Pale Queen Rising

by A. R. Kahler

  A few shops in, I stop outside a nondescript door—anyone wandering through here would pass it over as residential, as it’s crammed between two shops and looks to be made of old wood. Only, on closer inspection, the door isn’t wood at all, but finely hammered silver, tarnished with age.

  I knock three times, and barely a second passes before a small window in the door slides open. The eyes looking back are not human. Not by a long shot.

  “Who goes there?”

  The phrase is so cliché I want to laugh every time, but the deep rumble of the golem’s voice strikes a primal nerve within me, one that says laughing would be a very bad idea.

  “Hello, Hephaestus,” I respond. “It’s Claire.”

  “Claire?”

  “Yeah, you know, Mab’s daughter and all that?”

  The golem’s smoldering orange eyes turn to Eli. “Not all.”

  “Yeah, a friend of mine is with me, too.”

  “He stays.”

  I look at Eli. “Mind waiting?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  I shake my head and he sighs dramatically.

  “Fine,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the Unicorn.”

  The golem doesn’t open the door until Eli’s wandered off around the corner.

  “We all sorted now?” I ask. The golem doesn’t answer, just slides the window shut and opens the door.

  I don’t know how the thing manages to walk up and down the cramped hallway. He’s hunched over so much his back is brushing the top of the obsidian ceiling and his shoulders nearly touch each side. The hulking humanoid is made entirely of metal, a great clockwork thing of brass gears and steel plates. Even though the cogs that drive him are intricate, nothing about Hephaestus’s creation says delicate. He’s a beast, and every step he takes as he ambles down the hall makes the ground tremble.

  “Why here?” he asks as he walks. The hall is long and appears slick, every surface glinting with false wetness, the only light coming from a warm glow deep within the golem’s chest and a few panes of teal glass along the walls.

  “William,” I reply. “He’s got a piece for me. Or should.”

  Hephaestus doesn’t answer. His master never gifted him with witty banter. The hall slopes down, leading us deeper and deeper under Mab’s kingdom. I glide a finger along the wall and smile at the runes that flash from my touch like ripples in a pond. The walls are heavily enchanted, some of the runes so old I don’t even know if the jewelers know what they’re for. With every step, the airborne tang of copper and solder gets thicker.

  Finally, the golem gestures to the second offshoot hall we’ve seen, this one noticeably warmer than the rest of the place. Golden light glows near the end of the hall, heavenly if not for the sound of hammers and the hiss of steam and flame.

  “Thanks, Heffy,” I say, patting the golem on the arm as I pass. As expected, he doesn’t respond.

  I head down the side hall on my own, leaving Hephaestus towering behind me silently. He’ll probably be there until he’s needed to escort me out again.

  The workshop is a masterpiece in and of itself. The room is filled with worktables and stools, racks of hammers and pliers, shelves of copper and gold and platinum. There are dressers filled with gemstones, crates of bones and teeth, and in the corner, a giant meteorite sits by a kiln, the black stone glinting. You’d expect the place to be grimy, but the surfaces here are polished to the same luster as the rest of the hall. The floor is an inlaid spectacle of gold and ruby and tiger’s eye, a great mosaic with hundreds of patterns. The tang of metal is strong in here. It’s the one place in Faerie where iron is used, which is why it’s so deeply hidden. Iron is kryptonite for the Fey and thus left entirely to the mortals to forge.

  I head over to William, who’s hunched over a table with a sanding file and what looks like a small golden bird. He has the pale pallor of those who never see the sun, his shirt covered in soot and glinting gold shavings. He doesn’t even seem to notice I’ve arrived, which wouldn’t be surprising if not for Hephaestus’s booming footsteps.

  “Morning, William,” I say. I don’t know if it’s actually morning by his inner clock, but it’s a fair enough greeting.

  William’s head darts up from his work, his tired eyes locking onto mine. I half expect him to drop the bird to the floor in that moment of skittishness, but his work is his life—literally—and his hands don’t move a millimeter.

  “Claire,” he says. His voice belies a bit of breathiness. Looks like I startled him a bit after all. “It is good to see you.”

  “Likewise,” I say. I sit on the bench opposite him and look down at the bird in his hand. It seriously looks like a living creature, albeit one missing a full side of its body. The feathers are soft and delicate, the feet intricate and tiny, and the space within is filled within mechanisms so small I can barely discern them. Clearly he’s been working on this for some time. “Please say that’s for me.”

  He smiles. I’m pretty certain I’m the only one in this kingdom who’s ever made him smile. Probably because, when I was ten and tired of killing things, I came down here and demanded he make me a jeweler like him. Mab would have nothing of it, of course, but he’d taught me little lessons on the side. In secret.

  “I am afraid not,” he says. He holds the bird up so I can see it and taps its beak. The eyes glow blue and it makes one soft chirrup, fluffs its feathers, then goes silent once more. “Just a side project of mine. Your piece is over there.”

  He carefully sets the bird on the counter and stands. When he turns to go, I can’t help noticing the line of black tattoos inked along his spine, the markings like a bruise beneath his thin white shirt. Many of them are similar to mine: runes to prevent treachery or subversion, wards of protection, and sigils of strength and steadfastness. But I have many, many more. I’ve never been able to tell how old William is. Something in his mannerisms makes him seem antiquated, but he doesn’t look any older than an uncle. If I had an uncle.

