Pale Queen Rising

by A. R. Kahler

  When he nears, the dancers part and he steps forward, his eyes still on me.

  “Welcome, loves,” he says. Even his voice is different—deeper, huskier. I’d say it’s a bedroom voice, but he definitely didn’t sound like that the other night. This is an even more carnal facade. “I trust you all have your tickets.”

  The patrons are too stunned to really respond, though a few of them nod. I say nothing. I definitely don’t have a ticket for this part of the evening’s entertainment. And I definitely don’t think it matters.

  Without waiting for an answer, he turns away and heads toward the smaller tent beyond. It perches in the night with its own inner glow, silhouettes and shadows playing out on the tent walls, revealing nothing and suggesting everything. The fire-dancers surround us and begin to urge us forward. I can’t tell if they’re meant to be an escort or to ensure no one tries to escape.

  I glance around at the people, wondering who Eli will pick, wondering if all of them are doomed to die or if there’s something else in store. If it’s designed by Mab, I can’t imagine it’s good.

  And even though I’m technically mortal like all of them, I can’t pretend to care.

  Maybe I should have more compassion for people roped into a faerie trap. All I have is contempt for their stupidity. What if this is how my mother was involved? What if she was once one of these patrons? The thought’s an arrow to my heart, but it’s too late now to even think of saving anyone. These people damned themselves. I have to remember that.

  The small tent is ringed with men and women in smart black suits and designer sunglasses, all stoically facing outward, like a much sexier version of the Secret Service or the guard outside Buckingham Palace. And at the entrance, with another pair of flanking guards, is a small table draped in velvet and covered in white and black masks.

  Kingston waits beside the table, gesturing the first patron—a twentysomething hipster bedecked in flannel and an overly large beard—forward. The patron gives a guard his ticket, and the guard hands over a white mask. The man puts it on and slips inside the tent.

  A few more patrons come forward, all shapes and sizes and ages, but each and every one of them gets a white mask, save for a few black masks that go to guests that I’m 100 percent positive are Fey. Then it’s just Eli and me left. No more masks on the table. Just Kingston standing there with his own black mask and the guards staring ahead motionless.

  “You going to let us in?” I ask.

  He looks at me without a hint of emotion on his face, like he just used up all his acting for the day and is now as blank as the mask in his hand. For a moment, I honestly think he’s going to say no, you aren’t welcome here.

  “Do you promise to leave after this?” he asks.

  Not the question I was expecting and not too good for my ego.

  “Trust me,” I respond, “I wouldn’t be here if this one didn’t need a quick meal.”

  Kingston looks to Eli, sizing him up. It’s the first time Kingston’s given my partner the slightest acknowledgment.

  “What plane?”

  Eli just grins and raises his sunglasses, letting his eyes answer for him.

  “Thought so,” Kingston says. He takes his own mask in both hands and pulls a second mask from it, then a third. I barely even feel the magic used, it’s so subtle. He hands them over to us and looks to the guards. “These two are with me,” he says. The guards don’t even nod, but Kingston doesn’t let us enter until we’ve both tied on our masks.

  “Have fun,” he says. Then he ducks inside and leaves us to enter behind him.

  “The hell is his problem?” I ask the guards.

  As expected, neither answers. Eli chuckles, then steps forward and holds the flap open for me. I glance inside—there’s nothing in there, just shadow.

  “Après vous,” Eli says.

  “At least someone here’s a gentleman,” I respond, and head into the tent.

  I blink once, velvet and canvas and magic sliding over my skin, and then I’m definitely in a place set apart from the mortal world.

  The interior of this tent is huge, the opposing wall barely visible through the mass of space and writhing bodies. Suddenly, I can see the appeal of this party. And for an antisocial hermit like me, that’s saying something.

  Everywhere I turn there is another person in a state of undress and compromise. To my left is a fountain of glasses overflowing with champagne, a girl wearing nothing but rhinestones contorting above it on a tiny hoop. Farther off there’s a trio of burly men doing acrobatics and handbalancing on and around one another. Stark naked. And clearly enjoying themselves, judging from where they’re putting their hands for balance. By a circle of leather armchairs, a single girl balances atop a cane using only her teeth, her legs twisted above her head in a perfect circle, the beads of her bikini dripping by her face like raindrops. But it’s not just performers and the handful of patrons inside the tent. There are people everywhere. Or, if I’m being truly precise, Fey.

  They’re easy to spot, and it’s not just because they’re the only ones wearing black masks. They’re dressed to the nines, wearing sleek evening gowns straight out of Fashion Week and suits worth more than any CEO’s paycheck. If they’re wearing anything at all. Many of them are partially undressed, and they’re quickly getting the mortals in on the fun. I watch as a group of Fey women and men pull the shirt off the hipster dude I saw earlier, while a mortal woman reclines on the chaise longue beside them, a faerie male with tiny stubs of antlers peeking out of his matted hair kissing up the length of her legs.

  “You never told me about this place, why?” I ask, not looking away from the revelry.

  “I thought you knew,” Eli says simply. “After all, your dear mother is the one who puts it on.”

