The Deepest Black

by Rainy Kaye

  I live in a desert.

  “You mean, the Order of Ice is convening here,” I say, and it's a different but equally scary monstrosity.

  “That would be the place,” he says. “Look, I don't know for sure why the mercenaries would be after you, but you've taken out a few of the turned fae, and since they seem to belong to Franjo. . .”

  “Then Franjo sent the mercenaries for me.”

  There is so much to say, so much to ask, so much to fear—but I can't voice any of it. The realization that I have somehow accidentally made a seemingly powerful enemy has made me dumb.

  Silence settles in the car, expands to fill it up until it's pushing against me, like I should be plastered to the door. The only way to make it go away, to get any relief, is to find my words again.

  So I ask meekly: “How do we stop him?”

  Remy scratches his forearm through his jacket. He doesn't seem to have an answer, and even if he did, I probably won't like it. I haven't liked any of his revelations so far, even though they aren't quite what I had thought they would be.

  I pull the bottle of sage oil from my pocket and hold it up. “I suppose this won't work on him?”

  Remy shrinks away from me. “Doesn't do anything on normal fae, just on ones who have been touched by the shadows. . .or the elixir is wearing off. . .”

  It takes me a minute to catch his hint: he doesn't want this stuff anywhere near him. I want to tell him to deal with it, but I'm just starting to make progress with him—and get some answers.

  So I place the bottle in the glove compartment, and then ask, “Do you even know where to find Franjo?”

  He shakes his head, but a sudden realization hits me square in the chest. Remy may not know where Franjo is hiding out, but I do.

  “He's at the Pink Boutique,” I say, and Remy gives me a questioning look. “It's a strip club. It’s the nexus of fae activity around here.”

  “Who knows why the witches opened the portal to here, of all places,” he says, far too nonchalant. “Handy people, but there's nothing they won't do for the right price.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “Portals? And witches? There's not only fae, but witches, too? What about vampires? Werewolves? El Chupacabra?”

  “No, nothing like that,” he says, waving his hand in dismissal. “The witches are fae, they just hold the only real magic left.”

  When he goes silent, I say, “Care to elaborate?”

  “It's one of the biggest ways that humans and fae are different,” he says, and I resist pointing out that they can also shapeshift into demons and eat people. “Our bodies are magical vessels. It made us heartier in a lot of ways, able to do things other beings can't. Like we could contain magic, then pour it out as we needed it. But it's said most of our ancestors stopped using magic and in time they sort of forgot how to. The witches are the ones who didn't, and we rely on them to keep our world functioning.”

  I grunt, trying to hold back both a laugh and a whimper. “I think your witches have let you down.”

  He shoots me a look.

  I backpedal with, “I mean, it doesn't seem so safe now, with all of the dark fae and Order of Ice thing and. . .”

  He shakes his head. “Whatever. Anyway, that is the long and the short of it.”

  “Is Franjo a witch, then?”

  “No, not that I'm aware of. Not like I know the guy. Just hear his name time to time.” Remy stares so blankly at the road, I start to worry that he's fallen into a trance or died. Then he snaps back out of it and adds, “He got in trouble with the authorities a long time ago, but no one will say what or why. He broke a ward or something.”

  “Broke into a ward? Like a mental health ward?” I scowl deeply, exaggerated frown and all, trying to understand what any of this means.

  “No, protective wards that keep the city safe,” Remy says.

  “Oh,” I say. “Right, witches. Forgot.”

  I look out the windshield, trying to determine where we're going. “So, Mr. Magical Vessel, are you up for checking out the Pink Boutique to see if there's more going on there than I realized?”

  “Always down with checking out a strip club,” he says with a wink.

  I groan, more for show than actual annoyance. “I wouldn't get too worked up over it. It's got more evil fae than actual dancing ladies.”

  “What about dancing evil lady fae?”

  My brain dies at the thought, and I stare at him, trying to figure out how to reply. Then I realize he's laughing.

