by A. R. Kahler
“I will never serve you. Not after what you’ve done.” I clench my fist at that, the one she had mutilated only the day before.
“Oh, Claire. Let bygones be bygones. Your life, I’m afraid, depends on it. Until the morning, then. Sleep well.”
She turns and strides away through the crowd. Eli stiffens, looking from her to me.
He mouths something before his neck snaps around and his body follows suit and he trails behind her, every bit the obedient puppy.
I’m yours. I think that’s what he said. Why?
Then the crowd slinks back together, obscuring the pair from sight.
The nearest sylph smiles, her glossy black hair cascading down pale, naked flesh. The only clothing she wears is the ivy belt of silver daggers at her waist.
“Maybe you should check on your magician, assassin,” she says. “Don’t worry. We aren’t going anywhere. We wouldn’t miss tomorrow’s show for the world.”
I open my mouth. There’s nothing witty to say. We are royally screwed.
I turn and run to the burning tent.
Six
We’re in Melody’s trailer—or I assume it’s her trailer, based on the hippie-chic décor strewn about—and although it’s slightly larger than the one I’ve been in, it’s still crowded with the four of us there. Melody is lying in bed. To say she looks like a corpse is an understatement: in the last five minutes she’s aged fifty years, and that’s not a figure of speech. Her skin is wrinkled, her face sagging as though it’s lost all desire to hold together. Her body looks like a pile of twigs beneath the frayed quilt. Not once has she opened her eyes, but at least she’s breathing. I can’t see the motion, but it rattles in the quiet trailer like, well, a death rattle.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Kingston replies.
I’ve seen Kingston pissed, and lost, and forlorn. But I’ve never seen him so completely beaten. He doesn’t even try to blame me for all of this. Even if I was the one who helped summon the Pale Queen.
He may still have his magic, but we are both completely powerless against this.
“The replacement for the tithe should be here,” Kingston mutters. “Why hasn’t Mab sent it?”
“I could—”
“No, you couldn’t. You wouldn’t even know where to start and I wouldn’t either. The person in charge of the tithe has to be born into the role. A sort of genetic proclivity, like a Shifter. You can’t just search them out with magic—it’s something only a faerie can find.”
“So, what? We just let her die?”
“There was never any alternative,” he whispers. “I’d hoped the Tapis Noir would have been enough Dream to tide her over. But then . . .”
I plop down beside Austin on the bed opposite Melody’s; he’s observing all this with a grim expression on his face. He shifts over a little bit when I sit. Away from me. Not yet forgiven, then. Kingston takes a deep breath before speaking again; it sounds just as rattled as Melody’s.
“The question is what happens when she dies,” he continues. “The defenses will fall. We can fight, but I don’t know how long we’ll last.”
I do.
“What if we just give in?” My chest twists with the words and pain constricts my ribs, but I still manage to get them out. Which is odd, since a few days ago I couldn’t think about rebellion without being incapacitated. Maybe all of Mab’s contracts are loosening?
Maybe joining the Pale Queen really is an option. Which raises the question: without a fight in me anymore, why am I even considering going into battle?
“Are you insane?”
“You heard her,” I reply. “She’s willing to let us off. Join her team. Jesus, Kingston, even you have to see how bad this is. She’s already taken over Summer. Winter will be next. And we’re dead the moment Winter falls. We give in, and we get to live.”
Kingston stares at me for a few long moments, Melody’s rattled breathing the only sound in the trailer.
“Your mother sacrificed everything to keep this show running,” he says. His words are heavy, and they fill the trailer with a suffocating sense of unease. “Twice. First, she gave her powers and her memories. And then she gave her life. She’s been dead barely a day, and you’re already willing to throw all of that away?”
I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, the front of his shirt in my left fist and my other hand clenched at my side.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I hiss.
“Admit it,” he says. Way too calmly. “You aren’t half the woman she was. You’ve always thought you were some untouchable, heartless bitch, but you’re nothing but a scared child the moment trouble actually rears its head. You don’t know the first thing about responsibility, or standing up for what you love.”
“Maybe because I don’t love anything.”
The words come out without thinking, but now that I’ve said them, their truth resonates like a bell. It should be more awkward, having my father here. I should feel ashamed for admitting that I don’t love him. But let’s be honest—he’s never once said he loves me. Right now, I’m pretty certain he feels the opposite. His continued silence confirms it.
“You loved her,” Kingston replies. “More than you know. Even if you’ve buried it all away. She was your mother, and a part of you will always remember that. Those first seven years with her weren’t forgotten. Just hidden. I can show you.”
He reaches a hand toward my temple, as if he’s about to brush my hair back; a few strands of golden light swirl from his fingertips and I duck away, pushing him off me and sitting back on the bed.
“What?” he asks. “Don’t want to remember what you’ve spent your whole life running from? The weight of your mortal heart?”
“Could you two stop bickering?” Austin asks beside me. His words jolt me back to remembering that Kingston and I aren’t alone in the trailer.
