by A. R. Kahler
“Not a single lead?” she asks. Something in her voice seems smaller than before. She doesn’t look up from the rose.
“Nope.” I cross my legs and stare at her, watching my breath puff about me in small clouds. With the wave of a finger I make it change shape, turn into ships ghosting through the night air. It passes the time for a few moments while she continues to slowly walk around the hedges, examining the roses in silence. Even though I’m used to the cold, I’m not dressed for this, and my skin flecks with goose bumps. “Why did you send me there?” I ask. It’s all I can do not to let my teeth chatter.
“To see if there was a leak in Dream.”
“Bullshit.”
She looks at me. I can’t tell if she’s about to chastise me or smile. I continue before she can do either.
“You knew the show was safe. No one in the troupe can leave to deliver Dream without your express permission, and even if they could, treason is a death sentence.”
“Contracts can be manipulated,” she says.
I laugh.
“Which is precisely why you keep them in your bedroom.”
Oh, that shocks her. Her delicate black eyebrows nearly disappear in the fur of her hood.
“Yeah, I’ve snuck in there. What kid wouldn’t? And it’s kind of hard to miss a book bound to a table with enchanted chains.”
Because damn, that thing had been protected. It had been years since I’d been in Mab’s room, but even then I knew the runes burned into the wood and the pulsating green chains meant business. That thing wasn’t going anywhere.
“Nothing in the troupe can change,” I say, thinking back to the boredom everyone seemed to emanate, the perfection of the placement of everything. “You’ve made sure of it.”
She plucks a rose and glides over to me. I’m pretty certain she’s actually floating, because when she nears me, she’s at eye level, and she’s not that tall.
“When did my little girl become such a petulant woman?” she asks.
“I learned from the best.”
Her slap makes my teeth ring. I resist the urge to punch her back, and then the second impulse to put a hand to my cheek in shock. She’s yelled at me, threatened me, locked me away. But she hasn’t smacked me since I was eight and trying to juggle my throwing knives.
“This may seem like a game to you, Claire.” Her voice is dangerously quiet, and it makes a fresh wave of goose bumps race over my skin. “But my kingdom is in danger.”
“We found one stray witch selling Dream.” My jaw makes an unhealthy popping noise. “It’s not that bad. We don’t even know if there is someone out there buying. The guy could have been bluffing to throw us off. One final screw you.”
She doesn’t answer. She just crushes the rose in one hand, not breaking eye contact. I see it spiral to the ground from the corner of my eye. As the ashes twist, so, too, does the courtyard. The world breaks apart into crystalline shards, and the next time I blink, the courtyard is gone.
In its place is a room as large as a football field, the ceiling—if there is one—high beyond the reach of the few torches spaced below. Even though the light is gold and warm, the air in here is even colder than outside. I really, really should have brought a coat.
Mab sits beside me, and it’s only then that the vertigo hits. We’re sitting on the head of a massive gargoyle jutting from the wall, easily a hundred feet from the floor below.
The room is nearly empty. Bolts of fabric are scattered throughout in haphazard rows, some in rolls and others folded thick. Between them are rows of iron stands covered in glass jars with multicolored liquids. There are small pyramids of stacked gold and silver and ebony, mammoth tusks whose points disappear into the shadows above. Beautiful though they are, it’s what they contain that makes them truly valuable. Even from here, I can feel the Dream infused into every object—it’s woven in the thread of the tapestries, distilled into the vials, forged into the precious metals. The contents of this room are worth more than anything else in the kingdom.
But despite all of the things strewn about, the room feels empty. There’s too much space between the objects, a sparseness that settles into my bones. Because the room looks like it was made to be filled to the brim. The fact that there are only a few rows, a few piles of affluence, is harder hitting than if it were completely barren. It’s like those enormous houses I occasionally saw in the mortal world, all glorious facades and immaculate furniture in the windows. But once inside, I realized there’s nothing in the pantry, no clothes in the five walk-in closets. The money was spent on showmanship, and everyone suffers for the indulgence.
