by Ana Mardoll
Tox isn't here, but the meetings sometimes run rather late so I imagine Dakota has procured a babysitter for the night. Lily isn't here either, but of course she'd said not to expect her. I also don't see Joel or Worth, which is rather odd; I'd have expected Celia to include them in the discussion, since they were witnesses to a lot of the events of the last two days. I wonder if she's had a chance to call them since our meeting with Oracle and Hermit, and if they know now that my lips heal without Joel's special 'treatment'.
Mina is here, holding court in her 'good chair'. The flimsy little folding seats are uncomfortable for her, so Celia always makes sure one of the office chairs is wheeled in. Mina radiates sex appeal tonight, her low-cut lace dress only barely containing her cleavage. She gives me a warm smile from within the circle of admiring men and women who've claimed the area around her—one of whom seems to be regaling the others with an amusing story—and I wave back.
"There you are!" A sharp voice behind us causes me to jump. I twist around to see Athena nearby, peering suspiciously at us. She's accompanied by Jing who hovers nervously at her elbow, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Under the harsh overhead lights, the young woman is almost translucently clear.
I smile at her, ignoring Athena's gathering ire, and tilt my head to indicate the silver man by my side. "Jing, this is Clarent," I say by way of introduction. "Clarent, this is Jing. She works at the bookstore with us." I offer her an apologetic smile that Athena is welcome to consider her due as well, should she so choose. "Sorry I haven't been pulling my weight lately. Did you two close up the store and drive here together?"
Jing nods. "Yes. Well, kind of." Her eyes flick up to meet mine and she shimmers nervously, looking skittish. "We drove here together, but we couldn't close up properly. Joel and Worth were there when we left, digging through the medical texts. They didn't want to be disturbed, so we let them stay and just locked the door behind us. They said they'd be here for the meeting, but they looked pretty distracted."
"They're touching my books, and I'm not there to supervise," Athena fumes, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm going to have to order new copies of everything just to be safe, and Celia will fuss at the expense." She narrows her eyes at me, taking in the three of us and the way we stand so close together. "At least you've stayed busy, Rose," she announces sourly. "If it will get you back into the shop, the metal-boy can come work the registers. He has to promise not to touch anything, though."
Lavender snorts softly and I can see her struggling not to roll her eyes; her few encounters with Athena have not gone very well. I step in quickly. "I'm sure Clarent appreciates the job offer," I assure her, knowing the bookstore can't possibly support another employee at this time but that it would be futile to argue with her. "We'll talk about it later, after the meeting, but we should take our seats now." Indeed, in a miracle of good timing Celia is striding to the podium, carrying the cordless microphone that she'll tap for attention.
"But I wanted some of those cupcakes," Athena protests, her gaze swiveling to the table full of snacks. Then she frowns mightily, her eyes narrowing as she glares at something behind me. "Oh, that's not good at all. Rose, are you causing all that mist outside? It will make me sneeze."
Her words are slow to penetrate my brain. Then I whirl to stare at the windows that line the walls. Most of them have been covered, the shades drawn against prying eyes, but one of the shades hangs askew, providing an unobstructed view. Outside the grass lawn is liberally covered with fog, and the orange rays of the setting sun have disappeared under a gray haze.
"Celia!" My tongue feels thick in my mouth, but I'm able to force the word out.
Her head whips around at my cry. "Shit. Mina, get folks into the main offices," she barks, her crisp voice cutting through the nervous murmurs springing up.
Mina doesn't waste a moment, rising in a single fluid motion and gently herding the nervous and frightened among us to the offices at the north corner of the gym. The offices are small and the halls narrow; if there is a hunter in the area, the weaker community members can hide there while one of the fighters deals with the threat.
"What do we do?" Clarent asks, his low voice full of concern.
"Jing, you and Athena need to go with the others." My hand reaches out to touch the translucent girl, but at the last moment I remember her triggers and my fingers veer away.
She nods, her translucent eyes wide with worry. "Okay. But, Rose, won't you come with—"
"No, I'm not going anywhere," Athena declares, planting her feet stubbornly.
