Ignite the Fire: Incendiary

by Karen Chance

  “Do not presume to lecture me about my own country, boy!” Aeslinn snarled. “Or about my perfidious brother-in-law!”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “He is cunning; he will have expected this. He’ll find a way to reach us, and in the meantime, he’ll ravage the countryside to supply his army, and ensure we have nothing left for our own!”

  He let go suddenly and stalked away, and Arsen somehow didn’t flinch despite the prickly feeling of blood rushing back into our arm, which had gone numb. Although whether from the cold or the lack of circulation, I wasn’t sure. He glanced down, and the imprint of Aelsinn’s fingers, perfectly preserved in frost, stained the metal, which had half caved in under the pressure he’d been exerting.

  “And why should I feed them?” the king demanded, oblivious. “What have they brought me? What have you?”

  Arsen looked up. “Victory, Your Grace, along several fronts—”

  “You speak of victory when that dog drives deep into the heart of my lands? You speak of victory when our great city lies shattered and burned? You speak of victory—”

  He cut off, and the next second, he was in our face. And, okay, I thought, really wanting to back away. That . . . was not the face of a sane man. Or fey. Or anything else.

  His eyes held the light of a fanatic, there was spittle on his cheeks that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away, and his hair was a disaster, but not like the wind had gotten to it. More like it hadn’t been combed in a week. And then I noticed something that I hadn’t before, something that made everything else seem irrelevant.

  Because the king . . . was missing a hand.

  That hadn’t been true a moment ago, back when he was wearing silk and sunlight was flooding through the windows—in a different time, I realized. Arsen had been here more than once, and the two visions were getting jumbled up, every time my head went swimmy. I just didn’t know why, or how to stop it.

  Arsen noticed the missing hand, too. It was hard not to when the stump wasn’t covered by anything, and was currently pressed up against our chest. As if Aeslinn had forgotten that he couldn’t grab us with that hand, as well.

  Arsen didn’t react, but I could feel his shock, and some of his thoughts.

  Fey didn’t lose appendages in battle very often, at least not high born fey. Those half human mongrels the Water Fey had taken to creating often did, due to their human blood slowing their reflexes and their queen putting them directly in the line of fire. But a light fey king without a hand?

  He had heard rumors that Aeslinn had been injured, but had put it down to scuttlebutt. Just as he had those stories about the king fleeing back in time with that filthy necromancer, to avoid the war. Such things were impossible, as everyone knew. And even if not, Aeslinn was many things, but he was not a coward.

  And yet . . . he had lost a hand.

  What appeared to be years ago, by the look of it.

  Arsen’s head started spinning.

  Mine wasn’t doing much better, but I didn’t have time to think about it, because Aeslinn had noticed our interest and moved to within an inch of our face; maybe closer. Close enough to kiss, although he wasn’t looking all that friendly. Close enough to bite through our jugular, which would have fit his expression better, if we hadn’t been wearing a steel neck protector.

  And maybe even with one, I thought, as he smiled, showing pointed incisors that would almost have done a vamp proud. “You see what they did to me? That devil and his whore?”

  “I—yes, Your Grace.”

  And, for once, Arsen did react. He swallowed, and Aeslinn saw it. The smile grew wider. “And you remember old Dalhman, what happened to him after he failed me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Aeslinn let him go, abruptly enough to stagger us slightly. “You know what I want.”

  Maybe Arsen did, but I didn’t. And I didn’t find out, because the room went swimmy a second later, harder than before. And this time, it didn’t snap back; I didn’t know why.

  “Give her another!” a woman’s voice demanded. I felt a slap across my face, hard enough to rock my head back. And to shake the connection between me and Arsen.

  Oh, that was why.

  “Wake her up!”

  “I can’t!” That was another woman, younger, and slightly hysterical. “I’m trying, but—”

  “You’re not trying; you’re too soft! Get out of the way.”

  The first slapper was shoved aside, and someone else took over. And this one meant business. I opened my eyes after another slap, to see Guinn staring down at me.

