Poison Kiss

by Ana Mardoll

  "Ah!" Athena's triumphant exclamation cuts through the moment. "A sword, huh? Named Caliburn, were you?" she asks with a satisfied nod. "Or Caledfwlch, if he was especially pretentious? Killed a lot of people on the battlefield, wielded by your master's hand?"

  Confusion is etched on his face. "No, ma'am," he says, shaking his head tentatively. "My name was— is Clarent. And he didn't— I didn't—" He shudders softly. "He, ah, used me while he was holding court. He would stab me into the captives." He gives Celia a plaintive look. "But they didn't die. They screamed, and they hurt, and they changed, but they didn't die."

  Celia tightens her grip on his shoulder, preventing him from drifting into a flashback. "Clarent. Changed how?"

  His eyes drop away, not meeting her gaze. "Sprouted fur. Grew hooves," he mumbles. "Became boars and beasts for the lords to hunt. The women—" His silver eyes lift to linger sadly on me, plagued with familiar guilt. "The women turned as beautiful as you, Rose. They were installed in the towers to be rescued, or sometimes banished to the nunneries when he was in a stormy mood. I rarely saw them again. He never kept ladies at court for long."

  His guilt is so similar to my own that I can't stop myself from reaching over the counter to take his hand. I don't know whether it's appropriate for me to touch him or whether he wants this from me right now, but I can't not make the offer. His cool metal softens slightly under the warmth of my touch, just as his lips had earlier. He smiles at me, a rueful smile expressing gratitude without lessening his guilt.

  Celia frowns, looking as though she wants to say something comforting but lacks the right words. "Clarent—" she manages finally, but she's interrupted by Athena.

  "Wait, child. Wait." She's still rummaging through the food I've brought, but now her brow is furrowed with deep wrinkles. Shaking her head every few seconds, she looks like a dog worrying at a bone. "No, that's not..." Another shake of her head, slower this time. "Not Caliburn, Clarent." It's his name, but she says the word as though it has another meaning for her entirely: the difference between Rose and rose. "You, boy, come with me."

  Her bony hand shoots out like a snake, grabbing his wrist in a vise-like hold. As she drags him to the back of the shop, he barely has the necessary reflexes to remain on his feet stumbling after her rather than fall flat on his face. I smile encouragingly at him as they disappear into one of the aisles, and then turn to Celia. I'd expected her to follow them, but instead she digs a cellphone from her back pocket and frowns at it.

  "Rose, this has been vibrating my butt off for the last five minutes, and I need to go check on someone," she says. Her usually mild voice has a strained tone. "Can you stay with Clarent? Make sure Athena doesn't bully him too much." I nod, but she doesn't even seem to notice; she spins silently on her heel and ducks out through the shop door without another word.

  "We'll be fine!" I call after her retreating back, wondering whether I'm trying to reassure her or myself. I watch her climb into her truck and drive quickly away; the thought then occurs to me that perhaps I ought to be more worried than I already am.

  I realize that in the disarray with Athena, I haven't had a chance to ask why Lavender wasn't with them. Pulling out my own phone, I feel a rush of panic, even though I'm fairly certain Celia would have told me if her emergency had anything to do with Lavs. There are no missed calls, but to my relief she's sent a text: Sorry, Ravs, I'm going to crash for a nap at Celia's. She says it should be safe here. Find my car tomorrow?

  I breathe deeply again, cradling the phone to my chest in relief. I don't know what has rattled Celia, and the empty storefront has no answers to the dozen questions fraying my nerves, but at least Lavender is all right. Sleep well, I text back before locking up the shop and closing the shutters again. If Athena is going to be involved in altered research right now, we don't need any normals coming in.

  Chapter 10

  Athena and Clarent aren't hard to locate in the dusty silence of the bookstore; all I have to do is follow the sounds of her sharp scolding exclamations and his low apologetic murmurs. It helps that I have a good idea where they will be; sooner or later we all end up in the mythology section with Athena, giving half-remembered answers and receiving exasperated lectures in return. Athena has never been as patient with the newly-escaped altereds as Celia is.

