Phantom Pains

by Mishell Baker

  “We have no idea. Many fey have unique talents; whatever spell he used to hide or disguise me, it must have been very powerful. He took that secret to his grave.”

  “What was the point of it? Just more of Vivian’s random cruelty?”

  Caryl hesitated. “I believe it was for the sake of their daughter Slakeshadow.”

  “Vivian has a daughter?”

  “Had. When my abduction came to light, Slakeshadow was executed along with her father. Violations of the Second Accord are punishable by death.”

  “How was abducting you supposed to help Slakeshadow?”

  Caryl smoothed her skirt over her knees, her eyes on her hands. When she spoke again, her voice had an even more detached quality than usual, as though she were reciting something memorized long ago in school.

  “Vivian’s crimes in Arcadia did not merit execution,” she said, “but she was exiled. Her mate and child were stripped of their titles and sent to live in something roughly analogous to poverty. My abduction was part of their plan to win favor with the Unseelie King Winterglass and regain their nobility.”

  “Wait, what would the Unseelie King want with a human baby? This just got very Labyrinth all of a sudden.”

  “The king was not even aware of the abduction. Slakeshadow used my blood in a potion and supplied it to him regularly without telling him how it worked.”

  “What?”

  “In the same way that ingestion of fey blood can inspire a human, human blood can ground a fey, anchor his thoughts. The king’s Echo had been dead for more than a century, and while the Echo effect lasts longer for fey than it does for us, Winterglass had begun to lose his memories and his reason. Unseelie are particularly volatile. He had no heir, and chaos was breaking out as his potential successors schemed against one another. Then Slakeshadow came along with a potion that solved all of his problems. Not only did he restore her nobility; he made her his princess-consort and got her with child. Only to execute her six years later.”

  “Guess her plan didn’t work out like she’d hoped.”

  “Eventually the king discovered me. Heard my screams and followed them.” Her gaze drifted toward the window. “I was kept in a wooden crate. One day it opened and—there he stood. As hard as I try, I cannot erase that image from my memory.”

  “He didn’t look like David Bowie, I’m assuming.”

  “I remember skeletal wings, an owl’s skull crowned with antlers. His eyes burned with livid fire.”

  “Jesus. What did he do?”

  “He lifted me out of the crate. Since I could not walk on my own, he carried me to the nearest Gate. The Gate in Saint Petersburg had been destroyed long ago, and so he had to travel to Helsinki; the agents there helped find where I belonged.”

  “He carried you himself? I didn’t think fey monarchs were that . . . hands-on.”

  “They have not been, before or since. It was a terrible risk; he left the scepter in the hands of his son. For more than a week, the Unseelie Court was ruled by a five-year-old.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “There must have been someone else calling the shots.”

  “Not at all. The scepter I mentioned is not symbolic. It is a powerful artifact that grants near-absolute command over all Unseelie fey.”

  “And the king just . . . gave it to his kid to hang on to while he was gone.”

  Caryl nodded gravely. “As nearly as I can guess, King Winterglass must have been half-mad with guilt. In a letter once, he wrote me that the moment he caught my scent he knew what he’d been drinking.”

  “My God.” I laced my hands awkwardly in front of me. “Have you seen him since then?”

  “Only in nightmares.”

  “If they send you back to Arcadia, would you be welcome at his Court?”

  “Likely,” she said. “The king offered to adopt me at the time, but my parents would not allow it. He used to send me the loveliest letters, until I grew old enough to write back and ask him politely to stop.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I’d enjoy being pen pals with a flaming-eyed skeleton either. Do you think the rejection offended him?”

  “If I’d seriously offended the king of the Unseelie, I would never have heard the last of it from my superiors. The Unseelie Court and the Arcadia Project are bound only by the delicate thread of the king’s word; our power to regulate or even monitor the Unseelie is a shadow of what it was in the early nineteenth century. The loyalty of King Winterglass to the Arcadia Project is all that holds those monsters at bay.”

