Книга - The Empty Throne

The Empty Throne
Cayla Kluver


How do you find the strength to save your kingdom when you've lost everything?Anya has failed in her mission to bring Prince Zabriel back to the Faerie realm of Chrior so that he can ascend his rightful throne. Instead, Zabriel, her prince, cousin and dear friend, is standing trial for crimes committed under the false name William Wolfram Pyrite. Worst of all, the last possible heir to the Faerie throne is Illumina–the cousin Anya suspects of the foulest betrayal possible.In a desperate last attempt to put things right, Anya must partner with the unlikeliest of allies and venture into ever more dangerous situations if there is to be any hope of peace for her people.







How do you find the strength to save your kingdom when you’ve lost everything?

Anya has failed in her mission to bring Prince Zabriel back to the Faerie realm of Chrior so that he can ascend his rightful throne. Instead, Zabriel, her prince, cousin and dear friend, is standing trial for crimes committed under the false name William Wolfram Pyrite. Worst of all, the last possible heir to the Faerie throne is Illumina—the cousin Anya suspects of the foulest betrayal possible.

In a desperate last attempt to put things right, Anya must partner with the unlikeliest of allies and venture into ever more dangerous situations if there is to be any hope of peace for her people.





(http://www.miraink.co.uk)


Praise for The Queen’s Choice, book one in the Heirs of Chrior trilogy (#ua43731d6-a7fa-59c5-ae36-86f002b59105)

“Kluver has captured the complex and ever-shifting

emotions of a teenage girl and constructed

an engaging, densely plotted political thriller,

complete with a cliff-hanger ending that will

make readers eager for the sequel.”

—Booklist

“Rich details, emotionally deep characters,

and original plot elements will attract

new and old fans of the fae subgenre.”

—School Library Journal


Books by Cayla Kluver from MiraInk (#ua43731d6-a7fa-59c5-ae36-86f002b59105)

Heirs of Chrior

(in reading order)

The Queen’s Choice

The Empty Throne

The Legacy Trilogy

(in reading order)

Legacy

Allegiance

Sacrifice


For Mom. You know why.


About the Author (#ua43731d6-a7fa-59c5-ae36-86f002b59105)

Cayla Kluver is the author of the Legacy trilogy (which includes Legacy, Allegiance and Sacrifice), and The Queen’s Choice, book one of the Heirs of Chrior trilogy, as well as numerous rambling blog posts on her website and a handful of Tweets. She has cats, dogs and horses, watches more crime shows than is probably healthy, and loves Robert Louis Stevenson and the Beatles. Visit Cayla at www.caylakluver.com (http://www.caylakluver.com), friend her on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/caylakluverbooks) and follow @CaylaKL (https://twitter.com/CaylaKL) on Twitter.


Contents

Cover (#u0d84ef4f-673a-522e-bcff-60af0bb4bccc)

Back Cover Text (#u108cdff6-87bc-50ea-9c1c-fd5096ad77b5)

Title Page (#u7d030c87-36ef-5796-adb8-f9deff1b6abf)

Praise

Booklist

Dedication (#u959547c0-0402-5e8c-994b-4700a0fde655)

About the Author

Chapter One (#ulink_7231893c-d4e9-5650-8af7-40605e28ce9c)

Chapter Two (#ulink_2edaeb43-166a-5492-93a5-6687c45da92c)

Chapter Three (#ulink_989c97e6-3a40-5537-9cfe-1b0956bbb9ac)

Chapter Four (#ulink_d561463e-d19b-5499-9027-a42702f2cd2f)

Chapter Five (#ulink_b2787071-d4d4-552e-87dc-2cdd9477524c)

Chapter Six (#ulink_d3d31124-f6ec-5827-b098-5c9abe5af72a)

Chapter Seven (#ulink_b19b61ef-f6eb-55e0-a4f8-4ad0ed7f6dd5)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_80b95628-90cc-5299-a37a-21f47c103af5)

THE LOVELY PALE COLOR OF CHEESE

I paced the floor of my room, tired and on edge, playing the memory of my mutilation over and over again in my head. Despite the fact I had spent the night in a fine inn in southern Tairmor, I hadn’t slept at all. The charcoal drawing I had discovered in my cousin Illumina’s notebook of the vicious attack that had cost me my wings had thrown me into turmoil. And the nightmarish image my mind had conjured of her as the woman who had stroked my hair where I lay bleeding on the ground had sent panic shooting through my veins. But in the light of day, my actual memory failed to provide any clarity about the woman, and my heart refused to consider any such possibility. Yet, in the deepest recesses of my brain, doubt ate away at me.

“Anya? Anya, are you awake?”

It wasn’t the words, but the insistent knocking upon the door that pulled me from my circular thoughts. I frowned, not wanting to see anyone. My vision was blurred, my head ached, and nausea roiled my stomach. I wasn’t even close to ready to face the world.

“Anya, I have to talk to you. It’s important.”

This time I recognized the voice. It was Officer Tom Matlock, the young man with whom I had spent the previous evening. After escorting me to the room he had gallantly rented for me, he had promised to return midmorning to check on me, and it was he who now stood in the second-floor hallway wearing out his knuckles upon my door.

“Coming!”

I tugged at my tunic to straighten it and ran a hand through my hair, my face flushing at the thought of the kiss he and I had exchanged but a few hours ago. The caress of his hands, the pressure of his lips against mine, and the strength and safety I had felt in his embrace had almost led me to invite him to stay the night. I shook myself like a dog expelling water from its coat—this was a moment I should not be reliving, especially since Davic, my promised, waited to receive word from me in the Faerie Realm.

I crossed the floor to grant Tom entrance, but before I could even say hello, he pushed past me across the threshold. I stared aghast at him, for his actions were at odds with the gentlemanly manner I had come to expect. With a backward sweep of his leg, he kicked the door shut. The motion was enough to send my overworked sense of danger through the roof.

“What’s wrong?” I demanded, shifting away from him. When my calves bumped into the bed, I sank down upon it, though he didn’t seem to notice—his own agitation had spurred him to pace the floor almost literally in my footsteps.

“You asked me last night if you’d earned a wanted poster. Why did you want to know? And don’t tell me it’s because of the escape you and Shea made from Tairmor, the one I aided. Nothing further came from that. No, something happened while you were in Sheness. You have to tell me what it was.”

“Are you saying I’m on a wanted poster?” I managed, my voice strained as I struggled to process both the information he was revealing and the demand he was making.

“No, not a poster, and no reward offer, either. But the Lieutenant Governor has sent word to the Constabulary stations throughout the city to apprehend you on sight.” Halting in front of me, he reached into a pocket of his red double-breasted uniform coat and produced a notice that contained my name, a physical description, and a sketch bearing a fair resemblance to my face. “This is being distributed, along with instructions to bring you to Luka at the Governor’s mansion.”

I felt the blood drain from my face, and foreboding seemed to drip from my heart like condensation from the walls of a cave. This was not good news. I could only assume Luka Ivanova, the Governor’s son and Commissioner of Law Enforcement in the Warckum Territory, had been told of the part I had played with my cousins in the raid on Evernook Island, the raid that had landed Zabriel, the Prince of the Fae, under his alternate identity of the pirate William Wolfram Pyrite, in human custody.

I examined my hands, twining them together in my lap, and decided to sidestep Tom with an inquiry of my own.

“Have you heard anything about the arrest of pirates on the coast?”

Tom nudged me under the chin with his knuckles, raising my gaze to his. “I need to know what happened in Sheness, Anya.”

“And I’d like an answer to my question.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his normally tidy brown hair, leaving it boyishly mussed. “The only news concerns a massive fire on Evernook Island, but I’ve heard nothing to suggest pirates were involved. And I haven’t heard anything related to Pyrite, the most notorious of the lot.”

I nodded, feeling some measure of relief. While I had no idea what had become of Zabriel after his arrest, knowing only that he’d been wounded, the humans would surely laud his capture before sentencing him to a public execution for his crimes.

“Your turn,” Tom prompted, tapping one foot.

I adopted what I hoped was a reassuring smile and took a steadying breath. “I told you last night, I found my cousin Illumina and sent her home to the Faerie Realm.”

“And that’s it? You didn’t break her out of jail? Or engage in any other illegal activities?” He hesitated, his gray eyes narrowing. “And you don’t have any connection to these pirates you’re asking about?”

I clenched my jaw but gave no reply, unwilling to tell him the truth and unable to speak false. Fae nature was complex, allowing us to confuse, evade, and conceal but not to outright lie. While it was possible I was responding out of reflex and habit, my nature no longer truly Fae, this was a boundary I didn’t want to test, unwilling to fully align myself with human characteristics.

Exasperated, Tom threw his hands in the air and momentarily turned from me. Feeling that the tide was shifting, and not in my favor, I came to my feet, ready to face him down.

“You need to trust me, Anya,” he said, but despite his words, he fingered the handcuffs he carried on his weapons belt.

“I could say the same. And that brings us to the question at hand, Officer Matlock. Do you intend to arrest me?”

The dull ache in my temples that had almost faded away came back with a vengeance while I awaited his answer, for it felt as if the course of our relationship was about to be decided. No matter what, I couldn’t be arrested, not with so much at stake.

“Will you voluntarily accompany me, or do I need to use these?”

He patted the restraints, and I closed my eyes—though his answer was not unexpected, disappointment flowed through me. I gathered my resolve and perused him, calculating his size and strength in relation to mine. He was taller than me, fit, and well muscled, but he was also quite smitten, which might provide the advantage I needed.

“It seems I have no choice in the matter,” I replied, giving him a withering stare. “So go ahead and act like the Constabulary you truly are.”

He grimaced, and I extended my arms. He took hold of one of my wrists, treating me more gently than protocol would have dictated, and I slammed my knee into his groin.

“Damn,” he gasped, doubling over as he dropped to the floor.

Though remorse welled within me, I was too far committed to retreat; nor was I about to make the same mistake he had and assume our friendship negated any threat. I raised my clasped hands, and he briefly met my eyes, leaving no doubt he knew what was coming.

“Sorry,” I muttered before smacking my fists down on the back of his head. He collapsed, moaning, and I stripped him of his weapons belt, then flung it to the other side of the room. Unwilling to waste any time, I gathered my possessions and stowed them in my pack, my gaze continually drifting toward Tom where he writhed on the floor.

“Anya,” he groaned, struggling to push into an upright position. “I didn’t come alone, so you can’t go out through the lobby. I’d suggest the window.”

I stared at him, brows furrowed; then my eyes widened in horror. “You weren’t going to arrest me, were you?”

“I told you last night—I’m partial to redheads. I could never arrest you.”

“Then why let me believe otherwise? Why...this?” I gestured at him, for he was hunched over, one hand gingerly prodding his head.

“I couldn’t just let you go this time, not with reinforcements right behind me. So I gave you the chance to spin the tale of how you got away. I didn’t expect it to hurt so much, though. And I haven’t even considered the wounding my pride is about to take.”

My emotions continued to swing, bringing me close to tears, and I bit my lower lip, using the pain from the pressure of my teeth to remain focused. Shaking slightly, I went to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you. And I’m so sorry about—”

“Just get moving. The Constabularies downstairs are only going to wait so long before joining us.”

I nodded and threw on my cloak, then approached the window, glad to see the rain of the day before had stopped. A quick glance told me climbing was not a viable option. It was a straight drop to the ground, with no shutters or lamp brackets for handholds. I pulled out the rope Illumina had stashed in her pack—the pack I now carried, for she and I had inadvertently switched our travel satchels when she’d left a few days ago for Chrior to inform the Queen of Zabriel’s arrest—and tied one end of it around the bedpost, securing the other about my waist. With a final glance at Tom, I opened the window and hopped up to balance on the ledge, then eased myself down. My feet had no sooner hit the cobblestones then the rope landed beside me, a money pouch attached.

“You’re terrible at tying knots,” Tom called, and I looked up to see his face framed in the window. “You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt. And I expect you to pay that money back someday.”

With a quick wave, I picked up the rope and money, then hastened out among those who frequented the establishments in this part of the capital. Though I had left the inn behind, I wasn’t necessarily out of danger, and I panned the streets, watching for the red uniforms worn by the members of Tairmor’s peacekeeping force. Whether due to Luka Ivanova’s desire to apprehend me or not, the Constabularies did seem to be out in large numbers, and I snugged the hood of my cloak close around my face to hide my most distinguishable features—my rich auburn hair and green eyes.

Needing a place to think, I ducked into an alley across the street from a human shelter, knowing Luka’s men generally left the homeless in peace. I crouched down among the damp heaps of trash, trying to ignore the cloying odors, and forced myself to concentrate on the only question that mattered. Why hadn’t William Wolfram Pyrite’s arrest been made known?

I tugged at a few strands of my hair, sorting through the possibilities I could discern. Was Zabriel dead? No, for news of the demise of such a nefarious pirate would have been announced and celebrated, the only downside the lack of a public execution.

Had he escaped? Highly unlikely, but if he had, Gwyneth Dementya, daughter of the owner of the largest shipping company in Sheness and paradoxically an associate of the pirates, would have gotten word to me at the Fae-mily Home. I had already checked once with Fi, the woman who ran the shelter for wounded and displaced Fae, since returning to Tairmor, and no note had been delivered, though I would make sure to check again.

Was my cousin being held for interrogation? I chewed on the inside of my cheek, the small bit of discomfort helping to focus and relieve my anxiety. This third possibility made the most sense. If Pyrite’s arrest were proclaimed, there would be an immediate and massive outcry for his blood. The best way to stave off the lust for vengeance was to keep the news under wraps until he could be made to confess his deeds and reveal information about the other members of his crew.

I banged my head back against the alley wall, angry at the conclusions I was reaching. Angry, if I was honest with myself, at Zabriel and his overabundance of confidence, stubbornness, and pride. He had fled the Faerie Realm two years ago at the age of fifteen, and he had never revealed his whereabouts to his mother. Nor had he attempted to make contact with the human side of his family. Half-Fae and half-human—the son of Queen Ubiqua and William Ivanova, the Governor’s deceased elder son—he had not wanted to be claimed by either faction, much less by both. And yet he had chosen a lifestyle that was destined to put the two worlds on a collision course.