  I don’t move from the bench. I’ve been chastised enough for sticking my nose in places it doesn’t belong, and I know he enjoys having the big reveal be his doing. So I watch him go to a curio cabinet along the wall, then studiously look away when he turns and makes his way back.

  “This is for you,” he says when he’s settled in.

  I look to him, and then to his hands on the table, which hold a tiny black box. For a moment, my eyes snag on the single ring he’s wearing. It’s crappy and silver, an amateur creation hammered to within an inch of its life. I made it for him after our first and last official lesson, before Mab caught on and threatened to break my fingers. Before I can get sentimental, which I seem to be doing too much of lately, I focus on the ribbon-wrapped box.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  He chuckles, and I take the box gingerly, as though whatever’s inside could be fragile or alive—and to be honest, it could be. Though hopefully he built something that can withstand a beating; if I’m using it, a beating is almost a guarantee. I slide off the ribbon and open it slowly. I can practically feel William’s anticipation growing with every millimeter unveiled.

  Inside the box is a golden pocket watch. The exterior is perfectly plain, and even a little tarnished. I grin. Perfect. I’ve often found that, with William’s craftsmanship, the more subdued it is on the outside, the cooler it is on the inside. When I open it, I discover I was right.

  It’s not a watch face looking back at me. Instead, a series of silver rings covered in runes and symbols and constellations form the face, each of them moving at different speeds and in different directions. Three hands of varied lengths sit completely motionless.

  “How does it work?” I ask.

  “In stages.” He plucks the watch from my hand and holds it up to me. “Mab said you needed something to pinpoint Dream that wasn’t flowing to Winter or Summer. Is this correct?”
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  I nod.

  “As you know, both Courts lay claim to their Dream before it is even manifest, by staking out certain territories as their own. The Dream is imprinted by the Courts, and that’s what channels it back to the respective kingdoms. That sort of Dream is what these two larger arms show,” he says. “The silver arm is for Winter, the gold for Summer. They trace the largest nearby sources.”

  “And the third?”

  “Unclaimed Dream,” he says. He sighs. “I’m afraid it’s impossible to find Dream that was, say, claimed for Winter but hijacked in transit. The best I can do is have it suss out sources that haven’t been claimed by either Court.”

  “That’s still helpful,” I say. I kind of feel like right now, anything helpful. “What about the rings?”

  “They will spell out the location of the unmarked Dream. Well, they should. I haven’t had the ability to test it out down here.”

  “I’m sure it will work perfectly. How can I repay you?” I ask. That’s the one issue when working with William and the rest of the jewelers—technically, they’re employed by Mab, so technically, they have to do whatever I ask. But that feels a little too close to slave labor for my liking. Especially since the only thing I’ve ever seen them compensated with is living longer.

  He smiles. “When my bird is complete, will you take it to the human world and let it fly? I would like nothing more.”

  “Of course,” I say. It seems a little Hallmark for my liking, but I think a few centuries down here have addled his brains. I’ll play along the best I can. I reach over and put my hand on top of his, which is probably the most touchy-feely I get with anyone. I can’t help it; William feels like family. “Thank you again.”

  “My pleasure, Claire.”

  Then, before I let the moment linger any more, I pocket the watch and leave.

  Eli’s waiting for me back at the Lewd Unicorn, as expected. What’s not expected is the fact that he isn’t alone, even though the bar is empty save for him and the woman sitting next to him. Celeste’s nowhere in sight.

  Eli’s companion is Mab.

  I almost don’t recognize her at first—she’s wearing all white. The color switch is almost as much of a shock as seeing her in a bar. It explains the reason everyone else left; no one wants to be drinking and unguarded around the feared matriarch.

  She turns around when I open the door. Eli glances over at me as well, his eyes no longer hidden behind his glasses.

  “Welcome back,” he says.

  Mab says nothing. Great.

  I walk over slowly, each step feeling like I’m about to spring a trap. Ah, screw it, the trap’s probably already been sprung without my knowing. Might as well get the blood and gore over with.

  “I hear you brought a human into Winter,” Mab says when I sit down. I sit beside Eli, so he acts as a buffer between us. If she kills him, I can always just bring him back.

  “I did,” I reply.

  “And you thought it unwise to ask me first?”

  “I thought it unwise to let our only living lead die while asking your permission.” A small tumbler of bourbon slides across the bar toward me. Celeste’s still not here. She’s probably in the back hiding, but at least she’s still considerate. “Besides, it was just for the night. She’s back home now. Where she’ll be staying.”

  Mab lifts the long-stemmed wineglass to her lips. I’m not sure if it’s blood or Dream or wine or some combination of the three, and I’m not about to ask. Her lips are already red from the lipstick, and when she sips, they go an even darker crimson.

  “And what has this lead brought you?” she asks. “Besides more trouble?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Do you think she is working for our buyer?”

  I shake my head and sip on the bourbon, truly wishing Celeste had added some Dream to it. Maybe some emboldening, you-have-superpowers Dream.

