A Trace of Moonlight

by Allison Pang

  She knew something.

  “Brother,” she said thickly, moving to take Talivar’s hands in hers. He kissed her knuckles, and I caught the slightest tremble in her fingers as she withdrew before she turned to me. “Sister.”

  Kitsune approached us, serene. “Will you acknowledge us, Princess? Does the Seelie Court now choose to recognize her shadowed brothers and sisters?”

  The words hovered upon the fox-woman’s breath, hope and longing and a tinge of resignation all wrapped up in a sad tone. This wasn’t the first time this question had been asked.

  Moira bowed her head, the moonlight catching on the slanted edges of her ears. “We cannot.”

  Her words were met with complete and utter silence. The Tree’s branches rustled in the darkness, the soft wish-knots fluttering in the breeze. I had one on there, I realized, though I hadn’t wished for anything.

  Maybe I should have.

  The tension between the four of us tightened as Talivar and Moira stared at each other, locked in silent communication. I pressed past them so I could touch the Tree. The vibration of its song grew stronger and I laid my hand on one of the branches, the bark thick against my palm.

  Immediately the music filled my ears, driving me to my knees like it had the first time I’d been here. My vision wavered as once again I was plunged into an odd vision, the spiraling of futures unweaving before me. I’d never be able to follow them or figure out which path to take, but that didn’t matter. The Tree wasn’t about that anyway.

  . . . the CrossRoads spanned the earth, silver ley lines of magic, crisscrossed in a tangled web of destinations and Doors, and for a moment I could see the way the four Paths unfolded across it, Eildon Tree the linchpin in the center to hold it all together . . .

  Behind me I could hear the others arguing, but it was the dim buzzing of bees, easy to ignore—until Moira began to lose her composure.

  “You know why I can’t do this,” Moira snapped, her voice brittle. “I’m not Queen yet, and to attempt to overrule Mother’s wishes would be a disaster.”

  Talivar’s reply was muffled and I turned, pulling away reluctantly.

  “What is she talking about?”

  Whatever he was about to say was drowned in a sudden explosion and the rattling whizz of some sort of projectile.

  “Oh, fuck.” I turned around wildly, trying to figure out where it was coming from.

  Talivar shoved me down into the grass as the rush of booted heels clattered past. The stench of sulfur flooded my nose. Daemons. “ ’Ware the Tree!”

  Tree, hell. I struggled to look behind me. “Get my dad!”

  “Stay down,” the prince hissed, rolling off me to slip into the darkness. Hooves pounded the dirt, and I covered my head with my hands, the breeze of the panicked horses whisking over my head.

  I elbowed my way closer to the Tree. Being trampled would suck just as badly as being shot and I had no intentions of catching a stray anything, thank you very much.

  Besides, the Tree was sacred to the OtherFolk in a way I couldn’t really comprehend. It was bound to be the safest place to find shelter.

  Above me the witchlights flickered, sending out purple shadows. I caught a glimpse of Kitsune wielding a wickedly sharp katana. Her body slid through small openings amid the swirling haze of bodies and horses, the tip of the blade flicking out here and there. All the while her face remained as calm as though she were cutting a bouquet of daisies.

  Moira had disappeared, swallowed up in the center of her own guardsmen, and I . . . was fending for myself.

  A sharp pain dug into my side and I smacked at it, freezing at the answering grunt and the soft slide of fur against my hand. “It’s me, Abby.”

  “Phin? Jesus, what’s going on?”

  “Mercenaries,” he grunted. “Borderland mercs . . . guess whose calling card they’ve got?”

  “Fucking Maurice.”

  Something let out a guttural snarl from the shadows and I froze. I’d been here before. Wriggling on my elbows, I slithered farther away. A silver flash lit up the night.

  The CrossRoads . . . There was a Door nearby. Not that that helped me any. The real question was who was leaving . . . or coming here. There was a twang as arrows were loosed, followed by pained cries in the dark.

  The rotting edge of sulfur stung my nose and I clenched my teeth against the roiling wave of nausea knotting my gut. Wherever the Door was, I was getting too close to it, the geas kicking in with a vengeance.

