by Ana Mardoll
I can feel the cold sapping my strength even as inhuman eyes bore into my back. If I were smart, I would let go—not of Lavender, but of the rocks beneath my feet. I could hold her as the river carries us to a cleaner death than any our mistress will offer us.
Yet now that it really matters, I can't seem to let go. I'm not brave enough to lose Lavender, to accept failure, to give up on the memory of a sun that burns and a moon that cools. My eyes dully register that the mist is thicker now, so opaquely white that I can barely see Lavender's head as she breaks the surface briefly for a gulping breath, still holding on against the current that won't let her stand. Maybe the mist is a boon, if it hides us from pursuit long enough for the cold to take us instead.
"Lavender, I'm so sorry," I whisper, and her green eyes meet mine with understanding before being pulled back under the water.
"Here! I've got you, keep hold of her!" A voice, sharp and commanding, cuts through the icy haze. I feel strange tendrils pulling me towards the far side of the shore, reviving the terrifying memory of strangling willow vines. I struggle uselessly for a moment before looking down to see a thick coil wrapped around my chest—yellow rope brighter than any Marigold's hair.
"C'mon, Pink, hold on to her," orders the voice again, tense and strained from the effort of pulling me towards the shore.
My hands tighten on Lavender's arm, instinctively obeying the voice before my brain has a chance to wonder whether this is a bad idea. If I am caught, the kindest thing I can do is to let Lavender go. I've seen the May Queen's tortures, those she puts on for entertainment and instruction, and they are a far worse way to die than slipping under frigid water to sleepily drown. I strain my eyes to find my captor, following the line of the strange sunny rope that digs into my skin and tears at my thin gown.
There she is, a dark shape outlined against the white mist, a lone woman; not a faery lady but a human like us, judging by her movements. For a moment, I take her for one of us Flowers: her hair is a dark loamy brown, her skin is the soft warmth of dark tree bark, and she seems almost designed to blend into the deadly forests that line the May Queen's estate.
But her bare arms flex with wiry muscle as she hauls us in, the rope obedient in her skilled hands. No Flower was given strength like that or allowed to be anything other than delicately frail. Her clothes, too, are wrong; leather boots that cling to her legs like a second skin and a sturdy green tunic that doesn't tear when the bright yellow rope scratches against it. She looks confident and strong, entirely accustomed to being in charge.
"Hold on, I can almost reach you," grunts the woman on the shore, hauling me closer. She pulls hard, yanking me several feet and causing me to stumble on the loose rocks. My fingers slip on Lavender's skin and I grasp her wrist more tightly. I pull upward with the last of my strength and Lavender kicks hard, shooting forward into me, breaking free from the current for a split moment.
Instinctively I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close to me and leaning back to maneuver her into standing. Here by the shore, the water is shallower and the current just a bit weaker. Lavender stumbles twice on the treacherous rocks before regaining her footing. She stands against me, gasping for air and choking up water, and my arms tighten their hold.
"I've got you," I tell her, wishing I had a free hand to massage her back as more water comes up from her throat to splash our gowns. "I'm not letting go."
"Up you come, Violet," our rescuer orders, planting her foot on the shore and reaching down to help haul Lavender up. She pulls and I push and Lavender scrambles, and between the three of us she flops onto the shore, laughing and crying as she kneels on her hands and vomits more river water.
"You next, Pink," the woman says, gripping my arm with a grasp like an iron vise. I shouldn't trust her, I remember belatedly; we were supposed to be evading capture, not cooperating with it. Yet as brusque as this woman is, her expression strikes me as honest, even kind. I clamber onto the bank with her help, knowing my legs are too weak to run. If I am going to hope for a miracle, it may be that this woman can save us.
"There's a—", I stammer weakly, my hand flying out to point. I'd meant to gesture at the far shore, at the spider I expected to see stalking impotently there, but my eyes widen at the sight of our pursuer stepping onto the raging river, spindly legs carefully balanced on frothing waters that should not support them. The mist surrounds it and us, a dome of white cutting off the moon, the mansion, and everything except this little bubble of the four of us; three women and a spider the size of the carriage that carried me to hell and back.