  “It’s not the same guy as Frank, that’s for sure. So either there are more players on the field than we thought or this is just a fluke. You know which I’m leaning toward.”

  She nods over her wine.

  “Eli tells me they were storing Dream in their bus, but that the vehicle has disappeared without a trace. The trail is dead. You will use the girl to find the buyer.”

  “That was the plan.” I glance over to Eli, reminding myself to thank him for going back and checking for stored Dream. So that’s what he’d gotten up to last night. I pause. “Why the hell did you come here, anyway?”

  Eli actually leans back a little, making room for me to glare over at Mab. She wouldn’t have come out just to make sure I was doing my job, or even to chastise me for bringing Roxie here. She hates being seen among the—how did she put it?—unclean.

  Mab’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t reach over and slap me like I know she wants to.

  “I am here,” she says quietly, “because I have recently heard from Oberon.”

  I glance around out of habit. No one discusses the Summer King in the open. It’s as close to treason as you can get without ending up in iron chains. The place is empty, and it’s not like there’s anyone above Mab to get her in trouble.

  “Oh yeah?” I ask. Another sip of bourbon.

  “Indeed. Apparently our little dilemma is worse than we had initially expected. His kingdom is feeling the effects as well.”

  Again, I glance around. Hadn’t she sworn me to secrecy?

  “What’s your point?”

  “Only that our situation is dire. We don’t have time for you to be waylaid with thoughts of protecting this girl. Eli tells me you don’t yet have another lead, and here I find you, drinking when you should be out there finding who is behind all of this.”

  I open my mouth to argue that I’m only drinking because she’s here, but it doesn’t seem worth it.

  “I was getting that amulet from the jewelers,” I reply coldly. “So I could find the next trail. You haven’t made this easy, you know.”

  “I would if I could,” Mab says, and for once I actually believe she means it. Which tells me just how dire the situation really is. She likes it when I sweat a little. “Will it work?”

  “I haven’t had the chance to try it out.” I look to Eli. “You ready?”

  “Always,” he says. Which is true. Astral creatures like him never tire. He pushes himself from the stool and bows to Mab, who barely takes notice of him. “A pleasure,” he says. Then, without waiting for me, he turns and leaves the bar.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” I say quietly, when he’s out of earshot.

  “Then do better.” Mab turns back to her drink. Clearly my exit cue. I sigh and down the last of the bourbon and leave. Eli’s waiting for me outside the bar. He doesn’t say anything at first, just pushes off from the wall and falls into step at my side.

  “Well,” he eventually says as we make our way toward one of the kingdom’s many exits, “that was pleasant.”

  “Can it.”

  “I see where you get your manners. Where are we off to, anyway?”

  I open the tiny locket and study the small hand.

  “No idea. But we’re about to find out.”

  Eight

  The pocket watch works.

  After I’ve landed in the mortal world and asked where the greatest leak of Dream is, it spells out the coordinates to a conservatory in Chicago. I’m not certain which conservatory it is, but thankfully I don’t need the name for my magic to work. I hastily sketch a portal on the wall of some dingy hallway in what looks like a middle school, using the coordinates from the amulet and praying it actually works and doesn’t lead us into, I don’t know, the heart of a volcano or something fun like that. It must be my lucky night—the portal lets us out in a hallway that definitely isn’t on fire. I hear the murmur of an audience down one end and silence down the other. Judging from the p
hotos and plaques on the wall, this is the right place. The tiny watch hand points dead ahead. I sniff once and feel my skin crawl.

  “This is Summer territory,” I whisper. The magic ringing through this place has the telltale whiff of lightning and cut grass. And, sure enough, the gold hand on the watch is spinning around wildly. I thought the amulet would only track unmarked Dream. Or has someone found a way to smuggle right from underneath our noses? Not by hijacking claimed Dream, but by stealing it before it could be branded . . .

  Eli nods silently. I twist the dead man’s ring and the tingle of magic washes over me. I have no connections here, and if I’m found out, I’m as good as captured—Oberon’s made it quite clear that I’m not welcome on his turf. I guess he’s pissed that I’ve killed off so many of his “best and brightest.”

  Even though I’m cloaked, I stay close to the wall as I head toward the stage. The music coming through the hall is classical, which is so unlike last night’s show I almost laugh. Whoever’s stealing Dream clearly isn’t playing genre favorites. It’s not a concert, though. That’s readily apparent when a bunch of lithe men and women run past wearing nude shorts and nothing else—not even the women.

  “Modern dance? Really?” I whisper. Eli just shrugs.

  It figures that Summer would have stakes on this place. Personally, I’d rather be getting my teeth drilled.

  We head to the stage wing and stay in the shadows. Onstage, the dancers twist and dance and leap, making circles with legs and hands, throwing billowy sheets of silk into the air. It doesn’t make any sense to me, but I can tell from the influx of Dream that the audience is eating this shit up. Like with Roxie, there seems to be more getting pulled in than should be possible—I mean, in a situation like this, I’d expect most of the Dream to be occurring because the audience is falling asleep. It’s also readily apparent just who onstage is siphoning the Dream.