  “You're stupid,” I reply, but a chuckle slips out. I press my lips together to stifle it.

  “That's not very nice.” He doesn't sound like he means it, though.

  I allow a grin. “I'll show you not very nice.”

  His expression says oh?

  My grin fades into heat in my cheeks. Did I really just imply I would be...inappropriate...with him? From the corner of my eyes, I assess him on a different chart than I had previously allowed; maybe not entirely different. I've been accidentally scoping him out off and on since we've met—for the second time, anyway—but now I really try to plot him on the map. He's got the all-around bad-boy appeal going on, with the faux hawk and the black leather jacket. Probably has a tattoo or two underneath.

  But he's also just a bit on the skinny side, and his face lights up with pending jokes far too easily to be taken all that seriously. He's not a pretty boy; no manicured eyebrows or guyliner. If anything, I could see him throw down at a Dungeons and Dragons game just as easily as he actually threw down with the fuckhead attempting to undo my pants in the restroom.

  He doesn't fall too far on either side of Bad Boy Land or Dorkistan, but somewhere on their border. It's a bit difficult to pinpoint, but I like it.

  “It's the wings, isn't it?” he asks, catching me off guard until I realize I had been staring at him. So much for being discreet. “It's rare when humans can see them, ya know.”

  “I figured that out, since no one else has seemed to notice something is off, not until you—well, the others—shift and start tearing limbs from people like a rotisserie chicken.” I shrug, hoping I come off blasé, like I'm not impressed with either the gross deeds of his darker kind, or his stupid wispy wings. It just looks like he's got streams of smoke coming off his back. Hardly noticeable to anyone who isn't aware what they mean. Then it's disgusting. Or amazing. More and more, I find myself straddling the fence. I'd like to be straddling something else, though. “Do you know your way around this part of town?”

  “Pretty familiar,” he says, oblivious to the mental gymnastics happening inside my skull right now. “You ready to scope out Pink Boutique?”

  I sigh, slouching down in my seat and forcing my mind out of my pants. “No time like the present. I guess.”

  4

  Pink Boutique is lit up in neon and pouring out thudding dance music, the incessant hub of fae nightlife. I've witnessed terrible things going down in the back parking lot, which makes me jittery enough. But now they've apparently identified me and started a full-fledged retaliation, so this is the last place I should be. Unfortunately, following Remy into uncovering the Order of Ice is my only chance at never having to deal with the fae again. There's no going back at this point. I probably should do things his way.

  I take a deep breath and reach for the glove compartment.

  Remy stills my hand. “We're just going in for a peek. Let's not get too rowdy.”

  I eye him for a long moment, but keep my mouth shut. Instead, I push open the door and step out into the night. Cold brushes over my hands and the back of my neck, crystallizing the fine hairs. Definitely something going on with the weather, and the more I think about it, the more I know it has to do with the Order. I'm just not sure what, exactly.

  “If Franjo isn't a witch, why can I feel the Order of Ice?” I ask as Remy joins me on the way up the broken walkway to the front door.

  The door is heavy and painted green and looks like it should be guarding an ancient secret vault in
stead of a place where chicks show their boobies for moolah.

  He shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets and somehow seems to shrink down inside of himself.

  “What do you mean feel them?” he asks, not looking at me.

  “It's cold here. Too cold. Unnaturally so.” I hesitate on what I just said. Is the weather actually that different, or has all the talk about global warming changed my perception on what is acceptable?

  Then I catch a glimmer on the eaves above and stare up at it until I believe what I'm seeing: an icicle.

  “I don't know,” he says, following my gaze but not seeming to understand the significance.

  So I point at the icicle and say, “We're in a desert, Remy. It's hot as hell here. That thing should not exist. And yet. . .”

  “I don't really know much about the. . .new. .. fae,” he says. “The ones who. . .”

  “Eat human limbs like they're drumsticks from KFC?” I snap.