  “If you knew that, why’d you tell him to shove off?”

  “As grateful as I was to him, I did not want reminders of my trauma. I still do not. If they decide to send me back,” she said matter-of-factly, “I shall take my own life.”

  My breath faltered. “What?” I said. “No, no no no. You do not want to do that.”

  “While I respect your expertise on suicide,” said Caryl dryly, “you have never visited the Unseelie High Court, and therefore cannot fully evaluate my options.”

  My chest felt tight; my eyes stung. “How can you even say that? How can you tell me that and expect me to—” I raked a hand back through my hair, taking short breaths and looking out the window at the weeds. Dr. Davis’s voice reminded me to notice the shallowness in my chest, to focus on relaxing my muscles, slowing and lengthening my breathing.

  “For the last twelve years,” said Caryl, “I have tried to forget what I experienced during my imprisonment in Arcadia. The extent to which I have held tenuously to my sanity is the extent to which I have succeeded.”

  “So tell that to Dame Whatsit! They can’t do this to you!”

  Caryl stretched her arms behind her on the bed, then leaned back on the heels of her hands. “Yes, I’ll just tell them that they should keep the dangerously unstable warlock on this side of the border because, if not, she may kill herself. I’m sure that will set their minds at ease.”

  “There has to be something we can do.” My palms were getting damp; I wiped them on my work trousers.

  “You’ve already helped as much as anyone could. I think they expected that you would have resentments about the way you were treated, and would be willing to confirm their poor opinion of me. Your loyalty is a powerful statement to my effectiveness as a leader.”

  “God, I hope so, Caryl. I know I have a lousy way of showing it, but you have to know that I care about you.”

  Caryl’s gaze drifted off in a way that made me sure she was watching Elliott. I wished I could see him too.

  “I care very much about you as well,” she said.

  “I feel like I should give you a hug or something.”

  “I know.” She rose from the bed, placing her back toward me. “But enough of that. There is someone waiting to see you.”

  For a moment I was confused. Then a little shiver of excitement passed through me. “Claybriar?”

  Caryl nodded. “He would have arrived at three, around the time you came into the meeting. I’ll tell Phil to let him down out of the tower. Wait in the living room, won’t you?”

  Monty the cat was still on the piano bench; I gave him a thorough petting to let all the pent-up affection out of my system before starting yet another conversation with someone I couldn’t touch.

  The last time I’d seen Claybriar, he’d been drained completely of his essence, leaving him no way of maintaining the complicated spellwork that gave him a human facade. His horns and goat legs had freaked me out a little, to be perfectly honest, and if I were to so much as shake his hand, my iron-studded body would disrupt his facade and I’d see it all over again.

  The man walking down the stairs now, though, looked perfectly, painfully, messily human. Brian Clay, the fake cop I’d flirted with at a coffee shop. Untidy hair, goatee, soulful dark eyes. At the sight of him, my skin flushed all over with joy.

  “Millie,” he said when he saw me, and grinned, taking the rest of the stairs two at a time. I realized with a shock that I had never see
n him smile before, not really. He stopped a few feet in front of me, hands clasped behind his back, mischief in his eyes.

  “Clay,” I said, glancing up at him. “You look—exactly the same.”

  “But this time I came prepared.” He held up his hands and flexed them; only then did I notice he was wearing latex surgical gloves.

  I laughed in surprise as he held out his hand. I gave it a tentative shake, and when I saw that his facade was still in place, I held on for a long moment. A large hand, made for yard work or carpentry. God, he was so tall.

  “How have you been?” I said. I gestured to the nearest couch and then sat with him, leaving space.

  “I wish I could say great,” he said with a wry smile. “But honestly I’m glad as hell to be here right now, and not just because of you.”

  “What’s the matter?” I reached for his hand again, gave it a little squeeze, just because I was so thrilled that I could. He looked at our hands with a sort of pleased awkwardness until I let go.

  “I’m practically nobility now,” he said then. “I’ve been the queen’s servant for decades, but after the whole mess with Vivian she made me her champion.”