"We should all go," Lavender urges, ignoring Athena. "Rose, it'll be easier to protect people away from the windows."
"You go with them, Lavs; and you too, Clarent. I'll stay out here with Celia, in case she needs me."
"No, we shouldn't split—"
There's a flicker in the air around us, the sharp crackle of magic like a shockwave converging on the center of the room. With an ear-splitting shatter, every window in the gymnasium bursts inward. Flying glass shards cut the faces and arms of those huddled near the walls, and the sharp fragments skitter across the floor to rest at our feet.
"What's happening?" Clarent asks, his voice full of tension. "The portals weren't like this before!"
Mina is still urging the crowd through the north doorway. "This way, come on. No, I know it's bleeding but it's shallow; we'll patch you up inside."
Lavender tugs at my arm. "Rose, we need to go!"
I'm frozen in place, watching with wide eyes as mist seeps into the gym through the shattered windows. Clarent is right; this isn't like any of the portals we've been in. The magic in the air is almost tangible, causing my hair to frizz at the ends and setting my teeth on edge. The color in the room drains away, replaced with a dull haze that renders everything in gray light and dark shadows. In the very center of the room, the electric sensation of raw magic gathers like a storm.
I hear Celia gasp—a strangled, inarticulate sound of alarm. In that moment, the space in the center of the room folds in on itself. A flash of blinding light illuminates the area, sending spots dancing across my eyes. My hands reach out for Lavender and Clarent, steadying myself from falling as I blink watery eyes, attempting to coax back my vision. Then I see them: framed in a circle of charred ash, three men stand in the center of the room where a moment before there had been only empty chairs.
They are fae. They are bright and beautiful, burning with inner light, the only splashes of real color in this strange gray portal-space. They scan the room with their haughty gazes, considering us as if we were no more than ants. One of them is a haggard older-looking man with bronzed skin and dark curly hair; he locks piercing blue eyes on Clarent, who stiffens beside me. "There is my property," the faery says, his deep voice stern and cold.
The tallest of the three men towers almost a full seven feet. He is thin and gaunt with warm ginger hair and burning red eyes, his skin as pale as death. His voice is breathy and quick, and his fingers can't seem to stop moving, drumming against each other in a beat only he can hear. "Ah. See? You said I lost him. I didn't lose him. I knew he would be here, where they were all gathered; so many pretty morsels. Some compensation is in order though, yes? I lost my hunter; very vexing. He'll have to be replaced."
"Scavenge whatever Father does not eat," the older man suggests. His tone is contemptuous, but when his eyes flick to the third member of their party his demeanor is wary, even frightened.
The third man is small, shorter even than Lavender and very young. If I had to guess his age, I'd place him in his late teens. He is beautiful but uncannily so, like a plastic mannequin. His skin is shiny and stretched smooth, and his eyes are as white as the mist that fills the room. His blond hair ruffles in a breeze that doesn't touch the rest of us, and he gazes around him with naked hunger in his face.
His eyes come to rest on Elric, who is edging nervously towards the north exit. "Mine," the young man declares, his voice soft and high, almost childlike. He
steps over the ashen circle, eyes locked on our vampire, hand already outstretched to grab him.
"No, he damned well is not," Kieran bellows. The burly man leaps forward, his machete already in his hand. Folding chairs scatter in his wake, clattering to the floor as he shoves past, and the shining steel in his hand glitters as he raises his weapon high for the strike.
The little blond faery entirely ignores him, completely focused on his goal. Elric stands perfectly still, frozen with fear or perhaps not wishing to endanger others by drawing nearer to the huddled crowd. Kieran's blade strikes down with unerring aim and severs the faery's outstretched arm in a single smooth stroke.
We each hold our breath. There is no howl of pain, no shout of anger or gush of blood. A smooth arm, perfectly severed, flops to the ground and then stills, seeping a thick viscous fluid that looks more like green sap than proper red blood. The young man glares at his wound like one contemplating an annoying inconvenience, as if he had noticed a broken nail in need of filing. "I'm going to have to eat that," he complains, gesturing with his stump at the fallen limb.
