. Er, super-Fae, I guess. And we don’t know for certain it was a Sepulchre.”

  “It wanted me. It wanted the magic from my wounds, and when it couldn’t—” I broke off and fumbled for my empty flask.

  “What was in there?”

  There were simultaneously too many words and no words at all to explain to Shea what had been in the flask. But without Sale, I had neither the hope of reclaiming my old life nor the possibility of neatly ending my current one. And if all else failed, that had been my plan. I blinked back a wave of tears and forced myself to breathe.

  “It was a form of medicine.”

  Though Shea frowned, she asked me nothing more. I was thankful she didn’t berate me for the way I had dismissed the cautionary tale she had told her sisters. I’d been a fool. There had been signs that something was watching me...the scratch marks on the trees in the clearing, the rattling of the window latch in Shea’s bedroom. That creature must have followed us all the way from the Balsam Forest. If I’d just sacrificed a little pride and considered that Shea might be right, perhaps I could have prevented this.

  There were voices sounding in the hall, and the door shook with someone’s weight thrust against it again and again. Startled, we scrambled to our feet. Two men broke the lock and burst into the room, a posse of curious faces gathered behind them.

  The barkeep had led the charge, and his troubled eyes fell on us. “We heard a scream and what sounded like a gunshot.”

  “I thought I saw someone in our room,” Shea smoothly lied. “I guess we both had too much to drink.”

  I attempted to smile in confirmation. “Sorry for the alarm.”

  “You’re paying for that door,” the other man, presumably the innkeeper, scoffed.

  Ignoring the mess on the floor and the tears on my face, the irritated pair scowled at us and headed back into the hall, waving the onlookers on their way. Luckily, the door remained on its hinges, permitting me to jam it closed. Shea plopped on her bed while I lit the lamp, then I went to sit next to her, having no inclination to be near the window.

  “Why lie?” I asked. “I thought humans believed in Sepulchres.”

  “Not everyone does. Besides, what would you do with two hysterical girls claiming they opened fire on a glowing spectral creature?”

  “Toss them in the street. And take away their liquor and guns.”
<
br />   Shea giggled, adrenaline and alcohol undoubtedly fueling her emotions. “That would have been a much worse end to this than paying for damages.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Very caring gentlemen, those two. No offer to look around, no ‘Are you all right?’” I adopted a gruff, over-the-top voice. “Just, ‘Fix the damn door!’”

  Shea laughed once more, and this time I joined in, the relief welcome. Only our first day journeying, and already our adventures were beyond anything I could have anticipated.

  * * *

  After breakfast at the Morrow Bend, during which Shea and I studiously avoided conversation about the events of the previous night, we went to the livery stable and paid the rental fee for two horses. As we led the animals into the sunshine—a pleasant change from the weather the day before—I drew Shea’s attention to a tannery.

  “Over there,” I said, pointing. “See that leather shop? I’ll hold the horses if you want to get a belt.”

  “A belt?”

  “For your bullets. And you might want to load your gun.”

  “Oh, right. I guess my brain isn’t fully functioning yet. I’ll just be a minute.”

  She headed to the tanner’s, and I was thankful the alcohol she’d consumed hadn’t made her physically ill; a muddled mind I could handle. She returned with a gun belt strapped around her hips and over one shoulder, the spare bullets Thatcher had given her already in place. After securing her pistol at her side, she buttoned the overcoat under her cloak to hide the evidence.

  “Now, how do I get on this thing?” she asked, taking the reins to her mount from me.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Nope. Not the slightest idea.”

  “I thought all humans knew how to ride horses.”

  She laughed. “We’re not born on horseback, you know. Most men learn, but I’ve only ridden in wagons or buggies.”

  I laid a hand on my mount’s neck to calm the animal, who had taken to pawing the ground. “It doesn’t look that hard to me.”