by A. R. Kahler
“Right about what?”
“You liked her.”
This makes me pause.
“Shut the fuck up, Eli,” I say.
“I’m just saying, I know she got under your skin more than you’re letting on. And I’m worried it’s going to influence—”
“Go home, Eli. You’re no longer needed here.”
I don’t look back when I hear him gasp, just keep sketching the portal even through the small flash of blue light that marks his departure back to the netherworld. Because he’s right. I did care about her. I thought I could protect and help her, that maybe she was someone who would stick beyond the murder and bloodshed and betrayal—a friend, if nothing else.
Not something I’ll ever admit to Eli. Besides, Roxie was no better than Mab in that regard—to Roxie, I was just an instrument in some greater plan. Mab was right all along: friendship makes you weak.
This is what I get for letting a human get under my skin.
It’s not a betrayal, really. It’s a reminder, one I have to hold on to. I’m not a normal mortal. I’m not made for companionship. The best I can hope for is a glorious death that will grant me a statue somewhere, a hint of immortality, before the statue itself fades away.
“Good-bye, Roxie,” I whisper, remembering her curled on my sofa that first night, asleep and innocent. And lying through her teeth. Then I step through the portal into Winter.
Mab waits for me on her throne of ice, her black dress draping around her like a funeral veil. The moment I step inside I know she knows everything—the air in here is colder than snow, and shadows seep in through the corners, making me feel like the room is one blink away from becoming a nightmare. When Mab refuses to descend from her throne at my entrance, I know that that nightmare is about to become reality.
“Mab, I—”
“I know.”
“What happened?” I ask. “The Pale Queen, whatever she is . . . I mean, who is she? Why is she doing so much to rise against the kingdoms?”
“That I do not know.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Kill her, of course. Why would you do anything else?”
“But how? She’s in the Wildness. You know we can’t find her in there, not if she wants to remain hidden.”
Mab tosses something down from her throne. The blur doesn’t hit the ground, though, but hovers in the air before me.
A book.
My body is suddenly cold as ice. The book is open, and at the top of the page is my name. My full name, the name she’d always denied me: Claire Melody Warfield. I actually gasp.
Melody? My middle name is Melody?
Below the name is a block of text so tiny and crammed I’d need a magnifying glass to read it. At the very bottom is a blank line.
“Why are you showing me this?” I ask.
“Because, my child, it is time for you to sign your own contract.”
“Why?” I look up to her. I just killed someone I thought was a friend, just witnessed some severely potent magic—and an apparently vengeful queen—get released. That, I can take in stride. But this . . . this gets my blood racing faster than anything else. I want to run. I want to make it go away. “I’ve served you all of these years without question. Why are you doing this now?”
“Because your next job will require more than just devotion. I need a guarantee of your loyalty.”
I don’t want to sign. I’ve seen what happens when humans sign faerie contracts.
“You have my guarantee. What in the world could be so bad that you’d need this?”
“Sign.”
Behind me, the great door to the chamber slams shut. Snow begins to fall, and I know there’s no way I’m getting out of here without signing this. Not if I want to get out alive.
“You can’t make me sign this,” I say. “I have to be willing. You can’t just force me into doing it—the magic won’t work.”
I can feel her smile even from down here.
“Trust me, child, you want to sign. I’m about to give you everything you’ve desired.”
The only thing I’ve ever wanted from her was information. Could she honestly mean . . . ?
“What are you going to have me do?” I ask. Because no offer comes without a price. A very hefty price. A pen materializes in my hand, a quill made from a raven feather the size of my arm.
I try to read the text, but it literally swims on the page, refusing to let me see what I’m signing my life away to. Mab doesn’t answer my question, just waits. She can’t lie. If she says she’s about to give me what I’ve been wanting, she is. But I know she won’t speak until after I’ve proven myself. Shaking, I sign my name, the last two words feeling both alien and familiar as I write them down in ink as red as the blood staining my shirt. Warfield . . . was that my father’s name, or my mother’s?
The moment I finish the last d, I feel her hands on my shoulders. The quill disappears and the book slams shut. She reaches around and plucks it from the air, the book dissolving into shadows under her touch.