  There were leaves in her hair, a cut on her cheek, and she was glaring. “Wake up, damn you!” she said, and then she slapped the crap out of me. And before I could react or even yelp, she had her hand pulled back for an encore.

  Until I clumsily caught it. “Cut it out!”

  “Then wake up! You can’t be in there—”

  “In where?”

  “The Common!”

  “Is that where I am?” I slurred, still trying to sort out my tongue.

  “Yes, and it isn’t meant for you!” she said angrily. “I don’t even know how you’re accessing it—” I do, I thought, thinking of Mircea’s mental gifts and Pritkin’s fey blood. “—but it’s going to kill you!”

  “Kill me?” My voice might have squeaked slightly.

  But if Guinn gave an explanation, I didn’t hear it.

  Because the scene suddenly changed, as abruptly as if something had snatched me up and flung me back into the vision, to the point that I felt like I should have been sprawled on the floor.

  But, instead, I was back in Arsen’s body, standing in front of Aeslinn—the one in silver silk, and with two hands. The older version, I realized, from an earlier time. No, I thought. No take me back to the one where he was talking about the war. I want to see that!

  But the Common clearly didn’t give a damn what I wanted to see.

  And if there was a directory on this thing, nobody had told me where to find it.

  “If it please Your Grace,” the functionary said, bowing again. Only to take a boot to the shoulder as Aelsinn kicked him out of the way.

  “It does not please! Be silent!”

  The functionary shut up.

  “Take . . . who . . . on Earth?” Arsen asked carefully.

  “Who do you think?” Aeslinn’s gray eyes, usually dark as storm clouds, were lit with a strange light. “We’ve found him again. Going by the name of Pritkin these days—”

  Wait, what? I thought.

  “Who?” Arsen said again.

  “The damned demon!”

  “Your Grace.” That was the functionary, who was proving remarkably resilient. Or maybe he was just used to his king.

  But Aeslinn didn’t hear.

  “Yet this cretin can’t bring him in! Can’t even seem to keep track of him!”

  “It’s not about keeping track,” the functionary said, getting in a word while he could. “We have found him, several times—”

  “Then where is he?” Aeslinn’s bellow echoed around the room, bouncing off the black walls, and coming back to the poor functionary’s ears, as if a hundred kings were yelling at him.

  “My apologies, sire, but he is proving . . . difficult—”

  “Bring me everyone who was on this ‘mission’ of yours. Bring them now!”

  A set of double doors slammed open at the back of the room, almost before he’d finished speaking, as if the functionary had been expecting the order. Several burly fey came in, dragging large, stained bags. The bags left smears behind them that told me, even before they were opened, what they contained. But I guessed Arsen hadn’t been brought up at a vampire’s court, or spent entirely too long hanging around the Senate, because his eyes didn’t widen until one of the packages was dumped onto the floor.

  And spilled a dozen heads across the gleaming surface, their glassy eyes staring, their tongues lolling, and a few with what looked like potion residue or scorch
ing obscuring the features.

  They weren’t all fey. In fact, I only saw a couple of pointy ears among them, and those were on a dark-haired head that didn’t look Svarestri. But Aeslinn did not seem pleased. He didn’t say anything, but his lips tightened, and the pale skin on his cheeks flushed.

  “You said these were the best operatives available,” he hissed. “You said they knew Earth intimately—”

  “Yes, sire—”

  “You said they couldn’t miss!” And, suddenly, the quiet voice was a bellow again, making the functionary cringe and bow and look like he wished the hard stone of the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

  For a long moment, all that could be heard were the fading echoes of Aeslinn’s roar, bouncing off the walls. Then his voice came again, perfectly pleasant and all the creepier for it, because normal people didn’t recover that fast. Normal people didn’t go from crazed, spittle spewing loon to pleasant in a nano second.

  “I want him here. Now. Is there no one who can bring him to me?”

  The storm-tossed eyes found Arsen’s, and I had to give my guy a point, because he didn’t so much as swallow. Nor did he hesitate. “No.”

  “No?” Aeslinn inquired, still polite.