  The community we've built in the metroplex revolves around helping the escapees that Celia finds. She recovers us from the portals for which she seems to have a sixth sense, and keeps us in her home until we can get our feet under ourselves. Lily, a golden girl I've yet to meet, is supposed to give us a starting point for researching our pasts—though I was warned not to get my hopes up. Mina, with her warmth and easy optimism, and Elric, with his talent for acquisition, give us a future. Athena, acerbic as she is, has the job of giving us the context of our captivity.

  I take my time following them to the back, pausing to try to correct some of the sprawling mess. I hope I can get everything back in order before Jing comes on for the evening shift. Right now, Athena will be grilling Clarent relentlessly about his time in Avalon while she digs through her books for context to hand him. She's quite certain that the faeries don't have a culture of their own, preferring to mimic their idea of ours. The scenery and customs of their realms seem to be based on the snippets of myth and memory that they rummage from our minds, or corrupted from the books they steal from the earthside.

  I was one of the lucky ones: Athena took a special interest in me. She's told me the tales of vishkanya, the poison maidens of Indian folklore. They were employed to make lethal love to their king's enemies, just as I was used in Thistle to kill the May Queen's neighbors. And she's read aloud to me the full text of Nathaniel Hawthorne's Rappaccini's Daughter, introducing me to the story of the poor girl who innocently tended her father's venomous plants and in the process became poisonous herself.

  I hadn't enjoyed hearing the stories. They'd instantly elicited memories best left to my nightmares, sending me into a panicked state of heightened breathing and nervous tension. Athena had muttered darkly about depression and post-traumatic stress disorder before calling Mina and demanding that she drive over and take me in hand.

  Yet even so, the stories had given me a strange measure of comfort once I'd been able to calm down. I was still a murderer and I would have to live with that, but knowing the reasoning behind my alteration had made the world seem a little less arbitrary. I had poison lips so that I could be used as a weapon in love-making. Unfair, unkind, but something I could understand. I'd kept the books Athena had shown me, persuading her with great effort to let me buy them; if any more Nightshades were to escape Thistle I'd be here to help them, stories at the ready.

  When I round the corner to the mythology section, Athena is crouched on the floor in front of the Celtic subsection. Her nose is buried in a book, and she peppers Clarent with questions as she turns pages. He towers helplessly over her, clearly unsure whether to join her on the floor or wait to help her up once she's found whatever she's looking for.

  "You're certain you don't remember a name for your master?" she demands, not looking up at him. "Didn't he introduce himself to the new captives? Did he have any large tables that were ostentatiously round?" Her voice has the exasperated air of one who is tired of coming up with new ways to ask old questions; I can tell she's digging for an expected-yet-elusive answer.

  "No, ma'am," he says. "I'm sorry, but I told you: I knew him only as the High King. I didn't have free movement throughout the castle. I was a man when I was in the smithy and I was a sword outside of it, everywhere else." He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, looking faintly embarrassed at his failure to give her the answers she wants.

  "Tsk." She clucks her tongue and shakes her head, still flipping furiously through her book. "I don't know what Rose sees in you; you're not very good at research. 'I don't pretend to be a sage, nor have I all the wisdom of the age'—you don't know French, do you? Molière? Have they not taken you to see Lily yet? No matter."
She shakes her head again. "The point is: being the living embodiment of an inanimate object is no excuse for unobservant apathy."

  He stares down at her, stunned for a moment by the fresh barrage of abuse. I realize he hasn't seen me yet, and I'm surprised when the corners of his mouth suddenly quirk upwards in the hint of a smile; is he actually enjoying being harangued by Athena? "Yes, ma'am," he agrees solemnly, his face otherwise perfectly composed. "It's very important that Rose have only the best."

  "Quite so," she declares sternly, turning another page. "She keeps the customers from bothering me. That's important work! You may have to learn another name for her, by the way, she keeps threatening to change it. But Rose by any other name will smell just as sweet— No. No, wait, that's her little girlfriend with the freckles. You watch her; she's far too saucy for a lady's-maid. That's Molière as well, you know."

  "Lavender?" he prompts helpfully.