Nervous energy on the rise, I came to my feet, the thought of Zabriel confined somewhere—hungry, cold, injured, and undergoing torture—almost more than I could bear. While I felt certain his life would be spared if Governor Ivanova were told his real identity, it was Queen Ubiqua who had decided to keep news of her son’s birth from his grandfather. It was not my place to reveal such a long-kept and volatile secret, but if worse came to worst and my cousin was slated for execution, I’d divulge everything, whatever the cost.

But it shouldn’t have to come to that. Queen Ubiqua was no doubt on her way to Tairmor by now, and Zabriel could tell the Constabularies who he was anytime he wanted. The best thing for me to do was wait—and stay out of the Lieutenant Governor’s reach for the time being. Putting two royal heirs into human custody did not seem wise.

I stepped around the piles of trash to peer into the street, and immediately drew back, frantically tucking any escaped strands of hair inside my hood. If anything, the number of red uniformed men in the vicinity of the human shelter had increased while I’d sat ruminating. My heart pounded, for my straits had degenerated in another way—a pair of Constabularies was stopping the ragged citizens of Tairmor’s underbelly at the shelter’s entrance. One of the men appeared to be asking questions, while the other made entries into a logbook of the sort used by the guards at the gates into the city.

Why would the Constabularies be doing such a thing? Would they really go to all this trouble just to find me? Feeling as if a noose were tightening around my neck, I hurried down the street in the opposite direction, wishing I had the ability to vanish into thin air.

Believing the search for me would be concentrated within the poorer neighborhoods, I headed toward the River Kappa and the deep ravine it cut from northeast to southwest on its journey through Tairmor, effectively dividing the city in half. I walked until my feet ached and my stomach begged for the breakfast it had so far been denied, pleased to see my assumption had been correct: the number of Constabularies dwindled with the increasing wealth of the residential areas.

I crossed the street, intending to purchase a bit of bread from a bakery, and passed a lamppost to which a brightly colored notice had been plastered. I glanced at it, then came to a full stop, daring to trust to luck.

Aleksandra Donetsky’s Hair Care Salon, I read, examining the illustrations of well-to-do women with highly coifed hair. Offering Perfumes, Curling Fluids, Soaps, and for the first time, Dyes—safe and odorless, in shades of Brown, Black, Golden and Chestnut, Medical Certificates available...

I skimmed to the bottom of the poster where an address was printed—an address on the same street upon which I stood. I smiled, feeling almost giddy, and hurried on my way, my stomach no longer of concern. Aleksandra Donetsky might hold the key to restoring my freedom of movement within the city.

I began to check signs, for I had entered a neighborhood market area. Noticing the comings and goings of a few well-dressed women up ahead, I quickened my pace and was pleased to discover the establishment I sought. Without a care for the shabby nature of my attire, I stepped inside, prompting the matronly woman who sat behind the appointment desk to spring to her feet. She wore a corseted dress with enough jewels on her person to match Luka Ivanova, but the exaggerated expression of alarm on her face wasn’t one I’d ever see on his—in part because he wasn’t likely to wear rouge.

“I believe you’ve taken a wrong turn,” the receptionist snipped, checking me out from head to toe. “We do not run a charitable operation.”

My mouth flapped open and shut while I fumbled for words; then indignation flared. “I would like my hair dyed. And I am not in need of charity.”

“In that case, we have no one available to assist you.” She stepped around me, yielding as much space as possible, and I had the feeling she would faint if I touched her. After reaching the door, she held it open. “Perhaps another day.”

I spotted a row of chairs against the wall, then belligerently planted myself in one and folded my arms across my chest.

“I’ll wait. All day if necessary.”

The receptionist patted her upswept hair. “I could summon a Constabulary.”

“True, but I’m breaking no law. And I think your other clients might prefer we handle this quietly. If you would simply provide the service I seek, I will gladly be on my way.”

She considered me while my stomach attempted to tie itself into knots—I hoped I was correct in thinking her threat a bluff. Sticking her nose in the air, she closed the door, giving me reason to relax.

“I shall check our schedule.”

Taking tiny steps in her high-heeled boots, she disappeared behind a curtain, and I dropped my pack at my feet. No matter how out of place I looked or felt, I was not leaving this salon with red hair.

A few moments later, the receptionist reemerged to take her place at the desk, closely followed by a petite dark-haired woman in a white apron.

“I am Aleksandra Donetsky, proprietor of this shop,” she said, daintily extending her hand. I clumsily shook it, half afraid I might break it, and she motioned to the hair peeking out of my hood. “I understand you would like to change the color of your, shall I say, auburn locks. Then come. But money is paid first, and no refunds are given.”

“Understood. But if the service is not as promised, recompense will be made.” I opened my cloak to reveal the long knife at my hip, and, though the receptionist gasped, Aleksandra merely nodded.

After we had dispensed with the business aspects of the transaction, Aleksandra led me behind the curtain. The room in which we now stood had been partitioned into several workstations, and she signaled that I should take a seat in a raised chair in one of them. I obliged, then pulled down my hood.

“Well, well,” she murmured, surveying the tangles and debris embedded in my hair, her hands gripping her hips. “You are aware it is not illegal to use a brush?”

I gritted my teeth, determined to see this through, no matter how humiliating the experience might be.

“Do not dismay—I will fix. Now, do you have a color in mind? Darker would be easiest.”

“But darker would not be a dramatic change. I don’t want to look like myself at all.”

“I see. Not that I blame you. This appearance can definitely be improved.” She tapped her index finger against her chin, considering. “Blond or golden it is, then. This is accomplished with a somewhat caustic mixture of potassium lye, alum, honey, and black sulfur, so results vary.”

I flinched at the term caustic, picturing all my hair falling out. But my mind was made up. Even though Faefolk tended to scorn anything but natural hair color, I would see this through and regain the ability to move freely around the city. Madam Donetsky appeared not to notice my reaction and continued to think out loud.

“Let’s see. With red, I believe we will end up with a yellow or orange-yellow tint.”

“Orange?” I blurted, becoming more and more fretful.

“Not orange, my dear. More the lovely pale color of cheese.”

I sighed. “Cheese it is.”

Although I didn’t appreciate her glibness, her comments did bring one issue to mind—at some point, I’d want my natural color back.

“Could you cut a small lock of hair off for me? I want to keep it for comparison.”

“I suspect you’ll have plenty to choose from. Some of these knots would do a sailor proud. I’ll have no choice but to cut them out.”

I nodded, and she went to work, placing the first snip in my hand.

Several hours later, my scalp feeling raw and my eyes burning, the hairdresser declared her work done and led me to a mirror draped with a scarf.

“Ready to see?”

I took a deep breath and nodded, and she swept away the scarf. The yellow-blond hair that framed my face was clean, shiny, and beautiful, though not quite in keeping with my complexion. My face looked sallower, but I didn’t mind. I barely knew myself, and I couldn’t have been happier.

“You approve?” she asked.

“I approve.” I smiled so broadly my face felt stretched. “And I’ll be sure to recommend your services to my acquaintances.”

“Not necessary, dear. In fact, please don’t.”

I laughed, then gathered my belongings and bid her good day. I would return to the neighborhood of the Fae-mily Home, the part of Tairmor with which I was most familiar, grabbing a bite to eat along the way. Only this time, I wouldn’t bother to pull up my hood.


Chapter Two (#ulink_1d6b57f2-d57d-583c-895e-e3dbecbcf6ce)

DAY OF JUDGMENT

Although my appearance had significantly changed, I dared not risk renting a room for the night, for inns asked questions, required names, and checked travel documents. Nor could I stay the night at a shelter. The Constabularies were still cataloguing the homeless, and whether they recognized me or not, my forged travel papers had been obtained to represent me as human rather than to conceal my identity. Even the Fae-mily Home was out of the question, for it would be among the first places Luka’s men would look. After all, it was the Lieutenant Governor who had sent me to Fi when he’d learned of the loss of my wings during our original meeting in the Governor’s mansion.

I leaned against a storefront wall, idly watching a custodian light a gas lamp on the street corner while I weighed my options. In more affluent parts of the city, lampposts practically lined the streets. But here they were scattered, their solitary pools of amber light leaving much of the area in the clutches of the darkness—and making wandering the streets at night potentially hazardous.

I blew on my hands, for despite the advent of spring, the temperature dropped once the sun went down. Street folk were beginning to congregate around trash cans, bringing scraps of wood and waste for use in lighting the fires that would provide some modicum of warmth and comfort. Knowing I was in for a long night, I entered the alley in which I had earlier rested. Its proximity to the human shelter gave me a sense of security, however false it might prove to be. With my pack for a pillow, and some garbage deftly rearranged to provide insulation from the chill of the ground, I wrapped my cloak around me and fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

“Are you coming?” I asked Ione, Evangeline having already agreed to accompany me. “We’re going to the Crag. Everyone’s saying Zabriel and some of the other boys are going to take the plummet.”

Ione’s face pinched with worry. “But, Anya, the Crag is off-limits by decree of the Queen. And the plummet itself has been outlawed by the Queen’s Council.”

I laughed. “That’s why they’re more determined than ever to do it.”

“Decide,” Evangeline cut in. “Or we’ll get there too late to see it. We have to climb up to the ledge—if anyone saw us flying around that part of the mountain, they’d know what we were up to.”

“You said Zabriel will be there?”

Knowing the decision had been made, for a single glance from my cousin made Ione weak in the knees, I nodded.

By the time we reached our destination, the boys were already there, joking, bragging, and swigging Sale.

“Well, if it isn’t my cousin,” Zabriel pronounced, gaze landing on me. “Come to cheer us on? Or shut us down?”

“I’d say we’re here to witness your stupidity. And that’s a force not even I can stop.”

Laughter filled the air, and Zabriel, a huge grin lighting up his dark brown eyes, motioned toward a couple of boulders. “Right this way, ladies. Front-row seats from which to watch the daring young men of Chrior.”

Evangeline skipped past him to stand on one of the rocks, leaving me to take Ione’s hand and follow, for she was gazing moon-eyed at my cousin, her cheeks a vivid pink. From where we now stood, I could see the tops of the trees and the catwalks of the city far below. The view made me dizzy, and the thought of what these boys were about to do made me slightly sick to my stomach.

Zabriel’s expression sobered, then he turned from us to address his group of followers.

“Since some of you are here for the first time, let me make the nature of this challenge clear. We call it the plummet for good reason. What you do is tuck your wings tightly against your back, then step off the ledge, falling as far as you dare before opening your wings. If you wait too long, you’ll crash to certain injury and possible death. Even worse, your attempt won’t count if you don’t land safely.”

A few nervous chuckles followed Zabriel’s explanation, but from the look on a couple of the boys’ faces, not everyone would take the dare this day.

“Who’s first?” Zabriel asked, scanning his fellows. “Since I’m the record holder, I’ll go last.”

“I’ll start,” replied a young man named Cobi, who at the age of fifteen was a year older than my cousin, although clearly no wiser. His eyes were on Evangeline, leaving no doubt about whom he wished to impress.

Zabriel gave way, and Cobi sauntered to the edge of the cliff, the toes of his boots sending a bit of rubble on a plummet of its own. He took a deep breath, but before he could step off, a frantic cry rent the air, and a small body, arms and legs flailing, plunged past.

“Mother of Nature,” Cobi swore, and everyone rushed forward to see what was happening. Everyone, that was, except Zabriel, who literally dived off the ledge after the child.

We stood in stunned silence, watching the drama play out in a column of air below us—Zabriel, trying to keep his direction and streamlined position as he rocketed downward, the child, wings partially open, spinning and somersaulting in an effort to slow. Then we launched, spreading our wings to fly after them.

The fall seemed to take forever, the bodies ever closer to the ground, ever closer to destruction and death. “Pull up, Zabriel,” I shouted, for he had passed the point of safe landing. And yet his wings did not unfurl. Finally, heartbeats from the ground, his black wings opened like a canopy, only to crumple like paper upon impact.

I landed, along with the others, and we ran toward Zabriel’s form, for there was no view of the child. My cousin moaned and rolled onto his back, his arms releasing a boy no more than eight years of age. Whimpering and trembling, the youngster scrambled to his feet, miraculously unharmed, and Ione swept him into her arms. Heart pounding, I went to the Prince, while Cobi, Evangeline, and the others fell in behind me, fear on all of their faces.

“Zabriel, are you all right?” I asked, hand hovering inches above him, afraid to touch him.

He opened his eyes and laboriously pushed himself into a sitting position, one wing hanging at an odd angle.

“I’m okay. I busted up my wing. Possibly a few ribs. Oh, and my wrist doesn’t seem to work.” He glanced around, searching for the child. “How’s the boy?”

“He’s perfect, no injuries at all,” Ione responded, her voice filled with relief. She shepherded the lad forward. “His name’s Dagget.”

“Thanks,” Dagget mumbled, appropriately in awe of his Prince. “S-sorry you got hurt.”

“What happened up there? How did you go over the edge?”

“I—I got a note.” The boy rummaged through his pockets, then held out a scrap of paper.

“If you want to watch the Prince, come to the Crag at noon,” Zabriel read. “Hide on top of the overhang or they’ll make you leave.” He handed the note to me, then addressed Dagget once more. “So you came to watch us plummet?”

Dagget nodded, then burst out, “We know you’re the best. We just wanted to see for ourselves.”

“And who sent you this note?”

“I don’t know.” The boy hung his head. “We just wanted to see you drop. We didn’t mean any harm.”

Zabriel reached out to muss the youngster’s hair. “I know that. So did you lose your balance? And who is ‘we’?”

“I came with two friends. But when you didn’t show up right away, they left. Thought making us climb was a bad joke or something. I knew you’d come, though.”

“Did you slip, then?”

Dagget shook his head vehemently. “No, not me, I didn’t slip. Someone shoved me.”

Everyone stilled and silence descended, all of us struggling to comprehend what the boy had said. He could not lie, and, yet, how could his words be true? Then Zabriel clenched his jaw and came to his feet.

“Who?” he demanded, a storm of anger brewing inside him.

“I—I didn’t see.”

“Let me take him home, Zabriel,” Ione softly volunteered, and my cousin nodded, frowning.

“You should see someone about your wing—” I began, but he cut me off.

“No. We’re going back up top. I want to know who would do such a thing.”

I glanced at the others, feeling cold and scared, but none of them met my eyes. Something evil walked the earth in the Faerie Realm, and I had no confidence it left any tracks.