“What’s this?” I ask, fully knowing where we are.
“Our storeroom,” she says. “Where we hold all the Dream in Winter.”
She says it sadly, her words swallowed up by the void. That can’t be right. This can’t be all there is. Winter is vast and this could barely feed the castle for a week.
“But it’s so . . .”
“Empty?” she asks. I look over, and somehow, with her hood pulled up and her hands in her lap, Mab looks like a little girl. One being chased by a particularly nasty wolf.
“Yeah. What happened?”
She shrugs and continues to look out at the expansive room.
“It was a slow transition,” she says. “In the years after the Oracle’s War, after I lost one of the few aces I had up my sleeve, Oberon began taking more and more of the Dream from the mortal world. I thought it a natural transition at the time, an evening of the scales. One my kingdom could handle and eventually overturn. But every year we gained less and less; Oberon’s kingdom has flourished in the aftermath of the Oracle, and mine has slowly slipped into disrepair. The world should be ripe for Winter—the darker dreams are rampant, and yet even they don’t hold the same weight as they used to. What we do gather is nearly impotent.”
My skin prickles. Mab’s never told me anything about the Oracle’s War, only that it happened and—like anything else in Winter’s history she doesn’t approve of—it should be ignored. She gestures to the room as though she hadn’t just dropped a history bomb.
“We may have found only one rogue trader, but even that is a crippling blow. Oberon and I have always lived in balance. Even in the grips of our worst war, we knew we needed each other to survive. Summer needs winter, night needs day. Our workings even the scales of life. If there are more leaks in the system, more Dream going to something outside of our carefully crafted system, the balance of all life will be thrown. This will go beyond the world of Faerie, Claire. Faerie and Mortal are twined together. Should Faerie starve, so too will the humans. Dream is more than just food for us. Dream is power. Life. Strength.”
I look around the empty room. How have I not noticed this earlier? I decide, rather than take my oversight to heart, to ask.
“How the hell are you keeping this secret?”
“Never show weakness, Claire. I’d hoped I’d taught you as much. If my kingdom knew what was happening, they would begin to lose faith in my rule, which would make us ripe for an attack.”
“An attack? You really think someone’s going against you? I thought Oberon and you were at peace for a few more years.”
“Oberon and I have a temporary agreement, yes. But if someone else is stealing my Dream, then it is clear to me they mean to pose a threat.”
“You think they’re building an army. To what? Overthrow you? That’s ridiculous.” Mab’s a veritable force of nature. Like storms or the season of winter itself, she’s not something you could just overthrow, not without dire consequences.
“I think the wisest defense is a sharp offense; cut out the threat before it truly becomes one. And that is why I have you.”
We don’t linger in the storeroom. Mab waves her hand and suddenly we’re sitting on my bed. Moonlight streams through the curtains behind her, making her a darker sh
adow against the night, her eyes glowing like Saint Elmo’s fire.
“You will return to the mortal world in the morning,” she says. “Take Eli. You may need an extra set of eyes.”
“Really? Eli?”
“Do you know any other fit for the job? You will track down those who are stealing Dream, from me or from Oberon. I have no doubt there are others out there—the deficit we’ve noticed lately can be due to nothing else. Interrogate when you can. Use whatever means necessary. And when you are done, kill them. We cannot risk them turning back to their Trade.”
“Can do, boss.” My voice is deadened, just like the rest of me.
The ghost of a smile touches her lips, now outlined in the light of the moon.
“Good night, sweet child,” she says. Then she closes her eyes, and the darkness behind her swallows her whole.
I don’t know what’s more unsettling—the fact that she referred to me as sweet child or that, for the first time in my life, Mab is genuinely relying on me to keep her and everyone else safe.