  “What does that entail?”

  “Well, I’m a knight, I guess.”

  “Nifty! Should I call you Sir Claybriar?”

  “If that works for you. But more to the point, being a knight in Arcadia isn’t an honorary title. I have to actually go out and slay things.”

  “Slay things? Like monsters? Oh my God. That doesn’t sound safe.”

  “Not even a little. For example: she knows I want to hang around Skyhollow because of you—”

  “Skyhollow?”

  “The Arcadian side of L.A.; they just call it after the duke. So since I’m interested in the area, she’s sent me after this damn manticore, thousands of years old, that’s gotten it into his head lately to harass the duke and all his toadies.”

  “That must be the ‘unrest’ people were talking about. So it’s up to you to kill some legendary beast because, what, you’re in the neighborhood?”

  “More or less.”

  “How’s that been working out?”

  “Well, half of Arcadia is already singing ballads about me. I’ve slain quite a few fearsome beasties. But this manticore? I’ve had two actual encounters with the thing so far, and they both ended with me turning tail and scampering.”

  “Literally turning tail. Because—tail.”

  “Yes, I have a tail.” He gave me a Look. “Though not at the moment.”

  “Gosh, you’re chatty. Almost perky. I hardly recognize you.”

  He shrugged. “Last time we met, you jolted my brain into gear. I could ride that for years if I had to. But like I said, I’m really glad to be somewhere I’m not expected to kill anything five times my size.”

  “I wish you could stay forever. I was so lucky to find you, and now you’ve got me worried you’re going to get eaten as soon as you go back.”

  A shadow crossed his face, and he slowly shifted his hand so that his latex-gloved fingers interlaced with mine, surprising me with a sharp stab of desire. As if things weren’t complicated enough.

  “I know the feeling,” he said. “I worry about you all the time.”

  “How long do you get to stay?”

  “The standard two weeks.”

  “Not long enough.”

  “You know how this Echo gig works, Millie. If I stay too long, I lose my mojo. You may as well get used to the idea that we’re going to spend more time apart than together.”

  “This whole soul mate thing is hugely overrated.”

  “It’ll be all right. We’ll make the most of the time we have. And I’m still working on finding a way around this iron problem so I can return the inspiration. You could make movies again.”

  “You’re sweet.”

  “Heh. Further proof we don’t know each other well.” He gave me another of those impossible grins, then stood, pulling me up with him. “Come on,” he said. “I’m starving. I don’t suppose you have any peaches?”

  “I have no idea. Let’s find out!”

  In retrospect, that was a terrible plan. I’d been pretty damn close to fine, and then there I went blundering right into the kitchen. Apparently PTSD and grief flunked out of the same charm school; neither of them seems to know when it’s cool to drop by.

  I saw the Spanish tile and the deserted bar stools, the island stacked with unopened mail, the fine layer of dust on the stove, and something in me collapsed like a dying star.

  Teo. Suspicious eyes half hidden by a fringe of black hair, gnocchi sizzling on the stove. The tired old house filled with the smell of garlic and the sound of his manic chatter. He’d been so unfinished, a hanging question, a joyously unstable arc of raw potential. His absence was suffocating, impossible. Residence Four was like a zombie, staggering on empty without its heart.

  With no warning at all, I dissolved into ugly sobs.

  7

  “Millie,” said Claybriar behind me, soft and panicked. “What is it?”

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” I said.

  “Oh,” said Claybriar. “Uh—trash can? Sink? I don’t know; I’ve only seen this on TV.”

  I started laughing, then lurched toward the sink. Claybriar rubbed my back awkwardly with one latex hand while my stomach turned briefly inside out; afterward I ripped off a paper towel to wipe my mouth and hunted through cabinets for a water glass.

  “Sorry,” I said. “That was weird.”

  “Kind of horrible, actually.”

  “Sorry.”

  “But—you’re okay now? You’re not dying or anything?”