  Crap.

  “Where’s Talivar?”

  “Cutting a rug in a daemon tango,” Phineas snorted, squinting over my shoulder. “Someone’s gonna need a dry-cleaning service.”

  “I hear blood’s a bitch to get out of leather.” I gritted my teeth as another wave of queasiness swept through me. “Where the fuck is that Door? I’m too close to it.” Something soft and wet burbled nearby. I shuddered, peering through the branches.

  “Do you see Thomas anywhere?”

  “Moira took him with her group.” Phineas slunk lower into the grass. “Think we need to stay out of it until the two Courts chase these assholes off.”

  “Well, well—what a surprise to see you here . . . alive.”

  I whirled to see a leather-clad daemon leaning against the Tree, flicking ash from a cigarette with a neat snap of his wrist. As daemons went, he was the dapper sort—neatly dressed, slicked-back scales, and a tidy row of horns upon his brow. It might have looked reassuring, but it was the ones who appeared most civilized who were usually the biggest bastards.

  And I’d had dealings with this particular daemon before. Cigarette, my mind named him, pulling the moniker from a past memory.

  “I could say the same,” I drawled. “Nice to see you’re still flaunting the Versace.”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing personal.”

  “It never is.” I backed up a step as he approached, dropping his cigarette butt into the grass. It smoldered in a reddish haze, a curl of smoke rising from the silver blades.

  “I do believe Maurice would be rather pleased to see you.”

  “No doubt.” A flash of white at my feet told me Phineas had bailed. Given my commitment to our friendship, I was just going to assume he was mustering up someone with a weapon. Meaning, I needed to keep this asshole talking. “Think I’ll take a rain check.”

  “How disappointing.” His smile widened to reveal a set of prickly looking teeth. Inwardly I sighed. One of these days I was going to have to get my Buffy the Vampire Slayer action on and learn how to fight. I ducked beneath the lowest branch, the song of the Tree pulsing up my arm as I leaned on the it for balance.

  “You’re not going to be able to take me anyway,” I muttered, almost hoping the geas would flare up the way it had earlier. The thought of vomiting all over this fucker cheered me up immensely.

  “Says you.”

  I wondered what would happen if I were knocked unconscious. Would the geas kick into effect if I wasn’t willfully attempting to break it?

  I swallowed the taste of bile and ducked behind another limb. Cigarette wasn’t really trying to pursue me yet and the longer I kept him talking, the better off I’d be. He smirked, blue scales gleaming, and then lunged, twisting his body around the trunk to snatch at my hair.

  The Tree let out a shudder when he touched it, scraps of linen fluttering to the ground.

  “Don’t do that,” I hissed at him. “Those prayers belong to other people.”

  “Casualties of war.”

  I stared at him. “What are you talking about? We’re not at war.”

  “Not yet.”

  He bared his teeth in a snarl. I retreated another step, my back scraping into the bark. The EarthSong hummed stronger and a soft twang of warning vibrated through my spine. I blinked, the glow of fire lighting up the night air.

  Fire.

  “Oh, shit!” Cigarette whipped around, his own eyes widening. Snatching my hand, he yanked me backward, our bodies tumbling into the thick
grass as a high-pitched whistling scream tore past us. The field lit up like the crispy edges of a burning snowflake, silver and gold and bloodred streaming behind the tail of the fireball.

  Heat flushed over me and the Tree let out a groaning pop as it was hit, the cloth wishes igniting in a multicolored breeze. A gasp escaped me, even as another wave of cramps swept through my gut. Cigarette blinked dumbly at the smoldering ruin of the Tree, as a low wail rippled up from those who still stood.

  “Fuck this.” The daemon rolled off me.

  “Maybe you ought to consider working for someone other than a psychopath,” I snapped.

  He let out a brittle laugh. “You think I’ve got any choice in the matter?”

  Talivar staggered toward me, anguish written on his face. Before I could say anything, Cigarette hoisted me over his shoulder.

  I kicked at the mercenary, my ears still ringing from the explosion, but he ignored me. “I’m out of here.”

