by A. R. Kahler
Somehow, everything within the tent is quiet, calm. The snow’s been cleared from the center ring, and even though the canvas walls are patchwork at best, no wind or snow get through.
We pause inside, staring about. The calm seems off, but that’s not the only change. Bleachers lie in charred piles. The lights above hang haphazardly, spilling spots over the floor at awkward angles. It feels like a tomb, or a cave. It feels like the end.
Which it is.
For all of us.
Austin sits on a crate by the destroyed sound system. He’s wearing what looks like layers of sweaters and hats and fingerless gloves.
“You came,” I say.
He doesn’t answer at first when I say it. Just stares at me with those intense eyes that feel as if they’re looking through me. It’s then I realize it’s how Mab looked at me, at times.
I hadn’t really realized that’s what family could feel like.
Maybe he sees what he was hoping to see, and maybe not; in any case, he slides off the crate and comes over. When he’s near, I honestly don’t know how to react. Do I hug him? Ready myself for a possible blow? Shake his hand? We stand there awkwardly for a few seconds, staring at each other while Kingston stares at the two of us.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
He breaks eye contact to look at Kingston.
“If what he’s saying is true . . . I do.”
“But you—”
“I know it’s not an obligation, Claire. I know that’s the whole point. I just mean . . . if shit’s as dire as he says it is, I want to do it. If it helps . . .” He sighs heavily and looks away, toward one of the open panels in the tent. “If it helps end all this. I’ll do it. Gladly.”
My stomach drops. This isn’t something I want my father to be saying. Or doing. But he’s right—we really have no choice.
“I’ve spent the last thirty years feeling like my life wasn’t my own,” he continues. “Broken memories. False memories.” He glances at Kingston, but for once there’s no vitriol. “This, at least, would be mine. My decision. My action.” He sighs. “Is it sad to say this would give my life meaning?”
“You’re supposed to say having me gave you that,” I reply. Then shrug. “But yeah, I guess that works.”
He smiles.
“That’s my girl.”
Then he steps forward and hugs me.
I stiffen for a moment, because this isn’t like in Tír na nÓg. This is him—no illusions, no magic. Him hugging me. Father to daughter. Something shatters inside me and I lean in, wrap my arms around him, bury my face against his neck. I try to remember how this smells. How it feels. Because I know it’s the last.
The only thing I can think is that he smells familiar. This feels familiar. And that just makes me cry all the harder.
“I’m starting to understand,” he whispers into my ear. “And I forgive you. She forgives you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say in response.
He just squeezes me harder.
“So am I,” he replies. “I should have been there.” He chuckles to himself. “I should have given this one hell.”
I pull myself together then. It’s honestly not as hard as it probably should be, not as hard as it would be for a normal mortal with a normal upbringing. It’s like putting on a coat, or sheathing a dagger. I release the hug and step back.
“We don’t have much time,” I say. “Do you have everything?”
“What I could find,” he replies.
He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out a pack of chalk. Pink. I grin.
“I’ve done my bit,” he says. “Now you do yours.”
I take the chalk and head to the ring. And I realize, as I drop to my knees and begin sketching, that my dad is still watching me. Not with his usual confusion or anger, but with pride.
I didn’t know it was possible: my heart swells and breaks, all at the same time.
Twenty-Three
“You really should be running,” Penelope says.
She enters the big top grandly, a magical brushing aside of the curtains, a billow of snow and smoke. Light silhouettes her dress, makes her look angelic, even though her skin cracks and the fabric is crisped and torn. A demon in angel’s clothing. Or maybe reversed.
“Did you really think that simple magic would hide you from me?” she asks.
“I’d hoped,” I say. I stand on the opposite side of the center ring. “But what can I say? You’re more powerful than I gave you credit for. Not that that’s saying much.”
She chuckles, but she doesn’t step any closer.
“You still have your bite, so close to the end,” she says. “I must say, I’ll give you credit—what you lack in skill, you make up for in spirit.”
“Yeah, well, I figure you gotta be good at something. Speaking of,” I say, hopping over the ring curb and into the center ring. Right under a spotlight. I pick up a half-empty bottle at my feet and raise my arms out to the side, tipping the bottle toward her in a mock toast. “What do you think? Do I have what it takes for show business? I figure you’re the person to ask—you’re definitely the oldest performer I’ve ever met.”
Even from here I can feel her eyes narrow. It’s almost palpable, that focusing of heat. I expect my hair to burst into flame.
“Are you drunk?” she asks.
“Drinking, not drunk. Go out with a bang, right? And since I’m clearly not getting banged, this will have to work.”
She sighs heavily.
“You do realize I am going to kill you, yes?” she asks.
“Whatever,” I say. I raise the bottle to my lips. “You already tried that before.”
Still she doesn’t come any closer, and my resolve is starting to falter. I need her in the middle of this summoning circle. I’m not taking any chances with her true name until she’s in it. But I’m not the actor. And no amount of last-minute lessons from Kingston was going to change that.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
She laughs. But she still doesn’t come any closer. Damn it, come on. Don’t make me summon you in here.