* * *

I awoke with a start, for noise had erupted on the street. I rubbed my eyes, then stiffly stood and hefted my pack. I was cold, grumpy, hungry, still tired, and not in the mood for more trouble. Nonetheless, I hobbled to the end of the alley to survey the scene. People were dashing every which way, handing out some sort of announcement, while others had gathered in groups, excitedly talking.

“What’s going on?” I called to a man hustling by.

“Execution! One hour’s time. Better hurry or you’ll miss it.”

“Whose?” I demanded, but he had already moved out of earshot.

Not knowing what else to do, I fell in with the stream of foot traffic heading toward the execution plank, fear filling my empty stomach. Desperate for information, I grabbed the arm of the woman next to me.

“Do you know who?” I asked.

“Pyrite,” she gleefully answered. “They finally caught him!”

My heart seized, and I halted, wanting to process this information, wanting the flow of time to stop, wanting fate to justify itself to me. But I was pushed onward by the swell of people behind me. Still, none of this made sense. Why would the government rush into an execution when they’d already been holding Pyrite for a week? Maybe it was some other pirate. The woman, the fliers, they had to be wrong.

A tremendous crowd had formed by the time I arrived at the ravine where death sentences were carried out, and the prisoner had already been led to the scaffolding. I pushed my way forward, wanting to get a better look, unable to believe they would be executing such an important criminal on such little notice. On the verge of panic, I climbed on top of a waiting carriage to get a better view, squinting against the morning sun. I swore under my breath in frustration, for there was a black bag over the prisoner’s head. But he was Fae, with wings the color of Zabriel’s—black, rimmed turquoise, extending from his back at a proud but resigned angle, any chance they might have saved him from the plank negated by the weights that bound his wrists and ankles.

Feeling as if I’d been kicked in the gut, I jumped to the ground, clawing my way closer, wanting to disprove what my eyes told me was true. But the haphazard stitching over the wound in the prisoner’s left wing allowed no room for doubt. Zabriel had been shot at the time of his arrest by a brute of a man named Hastings. The bullet had passed through his shoulder before damaging the wing. I had been there, I had seen it, and I knew without doubt who stood on the plank. I shuddered, besieged by memories of the drop taken by the Faerie hunter Alexander Eskander a short time ago. Eskander had soiled his pants before meeting his unceremonious death. Would Zabriel wet himself, too? Or would the hood that covered his eyes help preserve his dignity? He was a prince facing his end—he deserved to keep his dignity.

The crush of people in whose midst I stood jostled me, their jawing and laughter churning my gut while their sheer numbers impeded my movement. I felt sick with fear, for I had miscalculated—the Queen wouldn’t arrive in time to demand her son’s life be spared. And Zabriel himself must have refused to reveal his parentage.

But did I have to honor his stubborn and prideful decision to go to his grave with his secrets intact? He was only seventeen, a year older than me, and his life was too important to let him forfeit it so foolishly. Maybe, just maybe, if I could reach the Governor before the plank dropped, I could stop this madness. If Ivanova were told that the convict Pyrite was his grandchild, he would surely stay the execution.

“...not a boy as he appears. Pyrite, who has refused all appeals for his birth name, despite the fact that it might grant some closure to his family, is a man. And like all men, he is responsible for his actions, his choices. This is his day of judgment, the day when he will pay for every life he has directly or indirectly taken.”

Governor Ivanova, attired in full military regalia, was addressing the crowd from the forefront of the viewing box near the ravine that was designed to give him and his guests a perfect view. A half-grown pup paced on the ledge in front of him, seemingly caught up in the crowd’s eagerness to see the prisoner die. But I hardly registered the Governor’s speech; I only hoped it would last long enough for me to break into the open.

“The deaths of fifty-three good and honest men rest on his shoulders, including that of Ilia Krylov, who was not only Executor of the Territory, but was close in my employ and in my heart. It is my hope that Ilia’s family, along with the families of Pyrite’s other victims, will find peace in the knowledge that by virtue of his deeds, his own life will be taken.”

At mention of the name Krylov, a young woman seated beside Luka Ivanova in the viewing box curled her lip into a snarl that was lupine in its savagery. It appeared the death of the aforementioned government official was significant to her—and so, therefore, was my cousin’s death.

The Governor, husky and menacing like a bear despite his advanced years, raised his hand as I ducked elbows and curses to push my way to the front of the spectators. I was close—perhaps close enough to distract him before he could signal the guards at the scaffold to drop the plank.

I gulped in air and screamed so loudly my throat burned. My wail echoed above the din, prompting those closest to me to give way, hands clamped over their ears. Scores of eyes bore into me, but I stared at the only face that mattered, my chest heaving. At last, the dark gaze of Wolfram Ivanova, so evocative of my cousin’s, fell on me. His brows drew together, and the pup at his elbow growled out what seemed to be its master’s reply.

Now was my chance. I launched myself toward the seating box, the rush of adrenaline enough to make me believe I could still fly. Then my head detonated with pain, my vision narrowing to black, my knees buckling. I pitched forward, my palms smacking on the cobblestones, the weight of my pack grinding into my shoulder blades. Forcing my eyes open against the amplified pulse in my temples, I looked into the scowling face of Constable Marcus Farrier, one of the Lieutenant Governor’s hand-picked officers. His broad build was enough to block out the spring sun, but it was the pistol he gripped in his right hand that told me what had happened—he’d struck me in the face with the butt of the gun and stopped me cold. He took hold of my cloak, and I cowered, but no sign of recognition flickered in his eyes. His purpose was simply to dispose of me, which he accomplished by thrusting me back into the sea of bodies. Disturbance handled, he turned on his heel and nodded to the Governor, who let the blade of his hand slice the air.

Through the blood in my eyes, I didn’t see my cousin fall, didn’t see his limbs flail in a vain effort to slow his momentum and land feet first, didn’t see him struggle against the handcuffs that bound him. But I heard the plank snap flat against the scaffolding and the people erupt with joy, their hunger for violence sated—the murderer William Wolfram Pyrite was no more. Then I doubled over, heaving again and again.

The crowd started to disperse, and I stumbled away from the scene and into an alley, collapsing against one of its walls. I pounded my fist against the stone until it bled, then sank to the ground, guilt, sorrow, and despair pressing down on me. I felt like a broken, wounded animal, unable to defend itself and in need of a quick end to its suffering. And like that wounded animal, I whimpered, my arms wrapped around my knees, rocking back and forth.

Though I wanted to blame the Governor for what he’d done, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. He’d acted out of ignorance and in accordance with the law. The one person I could blame—and hate and curse—was Shea, my former human friend who had handed my cousin over to the authorities for the price on his head. I wondered if I might not hurt her the next time we met. If she returned to Tairmor with her family, we might very well encounter one another. To me, she was worse than a traitor; as of a few moments ago, she’d become a killer.

I closed my eyes, hoping to find some peace, but renderings of pain and loss paraded behind my lids, abrading my already raw emotions: my mother’s red hair aglow upon her funeral pyre; Zabriel, bleeding and in agony, clutching the long knife he had used to try to sever his wings; my younger cousin, Illumina, lurking in the shadows rather than participating in the Queen’s Court, her arms and chest freshly scarred; Evangeline, my friend who had likewise been brutalized by humans, lying cold and dead on the floor of the Fae-mily Home, telltale green staining the skin around her mouth; a halberd striking downward, not once, not twice, but three times, stripping me of my wings and my magic; Sepulchres placing the bones and carcasses of the children they consumed for their own survival into small wooden coffins; Zabriel’s body smashing upon the rocks at the bottom of the ravine before being dragged away by the river’s current.

My entire body shuddered and I broke into sobs, though no amount of crying or pounding the wall would alleviate the ache I felt. No amount of regret or absolution would quiet it. This was an ache at the core of my being, and it would remain with me forever.

When I had cried my eyes dry, I wiped my cheeks with my sleeve, then stared vacantly at the stain on the fabric. My heart felt pummeled, each and every one of its beats echoing painfully in my head, and it took me a moment to realize the stain was mixed with blood. I touched my forehead and winced—my injury was perhaps more serious than I’d realized. Though part of me didn’t care, I nonetheless tugged open my pack to rummage through it. I pulled out a cloth to use for a bandage, and my gaze fell on Illumina’s sketchbook. A nauseous chill slithered over me, for the ramifications of the drawing it contained were almost too vile to contemplate. Could she have brought the hunters down on me? For Illumina to lay claim to the Faerie throne, both Zabriel and I had to be out of the way. Could her ambition have pushed her to take such an abominable and unforgivable action? And with Zabriel’s execution, was her path to the throne clear?

Tightly rolling the cloth, I placed it against my forehead, wanting to stop the memories along with the flow of blood. Too many horrendous things had happened, and I didn’t know how to deal with any of them. Every fiber of my being felt taut, strung tight like a bowstring, ready to snap. A noise from the other end of the alley startled me, and the hair rose on the back of my neck. Was someone else here? Was I being watched? Had Constable Farrier recognized me, after all?

Before I could come to my feet, three men staggered around the corner, arguing heatedly among themselves as they made their way toward me. Not wanting to draw notice, I sank back against the wall, hoping that if I stayed still, I could blend in with the refuse. I winced internally—for all the help I’d been able to give Zabriel, I was of no more use than garbage.

The men stopped a fair distance from me, apparently deciding the alley was a good place for a meeting, and began to pass carefully counted coins, shiny baubles, and grumbled complaints among themselves.

“I would’ve thought ’e’d cry out,” griped a gray-haired fellow with missing front teeth. “Disappointin’ that ’e didn’t. Not nearly so festive when they’re quiet.”

A smaller man with a jutting jaw and slim nose that brought to mind a rat laughed gleefully. “I ’eard ’e was somethin’ special, that one. Knew ’e’d be tough right to the end.”

“Not sure we should ’ave to pay,” joined the third member of the group, by far the youngest, clutching his coin with dirty fingers. “He had a bag over ’is ’ead. Maybe ’e was gagged or had ’is tongue yanked out.” He opened his mouth to charmingly illustrate this approach, and my gut lurched. “Don’ seem right to pay without knowin’ the details.”

“You’ll pay a’right,” the rat-like fellow threatened, giving the dissenter a shove. “Thems the risks ya run.”

Besieged by nausea, I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the gruesome exchange of blood money in which they were engaged. But I couldn’t shut out their commentary.

“You lost, too, ya know,” the gray-haired man rejoined. “Them wings, them valuable wings, went with ’im over the edge.”

“That’s right.” The youngest member of the trio had perked up, perhaps realizing he might get to keep some of his valuables. “You bet they’d slice ’em off. But I told ya the Gov’na likes them Fae. Wouldn’t butcher one for sport.”

I stiffened and my eyes flew open, a spasm of symbiotic pain afflicting the muscles of my upper back. The rat-like fellow frowned, then rubbed his grizzled chin.

“Maybe we could find ’em. You know, search in the gorge.”

The other men stared, at last silent, though this blessing was short-lived.

“And ’ow we goin’ to do that?” demanded the gray-haired member of the trio.

“I ’eard tell of a secret entrance.”

“Be off with ya, then. But I ain’t goin’ lookin’ for trouble. Don’ care to end up in the ’ands of the Scarlets meself.”

Unable to tolerate more, I bolted from my hidden position, barreling out of the alley and down the street, running until I was too winded to go farther. My head was pounding, my side aching, and when I looked at my cloak, I could see smears of blood.

Stumbling to the side of a building, I dropped my pack at my feet and searched through it again, this time dredging up an herbal salve. Clutching the small pouch, I washed away some of the blood on my face with water from a puddle, then caked on the thick substance. Once more pressing a cloth against it, I yanked free the sash that belted my tunic and tied it over the makeshift bandage and around my head. I closed my eyes and leaned against the building—perhaps if I stayed still for a bit, the bleeding would end and my nerves would calm.

I didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel, and yet I couldn’t prevent my mind from conjuring images of my once-vibrant cousin. Zabriel the daring, downing the mug of Sale that had been spitefully held out to him by Enerris, Illumina’s father, even though it might have killed him for his lack of an elemental connection; Zabriel the charismatic, entertaining one and all at parties in the Great Redwood, for he needed no magic to draw people to him; Zabriel the kind and caring, folding me into his arms after the death of my mother, and spending time with my shy friend, Ione, who would otherwise have adored him from afar; Zabriel the rebel, crossing the Bloody Road to enter the human territory in direct defiance of his mother’s wishes. But even though he had fled his life in Chrior, tired of the whispered speculations about whether a half-human with wings but no elemental connection should be allowed to ascend to the throne, Zabriel had never forgotten his people. He had known more than I about what was going on at Evernook Island, about the plotting against our people engaged in by Fae-hating humans. And he had been equally appalled at the discovery of the ghastly experiments on abducted Fae and imprisoned humans that were being conducted on that Nature-forsaken chunk of rock—atrocities that might never come to light now that his life had been taken. He was the bold one, the clever one, a true man of action. Without his leadership, how could anything be set right?

I came to my feet and grabbed my pack, feeling as though a stake had been driven into my chest. The burning ache that resulted was almost unbearable, and I wanted to reach through my rib cage and tear it away. Only this was an injury for which there was no treatment, no cure. Nor did there seem to be a way to shut off my brain, prevent it from reminding me of my mistakes and misjudgments, and from conjuring memories better buried and forgotten.

I glanced about, trying to get my bearings. What I needed, what I craved, was calm, the kind of stillness I’d once found with water, my element. I needed that connection to Nature, the security that existed in knowing there was a harmonizing force guiding all things. I was tired of this human city where the poor tended to be forgotten and reviled; where the constant drone of water created a sensation of drowning; where the vibration of the crashing river coursed through the streets and set me off balance; where the buildings rose tall, as claustrophobia-inducing as the clouds of smoke and pollution humanity fostered; and where my life had spun out of control. I was Fae and didn’t belong here; I was Fae and it wasn’t fair I had nowhere else to go.

My eyes fell on a building on the other side of the road that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. Without conscious direction, my feet had taken me to a familiar place, one to which I never thought I’d return, and one that I should not enter now. But a voice inside my head, a voice that belonged to the damaged part of me, whispered sweetly: What does it matter now? You’ve failed at every task appointed to you—there’s no hope for your salvation. But there might be hope for a temporary reprieve.

Without hesitation, I crossed the street and pushed my way through the front door of the shady establishment.