My hits up to this point have all been minor. Yeah, I’m great at what I do, and yes, there’s no room for error. When Mab tells me to kill, they’re as good as dead, no sweat. I’d always assumed the targets were of some political import—usually, they were tied to Summer or the unclaimed Fey who inhabited the Wildness between the kingdoms. Important kills, to be sure. But I always figured the world would continue to function if I messed up. Which really just meant “died in action.”
But this? This is a weight I can’t shake. This is more than Mab’s kingdom on my shoulders. This is the world.
I head into the bathroom and start the bath, even though a part of me is too tired to even soak in the tub. I feel ridiculously worn-out considering I did nothing but wander around and stand behind the scenes of a circus show. I didn’t even watch the show, despite my joking with Kingston. Instead, I spent those two boring hours wandering the backstage area, tracing Dream and making sure it was being stored and sent out properly. It was. I stare at myself in the mirror, at the shadows under my eyes and the frazzled hair that probably needs a cut seeing as it’s now reached my shoulders, and wonder if I’ll ever look like I’m not one step from the grave. Probably not. Especially not with my current job prospects.
Eli? Really?
The tub is filled and ready before I even strip off my clothes, but I head back into the living room and grab a bottle of bourbon and bring it back with me. No fancy cocktail tonight.
I slip into the tub with the bottle in hand and take a long pull, settling back amidst the suds. It’s only then, when the first wave of heat and tingle of alcohol wash over me, that I remember just why I feel so off. It wasn’t just waiting at the circus or talking to Mab.
It was the vision.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask no one. A part of me wants to call Pan and talk to him, but I know this isn’t something he would understand.
I don’t have visions. I’m normal, mortal; my skills are from the runes and glyphs traced down my spine like a long black scar. Not one of them has to do with having visions of . . . of what? The past? How long ago? Mab looked like she always did, and the girl with her . . . I shake my head. I can’t remember the girl’s face. Just the blood on her jeans.
This place has ghosts. That’s what Kingston said. So had he known the girl? And why was I getting a vision of that? I mean, of all the useless things to have some sort of psychic flare-up over, a girl with bloody jeans is pretty far from impressive. It could have at least been about whoever is stealing the Dream.
The question flashes through my mind. What if it’s her?
I take another swig of bourbon and submerge deeper into the tub. I may not know who this mystery girl is, but she’s the closest thing I have to a lead. I’ll find her. It’s what I do.
And when I do track her down, she’ll have a lot of explaining to do. Mostly about how she managed to get into my head.
I wait until after breakfast the next morning to get Eli. And oh, how I draw it out.
I soak in the tub until I wrinkle. I shave my legs (manually, no magic, because sometimes you need an excuse to spend more time submerged). I take way too long to do my hair and pick out my outfit. Not because I actually care about any of it, but because these are my last few moments of Eli-less time, and those are precious. He’s not a bad guy, per se. But as I said before—I’m a loner. Eli knows this, and he delights in being the wrench in those gears.
Finally, after eggs Benedict and a plate of bacon and some bland black water that barely tastes like coffee (it has to be the water in Faerie; I get my grounds fresh), I can’t hold off any longer.
There’s a wall in one corner of my study that’s devoid of books. While everything around it is chaos, that wall and the space before it remain clear. Always. It’s exposed brick, and I’m not talking Winter obsidian brick, I mean New York Hipster Loft brick, with a semicircle of concrete like a hearthstone at its base. A single line of white chalk is drawn in an arc on the floor, the exterior scribbled with runes and glyphs that refuse to smudge or fade, no matter how many times I sweep or walk over them. A tin bucket filled with chalks of all colors sits to one side. The wall, however, is remarkably clean. No markings. Just a swath of red brick.
It’s funny. Kids in the real world think monsters come from the closet or under the bed. Which I suppose is true. Mostly. But the fact is, monsters can come from anywhere with a flat surface. We just need a door, and if it’s a flat plane, it can be a door.
Chew on that the next time you’re reading a book about demonic possession. Pages are flat planes, too.
