by A. R. Kahler
It’s a young man, maybe twenty-three, with short auburn hair and a single black ring tattooed around his right ankle. He’s clearly the lead ballerina or whatever they call it in modern dance foo-foo land—he’s the one dancing in the center of the stage, doing a duet with a girl I could probably crush with one hand. I watch him lift her, the muscles in his arms and back flexing quite nicely. Why is it always the hot ones who get mixed up in this shit? I can’t even pretend to be excited about killing this guy—I’d much rather seduce him in a bar and take him back to my place to show him how we dance in Faerie.
Like Roxie, the guy’s not Fey, but there’s a magic surrounding him similar to hers. I sniff again, and sure enough, the scent’s the same as the magic binding Roxie to her contract. Bingo. But if this place is run by Oberon, I’d think he’d realize there is an interloper on his own grounds. Unless the contact here was recently killed off as well and Oberon hasn’t caught on yet. Unlike Winter, Oberon’s kingdom isn’t known for being bloodthirsty; I don’t think he has anyone like me, and I don’t think he’d know what to do with an assassin if he did.
I glance at Eli and gesture to the lead dancer. Eli nods. Usual drill—find the bastard after the show and make him talk, by whatever means necessary. I just hope I don’t have to suffer through another hour of this mess before that happens. That bourbon can only take the edge off for so long.
Thankfully, I only have to stand there another ten minutes or so before the final act—a very “rousing” number that involves all the dancers running into each other repetitively to ambient piano music. Then the lights go dark and rise again, the whole cast standing in line for a few bows. I’m practically tapping my toes in eagerness. After a day of being shit on, I’m ready for someone else to pay for it.
The cast leaves and heads toward the dressing room. Just to make sure my senses are right, I click open the watch William made me; sure enough, the short hand follows the auburn-haired dancer like a bloodhound. He smells so strongly of magic when he runs past that I nearly gag. Maybe I was wrong; maybe he’s not like Roxie. The magic surrounding him feels different, even if there are threads of the same faerie bindings. But something tells me that—unlike her—he got precisely what he wanted from whatever agreement he made. There’s a smugness to him no magic can alter. It reminds me a lot of that barista witch from Queens, Frank.
Eli and I follow closely, heading straight into the dressing rooms. I guess I’d normally feel like a creeper as we stand there, watching the guys undress and congratulate each other. But I can’t take my eyes off our man, a guy the others are calling Henry (which in reality is not the most sinister of names, but then again, a modern dancer doesn’t seem like the most sinister of people). I watch him like a hawk, examining him for any tells or weaknesses. He undresses slowly, and once again I’m in awe of his perfect musculature, the way his entire body seems to glide through the motions. I’ve never been too fond of the willowy types, but there’s a power under his skin that’s a huge turn-on. And when he slips out of his shorts, it’s clear it’s not just his legs that are long.
I’d blush, if I were that sort of girl. Instead I just watch as he walks around the changing room ass-naked, clearly in no rush to get into normal clothes. I can’t say I would be either; if I were in his skin, I’d be showing it off to the world. I’m no longer as torn over having to kill him—something about his cocky nature completely switched off that trigger—but I can still appreciate his beauty. We just need to get him on his own. To start the interrogation, that is.
For that, I have a few different tools at my disposal. I have rings to paralyze and a pouch of faerie dust in my pocket that could put them all to sleep. Eli alone could probably weave a quick spell to knock them all out at once. But as we watch and wait, it becomes readily apparent that none of that will be necessary. The dancers all leave one by one. Henry stays behind, slowly changing into street clothes.
When the rest of the dancers are gone, Henry goes over to the dressing room door. I clench my fists, ready to leap at him and start our dance, when he does a tiny motion over the doorknob and I hear a click.
No wonder the guy feels like Frank. Henry’s a witch.
“You can take off the enchantments,” he says as he turns. “I know you’re there.”
I chuckle to myself. Thank gods. I needed a fun one to help relieve the stress.
It’s really boring when they don’t put up a fight.
I twist my ring and let the enchantment roll off. Eli clearly does whatever he does to be visible to mortals.
“How long have you known we were watching?” I ask.
“Since you teleported here,” he replies. He smiles at me. It’s a very bedroom sort of smile. “And I could feel you watching me.”
“What can I say? I appreciate confidence. Especially when you’ve got the goods to back it up.”
Eli chuckles beside me. I have no doubt he was enjoying the show as well.
“You from Summer?” Henry asks, looking the two of us over. He’s wearing baggy sweatpants and a loose V-neck T-shirt, the neckline of which dips below his sternum. Not a look I’d normally find attractive, but he’s somehow pulling it off.
He might be in the know, but at least he’s not that in the know.
“Not even close,” I say. “But it’s nice to know I won’t have to explain anything when forcing answers out of you.”
Henry laughs. “Babe, I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with.”
I cringe at that word. “Babe? Really?”