Chapter Three (#ulink_87e719c7-e600-5382-8f9c-acd500ed2c62)

FRAT

I’d been in The River’s End pub twice before, and both times had run into Officer Tom Matlock. I glanced around, then pulled up my hood, for he was the one person who might identify me despite the change in my hair color. My heart fluttered, the thought of him stirring a yearning inside me, but I was afraid if I again put him in the position of choosing between me and his duty, the nineteen-year-old Constabulary would make a different decision. Still, I desperately wanted to feel the comfort of his arms, wanted to let him ease my grief and assure me everything would magically be all right.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the smells of alcohol and sweat, along with something deeper, sweeter, and more intoxicating. My gaze snapped to a closed door tucked into a vestibule behind the bar. The thick clouds of poison sifting through the cracks in the door frame were the source of this pub’s unusual aroma and, in truth, most of its business. I had once previously gone through that barrier and down into the cellar it guarded—Tom had brought me here during the search for my friend Evangeline, my friend who was now dead by her own hand, unable to live with the abuse inflicted on her by Fae-haters. By the very people my cousins and I had come so close to exposing on Evernook that terrible night.

I made my way through the pub’s patrons, stopping when I came abreast of the bar, common sense dictating I should go no farther.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender growled.

“Ale!” I shouted to be heard above the hubbub, having learned a little about what humans drank. He filled a mug, and I slapped a coin on the counter in exchange for it.

I took a sip, my lip curling in distaste. Ale could offer some relief—assuming I could consume enough—but it wasn’t really the type of relief I wanted. I didn’t just want to forget. I wanted to remember. I wanted to fly again, to once more be Fae, to feel Fae. If what I’d heard about the Green was true, it might be the one thing that could make me feel whole again.

Heart pounding, I left my mug on the counter and walked toward the door behind the bar, only to discover the vestibule had a purpose: to allow those in charge to keep note of comers and goers. A rough hand clutched my cloak just above my breast, and I was almost lifted off my feet by a burly enforcer whose nose appeared to point in a different direction than the rest of his face did. He snarled unintelligibly, and another fellow spoke up from a seat behind a nearby table.

“Need gold to get green,” he informed me, not bothering to pull his attention from the cards he was shuffling.

“How much?” I croaked, eyeing the brute in whose clutches I stood.

“You ain’t a returning customer. Fifty nick to have a go.” He gave me a lopsided grin, a gold canine tooth reflecting the light. Money must be good in this line of work. “You like it, you come back, we negotiate. Got it?”

“Who’s we?”

“Not sure you’re in a position to ask, but folks here call me Robb. Some even claims I rob ’em blind. Strange that, ’cause they keeps coming back.” With a flick of his wrist, he fanned the cards open in his hand. “But I’m a dealer, plain to see. You want a go or not?”

I should have said no. Fifty pieces could have rented me a room for the night. And what lay behind that door could take my life in the same way it had Evangeline’s. But if that was Nature’s course, it might well be a blessing.

The brutish enforcer released me, and I reached into the pack slung across my shoulder to fish out the necessary funds. I tossed the coins on the table, then pushed past the big fellow and through the cellar door. The smoke clouding the top of the steps brought an immediate rush to my head, and I took several deep breaths, savoring my descent into the dim green cave. I took my place among the other users, my ears seeming to plug and my eyes stinging, though the tears that leaked from them felt good. With coherency dissipating to tendrils, I relaxed, releasing my guilt, worry, and pain.

* * *

I was picked up by the back of my cloak and thrown outdoors before the sun rose. I skidded across the rough ground and felt something hot and wet on my cheek. Blood? I smiled. It made the air feel less cold.

I’d been conveniently deposited in an alley. Still entranced by the drug, I rolled until I was tucked against a wall, and closed my eyes, desiring only to reimmerse myself. Soon I was floating off the stone, flying as I hadn’t done in months. I dipped in the air, free-falling a few meters before I spread my wings. The wind buffeted me back up, and my heart swelled, my body tingling all the way to my fingertips. I could have died, then and there, and died happy. Only the dream shifted and changed, the drug joining with my subconscious to conspire against me.

* * *

I sat in the corner of the room, my eyes on my mother where she lay in her bed sweating and moaning, her muscles cramping. Although she had no awareness of my presence, I was convinced she would not die while I was on watch; that she would not leave the Faerie Realm if she were reminded she had a daughter.

I fought the drooping of my eyelids but fell asleep nonetheless, waking to the sound of muffled voices. My father, the medicine mage, and Queen Ubiqua were gathered near the bed.

“There doesn’t seem to be any improvement,” my aunt noted, her tone betraying her sadness over her sister’s condition.

“None of our medicinal approaches are working, including Sale,” the mage replied. “I have never seen symptoms like these before and have no idea what malady has struck.”

“Malady? Do you suspect something other than illness?” asked the Queen.

The mage hesitated, clearly wanting to choose just the right words. “Either a never-before-seen illness has emerged or something else is the cause. Since a new illness would spread to others, the latter is more plausible.”

My father glanced at me; then he abruptly joined the conversation. The pitch of his voice was higher than usual, as though something was squeezing his vocal cords.

“Does this malady have no antidote?”

“Since it is unknown to me, I have no antidote. And I have already tried all the plant-based remedies in our Realm.”

The Queen, apparently having been reminded of my presence by my father, stepped closer to the mage before quietly asking, “So the source of her malady is not plant based?”

“I don’t believe so.”

A long silence followed the mage’s statement, then Ubiqua asked one more question, a note of anger that I did not understand punctuating her words.

“Is it from the human world?”

“That seems likely.”

My father muttered something under his breath, then strode toward the door.

“Be careful, Cyandro, we don’t know anything for certain,” Ubiqua cautioned, and I wondered what she thought he was about to do.

His exit interrupted, my father turned to face the Queen, his jaw clenched.

“We all know he has long carried a grudge against Incarnadine. And we have foolishly chosen to ignore his abhorrent behaviors, unwilling to face the reality that he is neither a good father nor a good Fae.”

“You are my Lord of the Law. You know we cannot proceed without proof. Bring me the proof, and I will deal most harshly with him—on that you have my word. But until I am presented with evidence, I will not take action against him, and neither should you. You have a daughter to think about, and she is going to need you in the days and years to come.”

With a curt nod, my father stalked from the room, leaving me shaking in the corner, alone, bewildered, and terribly afraid.

* * *

I jerked upright, then slammed my palms on the cobblestone, swaying like a passenger in a fast-moving carriage. I pried my eyelids open. Where was I? In an alley. Why was I here? Because you failed to save your cousin and took the coward’s way out.

Groaning, I sat up straighter, and my eyes landed on a gargoyle hunched nearby. No, not a gargoyle, but a young boy perhaps eight or nine years of age, wearing a coat so big it covered his legs and feet. He was examining me, munching on an apple.

“You a’right?” he asked, a grin lighting up his brown eyes and dirty face.

I rubbed my temples to clear my head, my royal upbringing producing a twinge of shame at the circumstances in which this young stranger had found me.

“Yes, I’m fine. How long have you been sitting there?”

“Don’ know exactly. Hour or two, I ’spect. Long enough to keep the vultures off a’ you.”

“What do you mean?” Alarm penetrated me like the blade of a knife, and I scanned the area.

“They ain’t here no more, but some nasty types prowl these alleys.” Pointing to the royal ring on my hand, he continued, “Wouldn’t wear that if I were you. If I ’adn’t come along, you’d be wakin’ one finger short.”

I scrambled to my knees in preparation for flight, only to tip backward against the wall, my balance still off. How could I have been so stupid, so careless? When I’d been trying to find Evangeline, I’d been accosted in these alleyways by thieves after the very same prize.

The boy chuckled at my clumsiness, and a touch of irritation flared.

“Why would you help me?” I grumbled, fixing my gaze on him.

He shrugged. “Looks like you’ve ’ad it rough, what with that beat-up face an’ all.” He pointed to my swollen eye in case I’d forgotten the injury. “Wasn’t right to ’ave to deal with more.”

Shame again washed over me—had I become so jaded I couldn’t accept that another person would do me a kindness? Though I remained dubious of the boy’s interest and intentions, I found the words to express some gratitude.

“Thank you, then, for what you’ve done. But tell me, how did you...?”

“Stop ’em?” He smirked and pulled a slingshot from one of the pockets of his enormous coat. “Aim’s pretty good.”

I laughed. “Remind me not to cross you.”

“Good thing to ’member. I’m pretty famous in these parts.”

Though I tried to stifle another laugh, the remnants of the drug I’d used, combined with tiredness and stress, pushed the sound up from my belly. The idea of this boy and his slingshot being a threat to anything other than birds or rats struck me as gut-splittingly hilarious. He watched me, smile firmly in place, waiting for me to regain control.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I’m not trying to make fun of you, it’s just...”

“It takes some adjustin’, I know. But smart people learn.”

“All right, I believe you. And I like to think I’m smart.”

He raised his eyebrows, and my cheeks grew hot, the point he was making effectively driven home. I said no more, watching him polish off his apple and expecting him to leave. When he didn’t seem inclined to do so, I broke the silence.

“So what’s your name?”

“Don’ know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Everyone has a name.”

“No doubt true. But mine got lost someplace.” He stood and tossed the well-gnawed core he held into a trash heap a few feet away. After rubbing his palms on his trousers, he settled cross-legged on the ground facing me. Annoyed by his attempts to dodge the question, I persisted.

“Then what do people call you?”

“Beggar, runt, scamp, sometimes just boy. Pick what ya like.”

“And what if I don’t like any of them?”

He shrugged. “Tag me with your own.”

Exasperated, I nudged him with my foot, and he shifted farther from me. “No, that wouldn’t be right. Tell me what you like to be called.”

He pulled off his hat and scratched his nest of curly brown hair, brows furrowed. “Guess I like Frat.”

“Frat?”

“Short for Faerie brat, but it suits me.”

I nodded, then examined the youngster more closely. He was slight of build, seeming particularly so in the oversize clothing he was wearing, and was caked in street dirt the same way a carriage might be, with heavier layers at the bottom. But there was no sign of magic about him.

“Are you Fae, then?” I ventured, more curious about this urchin than I wanted to be.

“Half and half. Mum was human, so me dad must’ve been Fae. He didn’t stick round, you see. But she weren’t ’xactly happy about me being born with wings. Cut ’em off when I was little.”

I gaped at him. How could a mother mutilate her own son? And how could he be so nonchalant about the experience?

“Don’t let it bother you none,” he continued, discerning my reaction from my face. “I don’t ’member much of it.”

“Where’s your mother now?”

“Don’ know. Sort of here one day, gone the next. Pro’bly arrested or dead. No matter—I likes things better on my own. She weren’t always so nice.”

“I’d say not,” I mumbled, more to myself than to him. Then I shifted onto one knee, putting my other foot beneath me. Feeling steadier than before, I stood, brushing debris off my leggings and cloak.

“You?” he asked, pointing to my back.

“Me? What do you mean?” I twisted, trying to examine my clothing, thinking that something must be stuck to it.

“Your wings. How’d you lose ’em?”

“Why do you think I lost my wings?” I protested, glaring at him. I wasn’t about to delve into my past at the whim of this boy. “For that matter, what makes you think I’m Fae?”

“You’re Fae, and you lost your wings. Nothin’ more to be said ’bout it. Lots of injured Faeries seek out the Black Magic. You’re not the first I’ve found out here—just one of the few still livin’.”

The matter-of-fact tone of Frat’s statement sent a shiver down my spine. How close had I come to being one of his more typical finds? I needed to get out of here, needed to get my head on straight.

Swallowing down a surge of nausea, I said as calmly as I could, “Well, thanks again. But I’ve got to be on my way.”

He scrambled to his feet and clapped his hat back on his head. “So what are you called?”

Once more, I felt the color rise in my cheeks. Where had I left my manners?

“My name’s Anya. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Frat.”

I held out my hand, and he gave it an energetic shake. Though this was no time to form a relationship with a young boy—and I wasn’t interested in a sidekick in the aftermath of Shea—I nonetheless hesitated. Now that he was standing, he seemed even smaller and somehow more fragile. Guilt about leaving him alone assailed me, despite his bravado.

“Do you have a place to go?” I asked.

“I know more ’bout these streets than you do. Plenty of places to go.”

“All right. I guess I’ll see you around.”

I picked up my pack and slung it over my shoulder, then headed out of the alley. I didn’t glance back, though the sound of scuffling feet told me Frat had departed in the opposite direction.

I quickly put some distance between me and the alley, but thoughts of the Fae boy weren’t so easy to leave behind. I couldn’t quite figure out why. It was true I felt a connection to him because of our common injury, and I doubted I’d ever rid myself of the image my mind invented of his mother’s abhorrent action, no doubt driven by the Fae-hating subculture in Tairmor. But while those things were horribly distressing and terribly wrong, something else was nagging at me. I kicked at some rubbish on the street, and it came to me like a rush of wind—all Frat’s suffering might have been prevented had his father not deserted his lover and child. I liked to believe none of my people would be so callous, so puerile. Our closeness to Nature created a bond with all living things, an understanding of our interconnectedness, and a strong sense of responsibility.

But I was obviously fooling myself—there were Fae who were not good fathers, and by extension Fae who would desert their offspring. I knew well enough that my friend Evangeline’s parents had been neglectful. And then there was Illumina’s father... A faint echo from my dream rang in my head—he is neither a good father nor a good Fae.

My stomach lurched and I halted, putting a hand against the wall of the building closest to me to steady myself. My breathing had picked up, along with my heart rate, and I feared I might faint. I leaned forward to rest my forearms against the stone, head bent down, my thoughts clanging into each other and sending pain through my temples.

Could Enerris have poisoned my mother, his sister? There had always been something unsettling about the man, and my own experiences had taught me he was unkind. And even though he had been the firstborn of his siblings, he had been passed over for the throne in favor of Ubiqua. What would have made him unsuitable to rule in the eyes of their parents?

As I struggled for breath, hazy memories from childhood slowly came into sharper focus—bits of conversation I had overheard about the fire that destroyed a section of the Great Redwood, rumors of injured and mistreated animals, vitriolic philosophies and arguments, and the scarifications on Illumina’s body.

At the thought of my cousin, molten lead seemed to work its way into the pit of my stomach. In addition to sentiments she had no doubt etched into her skin herself, four words had been carved on her back in a place she could never have reached: belief, strength, power, perseverance.