"I see him," the woman says, her voice tight and cold. When I look back to her, wondering how we can possibly flee this monstrosity, her dark eyes are focused not on the spider but on a point just above it. I twist my head back to the river and see what she sees: the shape I'd seen earlier, pale and white in the moonlight, watches us from the spider's back with bright, triumphant eyes. A faery lord grips the spider's hair tightly, riding his mount with gleeful abandon, savoring the hunt. He carries a spear or javelin in one hand and, as I watch, he prepares to throw the weapon.
Eyes bright with cruel intent, he takes aim. I only have time to scramble uselessly backwards on my hands and feet, a cornered crab trying to scuttle away from an elephant. I see our rescuer drop her shoulder, slinging her arm around in a single smooth motion, her other hand moving up to her back. His javelin adjusts as he switches aim from me to her, his eyes tracking the more interesting target. Her hands come around to a center point in front of her body, and my eyes belatedly register that the woman is carrying a bow; I can see the quiver of arrows resting at the small of her back. She draws, the string taut enough to set my chattering teeth on edge, and his own hand pulls back to throw.
I want to stop her, to yell a warning; she won't hit him. I've seen faeries dodge the fastest of projectiles. Yet before I can draw a breath, her arrow lets fly, shooting sure and true—but not into the faery. The missile buries itself deep into the body of the spider, the shaft instantly coated with dark ichor splashing from the wound. The creature screams a terrifyingly human sound of torment, stumbles on the water, and sinks like a stone, its careful equilibrium upset. The white face of the lord, furious and shocked, disappears beneath the water, churned to a dark froth by blood and the death throes of his steed.
Our rescuer stands there for a moment, a second arrow already nocked and waiting. I notice slowly that the sound of the river is fading, the thick mist evaporating from the air around us. Impossibly, the world around us has changed, as if the mist had rearranged everything it covered. The May Queen's mansion is gone, the hedge-walls of the maze have faded, and the southern bridge no longer exists. Indeed, there is no river left for a bridge to span; the water beside us has thinned to little more than a babbling creek, barely deep enough to wet my ankles.
Lavender stares with me, taking in the long pale grass, browned and dry rather than the May Queen's customary lush emerald green. Then our eyes widen at the sight of something flat and bleached gray in the moonlight: a road, I remember. Not a road like the packed dirt roads between estates, but a real street, made from melted tar and tiny stones and yellow paint to guide carriages. No, not carriages, I think, blinking at the sight of the cherry-red truck that sits idly on the side of the faraway road. I can see its lights from here; the driver must have jumped from the vehicle as soon as it came to a stop. Its headlights paint the street a warm yellow; the light inside the cabin is white and stark.
The woman shoulders her bow as the last tendril of mist evaporates, and comes to help us stand. "Up we go," she says again. Though her voice is still commanding, there's more of the kindness I'd sensed earlier and her touch is gentle. "You did good, making a portal like that. Remembered something out here, did you? The river helped, the fae magic is always thin at the estate-borders. And of course there were two of you, and more is better. Good odds, but still very ballsy. Wounded? No? Just scrapes? I have a first-aid kit in the Ford. Come on, here we go.
"
Her actions match her soothing words, helping us up, moving us towards the car, gentling us with the matter-of-factness of her tone. "Welcome earthside," she continues warmly, slinging Lavender's arm over her shoulder and gesturing for me to take other side so that we can help her limp to the truck. "Don't you worry, the worst is past for now; there's always a rest period before another portal can be opened in the same place, and we'll be long gone by then. We'll get you some food, a place to sleep, and then we have a lot of catching up to do. I'm Celia, by the way. You two have names? Doesn't matter if you don't like them, we can change them later."
I stare at her, my heart still pounding, the cold fabric of my torn gown slapping wetly at my bleeding legs. I have no idea what cut me; the current must have carried stones from upstream. "I'm Rose," I stammer, my lips still numb. "This is Lavender. We're Flowers from Thistle."
