Black Ice Burning (Pale Queen Series Book 3)

by A. R. Kahler

  “You know what I mean.”

  And I do. It’s the same reason I don’t want to be alone in this big hotel room at the edge of nowhere. The bath was nice. The decompressing. But I can’t spend the rest of the night alone. The question is whether or not I can spend it with him.

  “Fine,” I say. “But you’re sleeping on the sofa.”

  “Obviously,” he replies. Then he stands, water sloshing down him, and steps out of the tub without grabbing a towel. Between one step and the next he’s dry, his clothes transforming from jeans and T-shirt to soft fleece pajamas. And a different T-shirt. Despite myself, I almost wish I’d gotten a glimpse of something in between. He slips into the other room without another word.

  I sit in the tub, listening to him throw around pillows and blankets, getting his space ready. But I’m also listening to the fierce thud of my heart.

  Eli couldn’t have been serious about my powers still existing. He was just being himself—cruel. For all I know, he’s waiting in the shadows, hoping I’ll try something flashy, only so he can laugh when I fall on my face.

  You’re scared, I think to myself. Not only that it might not work, but of how devastated you’ll be if it doesn’t.

  I’ve never been one to hope for the best. That train of thought inevitably gets you killed, because you aren’t thinking about the here and now.

  And in the here and now, I’m stalling.

  I flex my fingers under the water. With a flick of willpower, I try to summon the reflex of magic. I force myself to keep my eyes open.

  Warmth floods me.

  Bubbles race across the surface, foaming up and over the water in a heartbeat, soft and velvety as opalescent moss.

  I surge forward in the tub, water splashing over the sides as I yank the stopper from the drain. Not just to get rid of the evidence, but to drown out the sound of my crying laughter.

  Sixteen

  I’ve mostly composed myself when I step out of the tub. My chest still hiccups with the occasional laugh, but I’ve got it under control. Nothing to see here—this girl isn’t about to have a mental breakdown from sheer relief.

  It takes a lot of control not to skip into the bedroom and flop on the bed and sigh contentedly while rolling around on the pillowy duvet. Because I don’t know how strong my magic is. And I don’t know how or why I got it back.

  All I can think is that it was something in my contract. Though how or why it kicked into effect now, and not when I was trying to save Mab from Penelope, I can’t say. Maybe it was my death. Maybe this is a different body, with a different set of rules. And maybe—probably—there’s a catch hidden beneath this relief. Mab has never just given me something for free. And giving me power for nothing . . . that is harder to believe than anything else.

  Kingston’s lying on the couch, a thick quilt draped over him and his eyes closed. I’m keenly aware that I don’t have any spare clothes—I don’t have spare anything anymore—but there’s a folded set of pajamas at the foot of my bed that weren’t there before. And, on the dresser, a new outfit for tomorrow. I snatch up the pj’s and slide them on, not bothering to go back to the bathroom. Not like I have any modesty around him anymore.

  “Thanks for these,” I say as I pull the loose tank top over my head.

  “Wasn’t me,” Kingston replies, not opening his eyes. “That pet of yours must have gone shopping.”

  I sniff the fabric, but it doesn’t carry the stale, crusty scent or texture of store-bought clothing. It smells like detergent.

  And, seeing as I couldn’t imagine Eli doing laundry in a million years, that probably means they were stolen. I try not to wonder if the woman was still alive when he spirited the clothes away. Hopefully these appeared before I gave him permission to feed.

  “He comes in handy,” I mutter. I’m not really up for defending Eli, because right now, all I can think of is the power that’s apparently still flowing through my veins. I want to dance around. But that would be horribly out of character, so instead I let my excitement simmer. Thankfully, I have Kingston there to dampen the mood and snap me back to cold reality.

  “So, is there anything else I should know about Penelope?” I ask, since stopping her seems to be the one thing Kingston and I agree on.

  He pauses, looking around the room as though the shadows there could give him an answer. “She was already working for Mab when I signed on. Had been for years, it seemed. She and I always got along. Hell, we even dated for a few years.”