I clenched my fists, my heart turning cold even while anger burned my skin. I was glad Enerris was dead, glad worms and maggots were eating his flesh in some unmarked grave—it was believed he had taken his own life after Ubiqua had banished him to the human world for goading Zabriel into drinking a mug of Sale. But why hadn’t he been dealt with sooner? Why hadn’t he been stopped before he’d had the opportunity to hurt my mother? Despite all the actions in which he had engaged, had he really left no evidence behind? Pity welled within me at the thought of Illumina. There was clearly proof of Enerris’s demented philosophies on her body. Why had no one intervened on her behalf? And with such a man influencing her, how could she have turned out anything but damaged?

I groaned in misery, the lingering effects of the drug conjuring images I wanted to ignore. Then the distressing conversation I’d overheard between the three men in the alley resurfaced. The men had mentioned the tunnels that ran alongside the river. I knew where to find the secret entrance, having used it once before. I might not be able to change the past, to change things for myself, for Evangeline, or for Illumina, but there was one thing I could still do for Zabriel. When darkness came, I’d use the passages to beat the human vultures to my cousin’s body. I needed to return him to Chrior, to give our people the comfort that a proper Fae parting ceremony for their Prince would afford. And though that was a rite I’d be unable to attend, maybe accomplishing this task would grant me the peace of mind I craved.


Chapter Four (#ulink_dbc6d956-eb22-586a-8f49-0073b00de8fb)

MACABRE QUEST

Even with the snowmelt, it was freezing at night. I didn’t mind the temperature against the broken skin of the welt on my forehead or my swollen right eye, but I wrapped my cloak tightly around the rest of my shivering form.

The enhanced senses and advantages I’d had as a Faerie had steadily diminished in the time since the hunters had hacked off my wings, but my memory remained fully intact. I had little trouble navigating the pitted and muck-slobbered roads to find their more desirable relatives in a business district of the capital, where an out-of-use warehouse building hid an entrance to the caverns beneath the city. Officer Tom Matlock had shown Shea and me the secret exit from Tairmor when she and I had been on the run. We’d found much more than sanctuary on the underside of Tairmor, however. We’d found the body of the executed Fae-hunter Alexander Eskander in the clutches of a riverside eddy, and we’d encountered a colony of dislocated Sepulchres—once beautiful beings separated from the Faerie Realm and the magic they needed to thrive by the curse of the Bloody Road—who had begged us for help. I trembled, hoping I would not have to go deep enough into the caverns to reach the chambers the Sepulchres occupied—the chambers in which they almost reverently preserved the skeletal remains of the children they kidnapped and devoured for their purity. I didn’t know what help I could give them, what help they needed, or even if they deserved help. I shook my head to clear it. I doubted I had the strength to handle more than one problem at a time.

Upon reaching my destination, I put a hand on the warehouse door to discover it yielded easily to pressure; its lock was broken. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck at the notion that someone might be lurking inside, but I swallowed my fear and stepped across the threshold. My gaze swept the darkened interior, landing on the heavy stones that covered the trapdoor. If anyone else was or had been in the building, it appeared the passageway had gone undiscovered.

Abandoning caution, I rushed forward and moved the stones aside one by one, gasping with the effort. But my resolve remained undaunted. I would search until I found Zabriel, or what was left of him. What then? I’d hide his body—the cold in the caverns would help to preserve it—until there was word of Ubiqua’s arrival in Tairmor. It would be her responsibility as his mother and as Queen to take him to Chrior so that his body and spirit could be imparted unto Nature. But she couldn’t do that unless I found him. After all my failures, I owed this to the Faerie people. I owed this to Zabriel.

I lifted the heavy trapdoor to be hit by the roar of the Kappa. Steeling myself, I removed the length of rope stored in my pack and threw it over a ceiling beam. Then I lowered myself into the caverns and headed downstream.

Glutinous darkness fell away when I’d gone a few dozen paces. The cave wall to my right disintegrated into pillars that allowed a view of the river and the moonlight that played upon its surface. Stalagmites, precarious stalactites, and an occasional column where the two shook hands slowed my progress. Inside my boots, my stockings had long since surrendered to rips and holes, and my feet paid the price, with one less layer between them and the frigid river spray.

For the most part, I scanned the rocks and water from the natural pathway, but where the Kappa fell out of sight behind the stone formations, I clambered around or over them to slosh through pools and eddies. I would not overlook any crevice that could conceal a body, despite how much I dreaded seeing my cousin’s remains.

At a clatter of rocks behind me, I spun around, hand falling to the long knife sheathed at my hip. Who else was down here? Sepulchres? Scavengers? I strained my ears to hear, but the sound did not repeat. Rolling my shoulders, I forced the muscles in my neck and arms to relax and hurried onward.

I searched until the cold seeped into my bones and my knees begged to yield. Though I fought against the notion, it was becoming increasingly obvious that I wasn’t destined for success—the weights strapped to Zabriel’s wrists and ankles had probably taken him to the river bottom. A dozen or more Water Fae would be needed to search for him, and since I had no elemental connection at all, my efforts would remain futile. Enmeshing both hands in my hair, I tugged hard, releasing a howl of despair and frustration. I had failed yet again.

I turned to retreat, only to slip and lose my footing. With nothing to grab on to, I fell into the water...into the river...into the sea near Evernook Island. I coughed and sputtered, looking frantically around, my clothes and pack dragging me down toward a fearful death. In time past, my nature as a Water Fae would have allowed me to calm the torrent with the palm of my hand, or with a pulse of thought ask it to bear me to shore. But time past did me no good. Should I even bother to fight? In light of my failures, maybe this was the ending I deserved. But, no, I couldn’t give up, for a flicker of memory told me there was someone with me in the water. I thrashed about, trying to figure out who I had forgotten. Then my thoughts seemed to clear. Where was Illumina? My younger cousin and I had fled the all-consuming fire on Evernook Island together, plunging into the Bay of Arvogale in order to escape.

“Illumina,” I called, voice thick and raspy. But there was no answer, just the rush of water in my ears. I held my breath, trying to quiet my own movements. Had she drifted away? Drowned? Had I lost both of my cousins this night?

But that wasn’t right. Zabriel hadn’t died on the island—he had been executed in Tairmor. And I wasn’t in the bay near Sheness; I was near to drowning in the river in Tairmor, hallucinating like a madwoman as the current pushed me farther downriver. What was happening to me? Why was my mind playing tricks?

Despite my escalating terror, I waged a battle against the Kappa’s current. With a mighty effort, I propelled myself to its bank and clawed my way onto the rocks. Though I wanted to curl into a ball and rest, I forced myself upright, my muscles quivering and protesting the movement.

Fighting paralyzing cold, I bungled my way along the path in the direction I had come, icicles forming in my wet hair and frost decorating my clothing and pack. At length, I made it back to the original passageway, then on to the trapdoor, where I struggled to scale the still-dangling rope to haul myself out of the tunnels. After concealing the entrance once more with rocks and rubble, I reentered the city and rushed toward the poorer section of southern Tairmor, familiarity and the thought of food and warmth providing the impetus I needed to keep moving.

Eventually I became aware of the wide berth I was being given on the street, and I realized I’d been mumbling out loud while I walked along, my head down, watching the road just in front of my feet. Those I passed must have thought me insane, but that didn’t bother me. In truth, being insane wouldn’t have bothered me, either. I was too cold and tired and frightened and heartbroken to care.

Though I tried to fight the urge, what I wanted was the unique brand of comfort to be found at The River’s End pub. But could I do that to myself again? I sighed, hating to admit Tom Matlock had been right about Cysur Naravni, called the Green or Black Magic on the streets. He was the one who had originally warned me about it, taking special care to ensure I was aware of its dangers; he’d told me it wasn’t worth its price, and I’d scoffed at the idea that I might fall so far.

I rubbed my forehead, unable to shake the image of Tom’s brows drawn close in concern over his silver-gray eyes; nor could I shirk off the shame the image inspired. Perhaps what I needed wasn’t Cysur, but a good night’s sleep, a luxury I’d been denied for some time. Nightmares appeared to be creeping into my waking hours, making me feel out of place and time. Clinging to the hope that sleep might be the cure for all my ailments, I headed toward the place that would give me the best opportunity to claim it.

When the Fae-mily Home came into sight, I stopped and surveyed the area, trying to assess the danger that a Constabulary might be waiting for me inside. Despite my altered appearance, I didn’t want to take any chances. When my hunger and exhaustion turned into physical pain, I hastened across the pitted road and into the shelter, leaving behind the incessant sound of the rushing waters of the Kappa that permeated the capital city.

I entered to be bathed in warmth from the crackling hearth fire in the corner. There were doors to my left and right that led to storage and laundry rooms, and a podium straight ahead. Through an archway beyond, a dining area stirred with life, and the enticing smell of cooked meat wafted upon the air.

Despite the noise, Fi heard the ringing of the bell above the front door and scuttled into the vestibule, ready to offer a meal and a bed to her newest patron. When she saw me, she halted as though she had encountered a barrier, the momentum of her body pitching her slightly forward. Her lips parted, her short brown hair almost standing on end; then she rushed forward to thrust her arms around me. Her embrace was reassuring, the heat from her body enough to melt the ice that had formed in my gut at the moment of Zabriel’s execution.

“Anya, I’ve been so worried,” she exclaimed, holding me at arm’s length to examine me. “Are you all right? You dealt me a blow with that blond hair. And that black eye you’re sporting. You look...”

“Dreadful?” I supplied with a feeble laugh. “Not exactly what you’d expect from Fae royalty.”

“It’s not that. Just you’ve surely been through a lot. But I’ll fix you up in no time.”

Her wide-set blue-green eyes told me it wasn’t just her naturally maternal personality that had set her to fussing.

“What’s going on, Fi? Why so worried?”

“Lots of unsettling things these days. For one, there’s been another execution, a Faerie no less. That’ll stir up the Fae-haters in this city. And Luka and his Constabularies have been asking after you. I told him you wouldn’t do anything bad, and he said it was about keeping you safe.”

Her mention of the execution hit me harder than I expected, and I stumbled to the fireplace mantel, putting a hand upon it to steady myself.

“It’s not my safety that interests Luka,” I scoffed.

If possible, Fi’s eyes grew larger, and her hands dropped to her skirt to fidget with its folds.

“That pirate they executed. Brought here from Sheness. You didn’t have anything to do with him, did you?”

I hesitated, unsure how to answer her question, and my throat tightened. I fought the sensation, afraid that if I let my emotions filter into my voice, it would make her more inquisitive. She didn’t know who Pyrite was—who he had been—and I wasn’t sure I could make myself say the words.

“You can’t tell Luka I’m here,” I implored, choosing to address Fi’s original assertion. “It’s very important that you don’t tell anyone.”

She took my hands, her jaw set. “Don’t fret, Anya. I won’t say a word to Luka. But when he was here, he swore to me he wasn’t out to harm you. If things change, you can go to him. I know it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I held back a sigh, shifting my gaze to the window. In the aftermath of the horrific outcome of my relationship with Shea, I would always err on the side of caution when dealing with humans, and Fi would always err on the side of trust. Albeit trust well-placed, as far as I could tell. The temptation to put faith in Luka Ivanova was a pulsing force, a tide reaching ever closer to land. He almost single-handedly funded the Fae-mily Home and had proven himself sympathetic to Fae causes and human faults. He’d begged Shea to hand over her father so that he wouldn’t be forced to punish her in Thatcher More’s stead. Indeed, he’d shown outright disdain for the law that made Thatcher’s wife and three daughters collateral when he’d fled arrest, thus subjecting any of them to serve his sentence. Luka appeared to be a friend, and it would have been easy, a relief even, to give my fate over to him. But still I took care, for my ability to trust had diminished right along with my Fae nature, the actions of the hunters and Shea’s betrayal eating away at my core.

Fi’s voice pulled me from my deliberations. “You need to eat, and I’ve got a room where you can stay out of sight. It’s not but a closet, but it’ll keep you from the cold.”

“Sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

“One thing more. A message arrived for you like you said it might.”

My heart leaped—Gwyneth. Before we’d parted company in Sheness, I’d told her she could contact me at the Fae-mily Home. News from her might lift some of the gloom I was feeling.

“Where is it?”

Fi waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not going anywhere. Dinner first. You look starved.”

Though I wanted the letter, I hadn’t had a full stomach in days, and the promise of food proved irresistible. I followed her to a room at the rear of the shelter, near a door that led into an alley. She lit a lamp on a small table to reveal a space that met her description with no embellishment—it was cramped, with a cot between the night table and the wall, a washbasin and mirror in the corner, and a narrow window that was set too high to open or offer a view. But it met my most important criterion: it was secluded. I would be comfortable and, in all likelihood, safer here than anywhere else.

“I’ll fetch you a plentiful meal,” Fi offered, cheeks tinged bright pink as she darted about to wipe away dust from the little-used space and give the linens a healthy shake.

“No need for that.” I laid a hand on her forearm to bring her fussing to an end. “The room is perfect. Thank you so much.”

She hustled away, her blush deepening to red, and I deposited my pack on the floor near the bed. By the time I had washed my hands, she had returned with a heavily laden platter—chicken, warm bread with cheese, cooked vegetables, and a mug of spiced cider. The aroma washed over me, and despite the manners that had been drilled into me over the years, I fell upon the food like a starving animal. I sat on the edge of the bed, shoveling forkfuls into my mouth, almost swallowing the first bites whole. Fi left again while I ate, returning with an armful of clothing and a medicinal compress.

“I don’t want you cold on the street.” Her voice contained a trace of a scold as she set leggings, socks, a tunic, and a sash on the bed next to me. “You’ve worn through your old ones.”

I nodded, unwilling to stop chewing.

“And this,” she added, giving the compress a shake before setting it atop the pile, “is for your eye. It’ll bring down the swelling.”

“Thank you.” I spit out a bit of bread along with the words then mumbled an embarrassed “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. But you might want to slow down—there’s plenty more where that came from.”

When I finally set down my fork, Fi reached into a pocket hidden among the folds of her layered skirt and produced a rolled and wax-sealed letter. Too excited to be polite, I sprang to my feet and snatched it from her hand. Though my brain told me it was crazy, I couldn’t quell the wild surge of hope I felt that the paper would reverse the events of the past couple of days. Perhaps, against all odds, Zabriel had survived the fall and made it safely back to Sheness, and this was the letter that would explain everything. Hands shaking, I broke the Dementya family seal, but what I read when I unfurled the note was a simple statement of shared grief.



