Oh, God. How do I handle this one? I don't want him to leave. Is that what I say?
His warm fingers caressed my neck. "Orin. I—"
But when I turned I found Delano.
His irises had disappeared, his pupils as black as two new moons. "You are forgiven," he said, in his low, owlish voice. "You've always been forgiven."
I choked back tears, unknowing why they had sprung. "I have nothing to be sorry for."
His face fell, as if he stood before someone who suffered an unspeakable tragedy. "Yet."
"I need you to go away," I said, my voice hardly above a whisper. I expected him to fade like the other phantoms, but he lingered, tears dripping down his starlight face. He nuzzled my palm when I caressed his cheek, then grabbed my hand and pressed it to lips as warm as an Indian summer. I slid my fingers through his midnight hair, smelled the earth on his skin. He seemed more real than Sam somehow, more solid than my mother. "Are you really here?" I asked.
"No," he whispered, his teardrops beading along my finger. "I am merely a chance to cleanse yourself."
"Delano. I..." What do I say to him? Do I thank him for making me feel special and beautiful and wanted? Do I apologize things couldn't be different? Do I admit I still crave him beside me? Warm medicinal oils tickled my nose. Not quite eucalyptus, not quite clove. Needles pricked my sacrum, and the words leapt out of me without thought: "I'm sorry I can't see in the dark," I said, and threw myself into his arms.
Delano caught me, squeezed me to his chest. "I see you," he said, and disappeared the moment our lips touched.
I stumbled forward as if falling through a shadow. "Delano?" I said, almost cried. I wheeled around, trembling. I broke out in gooseflesh, shivering alone in the black nothingness. "Delano! Come back!" I called, standing on my toes as if I could peer over the darkness. Bells chimed. Harps strummed. Light crept into the blackness and I knew my eyes were opening. I fought it, tried to remain in the dreamscape, searching for a darkling in the gloom. "Delano! Delano!"
I smelled oils, warm and medicinal. Not quite eucalyptus, not quite clove. My eyes opened to Orin sleeping, bleary with tears. I sat up. My head felt three feet above my shoulders; my back ached like a third-degree sunburn. The veiled tattooists and their guns were gone, the embers in the copper cauldron now white ash. I stepped into a pair of slipper-shoes waiting for me and practically slid off the table from the slick oils gleaming on my skin.
Monks and their singing bowls hummed from the overhead speakers. The candles had melted almost to the shelves; some had begun to gutter. I shuffled to the looking glass in the corner, rubbing away sleep and visions from my eyes. I still felt Delano's tears on my fingers, the brush of his lips on mine. Then I yawned and he slid from my consciousness like any other dream. My past was cleansed. No more manipulative darklings or cheating husbands or belittling mothers. I admired the vine-like quality of the healer's tattoo painted above the looking glass and smiled. This is your fate now, the picture promised. It is time to start anew.
I turned my back to the mirror and glanced over my shoulder. Delano stood with me in the glass. I gasped and jumped to face him, but found only flames dancing on candle wicks, Orin snoring softly on his table, walls full of painted wings. My heart started to pound. If Delano's not here, then...
I twisted my rear to the mirror, and nearly fainted when Delano's miner tattoo reflected back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I gawked at my reflection's missing spirals and swooping strokes, as if staring long enough would make them appear, fresh and black and fern-like on my skin. But my new tattoo remained as harsh and crude as the isolation and enslavement it promised. A miner tattoo. I swallowed hard. A miner's fate.
My breathing shallowed, fast and stabbing. I spun away from my reflection, the long shadows from the candles flickering like prison bars along the walls. My insides felt hollow, empty, except for the increasing nausea bubbling inside my gut. Is this the tattooists' mistake? A sick joke? My eyes shifted to Orin, sleeping peacefully on his table. Is he somehow behind it?
I shook my head. Nonsense. Orin was my friend, my protector, my personal guide. He would never deceive me. But then again, hadn't I thought the same about my husband? Didn't I sit on a barstool in my mother-in-law's kitchen and deny his actions, despite the truth staring me in the face? I sunk to my knees, my heart pounding, reliving that night's hopelessness, the heartbreak, the gut-wrenching betrayal. Only this time the image screaming treachery was tattooed on my flesh. This time the naked proof was me.