Movement catches my eye and I stare at the cross-section of his arm, my stomach tightening in apprehension. There are no bones or muscle showing at the cut, only a slick inky darkness that writhes and grows. Tendrils shoot out of the oozing stump, curling over his skin and continuing to grow like some monstrous plant. The blond hair on his head lengthens and darkens, spilling over his face in a mass of writhing black-green vines that grow at an impossible rate.
He's a tree, I think, recalling the unluckier servants of the May Queen, but this designation falls woefully short. His legs widen to the size of tree trunks, yes, and his skin darkens to the color and consistency of bark, but he doesn't stay upright like a tree. Instead, he stoops to crouch on all fours even as his back hunches and thickens and grows ever larger. Within seconds, he is neither man nor tree but a four-legged giant beast towering over us, covered in dark earth and writhing vines. He is a living mountain, his size constrained only by the gym walls around us.
"Mine," the creature repeats, but his youthful voice is now rasping and ancient, a deep bellow as old as the earth.
He lunges at Kieran, his movements ponderously slow but undeniably powerful. Kieran's eyes widen but the ex-gladiator leaps aside without pause for thought, rolling easily and coming up with machete still in hand.
Around us, I see more weapons being drawn. Celia already has her bow in her hands, aiming an arrow at the space where the creature's eyes had been. Others hold knives and guns, hesitating whether to take a defensive position or join the fray. Even Jing brandishes a tiny can of pepper spray on her keychain, her last defense against recapture.
"Rose, look out!" she cries, grabbing Athena by the collar and dragging her back away from us.
I whirl around to see that the older faery, the High King, has left the ashen circle and is only an arm's length from us. Taking advantage of the confusion caused by his father, he reaches out and grabs Clarent by the upper arm in an iron grip. Clarent gasps from the pain, twisting ineffectually in an attempt to escape the man and his punishing grasp.
"You've been lost long enough, sword," the faery man observes in a low grumble as he drags Clarent back towards the center of the room where his tall companion watches and waits. "I have prisoners in need of alteration, and the Fiery Lord and I have a battlefield to arrange for Father. We were fortunate that he granted us a reprieve and agreed to help recover you; he is very hungry."
"No!" Lavender screams at him. She seizes Clarent's free arm, helping him to brace himself against the inexorable pull of his master. "You can't have him! He's not yours! Fuck off!" Raw fury shoots through the air around us, her own invisible tendrils assaulting my senses and making my heart race faster.
With her help Clarent plants his feet hard, grunting with the exertion of resistance to the much stronger man. He doesn't say a word, doesn't waste a single breath, and I know he thinks we can't bargain or argue our way out of this.
The High King narrows his eyes at Lavender's objections. "The smithy is no place for a lady," he observes sternly. "Say goodbye to your swain. I will allow you to stay here and weep for him from afar."
He thinks he's a gentleman. The realization flashes through my mind. He's as cruel and cold and bad as the rest of them, but he wants to believe his own fiction. His world is an Avalon where he is king, where Clarent is a sword to be used and 'stolen', and where ladies are lavished with kisses yet expected not to point out they're being held prisoner against their will. Even the way he looks is a persona he's built: old and haggard, his face burned by the sun and sporting battle-scars. The highest of kings, full of honor and fair-dealing yet unafraid to get his hands dirty.
Who plays along with him, besides the gaunt companion who waits in the ashen circle? I can't imagine any faery woman pandering to his fantasies, willingly choosing to subjugate herself as his queen. He could make a companion for himself from a human, yet Clarent had said women were rare at court. Even if this High King doesn't personally crave female company, wouldn't he need a queen to complete the Arthurian picture he's created?
I bite at the inside of my cheek, my mind racing. Is it possible that he can't forget himself with the human women he kidnaps? They are stamped with his magic, forever a piece of him; in themselves a reminder of their inferior origins. If he wants a queen, doesn't he need a woman of royal birth? Hermit's words ring in my ears: Are you a secret faery princess, little Rose?
He'd been mocking me, of course. I don't glow with inner color the way they do in this gray portal, but if it were just a game of pretense I could play the part. I'm a mystery to this king; not a faery woman, no, but still undeniably full of fae magic and with my lowly origins unknown to him. Any play-acting is a gamble, but with the magic in my fingers I might be able to pull it off.