  He shoots me a dirty look. I realize they're his kind, but clearly, some of them are gruesome, and now they're forming a cult. I'm human, and I can call out when other humans are being dickholes. Why is it so damn difficult for him to call the dark fae what they are? They're monsters. We should be able to agree on that much.

  Crushing down my irritation at him, I shove open the door. Music and an icy breeze whoosh at me, followed by the smell of cigarettes, sweat, and despair. If I never had to inhale the same air as the habitués of this place again, I would probably gain ten years on my life.

  I step inside, the flat heel of my shoes making an oddly distinct echo under the cacophony. Remy pushes up on me as the door closes behind us, sealing in the stench and the cold that is actually a few degrees lower than outside. The hallway is illuminated with only a string of multicolored Christmas bulbs along the ceiling and the dingy smoky afterglow from the main room.

  I hold my breath as we walk into the light. My gaze slides about the crowd, taking in who is fae and who is their dinner guest. We are definitely outnumbered by the otherkin, but what is a girl with a fae in tow looking to infiltrate a cult supposed to do?

  Remy grabs my elbow and leads me through the clusters of people and fae-pretending-to-be-people toward the stage. I plop down on a chair at a nearby small metal table and stare up at the dancers.

  Three women with nearly invisible black wisps are wearing equally obvious thongs and bras. One is working the pole, another is bent over right up on the edge of the stage, shaking her ass, and the other seems to be on her first day—she is just standing with her legs twisted together, chewing on her fingernail. I find myself mesmerized by the jiggling butt cheeks of the woman in the front.

  “Aw, you the jealous type?” Remy says as he pulls up a chair across from me.

  I swivel around to throw him a glare, then halt. He's holding a mug of beer.

  “You really think a drink is a good idea at a time like this?” I whisper with an edge of annoyance.

  “I think a drink is an excellent idea at a time like this.” He grins, lifts the mug in a cheers at me, then chugs it.

  I grit my teeth and turn back to the stage, sliding down in my chair. “Not jealous, anyway. Just thinking. I don't really understand what the fae are doing. Do they need to feed on humans now, like vampires?”

  Remy finishes his drink, then thuds the mug back onto the table. He wipes his mouth with one hand, a deliberate action as thoughts race across his eyes averted toward nothing.

  “No,” he says at last, dropping his hand to the empty mug. “At least, I don't think so. One day, the portal opened and my kind just went sort of...ape shit.”

  “You keep mention this portal thing.” I sit upright, taking a cursory glance of the room to see if anyone appears interested in our conversation. No one seems to care about us, at all. “What kind of portal, exactly?”

  “Between our world and yours. Obviously we need some way to travel between the two.”

  “Obviously,” I say without having ever thought of it before. “What caused the portal to open?”

  He runs his thumb up and down the mug handle as he continues to grip it. “No one knows. It wasn't time for it to open. It just kinda. . .popped. . .”

  “What times does it normally open?”

  “Rarely, but in cycles with the moon,” he says, his eyes still averted.

  “My moon or yours?”

  His gaze shifts over to me, and a smile cracks his face. “It's the same one.”

  “How is that even—”

  “I don't know,” he interrupts.

  “Well, I thought the fae were supposed to be cute delightful little people that I could carry around in my pocket.” I give him a look to indicate that he is no such thing, and I'm unimpressed by it.

  His smile widens into a grin. “I got something else in my pocket.”

  “Yeah, and I bet it's cute and little,” I say, reaching over the table to turn his face toward the stage. “Focus on the girls you can pay to be interested in you.”

  “Geez, you humans really are assholes,” he says, underlined by a chuckle.

  I murmur, “At least we aren't cracking rib cages open to feast.”

  “It's not on purpose!” He stands, slamming his palms onto the table. The mug teeters and then rights itself. “Someone is making them. . .”

  His voice trails off, and he looks past me. I turn to see what big-tittied woman has wrangled his interest this time. It's not a stripper, though, but a crowd of people flowing toward a secluded stairwell and upwards in a single-file drip. Wisps trail above and around them, and I can't make out an individual who isn't a fae.