  “No, Your Grace. Not unless you wish war with the humans. My fey are clumsy on Earth. They do not know it; they do not understand it. That is why you wisely sent . . . such creatures,” he added, looking with disgust at the pile of remains on the floor.

  “Not so wisely, since they failed,” Aeslinn pointed out. “You have a reputation for never failing, my lord. It is why I allow your peccadillos . . . and your insolence. Are you telling me my forbearance has been wasted?”

  Arsen was silent for a moment, but not because he was intimidated, as the flunky had been. But because of the opposite. I felt his heart rate speed up, and his muscles clench to stay still.

  Especially when the king turned away, walking off to stare out of the windows at his mountainous realm. “Perhaps that little redhead you’ve taken up with is distracting you. Even clouding your judgment. Perhaps I should have her removed from my lands, along with whatever half breed whelp she’s carrying.” He looked back over his shoulder. “We wouldn’t want to damage such an illustrious bloodline even further, now would we?”

  “Even further?”

  Arsen’s voice was casual, almost friendly. And like the king’s reaction earlier, it completely creeped me out. Because he wasn’t upset; he was furious. And that was before the king spoke again.

  “Well, your mother didn’t get those eyes from us,” Aeslinn said, and almost died for it.

  He would have; I heard Arsen’s thoughts as clearly as my own, although they were more like a flood of pictures: a fey woman with long, silver hair but bright, golden eyes. Sun and moon, his father had called her, all in one, and kissed the top of her head. But marrying her, a woman of mixed blood, had cost the family dear, turning away many supporters, and giving the king a chance to strike at one of the oldest noble houses, and one of the few who could have unseated him.

  But not now; not after his father stained the stones of Traitor’s Gate with blood every bit as royal as Aeslinn’s. Not after his mother died of a broken heart, leaving a doubly grieving little boy behind. Not after he’d grown up in the shadow of their dishonor.

  No, not now.

  Unless he took a flying leap at the king, grabbing him and sending them both out the window. It was a long drop, as he knew better than anyone. It was not survivable, even for the demigod that Aeslinn claimed to be.

  Lord Derrik would plan until they laid him in his grave and never act. Arsen preferred a more direct path. One with at least a chance of change!

  A hand caught his ankle, just as his leg muscles bunched in preparation—and it was a strong hand that gripped and held on.

  Arsen looked down to find the functionary—old Dahlman, a minor palace servant from an insignificant house—clutching his ankle with a grip like steel.

  It wasn’t for Aeslinn’s sake; Arsen knew that. No words were exchanged, but there didn’t have to be. The man’s eyes, so mild and subservient a moment ago, were now sharp and bright and pleading.

  You die, they said, and you leave us at his mercy. You die, and you leave us as your parents left you—bereft and alone. You die . . . and we may as well die with you, for who else is there?

  A boy as power mad as his father? A wife, vengeful and sullen and half crazed from abuse? A court too cowed to do anything, and riddled with his servants?

  You die, and what happens to us?

  Arsen said nothing, although a thousand words bunched in his throat. Dahlman took that as acquiescence, or maybe just as an opportunity. Because he scrambled back to his feet, faster than I’d have thought possible for someone of his age.

  “Or—or we could go with my first plan, Your Grace,” Dahlman said, getting to his feet and swiftly turning, to keep Arsen behind him.

  “Your first plan?” The king turned as well, his forehead wrinkling. “Oh, you mean the woman?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. It will take some time, and it will be expensive. But success is almost guaranteed.”

  Aeslinn frowned. But he seemed to want his outcome more than he wanted to provoke his noble, because after a moment, he sighed. “Very well. But on your life—do not fail me again.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  G ive her another!” I felt a slap across my face, hard enough to rock my head back. It caused the throne room to go swimmy, and to give me a dim view of tree trunks imposed over top of it.

  No, I thought. Damn it, no! Not now!

