by A. R. Kahler
I play it cool. I don’t even think about knowing anything, because I want her to keep talking.
What’s going on?
“There’s a Dream shortage. People are starting to leave the city. Some are even forswearing their allegiance and heading into the Wildness.”
That would explain the empty streets.
“You have no idea. Have you been outside the central district?”
I shake my head and take the tumbler, making a mental note to get my hands on some Dream to pay her back.
“It’s a ghost town.”
Where’s the Dream going? I ask, playing dumb. I mean, why would everyone go to the Wildness? They don’t have any stock in the Trade.
Another hesitation.
“That’s not what I hear,” she says quietly, as though Mab can hear our thoughts.
You mean someone’s pulling in Dream? Someone not tied to the kingdoms?
It’s nearly impossible to keep playing stupid, but I’m tired enough that it’s working.
“That’s not all,” she says.
What are you talking about?
She doesn’t answer. Just pours me another shot and hides the bottle back behind the counter.
“I can’t say. You should go see for yourself.”
So, after finishing my drink and promising to bring her back some Dream the next time I’m by, I make my way to the outer edges of Winter.
The city stretches on for miles within the great wall separating civilization from the frigid wasteland beyond. Tenement-style flats line each side of the narrow cobbled street, their facades black and covered in shadow. There are only a few stragglers out here, and even they seem to walk with a purpose, with the desire to get away. Needless to say, no one’s talking, and the farther I walk, the fewer people there are to talk to. A few blocks down and the flats surrounding me don’t just feel empty like Winter usually does, they are empty. I walk up to a door left slightly ajar and push it open, peering inside. The place is dark, but my eyes adjust quickly as the runes along my spine flare into life.
The flat is tiny, nothing more exciting than your average one-bedroom. There’s a sofa and table and, in the other room, a rather uncomfortable looking bed. Some Fey are lavish in their abodes, but whoever lived here clearly had a more Spartan outlook—no art on the walls, no personal objects. Just a vacant room ready for someone else to move in.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. It’s not like there’s going to be “Come to the Wildness” propaganda posters lying around, and there’s no one here to question. I also know that no one in their right mind would ever admit to having heard of some sanctuary offer from faeries in the Wildness, let alone consider moving there themselves. But I wander through the room anyway. And when there’s nothing there, I leave and continue down the street, peering into the houses as I pass. None of them holds any answers. They’re all empty. No one on the streets, no lights in the windows, no music in the air. The place is completely dead.
It’s maybe my sixth or seventh house when I actually find something interesting. And that’s still pushing the idea of “interesting.”
I almost miss it. Really, it’s just dumb luck and not skill that I see it poking out of a leather-bound book on the nightstand. There’s no light for it to catch, no rustle of intuition. It’s just a bookmark, and if I hadn’t been so bored from all the other rooms, I probably wouldn’t have opened the book in the first place.
But it’s not a bookmark. It’s a ticket. It’s about the size of a business card, and the front is covered in fleurs-de-lis—I can’t make out the colors in this darkness—and Admit One in swirling script. I turn it over. It’s for the Cirque des Immortels.
I can feel the magic laced through the card. It’s infinitesimal, but it’s there, lurking in the ink, waiting in the fibers. I can tell it’s one of those dormant spells, the type that requires just a little magic to open. Faerie magic, most likely, judging from the taste.
Thankfully, that’s what I’m good at.
Faerie magic is fueled by Dream, which is why it’s such a necessary resource. My own supply is linked to Mab’s, seeing as I’m not allowed any of my own. You don’t need it to survive, Mab had said, so why would we waste any on you? You may take what you need, when you need it, and only the barest minimum. I use only the tiniest amount. Seeing as Mab is in charge of my supply, she also knows when and where and probably why I’m using it. She won’t be happy to learn it is to track down why her own people are willing to risk exile or death to flee—I don’t think she wants me to know people are abandoning ship. If anything is to be her downfall, pride would be my number one guess.
The moment my power touches the paper, my vision shifts. It’s not images, per se, but lights and colors and shifting shapes. It doesn’t make sense. Flickers of orange and red, flashes of yellow, and curls of shadow, everything moving like light through a jungle’s branches. It’s strange and dazzling, but it’s not the fireworks that make my hair stand on end and my heart race—it’s the smell. For any other human it would be unnoticeable, but I can taste it: cloying, rich and powerful, a scent that fills my lungs and my blood with heat and power, a scent I know all too well. Dream. Pure, unfiltered, undistilled, unadulterated Dream. Whatever or wherever this place I’m seeing is, Dream is rampant there.
I could float in this forever.
Then a voice—feminine, ageless, and terribly angry—twines from the scene and roots into my skull.
“Come home,” it whispers. “Come and take back all that should be yours.”
Another flash, the image of Mab’s castle from on high, the wooden gates of Oberon’s kingdom. The smoke and flame of war.
Then the vision’s gone.
I drop the card to the floor and lean against the wall, staring at my hands, which burn and tingle with power.
“Well shit,” I whisper, looking past my fingers to the card on the floor.