Three Months Later
Chapter 5
The morning sky is a blend of dark denims and inky blues when I jolt awake from my nightmares. My eyes fly open in panic but I force myself to lie motionless, concentrating on slowing my rapid breathing. I mustn't be heard, I can't cry out, the May Queen will hear me if I do. Thoughts come in a chaotic jumble before my sleep-blurred vision registers the fact that I am in our apartment. I'm still earthside, which means I'm safe and free. The nightmares were only memories, not new horrors.
Even so, I turn my head nervously to take stock of my surroundings. My eyes flit over the small bedroom and the few belongings that fill it: cellphone, alarm clock, a travel guide to the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex which I borrowed from Athena. Everything is where I left it, and the apartment around me is silent. The faint dawn light seeping in through my cracked plastic blinds tells me the night is gone. Lavender ought to be home from work already and asleep in her own bed. I sit up slowly, pulling my legs to my chest and burying my head between my knees. Shards of dream still cling stubbornly to my consciousness, making me feel nauseous in the closeness of the room.
I dream of dying men now—every night, all night long—their faces mottled and red, choking for air as my poison kills them. Some of them gush blood from their eyes and ears; others claw helplessly at their throats as their windpipes swell and close. Some merely stiffen and die, the heat seeping slowly from their bodies. Each time I killed someone I'd forced myself to watch until the end, not thinking it right for their deaths to go unwitnessed. Now I behold them nightly, over and over again. While nothing could ever make me wish to return to the otherworld, I am acutely aware that the nightmares came only when we were far enough away from our mistress that I could safely break down.
I can't dwell on this right now. I take as stern a tone as I can muster, trying to still the trembling in my arms. I can't miss another day of work. Athena wouldn't be upset with me for calling in sick, at least no more than she usually is, and Celia would understand, but the principle matters. Rent day is always around the corner and Lavender is depending on me to bring in my fair share.
She rarely calls in sick to her job, even though I know she has nightmares of her own. I've heard her cry out in the night once already this week, after I had woken from my own dreams. I'd splayed my fingers protectively—though uselessly—against our shared bedroom wall as though I could send comfort through the thin barrier between us. Yet she's always bright and strong and cheerful again the next morning. I don't have her sharp glossy coating, but I can try for her sake.
With an effort, I push myself up off the mattress and head for our shared bathroom down the hall. The soft white night-lights we keep plugged into every wall socket illuminate a path for me, mingling to combine with the gray Texas dawn. I move with careful slowness, treading softly in order not to wake Lavender. She works nights and tends to sleep late into the morning, so I jump with genuine fright when I'm brought up short by the unexpected sound of her voice coming from our dimly-lit kitchenette. "You're up early, Ravs," she says, adding contritely, "Sorry; didn't mean to startle you."
I've already spun on my heel to face her, my heart pounding in my throat. She's sitting on a barstool at the kitchen counter, eating cold cereal while reading the back of the colorful cardboard box. "It happens," I tell her dryly, embarrassed. "You're up earlier. Or are you up late?"
"Early," she announces. "I couldn't sleep."
Her eyes glitter with amusement, and again I'm struck by the similar markings which were stamped upon us by the May Queen. The vibrant green in our eyes and tracing through our veins is identical, trailing thick raised vines over our arms and up our necks. To altered eyes, we undeniably hail from the same mistress. The similarities are mostly invisible to normal humans, but Elric gave us the same surname anyway. Lavender could never pass for my sister, being shorter, paler, and smaller-boned than me, but Elric explained at length just how much that wasn't his problem and told us call ourselves cousins.
"Cereal?" she asks, picking up the box and waving it at me.
I recognize the bright yellow colors, even from the back: it's the one with the sea captain on the front. Yesterday she had the one with the rabbit. "No, thanks," I say, rolling my eyes at her. She knows I won't eat any of them, nor the oatmeals, not after I got into that fight with Elric when I asked where the girl-cereals were and he laughed at me.
"We're out of Pop-Tarts," she warns, looking back at her cereal box and smirking to herself. "You ate the last of them yesterday, remember? We need to go shopping."