  I’d wanted out just a few minutes ago, but that was before I realized that this might be more than some random sightseeing. I knew so little about Faerie, and had seen such a small amount of it, that I’d gotten carried away on the grand tour. But right now, it felt like I was on the verge of something—something important—and so of course someone was trying to—

  Shit, it was Guinn.

  “Are you awake or not?” she all but yelled, while Rhea tried to shush her from over her shoulder.

  “I’m awake, but I shouldn’t be,” I slurred. “Aeslinn is after Pritkin again. He’s remembered and I think . . . I think he tried something, a while ago, but it didn’t work, so he’s plotting something—”

  My fumbled explanation did not appear to impress Guinn, judging by the fact that she slapped me again.

  “Goddamit! I’m awake!” I said, grabbing her hand.

  “And you’d best stay that way!”

  “I don’t know what is wrong with you, but I’m not in danger!” Except from her right hook.

  That didn’t seem to impress, either.

  “Faerie is alive; it has a soul,” she snarled. “And it doesn’t like being spied on by outsiders! People who have tried before haven’t come back. They remain trapped in memory until they wither away and die. So, wake—slap—the devil—slap—up!”

  It took me a moment to figure out how she was doing that, as I still had hold of her hand. But Guinn, it seemed, was an ambidextrous slapper. And if anything, her left hook was worse than her right.

  It was a little hard to stop her, since my hands and Arsen’s still felt somewhat linked, and his were by his sides. But after a couple of tries, I finally managed to catch her other one. And now that she wasn’t causing my brain to slosh up against my skull every few seconds, I managed to think.

  “I’ll only be another minute,” I said, trying to reason with her. “I just need to find out—”

  But Guinn didn’t care. Guinn was a lost cause, judging by the fact that she was now kicking me in the ribs. Maybe Rhea, I thought, catching sight of her over Guinn’s shoulder.

  “Hit her again,” Rhea said, her face fierce.

  Or not.

  “Oh, my God!” I said, my eyes widening. “What is that?”

  “What?” Guinn twisted around to see what I was staring at. Because I guessed that trick wasn’t quite so old in Edwardian times
.

  Like this one, I thought, rolling out from under, jumping to my feet, and kicking her in the ass. She went stumbling into Rhea and both women hit the ground, weighed down by a ridiculous number of petticoats. And I didn’t wait for them to sort themselves out.

  “I told you she was sneaky!” Rhea yelled. But the shout came from well behind me, because vampire speed leaves people in the dust pretty quickly. And there was no Pythian power here to help them catch up.

  I headed for the camp, then grabbed a vine and used Mircea’s strength to swing up into a tree, sheltering well above any nosy fey. And above Rhea and Guinn, who ran by a moment later, looking around desperately. But they didn’t look up.

  My back hit the trunk, allowing the branches to close over me and to give me some additional cover. I waited, my breath in my throat, and tried to hear over my pounding heart. But only silence met my ears, after the women’s footsteps faded away.

  The forest was almost eerily quiet, like it was listening for something, too. I must be going crazy, I thought, not for the first time. But it couldn’t hurt . . . right?

  “I’m not your enemy,” I whispered, to whoever might be listening. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. I just need to know what Aeslinn has planned for Pritkin. Then I’ll take him and go, okay?”

  There was no reply, unless you counted a light breeze, whistling through the treetops, high overhead. And I realized that, for a brief moment, I’d actually expected one. As if Faerie itself was listening.

  Guinn is getting to me, I thought, and closed my eyes.

  And just that fast, I was in.

  The pub was loud and crowded, so much so that the front door had been propped open and people were spilling out into the street. The night air was cold enough to frost the breath in front of their faces, but most were too drunk to notice. Nigel wasn’t, and was older than most of them to boot, having fifty years under his belt and running headlong at sixty. Of course, his fey blood insulated him somewhat from the ravages of time, but it didn’t seem to help with the cold, which bothered him more and more each year.

  The south of Spain, he thought longingly, or the Canaries. Yeah, he’d heard that the Canaries were right pretty, and the sun shone nearly all the time. He needed to make a big score and retire, like his landlady had recently done. O’ course, she’d stayed a bit closer to home . . .