by A. R. Kahler
The first time Mab set me loose in the castle and had me find my way back here, I’d gotten lost for three days. If not for the statues that snuck me food or showed me where to pee, I probably would have died. When I did finally make it back, Mab was lounging on a settee before the door, eating grapes in a gauzy gown and looking like she could wait a hundred more years for me to show up. Tears formed in my eyes the moment I saw her, but even then I wasn’t certain if they were from anger or relief or both.
“How did you find it?” she asked when I neared. No congratulations. No notes of worry. Just business.
I shook my head and told her I didn’t know. I just closed my eyes and walked.
It was the first time I’d done something to make her smile.
“That’s the greatest rule of magic,” she’d said. “You can’t control it. You can’t understand where it comes from. But if you give in to it, you can allow it to work through you.”
That was the beginning of my training. The moment I realized that basic fact of magic, that it was something you lived and sensed but probably never fully grasped, was the moment I understood Dream—how to track it, how to gauge it, how to manipulate it. That was also the moment I stopped being her daughter and started being her tool.
Maybe I should feel regret. Or coldness. Or something. Instead, my heart is empty. I’ve seen families in the mortal world, know how they’re apparently supposed to work. But that sort of relationship is so far out of my realm of understanding, I can’t even yearn for it. Mab’s all I’ve ever known. I push open the door and step into the one place in this entire kingdom that actually feels like home.
Mab gave me free rein in here, and I crafted the room to be the antithesis of Winter. I might have spent most of my existence in the chilly hellhole she calls home, but I am mortal. And like pretty much every other mortal I’ve known (and probably killed in the greeting process), my nesting habit is strong. I step inside to a temperature that’s almost tropical, shucking off my coat and throwing it over a rich velvet armchair beside a roaring fireplace. The walls are lined with bookshelves crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers and leather-bound tomes. The ceiling itself is vaulted and gold, a rich architectural style I stole from some churches in Scotland. There are sofas and oak tables, a liquor cabinet stocked to the nines, not to mention a fantastic vinyl player and sound system that’s so state of the art, the mortal world hasn’t invented it yet. I sigh and inhale the scents that make this place perfect: cinnamon and wood smoke, cardamom and clove. No matter how shitty my day has been or how bloody my return, stepping in here makes me feel like maybe things won’t be so bad.
The place has changed over the years, though in truth I probably didn’t have a typical teenage life or room to reflect it. No boy band posters, unless they were for dagger-throwing practice. No pink and gauze and sequins. My teen years had been Spartan, and my room had reflected it. It was only in the last few years, when I started . . . entertaining . . . that I began to cultivate a sense of style.
Trouble is, seeing as I’m the one in charge of keeping this place clean, it kind of looks like a horde of drunken satyrs blew through here. The tables are littered with books and bottles. My clothing is strewn everywhere. Hell, it’s not even all my clothing. Books aren’t my only entertainment, even though they tend to last longer and have more satisfactory endings.
The horde of drunken satyrs thing isn’t just a phrase.
I head into the bathroom, stripping out of my boots and clothes as I go. Ass-naked, I flick my wrist toward the sunken Roman tub, which starts filling with water immediately. Magic isn’t my forte, but I’ve rigged this place to make the most of what I’ve got. You don’t have to be a witch to use the stuff. You just have to know the motions.
The massive tub fills in a matter of moments, lavender-scented bubbles frothing up and onto the bathroom tiles. Everything in here is gold and ivory and crimson, a lush indulgence. Mirrors glint on all four walls, amplifying the light of a few hundred candles that never drip or die. I stare at myself in that light, tracing the scars that line my body like scores to lost music. The gash on my hip from a werewolf that got a little too friendly. The burn across my shoulder from where an ifrit’s fireball got too close for comfort. A hundred brushes with death. A hundred markers for my retribution. I’m proud of them, in a way. My little gold stars for surviving. For thriving. They aren’t just mistakes. They’re reminders that I have a purpose here. I’m worth something—at least, I’m worth more than the ones I’ve killed.
I turn and slip into the tub. The foam and water lap up around me. Perfect temperature, every time. Far away, I hear the scream of a banshee—maybe laughter, it’s always hard to tell with them. One underwater twitch of a finger, and the vinyl player in my living room turns on. Enya blares through the speakers laced throughout my place. Don’t judge. She’s relaxing.
I know the water’s turning pink underneath all the gossamer foam, but I don’t pay attention to it. Blood’s the least of my worries right now. I know Mab much better than she thinks I do. I know my little revelation worries her. Dream is more than just sustenance; it’s strength. After all, a starving kingdom can’t thrive. If someone’s building up a reserve, someone outside of her or Oberon’s control, she could have a new adversary. Someone who doesn’t play by the rules she and the Summer King have stuck to since the dawn of time. Sure, she calls it a war, but I know that she would die of boredom if she didn’t have their little game. They both would. I’m just here to keep things interesting, to be a little more of a threat.
An outsider, though—someone with an ax to grind—that could be a real danger.