He just smiles. I shove down the revulsion and flick my wrist, a small piece of magic. A long sword slides from the ether, appearing in a sliver of black mist. “I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with, either.”
“I really hope that’s not supposed to scare me.” He definitely doesn’t look perturbed by it.
“Not really,” I say. “That’s what this guy’s for.”
Eli takes off his glasses then, sliding them back to rest atop his head.
Still, Henry doesn’t flinch. He looks Eli over coolly and says, “I was wondering why he felt off.”
Overall, this isn’t going as well as I’d expected. Why aren’t these people as timid as they should be when staring death in the eyes?
“You know why we’re here, yes?” I ask.
“I’d assume because I’m not playing for your team.” He winks at me. “They told me the Courts wouldn’t be too happy when they found out about me stealing Dream.”
“And yet you’re still onstage,” I say. “Seems pretty stupid to me. It’s not like you’ve made yourself hard to find.”
“I wasn’t trying. I’ve played my part. And all parts have to end eventually.”
“How poetic,” I say, rolling my eyes. I take a step forward. “So this is how the rest of this game goes: You’re going to tell me who’s buying your Dream. If you do, I might actually let you live.” Again, it’s a good thing I’m not bound to telling the truth. There’s no way this guy’s getting out of here alive. “If you don’t, I will make the next few days of your life a living hell.”
Eli chuckles. “As someone who’s been there, I can personally attest to this.”
Henry spreads his arms wide. “Do your worst.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
In the next blink I’m there at his side, my sword slicing clean through his Achilles. He goes down with a grunt, and then I’m behind him with my hand in his hair and my blade to his neck.
“Now,” I say, “let’s try that again. Who is buying your Dream?”
“Fuck you,” Henry says through gritted teeth.
He actually puts up a fight. Or tries to. My spine scalds with power as the glyphs protecting me from magic flare to life. A folding chair beside me bursts into flame, and the room quickly fills with the scent of burning plastic and sweaty clothing.
; “That wasn’t very nice,” I say. “But I appreciate you trying so hard. It’s cute.”
Henry’s blood has formed a small pool at my feet now, and I know he won’t have too much time left before he bleeds out or faints. So I stamp my foot over the slash in his leg and send a few small enchantments down there, let his flesh stitch back together. I don’t want him to fade just yet.
For his part, Eli just stands there with his hands clasped behind his back. Watching and waiting.
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” Henry says.
“Oh, but you will. You’ll tell me who’s buying and who else is selling before I actually start to get pissed.”
Henry just laughs. “No, I won’t. Contractual impossibility.”
I yank his head back and look into his eyes. He’s just smiling at me.
Of all the times in the world I could use a charm or something to sever a faerie contract, now would be it. But there isn’t one. Faerie magic can’t be broken, not like a witch’s curse.
I let go of Henry and take a step back, look to Eli.
“What do you think?”
“He’s telling the truth,” Eli says. “I can taste it.”
“Fuck,” I say. I kick Henry in the ribs. “What do we do now?”
I can’t go back to Mab empty handed again.
“Let me talk to him,” Eli says. His blue eyes blaze.
“Be my guest,” I say, and step away.
Eli walks over and kneels in front of Henry, who still has that ecstatic martyred look on his face. The guy grins even wider as Eli takes his head in his hands and forces him to look in his eyes.
“I want to show you something,” Eli whispers. He leans in close, their noses almost touching. It would be borderline erotic, the intimacy of it—the blue of Eli’s irises reflected in Henry’s, the hush of his voice. Until, that is, Henry starts to scream.
Quickly, I grab hold of an amulet around my neck—a horned moon holding a bloodstone—and send a small riff of power through it, my other hand going to the wall. Magic pulses through me and through the wall, a quick ripple that I should have done the moment we got here. A spell to keep out prying ears.
I actually have to plug my own ears once that act is done. I’ve seen Eli do this before, but that doesn’t make the knot in my gut any more pleasant. After a while Eli pushes Henry back and stands, wiping his hands on his pants.
“Well, that was fun,” Eli says, smiling at me. He slips the glasses over his eyes and walks over to my side. “He’s all yours.”
Although effective, Eli’s basically taken all the fun out of tonight. Henry just stays there, kneeling, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a completely vacant expression on his face. He’s goneso. Nobody home.
Staring into the netherworld has that effect on people.
I walk over and kick Henry in the crotch to get his attention and anchor him back to reality. The guy’s response is slow, just a grunt and a closing of the eyes. I kneel down in front of him and grab his shoulders to keep him from falling to his side.
“Let’s try this again,” I say. “I want to know who your buyer is.”
“Can’t say,” he whispers. His words sound like they’re being dredged up from the bottom of a well. Or, in this case, some hellish black hole.
“Then how do you know Frank?”
They shouldn’t know each other—it’s not like there’s some international witches’ coven or something. Though there might be some sort of social network . . . I should really look into that.