“What have I just done?” I ask. My voice is hollow—there isn’t much room left in me for emotion. Just acceptance. I am her weapon. And that is all I will ever be.
“Don’t look so sad, my child,” Mab says. Her smile is a thousand terrible promises. “You should be rejoicing. You wanted to know about your mother. And now, it is time for you to meet her.”
“My mother?” I ask. She’s actually going to take me to my mother? Then my hope snuffs out. “Why? What’s the catch? What do you need her for?”
Mab just laughs and pats me on the shoulder before turning away.
“We need her to help us find this Pale Queen.”
“But you said my mother was a mortal . . . as good as dead.”
“She is. But somewhere, deep inside, she is still the Oracle. And tomorrow, when you meet your dear mother, Vivienne, you will coax that spark back to life.”
Adrenaline floods me. The statue outside, the girl who had a war named after her, the girl who saved all of Faerie . . . that was my mother? That blonde girl with bloody jeans was the Oracle?
“Why?” I ask again. My voice is hollow, just like my chest feels. “Why do you need me? Why can’t you do it yourself?”
“Because you’re her daughter.” Mab reaches the door and turns. “And you carry her spark within you. Why else do you think I’ve kept you apart? Meeting you would bring her powers to light, and I’m afraid they are a one-time-only thing. Now, we need those powers more than ever.” She pats the doorframe. “Sleep well, my child. I’ll need you in top fighting form; we have a great many people to kill, and precious little time in which to do it.”
Acknowledgments
Like all big shows or stories, this one took the collaboration of a great many people. Many of whom I’ll probably forget to thank because I have only so much space. But I’ll try. Really.
First, and always, to Laurie McLean of Fuse Literary. I couldn’t ask for a more amazing ally, either in life or in publishing.
To my family, of course, for believing in the dreams I had barely formed and supporting me through thick and thin, no matter where I was in the world.
To the amazingly passionate team at 47North, for continuing to help me breathe life into this world of strange faeries and sexy circus artists and wry assassins. Special kudos to Jason Kirk, for taking this on, and Nicci Hubert and Rebecca Jaynes, for getting the words in shape.
To Will St. Clair Taylor, for being a sounding board and editor and co-conspirator. This book wouldn’t be the same without you.
To Danielle Dreger and Kristin Halbrook, my Seattle writing gurus. And to Danny Marks, who still counts even though he lives far away.
To the loving community of circus artists I’ve met the world over. And to the noncircus friends who patiently smiled and no
dded when I rambled about plot points.
And finally, to you.
To the readers and Dreamers who knew the story couldn’t end with the final curtain of The Immortal Circus. Thank you for craving more. This one’s for you.
AN EXCERPT FROM THE SEQUEL TO A. R. KAHLER’S PALE QUEEN RISING
Editor’s Note: this is an uncorrected excerpt and may not reflect the final book.
My name is Claire Melody Warfield. I kill people for a living.
Tonight, I’m killing because it’s my preferred coping mechanism.
My destination is just off of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, and the city is alive with magic and alcohol and sin. On any other night, that alone would be enough to make me feel at home. Tonight, it just reminds me that home is a broken concept.
Halfway down the adjacent alley is a metal gate stuck in the wall, seemingly out of place against the brick and mortar surrounding it. It leads nowhere, but there it is, locked tight to the wall and revealing nothing but grey brick. The metal isn’t iron, but a heavily tarnished silver, so enchanted it’s no doubt stronger than titanium. Magic meant to keep mortals like me out. Impenetrable by any weapon.
I grab a piece of chalk from my leather coat and scrawl a series of symbols on the wall between the bars, crossing thick lines over the padlock. The symbols probably appear innocuous to anyone passing by—not that there is anyone passing by. Triangles and concentric circles and words that haven’t been spoken on this side of the Faerie/Mortal divide in centuries. I complete an Eye of Horus over the padlock, then open myself to the small amount of magic I can access and send a pulse through the symbols.
A second later, the gate vanishes in a whir of dust.