People aren’t just leaving Winter because they’re hungry. They’re leaving because they’re being recruited.
I don’t bother exploring further, and I hesitate for a very long time over whether or not I should bring the ticket back to my room. Mab’s not going to like it, but she’s going to want to see this. I slip it into my pocket and hope the next time I see her, she’s in a good mood. When I leave and make my slow way back to the castle, I actually start to feel the weight of our situation.
Why the hell is someone sending tickets from Mab’s circus from the depths of the Wildness? How are they circulating without the higher-ups noticing? It’s not until I reach the castle and am heading toward my room that a dangerous question arises . . . What if Mab sent me to the circus because she already knew about these tickets? She’s always been one step ahead, even when she pretends not to be. So what in the world could her angle be?
None of it makes any sense, and once more my tired thoughts drift to Roxie, and I realize that for absolutely no reason whatsoever, I want to talk to her about this. The fact that I’m even thinking that makes me pause—I’ve known her for all of a day.
But that’s also the longest time I’ve ever spent around a mortal.
“You shouldn’t be thinking about her,” I mutter. “She isn’t important.”
And yet, she’s tied to this Henry guy. So maybe, in some purely business way, she is. I reach the door of my bedroom and press my head against it. I don’t want to go in there, not for another empty night waiting for the morning to come. My body is completely thrown off from all these time jumps—I don’t know if I’m hyper or exhausted or what. All I know is that I’m ready for this job to be over and done with. Back to your regularly scheduled killing, thanks.
There are dozens of enchantments that make my door accessible only to me. And Mab, I guess, but that’s obvious since she owns the place. Which is why, when it opens without me turning the knob, I go from introspective to attack mode in a h
eartbeat.
My blade’s against the neck of whoever opened the door—whoever is inside my room—before the shadow becomes clear.
“Were you planning on waiting out there all night?”
I don’t remove the blade. It’s the magician. Kingston.
“What the hell are you doing in there?” I ask. I peer past him, then back into his eyes. My knife stays on his neck. “And how the hell did you get in there in the first place?”
He grins. I hate to admit just how sexy that smile is, the perfect rebel-without-a-cause charm.
“Magic,” he says. He wiggles his fingers.
“Give me one reason not to kill you where you stand.”
He just laughs. “You wouldn’t be the first, let me assure you.” His eyes grow quizzical. “Come to think of it, the last time was just like this, too. What is it about my neck that says please cut here?”
Despite his attempts at humor, I don’t chuckle. Mainly because I’m more and more confused with every word he says and am intent on not letting it show.
“Why. The hell. Are you in my room?” I bite down the words as my blade bites against his neck. Just a little more pressure, I know, and I’ll break the first layer of skin.
“Because I wanted to see you. Obviously.” He doesn’t break eye contact when he says it, and there’s something about that smoothness that sets my nerves on edge and relaxes me at the same time. Those are eyes you could fall into and disappear completely. And he knows it.
“Why?”
“You know, it’s really hard to talk with this pressed against my neck.” He points to the blade. “Don’t get me wrong, I like it a little rough. But this might be crossing the line.”
Again, that nonchalant charm, like his life isn’t hanging in the balance. Which, to be fair, it probably isn’t, seeing as he’s under contract to live forever. Though maybe that doesn’t extend past circus lines . . .
In any case, I withdraw the knife but keep it open.
“One wrong move, magic boy,” I say, “and you’re going to learn what your intestines look like.”
I can see the flicker in his eyes, the inner acknowledgment that I am, in fact, being serious. But that’s it—the smile doesn’t shift and he doesn’t apologize or swear he’ll play nice. He just steps to the side and sweeps his arm out, inviting me into my own damn apartment.
I push past him without giving him a second glance, making sure to elbow him in the side as I go.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says as he closes the door behind me. “Very homey. You wouldn’t even know we’re in the depths of Winter in here.”
The last thing I want is to let him know he has me on edge, even if I did kind of blow that cover at the front door. So I hop over the back of the couch and lounge on the cushions. A wave of my hand and the embers in the fireplaces roar into life, along with a dozen candles scattered throughout the room. It probably looks romantic. I just want to appear like I don’t give a shit.
He pauses by the door, clearly a little crestfallen.
“I was wondering how to do that. Not normal magic.”
I shrug and stare at him. Of course it’s not normal magic—I was taught by the Motherfucking Queen of Winter, not some mortal witch. Duh.
I don’t say anything while I look at him. Let him keep making the first moves—so long as we’re in my territory, it should keep him on edge. He’s wearing tight blue jeans tonight, along with a white button-down that looks like it’s been through the Dark Ages and a beat-up leather jacket I can’t help but envy. His hair’s pulled back in a scraggly man-bun, and I hate to admit that—paired with the scruff he’s clearly been tending—he looks pretty damn hot. The Quetzalcoatl tattoo twined around his neck definitely helps.