Anya, I’m so sorry. There was nothing you or I could have done. He was dead the moment he was betrayed, though I still can’t grasp what happened. And I still can’t believe he’s gone.

Write me. Please. Come and stay with me and my father in Sheness if you like. You’re always welcome here.

I’m thinking of you.

G.



At the bottom, hastily scrawled as though she had considered not including it, was an added message:



If you retain any care for Shea, she’s in danger now that he’s gone. His friends are unforgiving.



I crumpled the letter in my hand, angry at Gwyneth for even mentioning Shea. Whatever happened to my former friend was out of my hands. More than that, it was of her making.

“Is the news bad?” Fi asked.

“No, just not what I wanted to hear. Tell me—when did this arrive?”

“Only this afternoon. By snowbird to the Dementya station, then by servant here.”

I nodded. Although snowbirds were notoriously difficult to train, they were swift fliers and therefore favored as messengers by the wealthy, a class that included the Dementya family. And if the news had been spread this quickly to the coast, it had probably been flown across the sea to all the reaches of the human world, sparking celebrations at many port cities. Gwyneth’s father, Leo Dementya, was the owner of a fleet of ships that had been raided on more than one occasion, placing him among the revelatory group. What would she do if he asked her to join in a toast to the death of such a notorious pirate and criminal? At least I didn’t have to pretend happiness. Gagging at that thought, I rushed to the washbasin, struggling to keep my food down.

“Are you sick?” Judging from the concern wrinkling Fi’s brow, I looked as pale and clammy as I felt. “Should I send for a doctor?”

“No, no, I’m fine. But I should have listened to you—I think I ate too fast.”

She pursed her lips, not quite believing me, and I spoke up, wanting to head off additional questions.

“Listen, Fi, if any more letters come—”

“I’ll hold them for you—your eyes only.”

I forced a smile and returned to the cot, taking a sip from my mug of cider.

“I’ll be going, then,” Fi said, removing another item from her hidden pocket. This time when she extended her hand, it held a key. “For the door into the alley. No one ever comes or goes by it. Just use it to please yourself.”

“Thank you, again, for all your kindness.”

She picked up the food tray. “You deserve better, but it’s my best.”

Before I could respond, she exited the room, closing the door softly behind her. With a moan, I forced myself to my feet and crossed the short expanse of floor to push the lock into place. Settling down once more on the bed, I squeezed my eyes shut and applied the compress to the right side of my face.

I wanted so badly to exhale the tension from my body. But it was no use, not when guilt and sorrow over Zabriel’s death threatened to consume me and ever-present fear clogged my veins, at times almost immobilizing me. Queen Ubiqua—assuming she was still alive—would come to Tairmor with her entourage despite that there was no longer a living Prince to retrieve. Of course, she might not know of Zabriel’s execution, but whether or not she did, the political ramifications of a royal Faerie heir dead at the hands of the humans were potentially colossal. Nothing short of parlay between the leaders of our races could suffocate the impending outcry.

Unbidden, the drawing I had discovered in Illumina’s sketchbook rose once more to the forefront of my mind, the sketch depicting a young woman collapsed in the snow, bleeding out magic at the base of a tree. If my deepest, most secret suspicions were true—that Illumina had been there that night, had been the woman who stroked my hair and shushed me where I lay in agony on the cold ground—then how could I be confident she had conveyed the message she was sent to deliver? Or was this what she had wanted? Me, barred forever from the Faerie Realm, and Zabriel equally unable to return to threaten her ascension to the throne? In the end, it didn’t matter, for the Queen had more than one source of information. The three months upon which Davic and I had agreed were up, and he would bring all the forces of Nature to bear to find me, with my father’s assistance. And the Fae Ambassadors to the Warckum Territory would have sent word of the execution of a member of our race. No, the Queen and her entourage would arrive, the only unknown being when.

And while she was here, grieving her son, I would have to face her with nothing to offer but apologies. I wouldn’t try for excuses. She’d wanted me to succeed her, but I’d abandoned Chrior without her blessing, lost my wings, failed to safeguard the Royal Anlace—a timeless relic from the Old Fae that had never even been held by a non-ruler before me—and watched Zabriel die.

I took a long drink of the cider, hoping its warmth would help me to sleep. But just when I felt my consciousness drift, I sat bolt upright in bed—there was one thing I might be able to reverse. I slapped my cheeks in an effort to come fully alert, then tried to recall the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the Anlace.

Shea and I had been arrested at the West Gate of the city. We’d been searched for weapons, and I’d snapped at one of the men to be careful with the blade. During our escape, when we’d stolen back our packs and supplies, the Anlace hadn’t been there. So what had become of it?

I rubbed my temples, trying to conjure an image of the guard in my mind, and the answer came to me. He’d tucked the Anlace into a pouch at his hip, perhaps realizing the knife was valuable. And that meant I had to find him, and fast, before Ubiqua arrived in the capital.

With some semblance of a plan, I doused the lamp and fell asleep with the image of the Anlace, a brilliant ruby glinting from within its golden grip, floating before me, just out of reach.


Chapter Five (#ulink_5dfa11d6-ca93-555d-8251-78b7462ba51d)

THE TRAIL OF THE ANLACE

I gathered my belongings and returned to the streets before the sun had risen, using the exit into the alley to avoid encounters with any of the residents of the Fae-mily Home. The day was wet and gray, and felt somehow colder than if it had been snowing. Rain had a penchant for slithering under clothes and against skin that snow couldn’t rival, and I had been feeling the damp more acutely since the loss of my magic. Water had reverted to treating me like everyone else.

As the sun blinked its dreary way into the sky, shop owners threw drifters out of alleys; coughs and sneers rose in a dissonant chorus; and foul-smelling citizens leaned against lampposts and building-fronts puffing on cigarettes—poor person’s smokes that had none of the richness of traditional tobacco and thus reeked far worse. I hurried along in an effort to avoid unwanted gazes, the cigarette smoke fading as the din of the river mounted.

An enormous marble bridge situated in the center of the city spanned the river to connect the two sides of Tairmor, and I slowed to behold it. It served a practical purpose for transportation, but its origins delved far deeper into human history: it was a memorial to the soldiers who had died during the Faerie-Human War generations ago. In order to put an end to the interracial conflict, my people had created a boundary—known as the Bloody Road—to prevent nonmagical beings from entering our Realm. The use of our elemental connections to earth, fire, water, and air to suit that purpose had been so powerful that it had devastated the enemy’s forces, destroying bodies beyond recognition, and sometimes reclamation, and scattering limbs across a wide swath of the Balsam Forest. The Bloody Road was the barrier that kept me from reaching home.

By this time the rain had stopped, and I stepped foot onto the monument. I ran my hands along one of its railings, fingering the etchings that reminded me of the love carvings surrounding the entrance to the Great Redwood in Chrior. The bridge was inscribed with the names of every soldier who’d been lost in that final battle. How often did it inspire the humans to think of and honor those who had died? Or was it just a stark reminder of our actions? Indeed, the hatred that had lingered between the races had been the impetus for Queen Ubiqua’s marriage to William Ivanova, the Governor’s elder son. But not even the magic of the wedding mage had been powerful enough to see him safely across the Road. He had died trying to cross it, desirous of living with his wife, who was pregnant, in the Realm of the Fae.

Despite this tragedy, Wolfram Ivanova had remained staunchly pro-Fae in the ensuing years, believing if not knowing that a grandchild might have been born to him. But though the Governor’s policies and laws were pro-Fae, not all the people in the Warckum Territory agreed with him, just as not all the Faerie people supported Queen Ubiqua’s goal of peace with the humans. For me, this was no abstract concept, for Illumina had followed in her father’s footsteps and was among the dissenters. My back muscles convulsed with phantom pain at the thought of my younger cousin, and I hurried across the bridge, periodically glancing over my shoulders, my anxiety resurfacing.

At long last, I trekked through a quaint residential area and into an adjacent business district, where a bell in a steeple atop a church spire announced the time to the residents of this part of the city. Up ahead rose the massive stone dam that diverted the course of the Kappa near the West Gate. I could already feel the dampness of the river spray against my skin.

Activity in the city had picked up considerably, both along the road by which I drew near to the West Gate and over the bridge from the south that had been the location of Shea’s and my arrest. Carriages and convoys rattled under the thirty-foot-high passageway, its doors swung wide to provide for two lanes of traffic and then some. Numerous Constabularies were on duty, trying to keep order, but despite their efforts, angry shouts rose with frequency from those eager for admittance but lacking in patience.

Dodging traffic and horse droppings, I scurried to the base of the wall that surrounded the city. The gate’s architecture made a shadowed alcove where the curve of the guard tower met the stone-lay, and I dropped my pack in its protective cover before inching around for a better view of the guards. I was looking for a robust fellow slightly shorter than me with a round face and a swagger to his walk.

The scarlet-clad Constabularies worked in pairs, and I found myself staring at the backs of those closest to me. One member of a duo would check papers and enter information in a logbook, while the other scanned wares and equipment for irregularities. Those folks who passed inspection were pushed into the city like tagged cattle; those under suspicion were taken by other guards for further questioning. I examined the men in front of me, but all were too tall to match the image I had stored in my memory. One in particular was almost twice my height, and as thick as a bull—not someone I’d want to cross.

Needing to get a look at the Constabularies on the other side of the road, I weighed my options. I could fight through the mass of people, horses, carriages, and wagons, or try to gain some height and a viewpoint. I studied the tower next to me from top to bottom. There were battened windows just above my head and crevices in the mortar large enough for my fingertips. I ran a hand over the stone surface to check that it was coarse enough to provide some grip, then swung my cloak off my shoulders and deposited it with my pack.

If there was one side effect of growing up with the ability to fly it was that I had no fear of heights. I fitted the toe of my left boot between two stones, found a handhold above my head, and launched myself upward. Body pressed close to the tower, I lodged my opposite foot on the window ledge and redirected my momentum toward the sconce bolted into the stone over it. After grabbing on to it for support, I pulled myself up to balance on the top of the window frame above the heads of the swarm.

The Constabularies across the thoroughfare stood out from the drably dressed travelers like the dragon’s blood sedum flowers used by nesting snowbirds did against the white landscape of winter. I screwed up my face to make out the guards’ features, but with each one I studied, my disappointment grew. Then I spotted a straggler near the opposite tower. He looked the part by his height, stature, and strut; but it was when his eyes widened and he pointed at me that I was sure of his identity. It was the same expression he’d worn when he’d realized Shea was wanted by the law.

He yelled something incomprehensible, though it was likely the name of one of the guards on my side of the gate. At least the bull-like one whipped around with a massive scowl, his forehead so creased it formed a cross pattern. He started toward me, and in the shock of the moment, I released my handhold, lost my footing, and tipped backward.

I had always loved the sensation of falling, of slipping through insubstantial air toward the solid arms of the earth, but I hadn’t much experience with full-force landing. My arms pinwheeled in an attempt to replace my missing wings, but I hit the cobblestone shoulders first, head snapping to follow, the rest of my body close behind. I coughed and wheezed, certain my lungs had collapsed. Then the pain hit me, and I sucked in air. My head pounded, my back smarted from tailbone to neck, and a burning sensation resonated to my elbows. Worst of all, panic was shooting through me, riling every pore in my body. Run, I commanded my muscles. Get up and run. I moaned and rolled laboriously onto my side, my legs curling into my chest. Either my brain wasn’t sending the right signals or my body was ignoring them. I covered my head with my arms as though that would protect me, and struggled to withhold tears. At least I had not fallen where hooves and wheels would squash me.

“All right?” a man with a deep voice asked, his shadow encasing me where I lay on the ground.

My heart pounded out my fear, loudly enough to be heard over the cacophony around me. Though I wanted to pretend he wasn’t there, I forced myself to turn my head and look at him. The bull-guard was kneeling near me, a mixture of worry and exasperation on his face. When he saw that I was conscious, he rolled his eyes and held out a hand. I stared at him, not quite believing he would help me.

“Come on,” he ordered. When I didn’t move, he grasped the collar of my tunic and stood, hauling me up with him. He brushed off my clothing, then held a hand up a few feet from my face. “How many fingers?”

I concentrated, narrowing my eyes to bring the blurred image into focus, then squeaked out a response.

“Three?”

He laughed, the sound rolling up from his chest as though from a deep well.

“It may not feel like it, but you’ll be fine. Just find a place to sit for a while. And if you want to cause trouble, go to the South Gate.”

He turned me about and gave me a slight shove. Still a little wobbly, I retrieved my pack and cloak and scampered away at the best pace I could manage, thanking Nature that the guard hadn’t been inclined to arrest me. He had, in fact, been rather kind.

Shaking uncontrollably, I trudged a few blocks to a bench in a less crowded area and sat down, unexpectedly inundated with thoughts of my father. I wanted him to be the one to pick me up. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me and comfort me. It felt like I’d been alone forever; more than that, I hadn’t felt safe or protected or connected since the hunters had attacked me.

“Still ain’t sure of your smarts.”

I sprang to my feet and whirled around, fighting my resulting dizziness to gaze into an enormous pair of brown eyes in a hollow, dirty face.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped to the young boy I’d met in the alley. “Have you been following me?”

“Not followin’, just noticin’.” He smirked and rested his forearms on the back of the bench I’d just vacated. “Saw when you showed up ’ere. This is my turf, ya know.”

“Your turf?”

“Where I makes me livin’.” He opened his coat and patted an inside pocket, setting it to jingling.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re a thief, are you?”

“Wouldn’t say that. I’m more of an entrepreneur.” He pronounced the word carefully, proud to be showing off his vocabulary. “I just lightens the load for a few stuffed shirts. No ’arm in that—they got plenty to spare.”

I was struck by an urge to scold him. “At your age, you should be in school.”

“Plenty of schoolin’ to be had on the streets.”

“Just how old are you, anyway?”

He puffed out his chest. “I’m twelve.”

“No, you’re not.” My thoughts went to Shea’s youngest sister, Marissa. “I’d guess nine at the most.”

“Papers say twelve. And that makes me twelve.”

I laughed. This boy was spunky. “Did you steal those, too?”

“Got ’em nice and legal.”

“If by legal you mean from a forger.”

“Paid the man, di’nt I?” A touch of belligerence had entered his voice; then he took off his hat and scratched his head. “If I was to bet, I’d say you got forged ones, too.”

I gaped at him, too surprised to respond. His manner reminded me of Tom Matlock, for I’d never been able to fool him, either. I decided it was best to change the subject.