  “Just a stress thing,” I said, finally locating a glass that wasn’t too spotty. “I’ve never had it happen quite like that before, but then I’ve never—” My eyes filled up again.

  “Maybe you should stay near the sink,” Claybriar said gently, making me laugh again.

  “Oh my God, you’re adorable.”

  “Thank you?”

  “It’s Teo,” I explained, turning the white-crusted tap in the sink and filling my glass about a third of the way. “You probably don’t remember him. The kid who tried to cut off his own hand on the soundstage.”

  “I do remember that. He died. Were you close?”

  “I only knew him for a week, but we were partners. We—” I flicked a glance toward Claybriar’s solemn eyes, guilty. “He kissed me once. After I—” My face heated. “I found your drawing of me; we both saw it and—”

  “Ah. Arcane friendly fire. I’m sorry.”

  I took a long drink of water, then dumped the rest out in the sink, leaving the glass there as well. “Aside from that,” I said, “we were—sort of becoming friends? But then we had a huge fight. I said some awful stuff. He was pretty much set on never forgiving me, and then—then he died.”

  “Oh, Millie.”

  I gestured to the stove. “This was— He was an aspiring chef. Amazingly talented; he fed the whole house. Sunday mornings he did an omelet bar. Every day he was in here, slicing something up, poking around the fridge, complaining about missing ingredients.”

  I lost it again—just my composure, not my lunch this time. Put my hands over my face and cried, like I hadn’t let myself cry in four months. Claybriar was here, and somehow that made it safe.

  Apparently he hadn’t gotten that memo; he was looking at me as though I might explode into a fine, bloody mist.

  “Is there something I can do?” he said.

  “I guess a hug’s not exactly on the menu.”

  “It would only hurt me a little,” he said. “Not much more than just standing here watching, to be honest.”

  He came closer, and I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see. He folded his arms around me, fierce, and shuddered. I felt no burst of inspiration, but I did calm at the sound of his heartbeat against my ear. Fey had hearts too?

  His clothes were part of his facade, so now there was bare skin
against my cheek. The hair on his chest was softer than a person’s and smelled strange: like bitter tree bark and animal musk. One of his palms rested against the back of my hair; the way my skull fit into the hollow of his hand was almost hypnotizing.

  I pulled away as soon as I felt able, because I knew I was hurting him.

  “What does that feel like?” I said, looking up at him now that his human illusion had sprung back into place. “Not the inspiration bit, but the iron?”

  “Cold,” he said. “Sort of numbing, like a buzzing deep into my skin. Toward the end there, I thought I might pass out.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You feel better, right? And it’s gone the minute you let go. Well, I guess I do feel a little sleepy now.”

  “I seem to have that effect on men.” Oh right. Zach. I was definitely not going to bring Zach up right now. “Peaches!” I exclaimed when I saw Claybriar puzzling over my expression. “You wanted peaches.”

  I opened the custard-colored fridge; the contents were sparse and tragic.

  “No peaches,” I said a little hoarsely. “I do see one apple, though, with minimal brown spots. You can probably just slice them right off.”

  “Would you mind doing that?” He gestured to the knife block, and I saw what he must have noticed instantly: the stainless steel stripe going all the way around the length of each handle.

  “Oh, damn,” I said. “Sure, I can do it. You’ve touched enough iron for one day. How do fey get by in the modern world, seriously?”

  “Rubber-soled shoes protect us from metal staircases and such. We carry packages or walk just behind people so they’ll tend to open doors for us. There’s a whole handbook for getting by here; we have to pass a test before the Project lets us come.”

  “I had no idea,” I said, slicing two round sections off either end of the apple. “I can’t even imagine how someone like Vivian got by for years.”

  “I guess if she slipped up she just murdered the witness,” he said. “Good guys always have it harder.”

  “Is it really that simple? Good guys and bad guys?”

  Claybriar didn’t answer, and I looked at him to see if I’d offended him. But he was standing staring fixedly into space as though he hadn’t heard me at all. I looked where he was looking, but there was nothing there.