In any case, I know the two are connected. There’s a tang to their magic, a similarity that tells me they’ve crossed paths. Maybe even learned a thing or two from each other. Which doesn’t make sense, seeing as they live a thousand miles apart. Frank and Henry have been sharing magic, while Roxie and Henry are branded by the same faerie. Too convenient. I’ll have to ask her about it.
“Frank?” he asks dully.
“Ludwig Fennhaven,” I reply. Henry’s eyes tighten. “Yes, I knew his true name. Just as I know yours, Alistair. I’m just trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here. How did you two know each other?”
He opens his mouth. No words come out. Just a thin trail of smoke.
“Fuck,” I curse. I jump to my feet and step back, standing next to Eli.
Henry coughs and another plume rises from his lips. The truly terrifying thing is the vacant expression on his face and the terror behind his eyes, like he’s watching it all but isn’t close enough to do anything about it.
“Cross a line in the contract?” Eli asks.
I nod as we watch Henry sputter. “Must’ve been the true name thing. Damn it.”
“Don’t worry, there was nothing in there anyway.”
Henry gasps loudly, as though he’s just now regaining control over his body. He locks eyes with me, even as his irises burn up from within.
“My goddess will rise,” he wheezes through the smoke. “And when she does, even your Winter Queen will tremble.”
And before I can get anything else out of him, he collapses in on himself, his skin and bones disintegrating into ash as the fires of his contract consume him.
“Well,” I say after a while. “That’s just great.”
“Less to clean up,” Eli replies. “Just get a waste bin . . .”
Despite myself, I chuckle.
“How about this—I clean up and you go tell Mab that there is, in fact, someone out there opposing her rule.”
“No, thank you.”
“That’s what I thought.”
My goddess will rise. Great. Not only are we dealing with a rogue ruler, she thinks she’s a god. And so do her followers.
Mab is not going to be pleased.
Nine
I don’t tell Mab about Henry’s dying words. I think too highly of my own life for that. Instead, I tell her the rest of the truth—that her fears were founded, that there is a new figure out there vying to take control. She takes it better than I thought. She doesn’t even scream.
All told, the interaction takes about two minutes, and then I’m headed back into the streets of Winter. A small part of me wants to go check in on Roxie, but I won’t. Not tonight. Not so soon. She has to think she’s on her own, that I’m not playing savior—because that’s not a role I can play full-time, even if it’s something I’m gravitating toward. I have to keep my eyes on the job. The job I’m currently failing at.
I head down the main avenue from the castle, not really looking where I’m going. Until I get to the statue of the Oracle. Something about the waver of fire reminds me of watching Henry burn, and I pause there for a moment, looking up into the blank face. I brush my hand against the plaque, wondering what “The Oracle’s Sacrifice” actually was, what the whole war was about and why Mab won’t talk about it. I can’t tell anything from the statue itself, but it’s definitely feminine. Maybe my age. What did she do that was so important she got a statue, when here I am saving Faerie from apparent destruction and no one even knows it’s happening?
Maybe, when I die in the midst of all this, I’ll finally be deemed important enough to recognize.
I continue down the avenue, suddenly embarrassed for feeling sorry for myself out here, not that there’s anyone around to see it. But as I go, I get a flash of memory, the faintest hint, probably from the flicker of fire in the statue’s stone hair. It reminds me of the girl in my hallucination, the blonde chick with bloodstained knees. I glance back to the statue, trying to compare the two. Maybe it’s something in the cheekbones? I shake my head. I’m losing it, trying to pull connections where they don’t exist, and it doesn’t even matter—the Oracle has nothing to do with this. She’s dead. And the lost girl I saw with Mab in that vision wasn’t exactly world-saving material. She wasn’t even wearing leather.
I don’t encounter anyone on my way to
the Lewd Unicorn. The bars I pass only have a few patrons lounging inside, and the usual sound of faerie music and pleasures are muted, distant. Maybe people actually are feeling the Dream shortage . . .
Celeste’s bar is practically empty. Only a few regulars scattered throughout, keeping to the shadows. No one’s talking, so she’s got some ambient rock playing through the house speakers. Apparently everyone’s had one of those days.
“What’ll it be?” Celeste asks when I sit down.
“The usual,” I say. Because I never say anything else in here. This interaction is basically rote.
This time, though, there isn’t a tumbler immediately in front of me.
I look up and see the hesitation in her aura, the faint flicker of light like clouds over the sun.
“Can you pay?” she asks in my head.
I actually laugh.
What? I ask.
Another pause. She starts pouring the drink, but there’s definitely a bit of a tremble there.
“You know I hate to ask this,” she says. “But things are kind of tight around here.”
Wait, seriously?
I’ve never paid for anything here. I don’t handle Dream; everyone knows that. As a mortal, I’m not allowed to use it as currency. “My tab” is just a running joke. I assumed she billed Mab for whatever.
She slides the drink over without answering.
Celeste, how bad is it? I know you told me things were getting rough but I thought you were just making small talk.
“You haven’t heard? No, of course you wouldn’t. Mab keeps the castle stocked.”