“I fear nothing,” she replies.
“Ah, shy then?” I ask. “Or too many bad memories.” I take another false drink and take a step forward, feigning a stumble. “No no no. I got it. Let me guess: you don’t like being here because you don’t like facing what you’ve done. You trashed your home, Penelope. You destroyed the only place that took you in.”
“My name is not Penelope,” she hisses.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I continue. “You feel guilty. You won over Winter and Summer and you still don’t feel right inside. What’s the matter? Revenge not all it’s cracked up to be? After all, you’ve gotten your cake. You’ve eaten it. Damn, it tasted good! But now you’re realizing there’s no cake left. Not here.” I take a longer false drink, then burst into giggles. “Cake. Get it. It’s a metaphor. Oh, Penelope. You screwed up. You took all the fun out of your own life, and you’re still stuck with immortality. At least with Mab you got to have some fun.”
“My name is not Penelope,” she says again.
“But it suits you. Penn. Ell. Oh. Pee.” I chuckle again. “Pee.”
I can feel her trying to contain herself. Can feel her anger. It burns. Honestly, the tent is getting warm—and it’s not from the spotlights.
“I had hoped you would want to die with honor,” she finally says. “But I see that is not in your cards.”
“Oh, cards!” I say. “I think I have some of those in here.”
I begin patting my skin, dropping the bottle to the ground and spilling its contents all over the ring. Then I pull one card from my wrist, internally delighting in the sensation of the magic furling back from my skin.
“Okay, okay,” I say, holding the card up to my face, the back facing her. “What card am I holding up?”
She doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t have to.
“This ends now,” she seethes. Then she drops the card. It flutters to the ground, landing in my spilled drink. Face down.
“Don’t you want to know what it was?” I ask. At least she hasn’t stopped me from speaking. Yet.
Her eyes narrow and her grip tightens. My body wants to fight. It wants to punch, or to grab her wrist as she effortlessly lifts me into the air. But it can’t. I gasp against the pain, against the heat and energy that sears down my skin and through my bones. The world turns red and black. Red and black like blood.
“I am done with your games,” she says.
“Good,” I manage to choke. “Me too.”
And, channeling the small amount of magic I have left, I pour it into the card.
It’s not a lot. But it’s enough. Especially since it landed in the distilled Dream. Sex Dream, too. The good shit.
The card flares red like flash paper, and with it goes the Dream. The puddle ignites with power, flaring over the earth. She drops me, takes a step back as the fire races and spiderwebs over the ground, illuminating the symbols and circles we’d hidden beneath the dirt.
“What—” she begins, but I cut her off, whispering her true name. Just to shut her up. She goes rigid with anger.
I bend down and pick up the card, the edges still burning. But this magic doesn’t hurt me. This magic is mine.
All of it.
“The Chariot,” I say, turning the card toward her. On it, a man rides a chariot behind two sphinxes. A card of energy, of harnessing the world’s forces to achieve a goal. A card of victory.
Around us, the tent is coming alive with magic. I feel it, the burn of it, the tingle of it. The activated power of Dream. It encircles us, closes us within the center ring. Penelope seems to catch on, but a second too late. She turns and tries to flee, but smacks right into the invisible barrier of the circle, light sparking purple from where she hit.
I drop the drunk act as I drop the card. Power swirls through the tent. All of it spiraling up against the tattered canopy. Some of that canopy was old canvas. Some woven from the Dream Kingston collected during the last Tapis Noir. It had nowhere to go once Melody died. Not much, but enough. I hope.
“You see,” I say, stepping forward, “you’ve been forgetting one key aspect of humanity. You say you want humans to live free of faerie rule: no contracts, that sort of shit. But you also want humans and faeries side by side. You want a bloodbath. But that’s where you stop understanding humans. Because when humans don’t have contracts, they have a choice. And they can choose something more powerful than revenge. They can choose to sacrifice themselves for what they believe in.”
My father and Kingston step out from a back curtain then.
I’m still surprised she didn’t feel him—I’d hoped the saturated Dream canvas would help, just as I’d hoped Kingston’s magical cloaking would work. Maybe my acting is better than I thought—I know I’m usually too busy focusing on the drunkard in the bar to notice the quiet ones in the shadows.
I ease up on my hold of her, keeping a gentle grip on the reins in my mind.
I expect her to act afraid. To ask how we tricked her, how I got her here. What I don’t expect—or want—is her laughter.
This time, her laugh sounds downright insane.
She cackles, leaning against the barrier, as though the purple sparks arcing from her skin don’t touch her. Maybe they don’t. My heart drops in that moment as Kingston and Austin walk forward. What if this wasn’t enough after all? A bit of spare Dream from the Tapis Noir. Some magic from Kingston. A Tarot card to let me channel it.
“Oh, Claire,” she says. “Is it wrong to say I’m actually proud of you? You actually put up a fight. Even when you stand no chance of winning. Even with your pathetic backup.”
She pushes herself from the barrier and walks toward me. I almost tighten my hold on her. Almost. But that would be showing fear. Instead, I stand tall, channel the Mab I remember. Penelope’s skin is cracked and grey, her eyes burning crimson.