I push the thoughts down. It’s late by my biological clock. My body wants nothing more than a shot of whiskey and ten hours of sleep. The liquor cabinet in the living room promises at least one of those things. Sleep in my world is left for the dead. I close my eyes and lean my head back and try to tune out my thoughts. Mab’s problems can haunt me another day. Right now I have foam and music and heat, and that’s enough. I take a deep breath and let my muscles unknot one by one. The darkness behind my eyes pulls me down into a floating, shifting mass of comfort.
“Claire?”
The voice shocks me awake. Before I can push myself from the tub and execute the half-dozen crippling blows already running through my head, I realize there’s no point trying to kill the intruder. He’s not even technically alive.
“Jesus, Pan,” I gasp. I try to settle myself back into the tub, but there’s definitely no relaxing, not anymore. My heart’s going a thousand beats a minute. Instead, I turn my attention and self-anger toward the faunlike statue in the doorway.
Pan bows his head. He’s crafted after one of those cherubic satyrs, with tiny nubs of horns poking from his sculpted curly hair. Well, one horn. The other’s chipped off at the base. Even though he was made to look young, he seems kind of the worse for wear, with little pockmarks and fissures all over his youthful body.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He really does sound it, too. That’s the problem with being angry at him—he always takes it to heart. “But I heard about your night.”
“Word travels fast when you fail,” I mutter. The foam in the bath has pretty much dissipated. I blow across the surface and it replenishes in a wave of froth.
“Only when you’re listening,” he replies. “May I?”
I nod and gesture him in. He takes a few steps into the room, his hooves clopping harshly on the marble.
“I take it you didn’t just come here to offer condolences on a job shittily done,” I say.
“It’s not your fault he killed himself.”
I sigh. “You might be the only one who thinks that way. So why are you here?”
“To warn you.”
This perks me up.
Pan has been many things throughout my life—mentor, friend, and, more often than not, babysitter. I wish I could s
ay we’d spent many fun evenings with kid-me trying to play dress-up, but from the stories he tells, it was more like me chasing him down with a pitchfork. Aside from Celeste, he’s probably my closest confidant here, and he treats me like his kid. But he’s never been one to question Mab’s orders. I think I’m the only one who does.
“Warn me about what?” I ask.
“The circus.” His reply is so blunt and earnest, I actually laugh.
“It’s a circus, Pan,” I say. “Unless you’re worried I’ll get trampled by an elephant, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He crouches on the floor beside me.
“Just . . . promise me you’ll be careful. Trust nothing you hear, especially not . . .” He cuts himself off and looks away.
“What? Especially not what?”
He looks back to me. “Especially not what you hear from the magician. You can’t trust him. Not with your heart.”
I laugh bitterly.
“With my heart? Are you feeling okay? Because I’m wondering if you remember who you’re actually talking to here. You know I’m the lust-and-leave sort. No heart-giving involved.”
“Just be careful,” he whispers. Something about the way he says it sobers me instantly, like he’s saying his last good-bye before I’m sent before the firing squad.
“Always am.” I try not to sound confused. Or worse, concerned.
He nods, as though that’s consolation enough. Then he stands and leaves without another word, patting the side of the tub as he goes.
Statues. Not known for small talk.
I sink back into the tub and consciously try to undo the knots that re-formed the moment Pan appeared. The water’s cooled down, but a push of magical intention and it warms back to its original temperature. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, and right now, I need all the relaxing I can get. Especially since I apparently have an amorous magician to contend with.
Won’t he be in for a surprise.
The next morning, I walk up the dirt promenade leading to the entrance of the grounds for the Cirque des Immortels. The massive violet-and-black big top towers above the unlit entrance sign like a living entity. Silent, waiting. Hungry. As Mab demanded, the sun has just begun to stretch over the plains rolling out into the distance. Everything is quiet and dusty, the air smelling faintly of bacon. Which is really strange, since we’re in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. A few steps closer and I hear music, but it’s not some organ-grinder BS. No, this is really bad pop music, the type you listen to on the way to some dull desk job to get yourself pumped up for another long day pushing papers. And it’s not coming from the tent; it drifts from one of the smaller trailers off to the side, just beyond a partition of flags and fencing. I head toward it, brushing past the signs that say “Performers Only Beyond This Point” because, in a way, I own this place. Literally.
Besides, I learned early on that you can go anywhere unobstructed if you act like you’re supposed to be there. Never show that you don’t belong.
The area behind the fence is just as empty of people as the endless fields of corn beyond. There are long double-wide trailers lined up in orderly rows on one side, the grass in front mostly empty save for a few meticulously placed lawn chairs. And I do mean meticulous: everything back here, from the angle of the trailers to the line of porta potties, is arranged in a strict grid, lining up perfectly. It feels like walking onto a movie set, one where there’s just been a grisly murder and everyone’s trying a touch too hard to play it off. It’s the circus—shouldn’t there be some sort of chaos?
Pan’s warning slips through my mind. I shove it down and continue toward the music. The scent of bacon grows stronger by the second, as does the allure of brewing coffee. The trailer in question is clearly the kitchen—there’s a huge window on one side and picnic tables are set up out front. The sides are painted in rainbows and stars, Tibetan prayer flags and wind chimes hanging from every available eave. A man and woman bustle about inside, singing along to the music while they cook.