“Well, Frat, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine. So go ahead and continue with your work. I wouldn’t want to prevent you from earning a living.”

“Nah, you’re not fine. You’re too stupid to be fine. What d’ya think you’re doin’, drawin’ the ’tention of the Scarlets? Thought sure I’d ’ave to save you again with my slingshot.”

I gritted my teeth, temper flaring, for he was now scolding me.

“Look here. I’m not stupid, nor do I need rescuing. I have good reasons for being here, not that they’re any of your concern. So just get on your way.”

“Suit yourself. But take this and find a place to ease yourself a bit.” He grabbed one of my hands and closed my fist around something cold and hard. “I’ve been ’avin’ a good day—not sure you can say the same.”

I stared at the coins he’d pressed into my palm, but before I could say anything, he slapped his hat back on his curly mop of hair and slipped away. I stared after him, shaking my head slightly and marveling at how self-reliant he seemed to be. Then I tucked the money into the pouch at my hip, glad for the gift if not for his opinions.

Though it would have been nice to take Frat’s advice and find a place to “ease myself,” I was more determined than ever to go after the Anlace, especially now that I had spotted the guard for whom I’d been searching. I headed for the West Gate a second time, careful to stay within the throng, wary of being seen by the large guard who had picked me up after my fall. Once more I settled into the shadow of the tower where I’d laid eyes on the man I sought. He had moved closer, but was still working, waving tourists and itinerants every which way, and I crouched down to wait.

The afternoon dragged interminably, and acid ate away at my empty stomach. When at last the sun began to descend, and the traffic in and out of the city slowed considerably, my target emerged from the guard tower. He was burrowed so deep in a fur-lined coat that his face was hardly visible, but at this point, I could have recognized him by the pomposity of his stride. The fur of his coat stuck out oddly, clinging to its neighboring fibers, looking more like it might be seeking the Constabulary’s warmth than vice versa, and yet he clearly enjoyed the power and prestige inherent in his position. I doubted he was a man who would listen to reason when it came to the Anlace—I feared I might need a different approach from a conversation.

Yanking my cloak close around me, I started after him, keeping to the edges of the streets. I followed his barrel-like form through the nearby business district and into narrower, little-trafficked residential neighborhoods. The lack of people was a boon to keeping sight of my target in the fading orange glow of the sun. When the Constabulary turned to cross the street we’d been tracking, I ducked into an alley next to a community bathhouse that obligingly disguised my presence with the steam that seeped through the cracks in its paneled exterior. Peering around the corner, I saw him turn up the walk before a small home with a single peaked roof. Knowing he was about to enter, I stepped out of my hiding place and strolled in his direction.

The guard fumbled with a ring of keys, and I nearly cursed aloud when the door was opened from inside by an elderly woman. Concentrating, I tuned in my ears to catch their voices.

“You keep too many damn keys,” the woman sniped. “Keep so many you end up trapped outside buildings rather than gettin’ in ’em.”

“The keys are for work, Mum,” the guard muttered, a strong note of bitterness in his tone.

He shoved past her into the house, and the door thwumped shut. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to solve this conundrum. I had never considered that the guard wouldn’t live alone. But although he shared the house with his mother, this didn’t change my ultimate plan. I still had to confront him and recover the Queen’s Anlace. The task had just become more complicated.

I darted across the street and into the deep shade of an awning that extended over one of the home’s windows. I hid my face in the fabric of my hood and exhaled, enjoying the brief warmth it created inside the covering, then stilled my body. At some point, I crouched down and then sat, secure in the belief that no one would notice me in the gathering darkness, shrouded in the alcove I had chosen like a wraith. While I waited, I fretted over a plan. Maybe I could get something that would knock them out? Sneak into the house and incapacitate them both while they were sleeping?

At the sound of raised voices coming from inside, I pulled back my hood to improve my hearing, but the words were indecipherable. They were, however, definitely unpleasant, and it came as no surprise when the front door banged open. It was the old woman, wearing a coat and shawl along with an expression so sour she might have swallowed quinine.

“I’m off to me friend the grocer’s,” she squawked over her shoulder. “Since you don’ like the food on the table, I s’pose I’ll have to cook new.”

She slammed the door shut and toddled away, and I held my breath until she’d disappeared down the block. I couldn’t believe my luck—she hadn’t locked the door, and, judging by the silence that now reigned inside, her son had been left alone.

Limbs quivering in anticipation, I rose to my feet and stepped onto the porch. I crept toward a window from which warm light streamed, pressing my back to the wall. When I worked up the courage, I stole a peek at the home’s interior. My quarry was in the kitchen, where a table was laid with dinner, but judging from his actions, he didn’t expect the meal to be resurrected. He gathered silverware and tossed it toward the sink, ignoring the knife and fork that clattered to the floor. After dousing the lamp on the table, he headed down a hall and out of sight.

Scanning the layout of the house, I spotted a tall closet that opened into the hallway, its door ajar. Deciding it would be better to subdue him than to argue with him, I untied the sash from around my tunic, steadied my nerves to the best of my ability, and quietly opened the front door. I skittered across the room, taking in the odor of a burned dinner, and slipped into the closet.

“Back already, Mum?” I heard the sarcastic call from the deepest region of this tiny home. “I figured you’d be out all night proving that real men appreciate you.”

I slowed my breathing, my heart threatening to catapult up my throat. Footsteps announced the guard’s approach when no response was forthcoming.

“Mum?”

He stopped just past the closet where I hid, at the juncture of the hallway and the main room, and I was able to peruse his form up close. He might have been shorter than me, but he was stocky and well muscled—it would take little effort for him to crush me. I swallowed hard. If he saw me before I had the chance to restrain him, I was ruined. Briefly closing my eyes, I gathered my courage. Then I smoothed the sash in my hands, wrapped it once around each palm, and eased the closet door farther open.

The guard still lingered a few steps from me, and I sprang forward, throwing my hands over his head and snapping the sash tightly around his neck. He made a desperate grunting, wheezing sound that might have been a shout had I not pulled the sash tighter. He clawed at the strip of fabric cutting off his breath but never thought to attack me instead. He lurched, knocking over a chair and a plate of spoiled food. I struggled to keep a fast hold, almost climbing onto his back. He spun, then wobbled on his feet, finally dropping to the ground. I released the pressure of the sash, not wanting to kill him, and checked for a pulse. The steady rhythm of his heart confirmed I had only rendered him unconscious.

I picked up the chair he’d toppled, and, panting, hauled him into it. The sash was still about his neck, and I tied it to the spokes of the chair back. My eyes glued to the man, I hastened to the closet for my supplies, and yanked free my rope. He still hadn’t moved, and I wasted no time in better securing his arms and legs.

The guard’s breath was ragged, but his eyelids were flickering—he would come around soon enough. What else should I do before he woke? Spotting the napkins on the table, I picked one up, folded it lengthwise, then tied it tightly over his eyes and around his head. I didn’t want him to be able to describe me tomorrow.

I shifted restlessly from foot to foot, counting the seconds, imagining every one brought his mother closer to home, brought me closer to discovery. This was the most reckless, flagrantly wrong thing I’d ever done. I’d attacked a relatively innocent man in the sanctity of his own home. Had my attack on the guard been politically motivated, there was no question the Anti-Unification League, as the human-haters in Chrior had dubbed their group, would have lauded me a hero. Was retrieving the Anlace worth the risk of becoming like them?

It was a bit late to ask myself that question.

My prisoner coughed and wheezed, and I instinctively moved behind him. His respiration was fast and painful, making me feel all the more guilty. Still, I had no intention of hurting him further—though I wasn’t about to let him in on that secret.

“Who the hell are you?” he rasped, his body stiffening. “What the hell do you want?”

I’d terrified him. As sick and nonplussed as this made me feel, it was a boon to achieving my goal. If I could keep him scared, he was more likely to talk.

The guard turned his head from side to side, trying to sense my presence. The loss of my wings and magic had made me clunky by Fae standards, but I was still stealthy compared with most humans, and he had no idea where I was. I leaned forward and put my lips to his ear.

“You stole something from me,” I muttered, deepening my voice.

He jumped so violently he almost tipped the chair for a second time, and I felt a rush of power unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I smiled, not from enjoyment but from incredulity—I was a slender sixteen-year-old female, and he could have snapped me in half given the chance. Surprise, stealth, and pain had given me a tremendous advantage over him.

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” he sputtered. “I...I never stole anything, not my whole life.”

He twisted his wrists against the rope that bound him, his wince telling me it was tight enough to burn his skin. Another thing I’d done well.

“Don’t lie,” I snarled, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back. My sash strained against his Adam’s apple, and he coughed. “You like shiny things, don’t you? You took a liking to a shiny little dagger with a ruby pommel. Probably thought it was worth a small fortune, but you underestimated its value. That knife is worth your life. Tell me where it is or I’ll prove its worth to you.”

“I don’t bloody know where that bloody knife is, bitch!”

I ripped my knife from the scabbard at my hip with a shink of metal, unexpectedly inflamed that he would dare to demean me for my gender. I should leave him a scar to remind him forever and always what bitches can do. But before I could decide whether to put the blade to him as a threat or as an act of violence, he wailed and whimpered, struggling to lean away from the sound he had heard. His bravery was gone.

“I sold it. I sold the damn thing.” His voice cracked at nearly an octave higher than its normal pitch. “I’m sorry for what I done, but I don’t have it no more. No need to hurt me. Oh, God, just let me go. I never meant no harm.”

“Who bought it?”

“Someone, someone...”

“A name!” I shouted, heedless of who might hear outside.

“A collector! A collector on the south side, his name is—is Sandrovich. Kodiak Sandrovich. He’ll still have it. I promise he will. Now let me go. My mother, she needs me. Let me go, for the love of...”

On impulse, I grabbed the money pouch that hung on his belt and pulled it free.

“For my troubles,” I sneered, heading toward the door.

“You can’t leave me like this!”

“Your mother might appreciate it.”

I went out into the night, glancing to my left and right before hurrying in the direction of the marble bridge. After a few blocks, the adrenaline coursing through my veins abated, and my legs began to shake, the enormity of what I had just done crashing down on me. I stumbled against a storefront and sank to the ground, covering my face with my hands. I no longer looked like myself or acted like myself. I was desperate, yes, but did that justify abandoning my principles? Should I have worked harder to come up with an alternate approach to reclaiming the Anlace? Or did the extreme importance of my goal justify my horrific methods? I did not know the answer to any of these questions. I only knew I was developing the ability to shut off my conscience in the name of practicality. And that filled me with a deep-rooted dread.

I raised my head and looked up at the stars, beseeching Nature for the wisdom I sought. But it was the voice in my head that provided an answer and further stoked my fear. What’s practical isn’t necessarily the same as what’s right. Wings have been cut off Fae in the name of practicality; people are executed in the name of practicality; and some even starve in the name of practicality. Pretty poor substitute for a moral compass.

I forced myself to my feet—staying in the vicinity of the guard’s house was hardly wise—and walked onward. I couldn’t help thinking I’d breached a barrier that might lead to all sorts of unconscionable deeds. Worse, having crossed it, I wasn’t sure it would be possible to turn back.


Chapter Six (#ulink_639f95df-7a8d-5caf-9cdf-638b83bffca4)

JUST THE SCARS

By the time I reached the marble bridge spanning the River Kappa, my energy was dwindling. I couldn’t track down Sandrovich tonight. It was cold and dark, and I had no idea where the man lived or worked. I needed information. This was too important an undertaking to rush into blindly.

I paused in the middle of the bridge, leaning on the white rail and listening to the water below, for there was only yawning blackness when I looked down. How should I proceed? Reconnaissance, tomorrow, on the south side to see if I could locate the collector. But what about tonight?

The obvious answer was the Fae-mily Home, but I didn’t want to risk an encounter with Fi, not in light of what I’d done. My gut roiled with remorse, and I didn’t want the kindly Faerie to read the guilt on my face or hear the resulting strain in my voice. But I also didn’t want to roam the streets. I contemplated my options, my head throbbing with the effort to concentrate. I could sleep in an alley, rent a room in an inn with the money I’d stolen, or perhaps find a bed in a human shelter.

At the sound of footsteps, I jerked my head around, my hand clutching the long knife at my hip. Though the couple approaching from the north looked innocuous enough, leaning close together, I couldn’t help but question their intentions. I backed away, then ran across the rest of the bridge, needing to get off the street, if for no other reason than to spare my rapidly fraying nerves.

A sign for an inn, advertising its lodgings and public bathing options, caught my eye, and I could see the light of a large hearth fire in its common room through the front window. Despite the hour, people were up, talking and drinking, enough average folk among them that I wouldn’t look out of place if I entered. Because of my hair-dyeing ploy, and the nice clothing provided by Fi, my fear of staying in a better establishment had diminished; and I had plenty of funds, thanks to Tom, Frat, and the Constabulary I had just robbed. I could afford to rent a room for the night—maybe even allow myself the luxury of a bath—and start anew in the morning.

Before I could change my mind, I pushed the door of the establishment open and darted inside. Laughter and the warmth of the fire washed over me, assuring me I’d made the right decision. A number of guests were gathered around a table playing a game of cards, their spirits high, more than a few empty glasses among the filled ones that stood at hand. A moment later, a serving girl wandered out of the back, her red hair lighter than mine had naturally been and curling wildly in defiance of management.

“Room for the night?” she asked, coming over to me.

I nodded, but before I could form a request for food or drink, she took note of my appearance. “And perhaps a bath?”

I apparently looked less put-together than I felt.

“Yes, please,” I murmured, trying to subdue the blush rising in my cheeks.

“Bath first,” she declared, hands on her hips. “Follow me.”

The girl led me through a swinging door and down a hallway off of which opened several private bathing rooms. She ushered me into one that was vacant, then shut the door behind us while I took stock of the area. A wooden washtub dominated the center of the floor, and a bench with folded towels sat against one wall, a water-spotted mirror hanging above it. Nothing exuded luxury, but it was nonetheless clean and inviting, and that was all I required.

“You can undress and hang your clothes here,” the girl told me, motioning to hooks set into the wall beside the door. “I’ll be back with buckets of hot water.”

I sighed. “Thank you. This will be lovely.”

She left, and I struggled out of the clothes Fi had given me. While the garments themselves were in good shape, the day’s activities had left me dirty and stinking of sweat. I heard the door open as I finished removing my tunic and, with a twinge of modesty, turned to keep my back to the serving girl.