I slid my hands through my hair, gripped the roots. There must be a mistake. Raina arranged a builder to accompany me to West Virginia. Two healers will join us, train me, heal the poisoned landscape. Orin's oiled back shimmered in the soft candlelight, ripples of bronze and gold. His freshly tattooed lines were the retriever details without question. I'm still reacting from the herbs, visualizing my sorrows and fears. That must be it, I rationalized, and ignored the coals in the copper cauldron which were now snuffed and cold.
I twisted my back to the mirror. The miner tattoo glared at me, raw and indelible and mocking. I waited for its crude black lines to fade like the hallucinations, but they lingered like the consequences of a terrible decision. My entrails turned to water. I started to hyperventilate, the smoky air making my head pound. Overhead the monks continued chanting; their singing bowls hummed. I tried calling Orin's name but managed only a strangled cry. A cry much like a fox with its leg in a trap.
This is really happening. Oh my God. I forced three deep breaths. The room was windowless, and outside the door was the murmur of lighthearted conversation. The genial voices of those who had doomed me.
I found my backpack and coat in a closet and dumped the contents onto the floor, desperately searching for my knife, but finding only clothing, toiletries, leftover snacks. Where did it go? I specifically remember packing it in the desert. I yanked Orin's jacket and backpack from the closet and dumped his belongings. A shard of reflector, bottle caps, odd shaped pebbles, a scrap of flocked wallpaper, a rusted earring, a pop tab, a darkling's button. But no knife. My face fell. Our knives are gone. Long, thin shadows wavered on the walls. They took our knives while we were unconscious. Why would they take our weapons? Unless—
Orin mumbled sleepily and stretched his legs.
"Orin!" I leapt to my feet and shook his shoulder. "Orin! Wake up!"
Orin lifted his head from the table, blinking in the candlelight. "Miriam? Wow. I had the weirdest vision. I saw—"
"Help me! They gave me a miner tattoo!"
Orin sat up and rubbed his eyes, like a child stirring from nap-time. "Don't be silly," he said with a yawn. "You are reacting from the purium still."
I wheeled my back to him. "Look at it," I snapped.
Orin lowered his hands from his eyes. He stared silently, as if mesmerized. He then chuckled and scanned the paintings on the walls. "We must have interpreted the pictures wrong."
"We didn't interpret the pictures wrong," I said through gritted teeth. "Raina lied. The Realm doomed me to the pits."
Orin slid into boots and tottered to the looking glass. "Impossible. The Realm wouldn't lie." His voice was stern with confidence, yet his shoulders relaxed when his retriever wings reflected in the glass. He went for the carved door.
"What are you doing?" I hissed, smacking his hand off the knob.
"We have obviously misunderstood the procedure. I am going to clarify," Orin said, and threw open the door.
I hid in the room's flickering shadows, peering outside. Raina lounged on a floor pillow beside the wood-burning stove, her legs folded to her side, a teacup in hand. Kegan sipped tea across from her, a plate of scones and strawberry jam between them, as if enjoying a picnic in some royal garden. The sniffer stood guard at the front door, as straight as a pillar. His sapphire eyes tracked the Realm's new retriever as he approached Raina. His white greyhound tensed at his side.
"Ah, Orin. You have awakened." Raina smiled s
weetly as Orin knelt on one knee before her. "You must be famished. Have a scone."
"Thank you for offering, but no. I believe there has been a misunderstanding."
Raina sipped her tea. "Oh?"
"Miriam might have been given the wrong tattoo." Orin lowered his voice and I had to strain to hear. "It appears to be a miner tattoo."
Raina's teacup clinked against the saucer as she set it on the floor. "There is no mistake. Just as there is no damage in Appalachia and no need to send labor better served in the Realm."
What? I stormed into the foyer, my fists clenched. "There is damage! I have lived in it!" Orin jumped to his feet, blocking my path with his body. I stood on my toes, glaring at Raina over Orin's shoulder. The sniffer tensed beside the door, ready to lunge. His greyhound's curved back bristled.
