by A. R. Kahler
“Some things are better shown than said.”
I hold my hands out on the table, my skin just touching the cards still laid out there. Sheena looks at this and laughs.
“The Tower,” she says. It’s the one card not covered by my hands, the peak of the pyramid. The painting shows a stone tower crumbling under lightning. And in the corner, a small figure huddles. “She’s going to be our downfall.” I don’t ask what she’s talking about. A part of me already knows.
She reaches out and begins tracing the lines of my palms with a finger. Her touch tickles.
“We have to go back,” she says. “We have to follow the roads back.”
I watch her finger, watch as small trails of light seem to follow its wake, making the lines of my palm glow in some complex symbol. Then the tickle of her touch becomes a tingle, and the vibration makes my world go white.
* * *
Everything is fire.
Fire in the trees, fire in the fields, fire in the sky. Fire, but that’s not the only red in the world; everything else is blood. Blood and burning.
Sheena shimmers at my side, a ghost of herself; I see the girl, but I also see through her. A light shines in her chest, a flickering sphere of purple that I somehow know is her true self, the real faerie she keeps hidden under layers of glamour.
“Where are we?” I ask. My voice is hollow. At my feet runs a stream of red, and I refuse to look closer to see if it’s water or blood.
“Faerie,” she says. “This is the past. This is the battle that ended the war.”
Something flashes on the horizon, a blinding light that rumbles through my bones.
Creatures burst through the trees, then—some humanoid, some animal-like, some nothing more than floating balls of light. But all of them are running and screaming. The creatures with limbs carry weapons or sacks or bits of furniture. Some are on fire.
I watch as a deerlike creature with a female torso runs through the ghost of Sheena. Sheena disperses like smoke in a breeze and then gathers again when the creatures are gone.
“I cannot show you all,” she says. “There are things Mab has sworn us to secrecy about. But I can show you this. The aftermath. This is the Blood Autumn.” She points to the horizon, to where the light just flashed. There are smaller flares above the trees, but nothing as bright as that one burst. “And that,” she says, “is the demon that caused it all.”
Kassia, I want to whisper, but the word chokes in my throat.
Sheena notices. She nods.
“This is the day both sides met to declare a truce. The demon was caught and trapped somewhere in the depths of Faerie. It could not be killed, not without the Assassin’s help. But the demon had slain the Assassin, so capture was the only solution. The truce was simple: none would release the demon, lest it rip apart the world. It would lie forgotten, contained in its tomb, never to stir again.”
“But Mab broke the truce,” I say. “She let the demon free.”
Sheena nods.
“Faerie was on the verge of destruction, and that carnage would have overflowed into the world of man. To break the Blood Autumn Treaty is to endanger all worlds. Now that Oberon knows what has been done, he will not stop. Not until the demon is destroyed or captured again. Not until his kingdom is safe.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I ask. But a part of me knows. I remember how it felt to press my glowing hands to Kassia’s flesh, to feel the power of stars flow through my veins. Somehow, I’m the one who can subdue her. If only I knew why.
Sheena opens her mouth.
The vision shatters.
* * *
“A bit late for readings, isn’t it?” Kingston asks.
His hands are on my shoulders, and it takes a moment to realize my own hands are empty on the table. Sheena is nowhere to be seen.
I shake my head and bring my hands to my lap. I try to stutter out a response, but he just laughs and leans over to kiss me on my forehead.
I have a million questions. I don’t even know where to start.
“What are you looking into?” he asks, before I get the chance to open my mouth.
It takes me a long time to answer.
“I wanted to know what was going on. With the show. What Mab was hiding.”
“Doesn’t look too promising,” he says.
I shake my head and glance up at him. For the first time in a long time, he actually looks a little worried.
“What does it mean?” he asks.
“I think it’s Lilith,” I say. I decide to leave out the whole “Oberon wanting me” thing; I’ll clarify that with Sheena later. “Oberon’s coming back for her.”
Kingston nods.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “It was only a matter of time.”
“You knew?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’ve always known what Lilith was—what Oberon would do if he found out about her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He touches his throat. “Couldn’t,” he says with a wry grin. “Mab made sure of it.”
“So what do we do?”
He takes a deep breath.
“We wait,” he says. “Mab’s smart. She wouldn’t jeopardize the show. If we’re actually in danger, she’ll call us to arms. You saw what happened when Oberos attacked.”
“Shouldn’t we be doing something, though? Training or arming ourselves?”
Kingston smiles.
“You forget, Viv: everyone is here because they’re running from something. Most of those “somethings” involve murder. Our performers are already trained killers, even if they don’t remember it. Oberos attacked because he was young and stupid. Oberon knows better. Right now, he’s just blowing smoke up our ass.”
And trying to find me, I think. But I don’t say that. I don’t know why, but I don’t want Kingston to know anything that Sheena told me. I have no doubt that she was putting a lot on the line to come and speak to me, and I don’t want her jeopardized for it.
Those small acts of friendship are really all I have in this troupe.
“Come on,” he says. He lifts me from the seat. “Let’s get you out of those layers and into my bed.”