“Who says bickering anymore?” Kingston asks.
Austin shoots him a glare, but ignores the question.
“You’re both acting like children. What’s going on out there? And what’s wrong with her?” He directs the question to Melody, who hasn’t stirred through any of this.
“She’s gotten old,” Kingston replies. He runs a hand through his hair, staring at Melody with that lost expression on his face again. “She won’t last much longer.”
“And you need someone to take her place,” Austin says. It’s definitely not a question.
Kingston looks at him, clearly sensing the offer in Austin’s words.
“Yes,” he replies. “But not you.”
“Why not me?” Austin asks. He stands up to look down at Kingston, all grizzled grey hair and determination to Kingston’s washed-out fear. He could be Kingston’s dad. If the witch weren’t three hundred years old.
“You’re not magical, for one thing.”
“And yet for some reason you just can’t seem to lock my memories away.”
Kingston’s eyes narrow.
“True, apparently. You seem to remember more than you should.”
“I know enough.” Austin looks over to Melody. “I remember . . . I remember being here. I remember her. And you. And I remember my wife.” He pauses, still staring at Melody as though he can see the trace of the girl she once was. As though he can see my mother in those features—another lost soul giving her life to the Faerie Queen.
It strikes me then how small we each are in all of this. Pawns on the bloody chessboard. Not one of us has ever had any control over anything. Except, apparently, this.
“She was happy here. I remember that. Happier than I ever saw her since.”
He looks to Kingston.
“You say you could send me back. Give me new memories. A new family. What if I don’t want that?”
I can’t grasp Kingston’s expression. He actually looks mildly impressed.
“Vivienne loved this show. You might have taken her away from me, but that doesn’t change what she felt. What s
he did . . .” His voice breaks off and he takes a moment to collect himself. “I’m not going to let that go to waste.”
Silence fills the trailer, Kingston and me looking at Austin like he’s sprouted another head or suddenly started walking on water. Then Kingston clears his throat, and I can’t tell if it’s for effect or because he was actually moved.
“That’s all very touching,” he says, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you can’t carry the tithe. Only a child may bear it—it must be made when the subject is at the peak of their life force. And you, my friend, are sadly past that hump.”
“But it could be done.”
“No, you aren’t the right—”
“Shove it with this chosen one bullshit. Can you do it? Can you make me serve the tithe?”
Kingston doesn’t answer at first.
“Yes,” he finally says.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Austin can take Melody’s place. He can save the show.
“But it won’t last, and it won’t be perfect. The tithe demands a great deal of life to function; that’s why only a special child is chosen. It will drain you. Faster than it’s draining her. You’d last a few days—a week—tops.”
Austin looks at me for what feels like the first time that night. At least, without looking as if he wants to kill me.
“Would that give you enough time?” Austin asks me.
“To what?”
“To make this right.”
I laugh. Because this is some touching bullshit, but that’s all it is. I have no powers. No weapons save for some crappy daggers and a lost rapier. And no idea how to kill a creature that I mistakenly dragged up from the deepest reaches of hell.
“I’m not joking,” Austin says. His eyes don’t leave mine. “And I would have hoped I . . . whoever raised you . . . I hope they taught you not to give up.”
“I haven’t given up.”
My dad just stares at me, and I realize it’s a very dadlike stare. One where it’s clear he knows I’m lying, but he won’t voice it. That makes it worse. I squirm under that gaze.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” I mutter. I hate to admit that I’m the one who looks away. I’m not about to tell him that Vivienne’s prophecies weren’t helpful in the slightest. I don’t want him to know she died for nothing. Let him remember her the way she used to be: living—and dying—for a cause.
“Well,” Austin replies, almost to himself, “hopefully you won’t let my death be in vain.” He sighs, and when he speaks again his words are stronger, more assured, “Let’s do it, then. Magic me up.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Kingston says. I glance at him, and he’s once more looking at Melody with that lost expression on his face. “The tithe transfers after the host dies. I can bind you to serve the tithe next, but after that . . . it’s a waiting game.”
“You can’t save her?” Dad asks. And I realize then he isn’t just seeing Melody on that bed; he’s seeing his wife. He’s seeing his last chance to fix everything he hadn’t realized was broken. “We just let her die? That’s horrible. What’s the point of having powers if you can’t save someone you care about?”
“I ask myself that every day,” Kingston says solemnly. “But no one said that magic made life fair.”
The guys share a moment, some weird current of understanding. Then my dad nods, and Kingston turns his attention to me.
“I need the book of contracts to make this happen,” he says. “But I’m not about to leave the show. Not now. Think you can handle it?”
I raise an eyebrow at the challenge. “You’re asking me to go back to Winter. My home. And you’re treating it like it’s an issue?”
He shrugs. “I just don’t want you thinking I’ll be around to hold your hand.”
“I’m getting a book.”
“Exactly.” He nods toward the door. “I’ll send you back. I can’t do it in here. Austin, will you watch over her?”
