Pale Queen Rising

by A. R. Kahler

  “You all say that.” I grunt. “And yet you all die. So far, I’ve seen nothing worth the loyalty.”

  I glance around at all the statues.

  “I mean, really, are these the best you can do? The only friends you have at your disposal?” Then something clicks. “Wait, how the hell are you even involved in this? You’re not pulling in any Dream here.”

  She smiles wider. I keep expecting her lips to crack and bleed down her chin. She looks demented enough.

  “Not all of us work for her in the same way,” she says. “So many of my creations have found their ways into the homes of the rich and fanciful. And they Dream such lavish things.”

  Of course. The same way Mab pulls my own dreams into her cache. This girl’s been planting Dream-stealing statues in the homes of her clients. Kind of genius, but still pretty small-scale.

  “Let me guess, you were hired because whoever this goddess bitch is, she needs someone who can create Constructs.”

  She just shrugs. Damn, I was really hoping I’d get her with that bitch comment—zealots hate it when you insult their idols.

  “I play my part.” She shoves her hand back into her pocket. “Yours, however, is just about to end.” I fully expect her to draw out a knife or something sinister, but she doesn’t. “I think you’ll make a good statue, you know? You have such lovely features, and it would be a shame to let them go to waste. You’ll be dead before you see it, of course. But it will be a fitting homage.”

  She nods to the statue holding me in place—I’ve not been able to get a good look at it, but judging from the dozens of arms holding me, it must be some Hindu deity.

  “Try not to break any visible bones,” she says.

  The creature holding me begins to squeeze, and I know the popping noises in my head aren’t imagination, but actual bones. My chest feels warm as something snaps and my vision goes blurry around the edges. Goes black. My lungs fill with red and everything is cracking and grinding and compressing. I don’t scream. I can’t scream. So why do I hear screaming?

  Something groans. I feel my world tilt, or maybe it’s my imagination. Though I think I’m on my back. Everything hurts in that dull sort of way, and I know this is how my death will feel.

  No explosions.

  No statue-worthy battle.

  Crushed to death by an inanimate object.

  Actually, it doesn’t really hurt anymore. The pressure is gone and my limbs are numb and there’s a warmth going through me that tingles with static, not the heavy staccato of blood.

  Then, slowly, my senses come back to me. My eyes are closed and my body feels heavy, not light, so have I sunk down into hell or am I just in limbo? Hands on my neck, warm hands, tingling hands, angelic hands. Bright light through my eyelids. Maybe I wasn’t as damned as I thought.

  “You can wake up now, you know.”

  Not an angel’s voice.

  I slowly open an eye and there, kneeling over me, is Kingston.

  “Am I dead?”

  “No, just overly dramatic.” He stands up and the static from before is gone. “Come on, get up.”

  I glance around, my synapses suddenly firing at full speed. There isn’t even the slightest ache in my body—no broken bones, no punctured limbs. How is that even possible? And where is Laura?

  “How am I not dead?”

  “Magic,” Kingston says. He’s not looking at me, though, just surveying the room. “Come on, get up. Now.”

  There’s no gentleness in his voice, and he doesn’t offer me a hand, either. When I do move, I realize I’ve been lying on top of the statue that was previously crushing me. Standing is awkward, like trying to get out of a roller-coaster car, but I finally make it to my feet and look around. The statues are immobile. So is Laura.

  She lies on the ground in a pool of her own blood, a thin trail from her lips. I don’t see any puncture wounds, though, so I have no idea how Kingston killed her. I only know that he did. The guy just saved my life.

  And here, I was ready to punch him.

  “How did you find me?” I ask.

  “Not the time,” he says. “We need to leave.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “But they’re not. Stunned for the moment. Won’t last much longer.”

  I look around at them all, frozen in the middle of a fight. My chest constricts with the memory of suffocation, and suddenly I have zero desire to wait around.

  “Thanks for . . .” But I can’t finish the statement. He takes my hand. It’s not a gentle, caring gesture. It’s rushed. Gruff.

  Before I can say anything, the room twists around us, stretching like taffy until I want to vomit. I blink and Laura’s workshop vanishes.

  He lets go of my hand and steps to the side, leaving me a little wobbly and in the center of my living room.

  “How the hell are you doing that?” I ask. My fire’s roaring and everything is where I remember it. Definitely my room. Definitely still enchanted to prevent teleporting save for my one personal portal.

  “Your magic’s faulty,” he says. Again, there’s no civility in his voice. He sounds like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “I’m surprised Mab hasn’t reinforced it for you.”

  I open my mouth, but I don’t speak. I have no idea what I want to say, whether I want to rip him apart or thank him for saving my life. Maybe some sort of middle ground, a You’re a dick but I’m alive because of you so let’s call it even. I should go into the card-making business.

  “How did you follow me?” I ask again. I lower my voice, keep it level. Two can play at this game.

  He stands by my door awkwardly. Not in a sheepish way, but like he really just wants to GTFO and never see me again. Which makes me feel like some clingy ex, making him stay and talk, but I’m definitely not doing it for any misplaced romance. I need answers. Fast.