  “Is there anyone in the show you haven’t slept with?” I ask. He doesn’t respond.

  “She was always quiet. A little reserved. I guess I just figured it was her upbringing. She told me Mab had found her on the shore. She’d been abandoned by her parents because she kept shape-shifting. She was barely a toddler. It was pretty common, at the time. Still is. Shifters always have the worst of it if their powers manifest as kids. It takes a lot of training to control it, and if you have a baby that keeps growing wings or fins, chances are you aren’t going to keep it around long. Especially back then. Mab had a veritable task force of Fey and witches who went around picking up the strays and erasing their parents’ memories.”

  “You’re rambling.”

  “I’m tired. The point is, Penelope never felt like she had a family. Not even in the circus. I’ve spent the last twenty years trying to figure out why she would turn on us, and I think that’s why. She never had an exit clause in her contract—she was destined to spend eternity in the circus. And it didn’t take long before that pissed her off. She wanted out. And teaming up with Oberos to bring down the show was the only real way of succeeding.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  He smiles. “She didn’t expect your mother. Viv had power. Serious power. And when Penelope tried to bring us down, Viv stopped it.” The smile slips. “Mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  He waves his hand dismissively, and abruptly changes the subject. “I felt what you did in there.”

  “I . . .”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t be able to sense it in you?”

  I shrug and shuffle about, snuggling under the covers. Outside, the music has stopped. The rain hasn’t.

  “Honestly, I didn’t know. Not until Eli said something. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Contracts can do funny things,” he muses, running a finger along his faded tattoo. “Especially when it comes to magic. But we’re about to piss off the most powerful creature in Faerie, and even if you can make bubbles in your bath without farting, we’re going to need a lot more firepower to bring Penelope down.”

  “I know,” I admit. “I don’t know if the book of contracts will help. But I have to kill her. I don’t really have a choice.”

  “You’ve been thinking you don’t have a choice all along. But you’ve already proven that you do. And so far, I think, you’re trying to make the best ones you can.”

  “Since when are you so supportive?”

  “Since you became humanity’s last hope.” He snaps his fingers and the lights go out. “Sleep well. Tomorrow, we go to war.”

  “I still can’t believe this is your grand plan,” Eli mutters, bits of dandelion fluff falling around him like snow. It makes him look angelic—especially with the golden light that drips from everything. “Because this went soooo well the last time.”

  “Yeah, well, last time she didn’t need my help.” Though I won’t lie, I’m really damn anxious. I’m in no mental place for this kingdom’s tricks, and in even less of a place to negotiate.

  Kingston just stands there silently, hands in his pockets and a grim look on his face. Unlike Eli, he just looks like he’s on the wrong movie set. His hair’s back in a man-bun and his T-shirt is a screen print of a jackalope. Much more Urban Hipster and less Prince of the Enchanted Woods. About the only one of us who looks comfortable in this cheery scene is Pan. He stands behind us, and I can practically feel him restraining himself from bouncing from hoof to hoof or froli
cking amongst the daisies (there are actual daisies); poor guy has been cooped up in Winter too long. He looks excited enough to explode.

  “You assume she needs your help now?” Eli asks.

  As if to answer, the ground gives a slight tremor, dislodging more leaves and dandelion fluff into the air.

  “The Wildness is a part of Faerie,” I say. “So long as Penelope disrupts the balance, even this place will be off-kilter.”

  “How ironic, that even a place of chaos can be disrupted,” Eli says.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The light visibly dims when the shimmering voice breaks through the trees, and I swear some of the falling leaves crisp to red and orange autumnal shades.

  “Princess Honeybutt,” I say as jovially as possible.

  The leaves turn crimson.

  “My name is Princess Meadowsweet,” she says.

  The sprite flitters out between the branches, this time in orange—her dress is tiger lily petals, her aura iridescent sparks. I didn’t think it was possible, but the princess actually looks as if she’s wilting.

  Apparently this whole coup has been harder on her than she expected.