“Of course,” Austin replies.
I wonder what he remembers about her. I wonder what memories will die the moment Melody leaves us.
Kingston opens the door for me, and we step out into the frigid night. Snow is already gathering on the ground, drifting against the trailers and the tent, turning everything into a fragile sort of beautiful.
“Your magic doesn’t work in the trailers?” I ask the moment the door is closed behind us. Hopefully he catches the sarcasm and doesn’t just think I’m an idiot.
“Did you catch what the Pale Queen said?” he asked.
“She said a lot of things. And I still think standing against her is a death wish.”
“She said she could change our contracts. No one can change our contracts.” His eyes narrow. “And yet, clearly, yours has already loosened. You spoke outright about defying Mab. That’s a direct violation. And it should have been impossible.”
“You knew about my contract?”
“I know more than you think.”
I step in closer, lower my voice.
“You know who she is, don’t you?”
“No,” he says. I watch his face carefully, but there’s no tell. If he’s lying, he’s hiding it perfectly.
“But you have an idea.”
“Maybe.”
“And you aren’t telling me, why?”
“Because my idea is impossible, and I’d rather you not follow a false lead. Just”—he looks around, seemingly lost to his own thoughts—“be careful down there. If what I’m thinking is even partially correct . . .”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t tell Mab. Don’t tell her anything. Just say you’ve found a temporary replacement for the tithe. She’ll be too preoccupied to ask more.”
“Mab’s never too preoccupied to stick her nose in everything.”
“Her greatest friend and adversary is dead,” he says. “You might be surprised just how human the Faerie Queen can be.”
I never thought of Oberon like that. But I guess it made sense—he and Mab had been at each other’s sides and throats for, well, an eternity. That’s bound to create some sort of bond. And I thought humans were complicated.
“Get the book, bring it back,” I say. “Anything else, master?”
“Stock up,” he says. He lowers his voice. “Austin’s offer is a death wish. There’s no telling if the tithe transfer will work, or how long it will last. No matter what, we’re going to be vulnerable. And if they attack . . .”
I study him. Poor angsty Kingston. Even now, I can’t tell if he looks like a rock star or someone who knows he’s going down with the ship. Maybe there isn’t much of a difference.
“You could leave,” I say.
“This is my home. I don’t want to leave. I’d rather die defending this place than live forever knowing I’d thrown the last few centuries away. Your mother would have wanted more.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, and at first I think it’s meant to be some sort of confiding gesture. Then the world fades out with a sickening twist to my gut, and when I blink, I’m standing outside the gates of Winter.
I didn’t even feel him using magic.
Seven
Winter is cold. Very cold. And as I stare up at the unmoving obsidian gates, I have the fleeting fear that they’ll never open for me again. They’re at least three stories tall and angled like panes of sharp glass—deceptively thin and magically impenetrable. The wall stretching around the kingdom proper is thick black stone and filled with enchantments. None of which I can feel.
There’s a part of me that feels I should be doing something else, something to actually kill the Pale Queen. But although I may be powerless, I’m not stupid; I’m not about to face her, or cross her, not when she could kill me with the flick of a wrist. Getting the book at least feels like doing something to stop her. Something to move forward, to try to amend what I’ve done.
Even if it does mean losing Melody and, eventually, my father. Even if it is pr
obably all in vain.
At least I’m trying something.
I glance behind me, to where the expanse of white snow eventually darkens to the twisted black of the Wildness, and my chest constricts with a thousand different emotions I shouldn’t let myself feel. That was where I lost my mother. That is where the Pale Queen waits. That is where the army of ex-subjects is gathering. A path is trampled through the snow, leading straight from Mab’s front door to the forest. Thousands of faeries who fled to join the Pale Queen. Thousands of loyal subjects lost—and gained by our greatest enemy. The fact that there’s no one here now, walking that path, makes me wonder if there’s even anyone left in Winter, or if Mab’s defending a lie. The only thing stirring is the snow that drifts lightly from the sky. Peaceful, almost. If it didn’t feel like the calm before the clusterfuck.
As if to accentuate the wrongness of the silence, a tremor ripples through the earth, nearly sending me to my knees. Ice and stone crash within the black walls of the Winter Kingdom. The quake lasts a few seconds, and the roar of crumbling buildings within sounds like an avalanche. Shit. If the Pale Queen’s army doesn’t bring this place down soon, the world itself will do the dirty work.
When the tremor fades and I regain my footing, I take a few steps forward. Heat flashes down my spine, the runes tattooed there flaring into life. I actually sigh with relief. At least not every magical part of me is broken.
A line of blue runes burns from the top of the gate down, searing an opening as the gates slowly swing apart. I shove my hands deep into my jacket and try to pull back my shoulders, lift my chin. Enter like royalty, and they’ll treat you like royalty.
Only, when I step through the gates, there isn’t anyone to try to impress. There isn’t a kingdom to swagger through. Not really.