  She peers up at him, determined not to be distracted by little details. "As for you, we're going to have to improve your mind. Maybe some Sudoku books; I've been meaning to reorganize the puzzles section. You have to read them here, though, and work out the puzzles on rolls of receipt paper. I won't have you taking the books away! I don't trust you not to write in them, and those metal fingers will tear the pages when I'm not watching. Do you have any more of those donut holes? Rose, quit lurking and come help me look for the bit I remember! You're certain he didn't use you in battle?"

  His head jerks up at the mention of my name, and he sees me watching. A dark blush brushes his silver cheeks. "No, you ate the last of the ones I brought," he says to Athena. "And, yes, I'm sure. He kept me at court; no battlefields. I was only used against his captives."

  "Well, you should have brought more donuts. Wasn't there a whole bag? You left it up there with Rose, hmm? That was sly of you; she likes food." Her gray eyes glitter with mischief. "Though I'm not sure it works as well when she bought the food you're giving to her. It seems rather crass, now that I consider it. And there's no point in leaving the sausage rolls with her, not when she refuses to eat any pork."

  She shifts her gaze back to him. "What do you think of pork, eh? Vegetarian or vegan or halal or kosher or just plain picky? They're not the same thing, you know. More pork for me, if you two won't eat it. Still, she's hungry for something else from you or I'm very much mistaken. She hasn't liked any of the other boys. 'Not till God make men of some other metal than earth', eh? At least you're not bronze. She has an allergy to bronze."

  "Athena," I say, my voice taking on a warning tone.

  She ignores me. "And you're not undead, so I suppose that's something. That ridiculous minx Mina keeps offering to bring undead around here for Rose to practice on, and I've no patience for it. You're not too talkative, either. Look, see? Here you are. Careful with the pages, boy."

  Athena spins around the book she's been flipping through and shoves it at him. I frown, stepping closer to Clarent in order to peer around his shoulder. I hear his sharp intake of breath at the sight of the page and then my own eyes widen. There on the glossy paper is a picture of a beautiful blade; an ornamental attempt at a recreation, the caption says. Below the photograph are the words 'Clarent, the sword of peace'.

  "One of King Arthur's swords, you know," Athena says smugly, watching our faces. "Not well known, but integral to the Alliterative Morte Arthure. They were a pair, the two swords; war and peace, killing and knighting. Clarent was the peaceful brother of Caliburn, or 'Excalibur' if you prefer. Caliburn was the more famous of the two, by far; more bloody, which always makes for better stories. Clarent was the peaceful sword, reserved for ceremonial uses; knighting ceremonies in particular."

  Clarent stares at the page in evident shock, and I wonder how much of this is sinking in. His fingers brush gently over the colorful page illustration, almost in awe. "You mean I was a legendary sword, out of some kind of myth?"

  "No! Good grief." Athena snaps the book away from us, cradling it protectively to her chest before he can touch it again. "You children," she scolds. "Do you think I'm the actual bloody goddess of wisdom? Do you bring me golden apples and then offer them to Mina instead and act all shocked and appalled when Celia and I make war on you? No, you don't! Not a single one of you even tries!"

  I frown at the sharp, emotional rise in her voice. She's getting worked up, frustrated at having to explain the same things over and over again to different members of the community. Her sleeplessness isn't helping with her flashbacks, shading Clarent over into the same category as her library 'patrons' in the otherworld. "Athena," I say as gently as I can, reaching out tentatively to touch her shoulder.

  She glances up at me, seems suddenly to remember I'm here. "And do you think Rose killed boys by being an actual flower in a bouquet?" she continues. My hand freezes in midair as I concentrate on remembering to breathe. "Why would boys try to make love to a flower? That would be ridiculous! At least be consistent in your silliness. No, no, your faery wanted to play at being King Arthur, and incorporated you into the alterations of his new captives as part of his game, pretending he was knighting them." She shakes her head in disgust. "There's an Avalon near here, and the faeries are irritatingly illogical; it's entirely possible he got the idea after harvesting folks from there. Don't get me started on Athens. Are you all right, Rose?"