I chuckle as he pulls me to standing, and I try to keep the humor as our lips press and his hands wrap around my hips. But it’s hard to stay in the moment. It’s hard to forget Sheena’s warning.
That in itself is why I don’t want Kingston to know I’m worried. Because if he knows what I’ve learned, there’s nothing to say he won’t be obligated to magic it away.
*
It’s afternoon, a few hours before the next show, and we’re walking down the main street of the nearest podunk town. The sun is shining and there’s ice cream, so I’m not complaining about the small-town ambiance. Sara’s holding hands with Mel, and I’m watching the people watching us walk past. No doubt a few of the guys are raising their eyebrows in the hope that we’re a lesbian threesome. This makes me smile inside, so I just keep licking my ice cream and staring into their eyes, trying to channel Mab.
I’d tried to find Sheena this morning, but she was gone. The girl is very good at fading into the background.
“What do you think it means?” I ask for what feels like the twentieth time this week.
“What?” Mel asks. She hands over her ice cream to Sara. I realize they’re both perfectly in step. Sara’s wearing a striped green T-shirt and a straw hat; these, paired with giant sunglasses and sandals, make her look like she should be lounging on a beach somewhere. No one would know she has three long throwing daggers for her new act tucked into the canvas tote slung jauntily over her shoulder. Melody looks a little more reserved beside her, though she’s ditched her usual loose cardigan for a holey V-necked shirt and lime-green skirt. I wonder if they tried to match or if that was just a byproduct of spending so much time together.
“The effigy,” I say. I haven’t said anything about what Kingston or Mab told me. I want to know ju
st how much the rest of the troupe’s been let in on and who believes Mab’s crappy cover-up. A publicity stunt? Really?
Mel shrugs.
“Klaus says it was all for shock value,” Mel says. Klaus, right. The new pink-Mohawked Shifter dude. I wonder if all their leaders adopt the hairstyle. “Something about keeping all the newbies in line.”
“Why would Mab need to do something like that?” I ask. Mab’s not above scare tactics—hell, I don’t think there’s anything too outrageous for Mab—but I can’t see why anyone would blame her for this.
“Unrest,” Sara says. “A lot of the new people are unhappy with their contracts.”
I raise an eyebrow and feel a drip of ice cream dribble down my hand. I don’t bother licking it up.
“Unhappy?”
Sara nods and hands the ice cream over to Mel.
“Yeah,” Sara continues. “I guess a lot of them didn’t really look their contracts over before signing. I heard a few of them say they were thinking of leaving or trying to renegotiate.”
“What are they upset about?”
The two of them share a look.
“Come on, don’t do that,” I say. “Just because you’re sleeping together doesn’t mean you can keep secrets.”
“It’s just,” Sara says slowly, “you’re kind of seen as the old guard, you know? You and Kingston. Everyone sees you as Mab’s henchmen.”
I stop walking and stare at them. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve only been here a few months.”
Sara shrugs. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“What about Mel?” I say. “She’s been here longer than me.”
Another shrug.
“Yeah. I don’t know; it’s different,” Sara says.
“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Mel says. “It’s just stupid cliques. Give it a couple decades and everyone will be old guard.”
“Right,” I say, but I can’t help but wonder if that’s why I’ve felt so singled out. That, on top of actually knowing what’s going on. Mab’s henchmen. Kingston would die laughing if he knew. Especially if he knew how uncomfortable it makes me. You wanted to be a part of the show, he’d tease, and I’d have no way of countering his statement.
Maybe he already knows. Hell, maybe he coined the phrase.
“Why do people want out of their contracts?” I ask. Not that I blame them. The more I learn about mine, the more I’m thinking I should have read the fine print a little more carefully.
“Well, a lot of them …” Sara bites her lip. Melody picks up her slack.
“A lot of them, the Shifters especially, feel like they were set up.”
“Set up?” I ask. Melody nods gravely and starts walking again.
“Yep,” she says. “Woke up to find themselves surrounded by dead relatives with blood on their hands, or on the run from the cops with a gun in their pocket and no memory of shooting up the Burger King. That sort of thing.”
“That’s …” but I can’t say “ridiculous,” because it’s not.
“That’s not the strange part,” Sara says. “Most of them have some latent powers.”
“Like?” I ask.
Sara looks around. We’ve long passed the main drag—we’re in a residential area now, one devoid of life save for a dog chained in the front yard of a pristine white house.
“Like this,” she says. She cups her hands in front of her and blows into her palms. A small flame appears and ripples there; when she stops blowing, the flame winks out.
“You’re a witch?” I ask. Because it looks remarkably similar to Kingston’s magic.
“No,” Sara says. “I’m a firebreather. I can summon flames. Never knew I could, until Mab showed me how.”
I furrow my eyebrows.
“And you’re all like this? The new performers? Violent pasts and magic powers?”
Sara nods.
“Then what’s your story?” I ask Sara, right before realizing it’s probably beyond rude.
Sara tilts her head down and examines the pavement as she walks.
“The Burger King thing wasn’t a metaphor,” she says sadly.