  “What's going on?” I whisper, not like they could actually hear me with this much distance and noise between us.

  “It's gotta be the Order.” Remy grabs my arm, and I twist away.

  He nods toward the stairwell rapidly eating them, then heads across the room in long strides.

  I hurry to keep up with him, lagging a few steps behind, until I notice he's about to merge with the group. I pick up my pace and grab the back of his jacket.

  “Bad idea,” I say on a hiss.

  He slows to a halt, peering at me over his shoulder.

  I wave my free hand up and down my torso. “Pretty damn obvious I'm not a fae, ya think?”

  He gaze bolts to where my wings should be, then he turns to watch as the last of the Order disappears up the stairs. “Is there an attic or something in this place?”

  I shrug. “How should I know? Never even been upstairs before. Didn't occur to me there would be anything of interest. Can't we just sneak around and listen outside the door?”

  “Seems risky,” he says, then his expression lights up. “Got an idea.”

  He turns and heads toward the back of the bar, the way I had followed the fae with her victim the last time I was here. We slip out into the cool night—which is still somehow warmer than it is inside—and into the junky back lot. I turn in a slow circle, analyzing the night for any lurking creatures that would want to make my insides my outsides.

  “Boost me,” Remy says, and I look where he's staring: straight up the building to a darkened window.

  “First, you're like one and half my weight, so that—”

  Before I can finish, he grumbles and storms off to search among the trash.

  “Be careful of severed limbs,” I call after him. “Sometimes they twitch.”

  I don't know if they actually do, but I figured it's worth keeping him on his toes. He disappears behind one of the old cars and doesn't resurface. A few minutes passes, and there's still no sign of him.

  With a scowl, I tense and force myself to investigate. I don't want one of his own to turn on him all savage-like, but I also don't have any way to bash them down or keep them down now that I don't have my baton or sage oil. Still, against my better judgment, I stalk over to the car—only to find him hunched over, pushing at the rear bumper and wheezing.

  “I don't think that car has moved since 1957,” I say wi
th a relieved sigh that he's just being an idiot and not getting his stupid brain eaten. “It certainly isn't going to drive unless you use your Tinkerbell magic.”

  He shoots me a look, standing back and folding his arms. “We actually do have one kind of magic, thank you very much.”

  An awkward grin creeps along my face. Is he being dirty?

  “The beacon,” he says.

  I sway a little in my spot. “Is that what the cool kids call it?”

  “It's a thing we do,” he says. “It shines a light in the sky and guides a lost person home.”

  All dirty thoughts fall away.

  “Why didn't you try it for your brother?” I ask, more seriously.

  “I did. It didn't work. But the beacon is a little tricky. It brings you to where you're supposed to be, not where you think you should be.” He looks puzzled, contemplative, and then goes back to huffing and puffing, trying to get that rusted, folded-in contraption to budge. “I need it to boost me up to those beams sticking out of the side.”

  I turn to scope out the back of the building. He's right; if he can get up to the attached pergola, he can probably reach the window. With an internal groan, I follow around the side of the car and join him at the back to start pushing. After a few serious shoves, I step away and fold my arms around myself.

  “It's not going to move.” My gaze scans the piles of junk, and then rests on one of the large trash cans. “This might work, though.”

  Remy pops up, apparently grateful for any other option than moving a half ton of dilapidated metal.

  I grab the trash can and pull it toward the building, the junk around the can clattering and banging. Remy stretches to see beyond the lot, into the nearby field and farther to the distant street, but no one is around to notice us. Smarter humans never venture back here, and the fae only come here to feed.

  He jogs after me as I pull the can up to the back door and flip it over, bottom side up. He eyeballs the setup, adjusts the location of the can by a couple of inches, and then climbs up on it. The bottom dents a little under his weight, but doesn't cave. Then he hops up and down, trying to grab the wooden beams still out of his reach. I expect the bin to collapse, but it struggles against the abuse.