  “I watched you make the portal,” he says. “Twice, actually. When you were supposed to leave and when you did.” He must notice my glare. “What, you didn’t think I’d just let you wander around on your own without some sort of supervision, did you? Children need to be watched.”

  “Fuck you,” I say. It’s not thank you, but it’s close enough. “What’s your deal, Kingston? You sleep with me and then you act like I’m plagued. I’m not some damsel in distress that needs to be saved by you, and I’m not some easy little girl you can win over with a nice ass and wit.”

  He closes his eyes and looks like he wants to punch the wall again. I can practically hear him counting numbers down to calm himself.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” he finally says.

  “Try me.”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t explain.”

  There are a thousand things running through my mind, like what happens now that I’m out of leads and where the hell is Eli and why is everyone being cryptic about . . .

  I collapse on the sofa.

  “Jesus Christ,” I whisper.

  “What?” he asks.

  I don’t answer him. I stare into the flames and try to tell myself I’m delusional, that this doesn’t make sense. The trouble is, I’m not. Because it makes perfect sense.

  “That was my mother’s name, wasn’t it?” I ask. “What you called me earlier. My mother’s name was Viv.”

  Saying it feels right, somehow, like my heart is beating warmth and not just blood. His silence is just another note of proof. I look from the flames to him. He’s leaning with his back to the wall and head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes closed and a look of pain on his face.

  “You slept with my mother,” I whisper. The words come out like five bullets, each aimed at his heart.

  “Yes.”

  “And you lost her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s why you slept with me. Because I reminded you of her.”

  “Yes
.”

  “Get out.” I don’t stand. I don’t grab a weapon. I don’t give him the satisfaction of my anger. “Get out and never show your face again. If you do, I’ll end your contract myself.”

  He doesn’t move. He opens his eyes and looks at me, like maybe he wants to say something else, redeem himself somehow. If he tries, I will kill him. He doesn’t say anything, though. He just slams his fist into the wall out of frustration, then vanishes in a whirl of shadow.

  Fifteen

  I want to burn off my skin. I want to scream and punch the space Kingston just occupied, but I know it won’t do any good. Neither will drinking myself to death, which is a close runner-up.

  So I just do the screaming part.

  I scream at the top of my lungs and grab one of the crystal wineglasses and throw it at the wall, where it shatters with a crash of glass and magic before re-forming on the floor. I feel dirty inside and out, but no amount of magic will clean it. I take a few deep breaths, force down the rage, turn it into another weapon. I need to talk to Mab. I need to find Roxie and figure out if she has any other leads, or if the person who roped her into the contract has shown his face. I need to summon Eli again and hope the experience hasn’t jacked him up entirely.

  I need to take a goddamned bath.

  I can’t believe him. I can’t fucking believe him. He slept with my mother and then slept with me and acted like it was nothing, like it was totally normal to screw his ex’s daughter. As I stalk to the bathroom and begin filling the tub, I can’t help my thoughts from racing.

  Were they in love?

  Does she still love him?

  And, even more disgusting: Is there any way in hell he’s my father?

  I actually shudder and force down bile at the thought, but thankfully I’ve found the whiskey. Two long pulls from the bottle and fire fills my chest. It’s cold in comparison to the rage inside of me, the demon that wants to force Kingston back here to tell me everything he knows. I want to rip him apart for doing this to me, for tainting me and my mother like this. Because now, if I see her—no, when I see her—he’s all I’ll be able to think about. Him on top of her like he was with me, whispering our names. Another swig of whiskey.

  The bath is full in a matter of moments; it takes a lot of control not to just jump in with all my clothes on. I don’t, though. I rip my clothes off, literally, the seams tearing apart like I’d like to tear through Kingston, and I don’t care if there are tears in my eyes and fire in my brain as I jump into the tub and shove my head under the water. In here, in the silence, with only the throb of the blood in my veins, I can almost escape the thoughts. Almost. But then the heat gets my blood pumping faster, and in that din I can only picture the race of pulses as he traces her hips with his tongue . . .

  I push my head out of the water with a gasp. I don’t grab for the whiskey again. It’s making my mind weak, and I can’t be weak right now. The girl in the visions, the blonde with the bloody jeans. That was Viv. That was my mother. I know what my mother looks like now.

  “Your mother abandoned you,” I whisper to the empty room. “Your mother left you alone and Mab took you in. Your mother means nothing. Kingston means nothing. You are here. You are a weapon. And you will stop feeling sorry for yourself and do what weapons do: You will kill. You will kill until the pain of your enemy mirrors your own.”

  I don’t care if they’re Mab’s words. I don’t care if that’s how she consoled me whenever I was feeling low. I am a weapon. Weapons don’t hurt or feel or love or regret. Weapons kill. And a weapon that doesn’t kill is useless. And if there is one thing in my life I know, it is that I will never be useless. I might have been abandoned, but I am useful. I am needed. And I will make the whole damn world know it.