  She’s not my mother, I think. The thought startles me. I’ve never had that response before, at least not with the same emotional impact. But now’s clearly not the time or place for mommy issues. I grab a glass of champagne and pray to the gods it’s faerie wine. Or maybe I shouldn’t be wishing that, seeing as I’m supposed to kill someone after this.

  “Keep your wits,” Eli says, clearly watching my train of thought. “Remember why we are here.”

  “Right.” I take a swig. It fizzes and tingles, but I don’t taste any lingering Dream or enchantment. Just a simple dry brut. “Speaking of, pick one already.”

  He laughs. “My dear, if this is my last meal in this body, I’m going to savor it. You’re welcome to join if you’d like.”

  My immediate response is to say no. To go find a dark corner to linger in and just watch. But then I catch sight of Kingston through the crowd. He’s doing his damned best to ignore me and prove he’s intent on doing so. As I watch, he’s undressing a mortal male while a dryad with thorns in her hair kisses his hip. He wants to play that game? Fine.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Eli looks shocked.

  “Really?”

  “Really. After all, I’m supposed to be part of the decision-making process. I might as well have some fun as well.”

  He smiles, looking truly delighted. Grabbing a glass from the table, he raises it in a toast.

  “Well then, let the games begin.”

  It doesn’t take us long to find our candidate. Or, rather, it doesn’t take long for him to find us.

  I don’t really have a type. When it comes to mortal men, they’re all pretty much the same in my eyes—good for a few minutes of fun and then an inevitable disappointment. Faeries are where it’s at. But this guy . . . he could be worth the effort of removing my clothes. He’s already down to his boxer briefs, which is all I need to know that he’s going to be fun. Minus the shitty tribal tattoos over his hip and pec, he’s pretty damn hot. Clearly a gym dude, with that perfect eight-pack and bigger tits than me. He also has nipple piercings, which could go either way in terms of at
tractiveness but he manages to pull them off. He’s jacked without looking like a Jersey Shore wannabe, and seeing as he first approaches Eli and then smiles at me, I know he’s down to play with us both.

  Then again, there’s a shine in his eyes that isn’t just lust. He’s been hit hard with the faerie wine, and it’s gone straight to his head. Both of them. I almost feel bad taking advantage of him like this, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about faeries, it’s that they don’t force mortals into anything. Their magic may be deceptive, but when it comes to stuff like this . . . they only play with the willing. All of these people are here because somewhere deep down, this is what they really want. The drink just makes them more open to the fun and less shocked by their very-clearly-through-the-looking-glass surroundings. It’s how the Fey get the greatest amount of Dream, unlocking those pent-up desires. To do this with someone who wasn’t truly interested would be pointless.

  Or so I convince myself as the guy gestures us toward a small sofa in the corner.

  Eli gives me a grin and follows. He’s already taken off his sunglasses and hidden them away, his eyes brighter than any other point of light in the room. No one seems to notice, least of all the guy, who’s now sitting on the sofa with an excited smile on his face. Eli doesn’t waste any time. The moment we near, he straddles the guy and starts making out with him. I glance around, suddenly feeling like the unwanted third wheel, but then the guy looks past Eli and cocks a finger in a distinct come-hither gesture, and I step up to the side of the sofa. The man’s hand immediately goes to my waist, hooking over my jeans and pulling me closer. Eli chuckles and makes room on the sofa, which I can’t imagine being big enough for the three of us, but then the guy’s lips are on my neck and Eli slides a hand under my shirt, and the sofa’s the last thing I care about.

  I don’t think. I don’t wonder. The last thing I think before I close my eyes and let the music fill me is that I’m glad Roxie isn’t seeing what I’m about to do. Then, before I can pretend to feel guilty, I lean in and bite the man’s collarbone and let my body do the thinking for me. The man tastes sweet and smells like cologne and sweat, and Eli is like a spice I can never place, something sharp and biting that burns through your taste buds to go straight to your brain. Everything is sound and music and touch, and both Eli and the stranger are down to dance. The taste. The taste of sex and power flows through me like Dream, like nectar, and I soak in it, let it drown me until I’m blind to the world, until everything else disappears.

  It’s only later, when we’re slicked with sweat and I’m not certain whose arm or leg is whose, that Eli lifts his head from the guy’s neck and looks me in the eye.

  “You might not want to be around for the rest of this,” he says. The man is lying on his back, blissed out and seemingly checked out as well, his eyes half-lidded and a grin on his lips.

  It’s a shock, that break from moving to not moving, carnal to rational. I shake my head and try to force out the music, which seems to be more intoxicating than any faerie wine. The music tells me to keep going, to give in and give over and if Eli wants me to stop, he can go fuck himself. I don’t listen. Eli’s right—I definitely don’t want to see what happens next. And when I look around the room, I realize I don’t want to see what’s happening in here, either. The party’s gone from wild to wicked, and it’s only now that I’m realizing the music’s so loud because beneath it all, beneath the moans and excitement, there’s screaming.

  And not the good kind of screaming.