  I realize my hand is still outstretched, trembling in midair. I pull it back as casually as I can and force a smile on my face, trying to pretend I'm not shaking inside. "I'm fine," I say and it almost sounds true. Clarent is staring at me with concern in his solemn expression and I clear my throat, casting about for a change of subject. "Does that mean there's another like him, still in Avalon?" I ask quietly, remembering the other Flowers, my fellow Nightshades. "A brother, Caliburn?"

  Athena watches us closely, her sharp eyes darting between us. "Very likely," she decides, her voice suddenly light and airy, matching my casual tone. "They would have met on the battlefield eventually. Clarent was the sword of peace, but in the Alliterative Morte Arthure, his role is to be stolen by Mordred and used to wound Arthur. It's all very symbolic, you know; father against son, sword against brother."

  Clarent stiffens suddenly, jolting as if electricity had shot through him. "Stolen?" he repeats, his eyes widening. "That's what he was doing. That's why they took me out of the castle." He slumps against the nearby bookcase, as though the act of standing requires more effort than he can muster.

  I grip his arm gently to steady him. "What do you mean?"

  His gray eyes fly open to meet mine. "He— the High King, he brought in a new captive, a girl." I nod at him, stroking his arm in an awkward attempt at comfort. "He called her his sister, Morgan. Morgana?" He looks down at Athena, who answers him with a curt nod. "But he didn't stab me into her to change her, the way he usually did. Instead—"

  His voice drops to a horrified whisper. "He kissed her. It was as though the life was leached out of her, all the color and warmth draining away. When he pulled away, her body was empty but she was still standing. She'd become a shell without a soul; not properly dead, but just gone."

  I gulp air, hating this talk of kissing and killing. Athena looks at me, her eyes sharp, but nods again. "Go on, boy," she says sternly.

  He shivers under my fingertips. "The body started to move. The High King spoke to it, called it by that name: Mordred." He shakes his head slowly, trying to jar his memories free. "I was in court, on display. The body, this Mordred, came at night and stole me. Carried me from the castle. He walked for hours. We crossed some kind of border and then—I was a man again."

  "Our parking lot," I prompt, my eyes watching him.

  He gives me an apologetic wince. "I was confused. I'm so sorry. I thought it was one of their games, that I had a role to play. Then you were holding me, so frightened and brave and beautiful." He blushes, clearing his throat. "I thought you were someone I'd been brought to save; a blacksmith and a pretty maid. I'm so sorry."

  I blink at him
, feeling heat spreading across my own cheeks. "So that's what you meant by 'rescuing' me."

  He looks, if possible, more bashful than before. "I'm sure you're perfectly capable— He was the one with strong notions of—" Clarent stops, running a hand over his eyes and pausing to collect himself. "Women were delicate and cherished in Avalon," he begins again, his quiet voice hollow. "When they weren't being run through with magic swords or drained into emptiness."

  Athena nods at this. "The faeries play at love, but it's never real," she says sharply. "We're toys and food to them, and they never truly forget that." Her fingers trail gently over the book cover. "They have the power to rearrange the magic in our bodies, altering us from normal humans to what we are now. They also have the power to drain a human completely, sucking the magic into their own bodies for nourishment. Your Morgan le Fay was drained, and the empty shell left over was used as an avatar."

  Clarent frowns at this. "She was food?"

  Athena pulls herself to her feet, brushing the dust off her pants as she stands. "She was a toy. He wanted to generate a 'Mordred' from the union of his own 'Arthur' with a mortal woman. He could have stolen a baby, of course; they sometimes do. Or he might have tried to make one from his captives. But children are never a sure thing in the otherworld. They age unpredictably and die easily. An avatar from the body of its 'mother' would be so much faster."

  "Did she think she was this person—Mordred?" I ask, hearing the horror in my own voice.

  She gives me a sharp look. "No. The mind cannot survive the loss of its magic. He was speaking to another faery." She shrugs then. "They can animate the drained bodies for a time before they wear out. Your High King either animated it himself or it was animated remotely by another faery. Probably they were playing a game."

  Clarent considers this. "But where was he taking me? And why did he let me escape?"