  I let Kingston get under my skin. I let my mother get under my skin. And worse, I needed someone to save me tonight. I’m not going to be some damsel in distress. I’m not going to let someone else have all the power. That’s not my story.

  I wake up the next morning feeling like I’ve been run over by a semi, and I can’t tell if it’s from the half-empty bottle of bourbon sitting on my nightstand or nearly being crushed to death. Ugh. I don’t want to think about that, because that will involve thinking about a certain magician doing certain things to my mother. I grimace against the nausea both the image and the alcohol bring up and roll out of bed, forcing myself into the kitchen for coffee and a breakfast I know I’ll barely taste.

  Another hour and another long bath later and I feel a little more human and a little more ready to take on the day. Not that I really know what I’m going to do. Roxie’s list of names has provided two traps and absolutely no leads, which means it’s back to using the pocket watch William gave me. I grab my jacket from where I’d tossed it on the floor and rummage through the pockets. When I finally find the watch, my heart gives a sickening jolt.

  There’s a huge indent on the side of it. I can barely force it open. And, as I’d feared, the interior is worse than the casing. The gears don’t move and the thin glass has shattered.

  “Shit,” I whisper. William’s not going to enjoy having to make another one.

  I throw on a new jacket, stock up on weapons, and head out to find him.

  Even though I stick to the back alleys, there’s a silence that feels alien. No strains of music or laughter, no wisps of hookah smoke. The shops here are closed, the lights off, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I’d seen any store in the entire city shut down. I knock on the jeweler’s door and wonder what I’ll do if it, too, is abandoned.

  A second later, though, the golem Hephaestus peers out through the tiny window, sees it’s me, and lets me in without me asking.

  I follow him down to the lower levels, to where William is at work like always. There are a couple other jewelers in the workshop as well—a woman in the corner soldering what appears to be a mask like a dragon’s skull and a boy younger than me setting a stone in a tiny ring—but neither of them pays me any attention. Only William looks up when I enter. He smiles, though it’s still a tentative action.

  “You’re still working on that thing?” I ask as I sit across the worktable from him. The ornate bird rests before him, a few shards of black crystal scattered around it and its chest open and empty.

  “It is not yet ready,” he says. He delicately lays a handkerchief atop it, as though preparing it for burial. “Why are you here, Claire? I know it is not just to talk.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  He smiles wider.

  “You’re right. I’m here because, well . . .” I fish out the watch and hand it to him.

  He doesn’t outwardly register the fact that I broke his watch. That I just handed him something he probably slaved over for hours and that I broke in a matter of seconds. Well, a statue broke it, but I’m not going to bore him with details.

  “Can you fix it?” I ask.

  “I am afraid not,” he says. “Some things, when they are broken, cannot be repaired. This is one such thing.”

  “I was worried you’d say that. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs and sets the watch on the counter. Far away from the covered-up bird.

  “It is fine. You’re not the first child to break my gifts.”

  He says it as fact, not as some passive-aggressive statement.

  “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

  He looks away, toward the woman soldering the mask.

  “Do you require a new compass?” he asks.

  “Yes. But what do you mean I’m not the only one?”

  “It is nothing. One of Mab’s other children.”

  “But I’m the only one.” I’ve been the only kid in Mab’s castle my entire life. The other changeling children were raised outside the castle—she told me often that she barely had time for me, let alone any other “spawn.”

  “Not always. There was
a girl here. Penelope. You two would have gotten on so well.”

  The girl who fucked up the circus contracts? No wonder Mab is so distrustful.

  “When was this?”

  He shrugs again and looks back, but he doesn’t look at me. He looks to his gnarled, soot-stained hands. They shake.

  “Many, many years ago. A few hundred, I think. So it is of no importance. She played down here as well, that is all.”

  Jesus, how long has he been down here?

  He brushes the pocket watch. “I can make you a new one, I think. But it will take a few days. I used the last of my quicksilver on this.”

  “Okay. Well. Thanks.” Great. Guess I just twiddle my thumbs until then. “I am sorry about the watch, William. I hope you still trust me enough to set that bird free when it’s done.”

  William looks up at me, a curious mix of expressions in his face. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else with that task, Claire.” Then, before I’ve even turned around, he uncovers the bird and goes back to work, leaving me completely forgotten.

  My next stop is Mab. I’m still pissed off at her from our last interaction, but I also still haven’t told her anything about the ticket. And, seeing as I’m now positive my mother is somehow involved in all this, what with Lilith’s demented musings and the visions and everything else, I figure now’s the best time to kill those two birds with one stone. The others can’t talk due to contracts. Mab will have to tell me. Her kingdom’s at stake.

  She’s not in her throne room when I reach the castle, and seeing as I’m positive she’s not out joyriding on a nightmare or something, I head toward her study.

  It’s one of the few rooms of hers that I’ve never been allowed in, but I know she’s often there. I knock once on the stone door, and she opens almost immediately. The candlelight within gives her an eerie silhouette.

  “Yes?” Her voice is so cold that I actually shiver.

  “We need to talk.”

  I expect her to shoo me out into the hall like she always does. Instead, she steps aside and holds the door a little wider.