  “What’s in a name?” I muse, but apparently the reference is lost on her, because she just continues to flutter a few feet from my head, tiny arms crossed and eyes throwing daggers.

  “Why are you here?” she asks again.

  “Because you need my help.” I make sure to bow when I say it.

  Technically, yes, I actually need her assistance in all this. But she doesn’t need to know that.

  “But how?” she hisses. “The doors of Tír na nÓg were closed to you.”

  “Yes, well, most doors are ridiculously easy to open when the house is falling down.” I grin. “Besides, the Wildness responds to need, right? What if, right now, the Wildness realized it needed me?”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she says.

  “And yet here I am.”

  “Why are—”

  “You’re like a broken record, you know that? Faeries, man.” I step toward her, letting my formality drop—I don’t know how royalty does it all the time. “You need me, Flowerlips. Penelope told you Tír na nÓg would be spared. But she lied. She can’t protect this place from the upset she’s caused, and she doesn’t give two shits about keeping the Land of Milk and Honey alive. Summer is gone. Winter has fallen. And here you sit, in the middle of two fading kingdoms, realizing you’re about to go down with the ship.” I take another step forward, poking toward her chest. She actually floats back, rather than fight, which is a sure sign I’m right. “Scares you, doesn’t it? Makes you feel powerless. Especially because you know that she won’t be content to let you just sit here and rot. She’s going to gun for you next. You didn’t keep the Oracle or me out of the picture. You failed. And once she’s done with her next phase of conquest, she’ll be back to cull out the weak.”

  I can tell from the way her light dims with every word that I’m hitting all the right notes. I grew up around royalty. Losing their status is about the worst thing imaginable. Losing their kingdom is death.

  “You need me,” I repeat. “I’m the only one who can kill the Pale Queen, and you know it.”

  Yes, that last part is a lie, but I continue on before she can ask how I plan on doing any of this.

  “You help me take down the Pale Queen, I give you your kingdom back. Everything that ever happened between us is water under the bridge. Or milk under the bridge, given the locale. You get to keep ruling. Faerie gets to survive. And I get rid of the bitch who killed my queen.”

  The princess’s concerned look turns into a wicked grin.

  “I have heard that she has already killed you,” she says.

  I won’t lie—the comment is a kick to the shins. If she knows, then the rest of Faerie knows. The assassin has been killed. There goes my reputation. Then again, as I’m continually reminded, being dead might be the only reason I’m still alive.

  “It’s a good cover, right?” I reply. “How else was I going to get her off my back? Not to mention, I get to keep coming back until she’s out of the picture.”

  “Mab gave you an immortality clause,” she muses. “And yet all of her contracts have been negated. How curious.” She acts as if she might know more. But even if she can’t lie, she isn’t stopped from putting on a front.

  “Stop straying from the point,” I say. “You need me. You need her out of the way before she comes after your neck. I doubt the Land of Milk and Honey produces much in the way of warriors, right? Who’s going to defend you when her army comes calling? You’re sitting ducks.”

  “If I need you, then why have you come to me?”

  She studies me and the others for a while. My ragtag army. Faerie’s last chance at freedom from tyranny. Then another rumble echoes through the forest. Something crashes behind us. It sounds a lot like a tree falling; judging from the way the princess flinches, it probably is.

  “What do you need?” she asks.

  “I need you to get us into her kingdom.”

  She doesn’t answer at first. When she does, she actually has the nerve to laugh. I don’t know how her laugh manages to sound delicate and dangerous at the same time, but it does. Like wind chimes made of razors. It goes on for far too long. When she finally gets hold of herself, I’ve steeled myself into not punching her.

  “And what,” she gasps, “makes you think I could do that?”

  “Tír na nÓg is the only kingdom within the Wildness. Or, was. You know this place better than anyone.”

  “The Wildness changes as it wills,” she says, but I wave my hand and cut her off.

  “Your kingdom has remained the same. The Wildness grew around you. Harmoniously. If anyone could lead us through it to Penelope’s kingdom, it’s you.”