  There’s a man dangling from one of the hoops now, and it’s not Swarovskis dripping from him, but blood, and the very pale denizens of Winter lap it up below him. Everywhere I turn there’s blood and moaning, and twined through it all is Dream. This isn’t the floaty sort of Dream from within the chapiteau. This Dream is heavy, oily, glistening like obsidian. I can’t say it’s sickening—there’s still an allure there, a pull, something hinting of shadows and hunting and being hunted in return—but it’s definitely not my cup of tea. I wonder if Celeste has any of this on tap, and what would happen if I drank it . . .

  I try not to think too deeply as I grab my clothes and head for a corner of the tent not taken up by people feeding or fucking or both. It’s difficult to find, and I’m halfway dressed when I finally make it to the exit. I don’t look around to find Kingston.

  Outside the tent, the world is completely silent and empty. The guards are gone, and whatever revelry is happening within the tent is muted. All I hear is the sound of wind through the fields, the distant roar of passing traffic. I shiver and zip up my coat as I sit in the grass, suddenly wishing the night were over. My body longs to soak in a bath and drink, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to spend another night in Faerie. I’m sure I could make it so time barely slipped by in the mortal world at all.

  Someone treks toward the tent, and I shove a hand into my pocket, clutching one of the enchanted butterfly knives. Just in case.

  It’s Melody.

  “What are you doing out here?” I ask when she gets closer.

  She pauses, clearly not expecting me to be able to make out her features from so far away, but I’m so jacked up on adrenaline and runes that I can see her blink in the shadows.

  “Wondering if I’d find you, actually.”

  It feels like the first honest thing that’s been said to me.

  She walks over and sits beside me, knees to chest and arms wrapped around her legs. She’s back to being normal-Melody, or at least what I assume is her normal form. It’s really hard to tell with Shifters.

  “I thought you said you didn’t perform anymore,” I say. Because I don’t really want to talk about me right now. I don’t want to think about what I’ve just witnessed and played in. Not that I think Melody would judge; she’s part of this mess, too.

  She sighs. “I don’t. Not really. Not like I used to.”

  “What do you call that? The two-headed thing.”

  “Releasing steam,” she replies. Her voice seems remarkably sad when she speaks, which is strange. It doesn’t suit her—she seems like the type who’s always chipper, come hell or high water. Or maybe she’s just been in hell too long . . .

  “I know that one,” I say. I glance back toward the Tapis Noir tent and she laughs.

  “Yeah. That place is good for that.”

  “It’s something. So why don’t you perform? If you love it so much, because I can tell from your voice you do.”

  “Too old.”

  I laugh.

  She doesn’t.

  “What do you mean? You have to be at least five years younger than me.” I watch her while I say this—she doesn’t look at me, and her face grows more serious with every word.

  “Not quite, love. Not quite.”

  “What is it? I feel like I’m not just stepping on your toes here. More like running them over with a pickup.”

  That does get a chuckle. She pulls a small flask from inside her coat, takes a swig, and hands it to me. It smells of whiskey and burns like smoke. My type of girl.

  “I’m not like the other girls,” she says. “I mean, obviously you know I’m a Shifter.”

  “Or are really good with makeup,” I say, handing back the flask. Another small laugh. At least I didn’t piss her off too much.

  “Well, I . . . Jesus, how the fuck do I even put it? You know how everyone here is contracted to be young and hot and horny for eternity?”

  I nod.

  “I’m what’s keeping them that way.”

  “I’m lost.”

  Another big sigh from her. “The magic in their contracts, it requires that someone else age and die in their place. It’s all about keeping balance with nature. A magical tithe, if you will. And that lucky person is me.”

  “You don’t look that old.”

  I see her smile in the shadows. It’s not a happy smile.

  “
Just promise not to gasp,” she says. “My ego can’t take it.”

  Then she shifts, and it’s like watching one of those creepy time-lapse videos, only this is taking place right before me. Her skin immediately droops, wrinkles forming and liver spots breaking over her clear complexion. Her hair fades to white and thins, her hands seem to shrivel into themselves. In a matter of five seconds she looks like someone’s great-grandmother. A very cool grandmother, to be sure, what with the septum ring and flask in one shaky hand.

  I keep the word I didn’t give: I don’t gasp.

  She looks at me, her smile slipping. Then she takes a drink, and in that motion her skin tightens and her youth returns in one quick transition.

  “It’s getting worse,” she says. “When I was younger, I aged at the same rate as a normal mortal. But lately . . . I don’t know, it’s like the magic is taking more out of me. Every year I age five or ten, and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be around. Every day’s a performance for me; Shifter magic takes concentration, and it takes a lot of that just to keep myself upright. Mab never told me any of that when she brought me on, of course. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s punishing me for what I did.” She takes another drink.

  “What did you do? Did it have to do with my mother?”

  Melody nearly chokes.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you not to ask questions?” She doesn’t sound angry in the slightest. She almost sounds approving. “Especially around here.”

  “They tried,” I say. “But I figure the one thing no one will tell me about is the one thing I need to know.”

  “You know we aren’t able to talk about that.” Her voice is tight, and I’m wondering if maybe she can talk about certain things. I just have to find them.