"With great respect, Raina," Orin started, "I believe there has been a mistake. Miriam—"
"Miriam is an adult changeling," Raina said. She stood up and sighed, like a surgeon informing a husband his wife had died on the table. "Adult changelings are dangerous creatures. They hate our ways and seek to destroy them. Sometimes through rebellions, sometimes through lies. I am sorry we didn't inform you earlier. You were on probation and we questioned your trustworthiness."
Orin's eyes widened. Is he actually believing this crap? I thought, horrified. "Why the hell would I lie about acid mine drainage?" I snapped. "What could I possibly gain?"
"We received intel about rebels in Appalachia positioned to murder healers and builders." Raina smirked. "Thankfully the report arrived before our healer infrastructure was severely damaged."
"That is a ridiculous lie!" I shouted, my fists trembling with fury. "If you believe me a traitor then why not order me killed, you conniving bitch?"
Raina giggled. "Kill you? Why, what will killing you accomplish?"
Her words struck me like a cold wind, and the night outside the motel room slid into my memory, when Delano had fed a starving fox and warned me of my fate. And he forgave me. Remember that. He knew all along what I'd do.
My mouth went dry; swallowing felt like pinpricks. "Delano told me the truth, didn't he?" Raina watched me, her eyebrows raised. "The darklings are innocent. If you kill me, another faerie infant will take my place to become a darkling. But if you keep me alive and buried..."
Raina's head was down, but her sage eyes peered up at me, twinkling like the pink diamond on her throat. A smile touched the corner of her mouth, agendas and secrets hidden behind her lips. My skin crawled. It was the smile of a sociopath. The smile of a changeling's mother. "Why, I have no idea what you are talking about, Miriam," Raina said, then turned her back to me. "My patience is waning. Bring her to the mines, Orin. Use force if necessary."
"Mm-Me? But I—"
"You are a retriever and you will complete your assignment." Raina glared over her shoulder. "Unless, of course, you want your promotion lashed off your back."
"No!" Orin said. "It's just that—"
"Retrievers understand changelings have been corrupted with human evil, but corrupted changelings still contribute in the pits and benefit the good of the Realm."
"Evil?" Orin blinked. "Since when are humans evil? Our ancestors promised to protect them since—"
Raina wheeled on him. "You question me?" A darkness passed over her face. "You swore you were strong enough for a retriever position, Orin."
"I am. It's just—"
"You swore you were devoted to the Realm. Are you a liar as well?"
"No!"
Raina thrust a finger at his face. "Then bring Miriam to the pits or my sniffer will bring you both!"
Raina's scream lingered on the logs. Her face was red, her sage eyes smoldering. Orin's brow furrowed. The sniffer tensed in the corner; his greyhound bared its teeth. Kegan cleared his throat from a floor pillow, and sipped his tea.
Orin sighed and grabbed my wrist. "Let's go."
My lip twitched. "Orin, you know I'm telling the truth. The chickadee saw the acid mine drainage. It told you—"
Orin yanked me towards him. "Let's go!"
I dug my heels into the floor. "No! This is wrong! I'm not a liar or a—Ow!" Orin swept my feet out from under me. My teeth clacked when my head whacked the floor; white stars burst in my vision and I tasted blood on my tongue. Orin cranked my arm behind my back. I cried out and writhed, pain shooting through my shoulder, twisting the raw tattoo. The sniffer stormed toward me, blade in hand. I remembered the fugitive's tongue sliced from his mouth at the faerie lodge, the wet smack it made as it struck the flagstone. I pressed my forehead against the floor and wailed.
Orin crammed his knee against the base of my spine. "Shut up, Miriam! You are being selfish."
The sniffer's greyhound snarled inches from my face, slaver soaking into a throw rug. I saw the tartar on its teeth and the brown spot on its gums, smelled the reek of old bones on its breath. "Here," the sniffer said, and handed Orin something from outside my vision.
I winced as thin wire tightened around my wrists and cut into my skin.
Raina giggled. "Oh, Orin. I know you will make an excellent sniffer someday."
"Thank you."
The pride in Orin's voice made me want to puke. Blood wetted the wire and trickled into my palm. Raina glared down at me. I remembered her on the cushions when we arrived, telling Orin how greatness was created. Play off what really happened and twist it to your advantage. Lie, in other words. The truth was not important, just the perception of truth. The truth the Realm wanted their public to believe to maintain their greatness, their agenda.