For a while I just stand there beside the trailer, out of sight, and survey the scene. I’ve been hearing of this place for as long as I can remember, but Mab never let me visit. Honestly, it’s a disappointment. No juggling clowns, no roaring lions. Just a quaint Midwestern sunrise and greasy cooking smells and a ridiculously precise floor plan. The chefs don’t even have the decency to be making popcorn.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The voice is right by my ear, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, it takes all my training and self-control not to scream. Instead, I slowly turn my head to look at the girl standing only a few inches to my right. How she got there, I have no idea.
She’s a little shorter than me, maybe in her late teens or early twenties—it’s hard to tell. Her hair is black and curly, with sharp bangs and a blue ribbon in it that matches the Alice in Wonderland–esque dress she’s wearing. It’s her eyes that snare me, though—they’re bright green, almost lime, and they seem to glow with their own light.
It’s not a comforting light.
I don’t step back from her; I refuse to show I’m afraid.
“And who the hell are you?” I ask, as deadpan as possible. My heart’s racing, but I keep my breathing slow and steady, keep my muscles relaxed yet ready to react.
“My name is Lilith,” she replies, which is an awfully diabolical name for a girl who looks like she should be sitting on a tuffet somewhere.
“Well, Lilith, my name is Claire and—”
“I know who you are,” she cuts in. She doesn’t raise her voice or quicken her speech. Despite the growing warmth of the day, her presence gives me chills.
“Then you’ll know who I work for. And she doesn’t like to be told what she can or can’t do. Neither do I.”
Something about the girl tightens when I say that, like she knows full well just how vengeful Mab can be. Her face remains perfectly composed, no hint of emotion, though her stance is definitely stiffer. She actually steps back. I stand up a little straighter—not that it’s hard to tower over her.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“To check up on things.”
“We are fine.”
“That’s not what I hear.” Which, okay, is a slight lie, but I find interrogations go much better when the hit thinks you have some dirt on them. Guilty until proven innocent, as I always say.
“I was promised,” she says. She looks at me when she speaks, but it sounds like she’s talking to herself. “Promised she would never be here. Would never see her. Never again.”
“Again?” I ask, something close to fear stirring in my chest.
“Is there are a problem?”
I don’t know how I recognize the voice, but I do, and that freaks me out almost as much as Lilith’s vague mumblings. I turn my head slowly, doing my best to retain my calm, because once more, someone has snuck up on me, and that’s just not something I’m okay with or used to.
It’s the magician.
And suddenly, I’m very aware of why Pan told me to be on my guard.
The guy is hot as sin, in that washed-out-rocker kind of way. Thick black hair that’s currently pulled back in a messy ponytail; dark, brooding eyes; and a lean body wrapped with muscles that bulge beneath the sheer white of his tank. His eyes are locked onto mine, though I notice them flicker up and down quickly, and I’m grateful I passed over my usual work attire for a slightly more revealing purple bra under a sheer T-shirt and skinny jeans combo. I can still kick ass in it, but it makes my ass so much perkier. Magic boy clearly notices.
Trouble is, he looks like he’s staring at a ghost. Maybe I need to tan more.
He doesn’t move, but the grayscale tattoo of a feathered serpent twined around his arm does. It slides under his shirt and up his neck, its catlike eyes glaring at me.
“Who are you?” I a
sk, raising one eyebrow as coolly as possible, trying to convey as much holier-than-thou attitude as I can. Which is a lot. Mab taught me well. Besides, as far as he’s concerned, he’s working for me.
“I’m Kingston,” he says. He inclines his head slightly, as though that little bow is ingrained. “And you are?”
“Claire.” I can tell he knows who I am. This is all just formality. Whatever. I was raised on this shit.
He doesn’t extend a hand. He holds his coffee cup in one and his other is shoved in his pocket. Just like Lilith, not one inch of his body language is welcoming, and the tattoo glaring at me isn’t helping. Somehow, Kingston’s eyes are even colder than the girl’s.
“And why are you here, Claire? When Mab could just as easily visit herself?”
I shrug.
“She was busy and I needed something to do.” I look to Lilith. “I’m here on official business. Need-to-know sort of thing. And this kid definitely doesn’t need to know.”
Kingston tilts his head to Lilith. The girl casts me a glare that could set someone on fire, then turns and stomps off. I look back to Kingston; the slam of a door tells me she’s disappeared into a trailer.
“So,” I say when she’s gone and Kingston continues to be silent and unhelpful, “who does a girl have to kill to get a cup of coffee around here?”
I’m proud of myself. Kingston actually grins.
“You’ll have to forgive us,” Kingston says from across the picnic table, and I’m wondering if he’s actually trying to be sociable now that he knows I can’t be bullied. “We don’t get too many visitors from Winter. And when we do, it’s never good news.”
I fondle the cup of coffee before me. All the magic in the world, and Mab’s kingdom still sucks at making coffee.
“It’s fine. I’m not exactly used to warm welcomes. In fact, they might cause panic attacks.”