  Kingston grunts. Clearly even he is getting tired of this. The princess seems to notice him for the first time. She flutters over, petals falling from her like sparks.

  “Oh, you are an unusual one,” she says. She reaches out, like she’s about to touch him. He glares at her as if he’s about to set her on fire. “So many unrealized dreams. So many forgotten memories. That is the curse of immortality, is it not? To live forever knowing your life will only siphon down one stream. To forget all the places you have been before. Until you are adrift in the sea of your own timeline, never truly moving forward, never able to see where you began.”

  Kingston’s eyes are fixed on her.

  “I can see them all,” she continues “Your deepest dreams. I could give you—”

  He takes a step back. For a moment there, his expression had gone soft, no doubt falling prey to whatever inner demons she was caressing. But now, he looks like I usually do: pissed, stoic, and ready to kill.

  “You can get me into the Pale Queen’s kingdom,” he says gruffly. “Or you’ll learn what a witch off his contract can really do.”

  “Even though I can give you what you truly desire? A life with your only love. With Vivienne.”

  His eyes tighten. Sparks flicker around his fingertips and beside us, a few feet away, a perfectly healthy elm goes up in flames.

  Meadowsweet screams.

  A second later he clenches his fist and the flames go out. The tree is charred black, leaves spiraling to the ground in ashen loops.

  “Push me again and your whole kingdom burns,” he says.

  The princess turns to me, her hands balled into fists.

  “I wish I could curse the whole lot of you,” she says.

  “Trust me, Princess,” I say. “Interacting with you is curse enough.”

  She glares at me for a few seconds, and in the back of my mind I worry that I pushed her too far. Then another tremor shakes down a few more branches, and she relents.

  “I will bring you to her kingdom, but from there you are on your own.”

  “Good enough for me.”

  Another angry glare. Then she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, bring
ing her hands before her chest. Her aura changes, shifting into a vibrant pink glow, and before I can wonder what the hell she’s doing, a little wooden flute appears in her hands. She plays a few notes into the thing, a tinkling sort of melody that sounds like the intro to a crappy children’s daytime TV show.

  I snort with laughter, which causes her to open one angry eye at me. But she doesn’t stop the tune, and after a few moments there’s a rustle in the woods beside me, one that doesn’t have to do with an earthquake.

  I glance over and lose it again.

  No fucking way.

  The trees are dancing.

  Like, the elms and oaks are swaying side to side and the underbrush is doing a shimmy, and with every beat, they move to the side a bit, clearing a path through the woods beyond. When a space roughly wide enough for the four of us to walk through opens up, she stops playing and the flute disappears in a shower of pink sparks.

  “You may not appreciate my art,” she says. “But the forest does. I truly hope I never see you again.”

  “Likewise.” Then I wink at her. “But remember, the Wildness responds to need. Next time, maybe don’t need me so badly. I know you dream about it.” I blow her a kiss, then take a startled Eli’s hand and skip down the path.

  “Time to storm the castle, boys,” I say, and begin to skip down the path, humming Princess Fluttertits’s magic melody.

  Yes, it’s ridiculous. No, I don’t care. I have (some of) my power back and I’m about to undergo one of the most absurdly suicidal missions I’ve ever tried against an enemy more powerful than me and my allies combined.

  Who wouldn’t be excited?

  Seventeen

  A few steps in and the sunlight cuts out like a flipped switch. The sound and color go out with it. I immediately stop humming and skipping, but I don’t let go of Eli’s hand. He gives my fingers a squeeze and pulls the glasses from his eyes with his free hand. The path around us is immediately cast in pale blue and harsh shadows. Those fiery eyes keep coming in handy. I’m immediately in attack mode—my senses are on high alert, and there’s a dagger in my hand before I realize I’ve grabbed it. I don’t want to have to fight out here. It would be a dead giveaway. And the creatures in the Wildness are far from friendly to outsiders. Right now, the only sound I hear is the distant current of water. That could change in a heartbeat.