Raina slid a finger up Orin's arm, traced a circle around his shoulder. She cupped his ear with her hand and whispered, then smacked his ass before returning to her tea.
Orin yanked me to my feet as easy as yanking up a fallen broom. He clenched my forearm, forcing me ahead. "Move," he commanded, then opened the front door and shoved me out into the cold.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
"Orin, please don't do this."
"This is the way it must be."
"No. It isn't." My head pounded. We had left the garden pathways and followed a wide woodland trail carpeted in pine needles. Venus peeked out above us. The log mansion had disappeared behind the trees, leaving us surrounded in granite outcroppings and conifers, their shadows stretched in the dying light.
"Only the Realm knows how to keep the whole happy and safe," Orin said, then stopped short to pick up a pinecone with hardened amber on its spines. His fist clenched above it, as if he suddenly realized such interests were unsuitable for an official Realm retriever. He pushed me forward down the dirt path. "It is honorable to contribute to our community, even if it is not how you had hoped." He then added beneath his breath: "I'm sorry it can't be like how we discussed. I truly am. But I have no choice."
"Bullshit," I snapped. "You always have a choice. Just admit I'm not worth the consequence."
Orin's grip on my forearm weakened. "It's not that. I must do what the Realm says."
"Why?"
"Because the Realm is why faeries have peace. They want what is best for us."
"Peace? By threatening their people and punishing them with violence?" I scoffed. "Yeah, some peace. Do you think I lied?"
"I don't know what I think."
I glanced over my shoulder, gaping at him. "Are you serious?" Orin avoided my eye. "Jesus Christ, Orin! They're acting like I am a terrorist plotting for months to destroy an infrastructure I didn't even know existed two weeks ago. Isn't the more obvious explanation the Realm is lying? Using this for their own purp—?"
"No!" Orin wrenched my wrists over my spine; I cried out as pain tore into my shoulder. My legs buckled and a stone cut my knee as I struck the ground. A jay squawked in the pines as Orin yanked me to my feet and shoved me forward. Blood trickled down my shin as I stumbled along the trail.
"Asshole." Hot tears stung my eyes. "I thought you were my friend."
"I am your friend," Orin said. "That's why I d
idn't tell them about your use of night magic or your meetings with Delano or criticizing the Realm. Otherwise we'd be heading to your execution."
"Don't you get it? They will never execute me, no matter how much they have against me. If they do, this whole thing starts over. My death triggers the next changeling and another chance for darklings to increase their numbers. The Realm will eradicate the darklings faster if I'm kept alive, sentenced to life in the pits." My face scrunched up as truth fell into my stomach, like the thud of dirt on a coffin lid. "A faerie life sentence. Five hundred years. Holy shit."
Orin shook his head wearily. "I don't understand why the Realm chose you for the mines, but—"
"Because the darklings—"
"But it doesn't matter. The Realm will still care for you and provide everything you need."
I scoffed. "As what? Muddy water and gruel? Hovels? Free shackles and chains?"
"No!"
"How do you know?" I stopped short; Orin bumped into my damning tattoo, rocketing a flare of pain up my back. "Maybe this is why the man in the restaurant was murdered for fliers. Have you seen the conditions the miners work in? Or are you repeating what the Realm tells you like a—like a—" My throat was wet and thick and I nearly vomited up my words: "Like a mockingbird."
"I don't need to see the conditions," Orin said. "I know the Realm loves and cares for the miners."
"How do you know?"
"Because the Realm says so."
I scowled and marched forward. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
We hiked in silence, our heads down. A chickadee darted between two conifers; I glowered and wished for it to drop dead. A chilling wind cut through the trees and ruffled the flimsy skirt against my thighs. Gooseflesh covered my skin; my teeth clattered louder than a typewriter. How much light-magic will I need to wield before I grow warm like Orin? I wondered. Will I even have the opportunity? I imagined the mines as dark and dank, boundless beasts impossible to overpower, the epitome of helplessness. Orin joined my side and wrapped his arm around my shoulders to quell my shivers. I shrugged him off and stormed ahead. He reached for my forearm, then decided against it. His pace matched mine, but he kept his hands to himself.
Darkshine Page 23