“Anyway,” Melody says, intervening before I start feeling any more awkward than I already do. “The stories are pretty uniform, and the new performers are beginning to think they were set up. Unsurprisingly, they aren’t very happy about it.”
“I can’t blame them,” I say.
But I can’t really blame Mab either. Not in the light of the truth that’s dawning. No wonder Kingston was so nonchalant about the approaching battle.
Mab’s not just waiting for Oberon to come. Her troupe is more than just a bunch of mortal murderers.
We’re magical, the lot of us, and we’re just waiting for a reason to fight.
*
Later that night, during intermission, I’m back in my booth waiting for clients to show. Though if I’m going to be entirely honest with myself, I’m really just hoping Sheena will appear.
Which she does.
Her eyes are wild when she comes into my tent, the beaded curtain clacking behind her like a death rattle. Despite the fact that her glance is darting around the room, the rest of her is perfectly composed. She walks over to the table and slides a folded slip of paper to me.
“He’s watching,” she says in a whisper. “He knows I’ve delivered my message. Read that. When I’m …” she takes a deep breath.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. I reach out to take her hand, but she pulls away. “Is it,”—I lower my voice—“is it Oberon?”
She nods.
“I have to go.” She turns to leave and pauses at the curtain.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You shouldn’t have known.”
Then she leaves.
Outside, I hear the jugglers calling out that the next act is about to start. I open the slip of paper. The words are scrawled in purple pen.
Don’t let him take you. You were his prisoner once; do not fall under his rule again.
I glance up from the page and feel that old sensation, the fear of fight or flight. The feeling of being hunted. Goose bumps wrap across my skin. I refold the note and put it into my Tarot pouch. Then I get up and go to the back of the main tent to watch the show. I need a distraction, and I don’t want to be alone right now. Not now. Not ever.
As expected, Sheena is nowhere to be seen.
*
Back in the booth after the final act, I sit and shuffle my cards and acknowledge the anxiety roiling in my gut. It didn’t go away at all during the show, and I know it won’t go away anytime soon. Every time I blink, I see Sheena’s eyes, hear the scared whisper of her voice. I wonder how long it will be before I understand what she was talking about. I wonder if learning more about myself is really worth the risk. I consider my earlier, albeit fleeting, urge to find Oberon and demand he tell me more about my past. The fear in Sheena’s eyes dashes that desire to bits.
When Kingston shows up, I feel my world crash in a screaming train wreck.
“Come on,” he urges. His face is pale, paler than usual. He’s still in costume.
I follow him out of the booth, and that’s when I hear the commotion. Initially, I think it’s just a couple of performers putting on an encore—it wouldn’t be the first time. But no, the crowd forming near the pitch’s entrance isn’t watching a show, and it’s not another pyre. Huddled just past the arching neon sign for Cirque des Immortels is a group of performers, most still in costume. Only a few punters remain, and they’re easy to pick out; they’re the ones whispering under their breath or trying to call an ambulance. The rest just stand and stare in silent horror. Kingston pushes them aside and guides me into the circle.
Sheena is lying on the ground.
Dead.
She’s not covered in blood, but it’s clear she was dragged—the dirt is torn up and there are bruises in the shape of hands on her arms. Her eyes are still open. Her neck tilts toward the forest, like she’s lookin
g for a way out.
“What happened?” I ask Kingston. He’s staring down at the body with a distant look in his eyes.
“Someone attempted to take her back,” he says. He leaves the rest out. He doesn’t need to fill in the lines; I still remember when she confided the details of her contract. If I’m ever taken from the troupe against my will, my life is immediately forfeit.
Someone tried to bring her back to Oberon. Because of that, her contract killed her.
“We should get Mab,” I say. He nods, still looking down at Sheena’s body.
I turn and head back toward the tent, my thoughts drowning under the roar of my pulse.
I make it five steps before someone grabs my arm and turns me around.
“Vivienne?” the guy asks.
The guy looks like a Hollister model, with tan skin, short brown hair, and a polo shirt a little too tight for his muscular frame.
“Do I know you?” I ask. Something about the guy rings a bell in a far-off corner of my mind.
“Viv, it’s me,” he says. His eyebrows furrow with real concern, like I should know this, like I should recognize him. He puts his other hand on my arm. Behind him, the crowd still huddles unaware. For some reason, I don’t flinch away from the stranger’s touch. His eyes are intense on my face; they’re blue, blue as the sky, blue as the sparks dancing at the edge of my vision. The bell in my head tolls louder. “God, I can’t believe it. Where have you been? I thought you’d died.”
“Who are—” I begin, but my head is swirling. The blue lights flash, the dark shadows edge closer. I feel the ground beneath me disappear. The bell changes pitch, becomes a drone.
“I was so worried,” he says. A pause. “Viv. Don’t you recognize me?”
“I don’t—”
“It’s me. Austin. Your boyfriend.”
Sparks explode. The world swims black.
Episode Two
Chapter Four
Beautiful Stranger
“You have a thing for passing out, don’t you?” Kingston asks.