No bang, no flash of light, just a silent gust that floats off in an unfelt breeze. My symbols still stain the brick wall. I glance down the empty alley, the sounds of human revelry almost as potent as the Dream cloying my nostrils like whiskey fumes. Then I press a hand to the seven-pointed star and step through the wall.
I’m not the life of most parties. Kind of goes with the territory. Which means that when I step into the dim, speakeasy-style bar, I’m not at all surprised that the room goes silent.
“Your highness,” someone whispers, and for a moment I go cold, worried that Mab somehow came here with me. Then I realize that the stranger is talking to—about—me. Someone wants to save his own skin.
This place has been on Mab’s (and thus, my) radar for years. But a small den selling untaxed Dream in a city teeming with the resource was barely more than a prick in her side. Just thinking of Mab tends to distract me, but I force myself to stay in the present. Where the fun is. Or will be. The Fey in the room watch me, still as statues and tense as piano wire. Some look like humans, but most are in their true forms—winged harpies or balls of light, thorny dryads or oil-slick shadows. Creatures to fear, all of them. And all of them currently terrified of me.
Normally I’d feel a hint of pride at that. Now I just feel numb.
“You’re all in violation of faerie law,” I say, my voice carrying to every corner of the room. Not that I’m talking loudly; it’s just that quiet. And no, there is no written faerie law, no “Section 3A” or whatever. But New Orleans is claimed for Winter, which means that any buying or selling of Dream in this city has to go through Mab. I glance to the vials and decanters of colorful distilled Dream stockpiled behind the bar. Enough to condemn them, and that’s only the Dream out in the open. I have no doubt that there are piles of powdered or tar-like Dream under the bar. “As such, your lives are forfeit.” For the first time that night, I smile. “I suggest you start running now.”
No, it’s not the ideal statement, but I’m not interested in eloquence. The rage inside of me craves blood, and knowing that every creature within this room is guilty of a crime punishable by death makes the hunger almost painful.
I tell myself it’s the anger. And nothing else.
Maybe a half second passes between my final word and the first spark of movement. It comes from a floating ball of light in the back corner, a Wisp the color of blue cotton candy that beelines for the curtain behind the bar. My smile cracks wider as I silently watch the Wisp’s attempt to flee. The moment it hits the curtain, it explodes in a shower of sparks.
It’s almost comical the way those in the room turn their heads as one to the flurry of light, then slowly back to me.
“I should have mentioned,” I say, reaching into one of my coat pockets and pulling out a deck of Tarot cards. They are worn and earth-toned and humming with power. “The place is enchanted against escape. No one comes or goes unless I say so. Perhaps telling you to run was a bit misleading. Sorry about that.”
I fan the deck in my hand and snap my fingers. Two cards slide out a little, and I pull out the one on the bottom and study it. “There’s another way, of course. You kill me, and the magic vanishes.” My smile turns wicked as I flip the card around to face the room. The Wheel of Fate. “Who’s ready to test their luck?”
I don’t just want blood tonight. I want a challenge. Something to prove that I’m alive for a reason, alive because I’ve fought for and earned it. Because I’m worth more alive than I am dead—worth more than the people I’m about to kill.
As expected, no one moves. Not at first.
“Come on, guys. I need a pick-me-up after what I’ve been through today. Don’t leave me hanging.”
Again, silence.
“Fine. I didn’t want to have to do this.”
That’s a lie. I did want to have to do this. I wanted to very much. That’s the biggest perk of being a mortal, one they all take for granted. We can lie through our teeth. We can make it an art.
I pull out the second card. Five of Wands. On it, five men are caught in a struggle, battling each other with great wooden staves. Definitely not a happy card.
Time to get this party started.
The sequel to A. R. Kahler’s Pale Queen Rising is forthcoming from 47North in 2016.
About the Author
Photo © 2013 Kindra Nikole Photography
Originally from small-town Iowa, A. R. Kahler attended an arts boarding school to study writing at the age of sixteen. Since then, he has traveled all over the world, earning a master’s degree in creative writing from the University of Glasgow and teaching circus arts in Amsterdam and Madrid. He currently lives in Seattle, Washington.
For more information, please visit www.arkahler.com.