  “Let me go! I can’t. I have a geas—” My words were drowned as the Tree gave another shudder, the bark splitting with a massive roar. Cigarette didn’t bother slowing down, his arm clinging tight around my waist.

  Abruptly we were standing in front the silvered edges of the Door I had sensed, and I began to dry heave in anticipation. Smoke guttered, hiding us in a thick cloud. The Door arced in a silver flame before us and I squinted through tearing eyes.

  “Can’t . . .” I mumbled thickly.

  “Watch us,” Cigarette snorted. And then something steamrolled into us, our limbs tangling in a heap as we hurtled through the Door and onto the CrossRoads.

  I slammed into silver cobblestones, my breath rushing out of me in a whoosh. Beside me Cigarette grunted, muttering something profane, but I hardly noticed as I crawled to my knees, vomiting profusely.

  “What the hell—” Cigarette’s voice cut off with a yelp as he was barreled over by another figure. I caught a dim image of fists and some sort of blade, the stench of sulfur and a guttural moan, but I had no time to thank my would-be rescuer.

  Fire ripped through my veins, burning liquid licking along my skin. Blisters bubbled on my flesh, my mouth hung open in a silent scream. Flames coated my tongue, scorching down my throat and into my gullet.

  This was not the gentle shape-changing of the Dreaming, steered by me—this was the uncontrolled snapping of a curse set free without limitations.

  My bones melted and forged into something new, crushed and reset. Dimly I heard someone calling my name, but I couldn’t see anything beyond my own pain. I broke out in scales, my legs and arms absorbing into my rib cage, my spine lengthening, my teeth growing pointed.

  I twisted around someone, coiling, coiling, squeezing.

  Fingers bit tighter, arms trembling, but they didn’t let go of me. A span of heartbeats and I shifted again, into something large and furry, with biting fangs and tearing claws. I want to shred flesh, fill my mouth with blood . . .

  “—an illusion,” someone gasped. “You have to fight it.”

  The voice. A man’s. Did I know it?

  Not Cigarette, surely.

  I vomited bile upon him, belching smoke in his face. I couldn’t seem to focus on it, my whole being needing to move, to get away. To be free.

  My organs rearranged again and I was some great monstrosity plucked from the sea, a living death of fins and teeth and an insatiable hunger that could never be filled. I would consume this fleshly annoyance that bound me here against my will.

  His hands slid over my face to cup my chin, forcing me by inches to look at him. Somehow he captured me with his gaze and I stilled, my sides heaving. We were in blackness, the CrossRoads stretching out beyond us in silver sparkles. I began to shiver, the fire morphing into a bitter cold, turning my limbs to ice.

  He shuddered and I realized he was succumbing to it too. The bells in my hair chimed discordantly, and the sound cut through my own internal screaming. Somehow I opened the inner channels as though I might TouchStone him, but there was nothing there, save a shadowed emptiness I could not seem to fill.

  His mouth pressed on mine and it was all sweat and skin and tongue. I trembled with it, his hands roaming through my hair. I’d become myself again, but the chill continued to burn, my heart fizzling like a lump of coal extinguished in a bucket of water.

  “Ion?” The name filled my mouth.

  “Hush now,” he whispered and held me tighter. “It’s over.”

  Ten

  I stretched out in a familiar warmth, surrounded by my own sheets. My own scent, wrapped in flannel. I jerked awake, struggling to sit up as I stared into the darkness.

  My mouth tasted of ashes, my body ached as though I’d been turned inside out and back again, my limbs swollen and heavy.

  I was home. In my apartment?

  But I’d been on the CrossRoads . . . and there had been fire . . . daemons . . . the Tree . . . Ion . . .

  “Brystion?” I whispered it, afraid I might spoil the dream if I said it too loud.

  “I’m here.” His voice sounded rough and raspy, and I tracked its location to finally make out his silhouette in the rocking chair in the corner. I turned on the light, trying to comprehend what I was seeing.

  My heart pulsed into my throat as though it meant to take flight, relief and a silent shudder of hysterical laughter thickening my tongue into cotton.