The sensation of chalk scraping against brick makes my mind go silent. It’s about as meditative as I get, really, and as I draw the rough shape of a rectangle on the wall, I feel the power build within me. It starts as a vibration in my fingertips that could just be mistaken for the rough brick, if you weren’t attuned to that sort of thing. Then it spreads up my wrist and through my arm, loops over my shoulder and into my chest, until every breath is gravelly. Magic feels different, depending on the goal. And this magic is heavy, earthy. It’s the magic of dirt and cobwebs and layers of pressurized stone.
When the pale blue door is complete, I sketch out the symbols for travel, visualizing my destination with every stroke. Some are old—Norse runes, Masonic equations, Hebrew numerals—while others are so modern they’re laughable—GPS coordinates, a street address, the color of the floor (“concrete,” which I know isn’t a color but it works).
When I’m done, my body is practically quivering with power. There’s only a tiny nub of chalk left. I step back, my toes touching the circle on the floor, and grind up the chalk in my palm. Then I raise it to my lips and blow.
The feeling of power leaving my body is immense, like a coat of concrete sliding to the ground; only rather than leaving me feeling freed, it renders me exhausted.
Chalk dust floats through the air in a cloud. Slowly. Much too slowly for normal physics to allow. It dances and expands in the space before the door, forming shapes I’ve long since given up trying to understand. Some particles attach to the markings I made, thickening them or filling in blanks to equations and words. The rest twine down to the floor in a serpentine show, making new marks, new sigils, ones I cannot and will not ever write or try to discern.
Then the dust settles. Spell done.
That’s it. No flash of light, no Hollywood glow around the corners of the door. The brick is still bone-crushingly solid.
I grab a second piece of chalk—purple, because Eli hates purple—and slip it in my pocket beside one of twelve butterfly knives I’m carrying.
“What fresh hell awaits?” I mutter.
I step over the line on the floor, and the world of Faerie melts away.
The warehouse—or what used to be a warehouse—rises up around me like the ribs of a decaying dragon. In
the late-evening sunlight, everything is rust and rot, all reds and umbers and grey. And it’s cold. Of course, this being southern Vermont, evenings are always cold, even in the summer. Summoning demons is best done at transitory times—dusk or dawn, preferably on some equinox or solstice—and, since I’m not really interested in mingling with Eli all day, I’m going with dusk. The joys of being able to manipulate time between the worlds. I zip up my leather jacket and step forward, kicking a small stone before me as I go.
The place used to be part of a cotton mill. The complex stretches along a lazy river, the trees garishly green against it all, foothills rising in the distance. It’s silent and oppressive in a way that only empty buildings can be—the empty space, the weight of history. It’s almost like being in some ancient cathedral. If you ignore the graffiti and beer cans, that is.
After last night, all I can imagine is Mab’s storeroom, and how it’s going to look in twenty years. Empty? Covered in Fey graffiti? Hell, at the rate we’re going, it may only take twenty days.
Trouble is, I can’t even feel that bad about it. I know Mab. She didn’t need to show me that. She knows she just has to point and I’ll kill. The storeroom was a ruse; she wanted me to forget that she never actually answered why I was sent to the circus. She wanted guilt to outweigh my desire for knowledge.
Whatever, she can keep her secrets. I’ll do the job like I always do and save the day and no one will know there was ever a problem to begin with. Like a good assassin. No statues made in my image, thanks. I’ll be lucky if I get a tombstone.
I kick the pebble a little harder across the broken concrete. It skitters straight ahead, then hits a point near the center of the warehouse and changes course entirely, veering off to the right to knock into a beer can. A few pigeons burst from the rafters at the sudden noise.
Bingo.
My brain slips back into business mode as I walk over to where the stone changed course. It’s no different from any other place on the floor, no debris to have caused the stone to ricochet. Just dusty, relatively smooth concrete. I grab the chalk from my pocket and kneel at the point where the ley lines converge. A crossroads of energy. The perfect place to summon an astral creature.