And it’s then, right then, that I know what tonight’s going to entail. I feel the inevitability crashing toward me like an avalanche, one I don’t think I want to avoid. My chest feels warm at the thought; Kingston’s the perfect way to spend the evening—the perfect focus to forget everything else, the ticket and Dream and even Roxie. He might be here to coerce me or something, but I’m going to use him like he’s never been used before. And he’s going to love it.
Clearly he notices the shift in my mental energy, because he clears his throat and actually looks away, toward the case of weapons. He doesn’t look back to me. Score. After everything else today, it feels great to be back in control of something.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he finally says. It’s the first time words have left his lips that haven’t felt calculated. There’s something raw to them, almost bitter. Though I still don’t doubt for a second that it’s all an act, even if it’s a very good one.
“That’s a shame,” I respond. Is he really making it this easy? “I tend to have that effect on weaker men.”
He does glance over then. Good. Let him see I’m not going to be won over by some vain show of self-loathing.
He opens his mouth to say something, then stops, leaving his lips slightly parted. I really, really want to bite that bottom lip, to give over to lust and just forget about everything else. And I will. But first: business.
“Why are you here?” I ask. I funnel as much cold into my voice as I can, using Mab as my muse. It sounds more like an accusation than a question, and the slight flinch in his eyebrows tells me I pulled off Mab’s rendition flawlessly.
“Why do you think I’m here?” he responds.
“No. We’re not playing that game. You’re on my turf, you answer my questions. Or you get the fuck out.” I grab an empty wineglass from the table and circle my finger lazily around the rim, letting its crystal chime ring out. As it does, the glass fills with red wine. A very nice old-vine zin. “So, last time: Why are you here?”
“I’m here to warn you.”
“Ooh very dramatic.” I take a sip and pointedly don’t offer him a glass, even though there’s another waiting on the coffee table. “Let me guess, end of the world or something like that? I already know.”
“No.” He doesn’t move from his spot by the wall. “How safe are we to talk in here?”
“I enchanted the place myself. So pretty damn safe.”
He grins again, a little more uncertain than before. “In that case, I should probably give it another coating.”
“No magic.” I don’t trust you not to weave in something else.
“Okay. Well. What you’re getting into . . . it runs deep. And you shouldn’t be setting foot there, not if you know what’s good for you.”
“I’m not getting into anything. I’m already there. But thanks for thinking of me. Was great seeing you and all.”
Because yes, I want to screw him, but I also want him to work for it.
“No,” he says. “You’re just starting.”
I take another sip, letting him know his revelations are far from, well, revelatory.
“If you know something, you will tell me. To do anything less would be treason, and you know how well our dear ruler takes to that.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not that. I told you, I have no idea who’s stealing Dream and if I did, I’d be as far removed as possible. I’m not coming between Mab and her Dream.”
“So what are you warning me about?”
“You. Your life. What you’re about to embark on. What you’ve already seen, even if you don’t understand it.” He looks torn when he says it, like he’s not quite supposed to tell me. I wonder if it’s against his contract somehow. I perk up inside but try to appear disinterested. The conversation’s finally getting interesting.
“Thank you, Mr. Enigmatic. What are you, a fortune-teller now?”
He actually winces at that. Huh. Must not like being associated with charlatans.
“Jesus, Claire,” he says, running his hands over his hair. “I’m trying to keep you
from getting in trouble.”
“Then just spit it out.”
“I can’t!” he yells. He looks like he wants to punch something—both fists balled up and his tattoo writhing around his neck angrily. “I’m trying but I can’t. Listen, you . . . you’re not . . . Ugh!”
He does punch the wall then. Not that it does any good, since the wall is solid stone, but the thud is oddly pleasant. Something about the sound of smashing flesh trips a trigger. Kingston doesn’t shake his hand out, just takes a deep breath and clearly tries to collect his thoughts. It doesn’t seem to work.
“What do you know about your . . . your family?” he mutters to the stone.
“Why?”
“Just answer.”
“Dead,” I say. “Or, according to Mab, as good as dead, which I assume means vegetables of some sort.”
Another deep breath. “That’s what I thought.”
He pushes himself from the wall and walks over, collapsing on the sofa by my feet.
“So you don’t know anything. About before?”
“Before this?” I ask, spreading my hands. “Not really. What’s it matter? It’s the past. I’m here now, I have a job to do, and there isn’t anything else to think about.”
He shakes his head. His hand is close to my calf, but I don’t move my legs. I like the closeness. Especially since he’s finally realized he doesn’t get to control the situation in here. There’s a lost look to his eyes; a single lock of hair has slipped out from his bun.
“Don’t you ever wonder, though? Who they were. Why they . . . why they gave you up?”
“No.” I know this should probably be touching, somehow. Like he’s trying to get to know me. Maybe I should be defensive or annoyed. But I really, honestly don’t care. I’m here. Now. Focusing on the past has never helped me. I have more than enough on my plate as it is without working in some Long-Lost-Mommy Issues. “Why do you even care?”
He opens his mouth to speak but can’t. Clearly contractual.
“I just do. I feel responsible.”
This is getting old. I mean, sure, it’s endearing that he’s trying or whatever, but I’ve had enough doomsaying for one day.