  “Ion,” I said hoarsely. “What’s going on?”

  “We broke your geas. You’re free.” He didn’t move from the chair and I stared at him. He was in his mortal form, pale and beautiful, but his eyes were sunken, without their usual arrogance. The chiseled cheekbones were still there, but hollowed, and several days’ worth of stubble crested the rise of his jawline.

  Something wasn’t right here.

  “Where are the others?”

  He shrugged. “At Eildon Tree, I suspect. To be honest, I don’t care.”

  “But Talivar? Phineas?” I slid off the bed, wrapping the blankets around my shoulders as I walked toward him. I was naked beneath them, which was for the best, given that my clothes were probably not worth saving.

  I stroked the roughness on his face with a curious finger. “That’s a new look for you, isn’t it?”

  He said nothing, but his lips compressed.

  I turned his chin so he was forced to look at me. “What’s going on, Ion? What the hell happened to us in the Dreaming? Why didn’t you come see me before?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters! Christ, Ion, I thought I’d killed you!” I slid a tendril of damp hair from my face, surprised to notice I’d been cleaned up. I must have been pretty far out of it if I didn’t even remember being bathed. “How long have I been gone?”

  “Several months . . . I guess. I lost track of time . . . after you died.” He snorted. “I’ve been crashing here; I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Just like old times,” I murmured, earning me a mouth twitch. “But I still don’t understand what’s going on.”

  He captured my hand and pressed it to his cheek, his lips brushing over the palm. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he whispered. “That I’d given it up for you . . . only to have you disappear . . .”

  He kissed my hand again and a flutter raced up my arm.

  But it was different somehow. In the past, Brystion had never hesitated to use at least a bit of his formidable sexual power to invoke a response I usually had to struggle to resist. This time, there was something off . . .

  “Well, I’m here now. For whatever that’s worth.” I leaned down and kissed his forehead. “It’s good to be home, such as it is.” I glanced around my room, basking in the worn furniture, the Celtic wall tapestries, the glow of the lamp on the bedside table. Home.

  The digital clock dutifully displayed the time. It was nearly noon, and I almost laughed at how normal it was to have a clock to look at. “It’s not much, but it’s mine. I don’t think I ever quite appreciated that before. Elves have perfectly lovely
decor, but sometimes it’s nice to have things be normal . . .”

  My words trailed away and I had the feeling he wasn’t really listening. And then his eyes popped open, dark and anguished. Without a word, he hoisted me into his arms, launching us toward my bed, his mouth nipping at mine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Think that’s rather obvious, Abby.”

  I placed my hand on his chest and shook my head. “Are you serious?”

  “I have to make this right. “Somehow.”

  “I hardly think this is the time for a bedtime romp.” I hesitated. Had Sonja told him about my handfasting?

  “No. Just . . . let me hold you. Please.” His voice took on a desperate edge, and I allowed him to place me on the blankets. He made no move to search out my naked form beneath.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He buried his face in the nape of my neck, his fingers curling into my hair tight enough to make me cry out. “You were dead, Abby. You were dead and I was here and I couldn’t get to you in time. I couldn’t find you. I looked and I looked and you were gone and you left me here . . .”

  I’d never seen him like this. “How long has it been . . . since I died?”

  “Six months after you drank the lethe. Three weeks since I was told you died.”

  My brain tried to wrap itself around loss of time. The loss of my memories. The loss of my life. The rational part of me attempted to figure out the date. I’d last been here in late July, so that meant it was now . . . nearly February?

  On instinct, I wrapped my arms about his shoulders, both of us beginning to shake with the reality of our situation. And even if I continually felt as though I was being buffeted by forces I could never quite escape, this moment held a particular tenderness that belonged solely to me.

  And him.

  “I’m here now,” I repeated.

  He kissed me hard then, but it wasn’t a sexual thing as much as a reassurance that I was actually here. I returned it, tentatively, my mouth upon his. We clung to each other until he let out a shuddering breath, his body slumping so that he sprawled out beside me. One hand stroked my forehead, brushing over my mouth again and again, every nerve shivering with potential.