“But that pride will not spare you. I have worlds to rule, Claire. And you are now the only thing left standing in my way.”
“Wrong,” Austin says. He steps through the barrier. He doesn’t sound like a mortal facing down a demon. He sounds more assured than I do. Or maybe he’s just spent so long pretending to be normal, he’s learned how to be a good actor.
Outside the circle, Kingston stands with his hands clenched and sparks flying from his body, his feathered golden familiar floating around his head angrily. His power floods through the tent, reinforcing the shield and the markings on the floor. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me.
“And who the hell are you?” Penelope asks.
“Austin,” he says. “Vivienne’s husband.”
Penelope laughs again.
“You’re the one she was running away from?” Penelope asks. She steps toward him. “Such a shame. You’re quite attractive.”
“Stop hitting on my dad, bitch,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. She steps back, looks to me. Wisps of fire flutter around her body. “This family reunion has gotten tiresome.”
She moves to attack, and I tighten my hold on her true name, will her to stillness. It’s not as easy as the first time—she knows now. She’s fighting back. I feel her strain against it even as her physical body stays still, one hand upraised and fire swirling over her charred skin.
I step forward, though, while I still have this power. Because, oh, I want this woman to pay.
I twist her will in my mind. Her hands move to my bidding. One reaches down to the other, to the ring she’d stolen away.
“How does it feel?” I ask as I make her tighten her grip on her own flesh. “You made me kill Mab like this. How does it feel to have it done to you?” I near her. Her hands shake, and she pushes against me in my head. I hold strong.
“You took something of mine,” I say. “And I will have it back.”
Then, I make her snap off her ring finger.
She screams in my brain but her lips stay shut tight as she pulls the ring off her discarded finger and tosses the jewelry to me. I catch it. I almost want to make her eat her own flesh, but this isn’t the time for petty revenge. Well, more petty revenge. I need to end this before she breaks free and ruins everything. I slip my ring in my pocket.
“You say you’ve lived through hell,” I say, my voice straining. “You say that’s given you power. But I know better. I’ve seen what hell does. I’ve seen what revenge gains. On the other side of all that blood and pain, there’s only emptiness, and you can only try to fill yourself with more. More hatred. More hurt. It’s never enough.”
I pull two daggers from my belt and take a step. Not toward her. Toward my father.
“But there’s a much stronger power. And honestly, I owe you for discovering that. I felt it when you killed all those innocents in the theatre and used their Dream to break through the world. I felt it when I crossed over to hell. Sacrifice. The loss of a future. All that untapped Dream. It’s intoxicating.”
I don’t break my gaze from her as I hold a dagger toward my father. He takes it. His hand doesn’t shake. Mine does. I pull out another dagger, trying to keep my hand steady.
“Imagine, then, how powerful sacrifice could be when given freely? That’s a power you’ve never experienced. And that’s the power that will undo you.”
I feel her screaming inside my head. I feel her trying to burn through the barrier, trying to overthrow her true name. The name burned into the floor a thousand times, amidst the symbols we used to cross over to hell. A one-way ticket back to her prison. And this time, without an immortality clause, no way back.
“Are you ready?” I ask him.
My father nods. Leans over and kisses me on top of the head.
“I love you, Claire,” he says. “You make us pr
oud.”
Then, without flinching, without pausing, he brings his dagger up and stabs himself in the chest.
His eyes go wide, but that was an enchanted blade. One to numb the pain. To offer a quick death. He drops to his knees, never looking away. Not until he falls to his side and those eyes close.
I want to say it destroys me, watching my father die. I want to say that in that moment, I don’t know if it’s worth it. But at the very moment his life winked out, the power of his sacrifice—no, his offering—floods through the tent. It is sunrises and seafoam, cut grass and cold nights. It’s life itself, freely given.
And when I open myself to the power of The Chariot, that power is freely received.
I open myself to the magic. I let it flood through me.
I turn to Penelope. The Pale Queen. The woman who has been the undoing of everyone I’ve loved. And in this moment, with the love of my father flowing through me, with the power of all that Dream, I don’t feel hatred. I don’t want revenge.
I just want to move forward.
“Time to go home,” I tell her. I let go of her true name. I want her to be in control. Like I was. Like I’ve always been.
I want her to feel the weight of her actions. Especially when they’ve spelled her ruin.
Fire billows around us, hot as the sun. My skin sears, my hair burns. But I’m moving forward, through the flames. I aim true.
She screams as my blade shoves between her ribs, as the torrent of power whirls around us, clawing at us, tearing us down. I don’t look away from her eyes. Those burning, inhuman embers. I think about my mother and father—the parents I barely knew, who still gave everything so I could live. I think about Mab, who has pulled the strings even in death, who taught me what I knew. Who taught me to be strong, even if true strength came from the mortals who bore me.
And then I think about myself, and everything I’ve done—the lives I’ve taken, the mistakes I’ve made, the hearts I’ve broken—and I smile.
Because damn if I haven’t lived an amazing life. Born by the blade, die by the blade.