"My lord!" I launch myself at the High King, flinging grateful arms around his neck. He's caught by surprise, his dark eyes startled, and his hands are too full of Clarent to ward me off. I gaze up at him with a pleading expression, my fingers already stroking the skin of his neck and running through the curls in his hair, dragging my magic along his scalp.
"My lady?" he manages. I can hear the confusion in his voice. Has any free woman ever thrown herself at him like this? Here, Lavender has already helped me; he's pegged her as Clarent's lover, and doesn't imagine that her 'swain' might have a relationship with both of us.
"I'm so relieved you're here," I confess, my voice soft and high and vulnerable. "Please. Please rescue me, my king? You don't know what it's like out here. It hurts all the time; this place feels so wrong on my skin. Please won't you take me with you?"
He blinks at me, taken aback by my words and the part I'm offering to play. Behind him, his gaunt companion frowns. "I should think the silver one is enough, yes?" the tall faery man cautions, suspicion creeping into his voice. "No need for ladies in the smithy, is there?"
The High King tilts his head in the direction of his companion, listening without tearing his eyes away from my face. "Please," I whisper, my lips parted in a soft needy pant. Then I smell Lavender, bless her, helping me in the only way she can. Soft honeysuckle and sweet lavender spread tentatively through the air, chasing away stale anger with the warm scents of hope and love.
"What is your name, my lady?" the faery asks, his voice low and full of gallantry. He hasn't let go of Clarent, but thankfully he has stopped moving to study my face with a soft gaze.
"They call me Rose, my lord," I murmur, my eyes meeting his with a warm smile. I rise up on my toes to embrace him more closely, apparently moved by the depth of my gratitude.
He blinks again and then smiles at some joke I am not privy to. "The romance of the Rose," he muses, then closes the last few precious inches between us to press his lips to mine in a chaste kiss.
Infect him. Kill him. Please! I don't know if the virus within me can hear my commands, but I issue the order with all the ferocity I can muster.
<
br /> Nothing happens. The faery lord holds me and kisses me gently, and still does not release Clarent. Fears bubble to the surface of my mind. Is he one of those few immune to the May Queen's poisons? Is he able to scatter my magic, in the same way Clarent does? Despite Lavender's best efforts, her scent spikes with frightened lemon as the High King holds both her lovers captive and screams rise from the battle that rages around us.
I'm searching for some way to bargain for Clarent's release when I taste warmth in my mouth, salty and bitter. The High King coughs, breaking our embrace, and a thick red stream courses over his lips to coat his neck. His blood is on my face, on my dress, in my mouth. He staggers back at the sight of me covered in his own blood, releasing Clarent and myself in his surprise. My stomach flips over and I fall to my hands and knees, vomiting up the taste of him as Clarent's cool hands steady me.
"Rose!" Lavender drops to her knees with us but keeps her eyes on the High King, determined to defend us. "Rose, are you okay?"
"You... witch," the faery gurgles as he staggers backward, each word causing a fresh gout of bright red blood to spill from his lips. "How did you...?"
He doesn't finish his sentence but stumbles backwards into the ashen circle, falling hard. The tall ginger-haired faery stoops to catch him, his movements quick and nervous. "High King?" His eyes widen as the older man thrashes once and then stills forever.
Burning eyes track up to me then, his thin face suddenly calculating and dangerously curious. "That's a neat trick," he comments, his fingers drumming faster. His voice is a low crackle, like a hungry fire. "Is that how my hunter died? Would you like to replace him, girl?"
I look up at the Fiery Lord from where I kneel. I'm on my hands and knees, covered in blood, my mouth sour with the taste of vomit. Whatever power my lips contain, I've almost certainly exhausted my reserves with that last kiss. I remember the burn of the hunter, how his fire almost killed me, and I have no wish to repeat the experience with his master. And unlike the hunter or the High King, this one is fully forewarned, having just witnessed my powers. I don't think the magic in my fingers and the emotions in Lavender's scents will catch him off-guard.