"Aw, Lavs, don't say that," I beg, feeling my stomach growl and desperately needing her to be wrong. The scent of her this morning—apple cider and marigold and, yes, lavender—is enough to make me ravenous. I flick on the harsh yellow lights and stomp over to the pantry, rummaging around for a few moments before I have to concede that she is right. My breakfast pastries are gone, along with most of the rest of our staples.
She chuckles and I turn to face her, squinting against the overhead glare. With my eyes screwed up like this, half-closed against the light, I can see her the way normal people do, those who haven't been taken to the otherworld. The green in her veins recedes and softens to a paler blue, and her purple hair turns silvery blond, with only the tiniest hint of dark lilac streaking up from the bottom few inches of her curls. I like both versions of Lavender, the faery-altered one and the human-looking one, but if it were to come down to a choice, I prefer the girl with soft lilac hair and bright green vines encircling her skin.
"You're staring again," she says, giving me a soft smile as her eyes flick up from the cereal box.
I feel myself blush as I turn away. "Sorry," I mumble at her, "you're making me hungry." Immediately I wish I hadn't said that; it sounds stupid, like a come-on that Elric might use. I duck my head and give up on the question of breakfast, choosing instead to retreat to the safety of the bathroom. "I'll just, uh, get some donut holes on the way in to work. Maybe some sausage rolls for Athena, to cheer her up a bit."
Lavender snorts at this. "I don't know how you put up with her," she says with a laugh. "You have the patience of a saint. Can you give me a ride?"
I check my step, instantly confused by the non sequitur. "What's wrong with your car?" I ask automatically, before guiltily adding, "Yes, sure, of course I will. But is your car okay? Are you okay?"
"It's fine," she says airily, swallowing the last bite of cereal before hopping up to dump the residual milk down the kitchen drain. "Work was slow last night, so they let a bunch of us off early. We girls went club-hopping. I ended up carpooling home after the second or third club; I was a bit tipsy. I'm fine now, Ravs."
I shift uneasily on my feet, not wanting to get into another fight about Lavender's outings with mundane humans—'mundies', Elric calls them, even though Mina scolds him—and the many warnings Celia gave us about getting drunk with them. Lavender isn't like me; there isn't the omnipresent danger that she might forget herself and accidentally kill someone with her lips. My issues aren't hers, and I try to remember that. Anyway, she can hold her tongue along with her
drink, and even if she got completely blotto and spilled everything, I can't believe anyone would lend her story any credence.
"Well, um. Which club is it?" I ask, dredging up in my mind the names of the ones she's visited in the past, and calculating how far they are from the bookstore.
"I'm not sure," she says matter-of-factly, flashing me a smile as she squeezes by me on the way to her room. "We went to several and I can't remember which one we started at. But we can check them all, it's fine. C'mon, Rose; you know you'll feel bad all day if you don't, so we might as well get it done and over with."
I snort at this. "I'm pretty sure I wouldn't feel bad for more than a couple hours at the most, Lavs," I tell her dryly, but that smile of hers is impossible to resist. "Let me shower and change, okay?"
She grins at her victory and ducks inside her room, only to stick her head out a moment later. "Um. You could come with us next time, Ravs. You do know that, right?"
I blink at her, thrown off-balance by the invitation. "Sure, I know," I respond awkwardly. "Thanks." I dart into the bathroom and lean against the closed door, steadying my breathing.
The bathroom has a mirror, which I try to avoid looking at. Neither of my reflections look right to me: the one with bright pink hair which Lavender sees, nor the one with dark brown hair and rosy highlights that the humans remark on. Every morning, I register with increasingly dulled disappointment that my hair is still stubbornly pink. Even though Mina warned me not to expect my appearance to change, I keep telling Athena not to get used to what she calls my 'pastel nonsense'. I'm unable to shake the superstition that if my green eyes one day turned brown, or if the profusion of rose-pink in my hair dulled to a more natural color, then the memory of who I am and where I came from might return alongside the physical alterations.