Thud, the buckets hit the floor, followed by a half gasp, half shriek. Alarmed and confused, I shot a look over my shoulder, and my heart seemed to drop into my stomach. The serving girl’s gaze was riveted on my back. Hot water sloshed across my feet, and I hopped sideways, smacking my legs against the bench that held the stack of towels. Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for one dizzy, mind-blurring moment, I thought I might scream, too.

Thick, rope-like scars crawled down my otherwise smooth back, from the tops of my shoulder blades to just above my waist. My wings had been attached by bone and muscle and skin, like any extremity, and where my body had frantically tried to repair itself, it had created a pair of raised dark red scars that spider-webbed into whiteness at the edges.

My breath coming fast and shallow, I sank heavily down on the bench, toppling a few of the folded towels onto the floor, where they immediately soaked up water. I carried a secret on my body. A secret thrust upon me by three strikes of a halberd. I could still feel the imposing shadows of the hunters like a shiver down my spine. People might look at me and see a beautiful young woman, but what lay beneath was ugly and revolting, a mutilation that would drive them away—if I needed any proof, the girl appeared ready to pass out. Who would want to be near the hideous proof of such brutalization? Not me, but I had no choice in the matter. If I did, I would run far and fast.

Then the worst prospect of all bubbled to the surface of my mind. Had my troubled fourteen-year-old cousin Illumina watched this happen to me? Left me bleeding, only to willingly relive the memory of it later? Relish it even, happily drawing pictures of my agony? Trembling, I gagged. No, no, no, it’s not possible. But something inside me disagreed, a part of me I had been trying to ignore, a part of me that not only believed she was capable of such a thing, but that she had done it.

The serving girl’s mouth was flapping soundlessly, her face going from deathly white to blazing red, but I could find no words to comfort her. Wanting to disappear, I threw on my tunic and cloak and rushed from the room and out of the inn, dragging my pack along with me.

The cold of the night air hit me like a slap on the face, and I realized there were tears on my cheeks, beginning to freeze. But I didn’t take the time to wipe them away. I was still running, running, running, desperate to outrun what I had become.

I knew where I was going, though my conscious mind insisted good sense would return to me; that I would change my decision; that I didn’t have to worry or bemoan my weakness because Anya, the principled niece of the Queen, would rear her head before the end. But the Queen’s niece only served to lend her expertise to the question of concealment as she pushed through the door of The River’s End. I pulled up my hood, unable to dispel my fear of discovery by Tom Matlock or some other Constabulary. I could not afford to be stopped now, not when I so desperately needed to lose myself.

The man seated at the table near the vestibule looked up at my approach.

“Back for another go?” he asked, his gold canine tooth the star attraction in his crooked grin.

I swallowed hard, willing my voice to come out evenly, needing to prove I was in control of what I was doing.

“More or less. I need to talk to whoever handles your, ah, inventory.”

“More you use, less you feel.” Robb snapped his ever-present deck of cards, then stood and walked to the cellar door through which lay the cloister of depravity that I craved. He muttered to a larger chap who appeared to be standing guard, and I shifted restlessly, tapping my foot and glancing over my shoulder. I was about to snipe at the men to hurry when they parted company, and I was waved over by the big fellow. I joined him, surveying the gruesome tattoos blanketing his forearms—scenes of beheadings, nooses, and weapons linked together with chains—and something inside said I should flee while I still could. But I stayed in place, seeking an alternate kind of escape.

The man examined me, presumably taking in my age, gender, rough appearance, and slight build.

“Follow me,” he gruffly instructed, apparently satisfied I represented no threat, chewing on the stub of a cigar that bounced around with every word he spoke.

I stayed on his heels while he wove his way through the pub’s patrons and into a dimly lit hallway at the rear of the establishment. He untied a ring of keys from his belt, then inserted one into a door the same color as the stone walls. I might have thought it clever camouflage if not for the unending drabness of this entire place. We stepped inside, and he produced a rusty, leaky old lighter from a trouser pocket. After a good half-dozen attempts, the contraption sparked to life, and he used it to ignite a flame on an oil lamp that rested on a block jutting forth from the wall.

The room in which we stood was cold and damp, for the pub’s heat did not stretch this far. Its floor was dirt, giving it a musty smell, and it was so small, I could have spat from one side to the other. The man from whom I hoped to purchase a supply of Cysur closed the door behind us, and goose bumps appeared on my arms. What if I was now locked inside? I checked the room for another egress, but there was none. This was an aboveground cellar.

“What you want?” the man asked, moving to stand behind a desk that took up half the floor.

I examined his broad face, trying to determine what to say. Though I was a novice with respect to this type of transaction, he didn’t seem the sort to tolerantly guide me along. My mouth opened, but no words emerged. Somewhere—perhaps just in my head—a clock ticked, and my discomfort mounted. I wanted to leave, I needed to stay, I wanted to find a bathroom, I needed to sleep. In the end, I fidgeted, no more able to regulate my nerves than to regulate the clock. The man across from me apparently found this amusing, smiling grotesquely from around the remnants of his cigar.

Thankfully, Robb saved me from further embarrassment, coming through the door bearing a metal-banded wooden chest. He set it on top of the desk, then exited.

“Seat yourself,” the tattooed fellow muttered, pointing to a chair against the wall.

I nodded, sweat running down my back despite the chill in the air. My lack of experience was evident—people were less likely to prey upon someone who appeared self-assured, and I was failing miserably in the act.

The man shifted his attention to the double-locked chest, and made use of two other keys on his ring to open it, leaving me to drag the chair closer. I sat down across the desk from him, resolved to be more assertive to regain what footing I could. He eyed me with a miniscule smirk, letting me know he could see right through my facade, then placed three pouches on the surface between us.

“How do you take your pleasure?”

“I need to know my choices.”

“Figured as much.” He yanked open the first of the pouches and held it out to me, displaying the finely ground powder inside. In the dimness, it appeared black like gunpowder, but when I squinted, I realized it was green, darker even than seaweed swaying in deep water.

“It’s already cut, ready for snortin’,” he informed me.

I yanked my head back, shaking it quickly side to side. He pulled the ties closed and moved on to the next pouch, full of brownish, leaf-like flakes.

“Good if you prefer smoke, like in the den. Downside is it leaves a stink you can’t wash out. This lot you can also chop and wet to rub your gums. But it’ll stain your whole mouth same way the powder stains your nose. The green grin, some call it.”

“I don’t want evidence about me.” On that point, I could manage certitude.

“Your type usually don’t. This’ll be what you want. Evidence ain’t so obvious.”

He removed a vial from the last pouch and set it down to show me the emerald liquid it contained. The light from the oil lamp reflected merrily off the substance—except at its core, where it looked entrancingly cold.

“Won’t it stain, too?”

He laid down a thick-needled syringe. “Not for drinkin’, for shootin’. Needle comes with the package. Your arm will scar, nothin’ more.”

I clenched my teeth, and my breathing picked up. Could I take that needle and plunge it into my flesh? Capitalizing on my silence, the man added some instruction, pointing to my upper arm.

“Just tie somethin’ tight around here, and the vein in your elbow will pop. Not hard once you get the hang of it.”

“And it doesn’t show?”

“Just the scars.”

Scars.

“I already have those,” I said, and picked up the vial and syringe.

* * *

Chrior was as I had seen it last—a city illuminated by the twinkling of snow in the moonlight. I walked along, the crunch of ice crystals beneath my feet calming and rhythmic. With a smile, I gazed upward at the rings of catwalks that wrapped like a coiled ribbon higher and higher, every level lined with homes and businesses. Normally, the sky would be filled with the glinting of Faerie wings as the residents of Chrior zipped along their way, but shops had already closed for the night, and it was cold. Not too cold for me, though. I needed to be out here. I felt it strongly, though I couldn’t have said the reason.

I passed the hub of the city, aware now of the pulse of the Great Redwood, home of the royal Redwood Fae and the Queen’s Court—my home. I started jogging, aching for it, for the warmth of its heartwood, the love carvings adorning its bark, the elemental gifts like jewels decorating the Queen’s throne of twined roots at the base of its inner walls. I ran until my boots no longer met snow, splashing instead into a reserve of water.

I halted, leggings soaked to the knee from my unexpected encounter. Before me, the snow was melting into a shallow lake interspersed with floating ice. It was the middle of winter, cold enough to maintain a frost in full sun, let alone when the horizon had swallowed the light.

Shadows of the Redwood’s branches stretched toward me across the water, and I stepped back. It was too dark for shadows, the hour too late for them to creep like this. Then an orange glow rose from between the shadowy tendrils, reflecting off the shallow pool. I felt the same glow against my skin, hot enough to make me sweat, bright enough to make me squint, and I raised my eyes to its source.

The Redwood was aflame, its bark screaming and popping, its limbs crackling as they neared collapse, a torch too immense for even a giant to wield. It loomed before me, frightening and yet awe inspiring.

Smoke coiled into the already blackened sky, obscuring any stars that might have emerged for their nighttime watch, and I wished I could hide, too. Tears streamed down my face, my horror too great to contain and my eyes stinging from the effuse. Where was Queen Ubiqua? My father, Davic, my best friend, Ione? I sloshed forward—the Redwood, ancient symbol of my people, was lost, along with anyone who was inside it.

The heat grew unbearable, and I was forced to stop again, but this time there was a figure in my view, a silhouette so slight she might have been another shadow. She stood close by the trunk, closer than should have been possible. She would die.

“Get away!” I shrieked above the roar of the flames. “You have to run!”

But the little girl shook her head.

“All this is mine.” Her soft voice was somehow more audible than my shouts. “My birthright. It may burn and fall, but I will never let it go.”

The flames engulfed Illumina despite my warning cries, and even though she was a Fire Fae, I doubted she could survive. Then the mighty tree collapsed into the cradle of freezing water at its base.

* * *

I awoke stiff and trembling, the spot where I lay damp enough to convince me the vision of the Redwood had been real. I staggered to my feet, blinking against the sun, and caught myself with an open palm on a rough wall. I was again in an alley; worse, I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here, nor was I sure I cared. At least I’d been smart enough to conceal myself behind a heap of rubbish and had pulled my cloak over me like a Faerie Shroud—except instead of hiding my wings and disguising me as human, it had allowed me to pass for human waste.

I peered out at the crowded street, then rubbed a hand over my face. Where was I? I squinted, feeling as though my senses were muted by gauze bandages, and scanned the buildings for clues. The area was mostly residential, with small shops tucked here and there. Over the crest of a roof, I spotted a spire that was familiar. A bell hung between four pillars under the steeple, and it began to ring out the time. I closed my eyes and counted, forcing myself to concentrate despite the fogginess in my brain. Nine bells. The day was still young.

I stumbled out of the alley, almost tripping over my feet. Needing to think clearly despite sickening vertigo, I took several deep breaths. Maybe the Cysur was more potent in a syringe than in a smoke. I didn’t even know how much I’d taken. My memory of the night before was hazy at best—my only clear recollection was of the tattooed man in the pub measuring the drug for me and showing me how to inject it. What had I done with the rest of the supply? Feeling a twinge of panic, I slid my hand inside my pack and found a strangely shaped pouch—from its feel, I could tell it contained the vial and syringe for which I’d paid. Relief flooded me, followed by shame. Never again, I promised myself. Nature, I could have died. Never, never again. Though my promise was sincere, I didn’t take the next logical step—I didn’t get rid of the drug.

I looked around once more, and the reason the church spire was familiar came to me like a dead weight in my stomach. One of the buildings that formed the alley in which I’d slept was likewise familiar. It was the bathhouse I’d hidden beside last night—I was on the same street where I’d interrogated the guard. I must have retraced my path under the influence of the Green. I grimaced. This wasn’t the smartest place for me to be.

I yanked my hood up and made to walk away, quick and quiet, before anyone took note of me, but a swarm of people across the road drew my attention. The group was centered in front of the home I’d invaded a few short hours ago, mutterings rising and falling while they watched and waited...But for what? I’d expected the guard to report the incident, but why so much fuss? The circumstances might be unusual, disturbing even, but not worth the time of an investigation, especially when I was sure my victim couldn’t describe me. He hadn’t gotten a good look at me last night, and considerable time had passed since he’d been involved in my arrest.

The door to the guard’s home swung open and two Constabularies strode out into a semicircular area their comrades had cleared of civilians. The first was broad-chested and walked with an intimidating side-to-side motion, his shoulders leading. Before he raised his silvering head, I recognized him as Constable Marcus Farrier, the man who had led the inquest into Evangeline’s suicide. Experience told me he was businesslike and callous, having professed in the middle of the Fae-mily Home that he gave not a care for my friend’s fate.

The second Constabulary was Farrier’s much younger partner, Officer Tom Matlock. My breath hitched and I sank onto a storefront bench, watching him peruse the curious who had gathered round, afraid his gray eyes would find me. Despite my altered appearance, he would recognize me if I was foolish enough to give him the opportunity. Even though he had twice before refused to arrest me, I doubted I would be granted leniency this time, especially with Constable Farrier at his side. Besides, I feared if Tom even looked into my eyes, he’d know where I’d been finding comfort of late. And I didn’t think I could bear it if the affection and respect he held for me turned into disdain.

Though common sense urged me to flee, my gaze remained fixed on Tom. He had pristine posture and was taller than Farrier by a few inches. Both of them wore the scarlet uniforms of the Governor’s men, though Farrier’s insignia and the hat he clutched under his arm were significant of his higher rank. A breeze picked up, and Tom’s dark hair flitted over his forehead. An urge to reach out and touch it, enjoy its softness, filled me, calling forth the memory of the kiss we had shared, how warm his body had been, how he’d moaned against my lips, how his hands had skimmed my waist, and the tingling sensation his touch had generated inside me.

I could easily have gotten lost in my thoughts, but a snippet of conversation stole my attention. Two women were ambling away from the scene, freely speculating about what might have occurred.

“You’ve seen the old crone what lives there. I saw her crying with my own eyes, I did. Right like she had a heart!”

“Even an old crone is bound to grieve over a murdered son. Especially one what cared for her.”

I was on my feet in an instant. Rushing forward, I grabbed the arm of the woman closer to me without considering how she might react. She swiveled toward me, eyes wild, looking ready to shout or scream. I released her at once, and her posture relaxed, perhaps because I was young enough to be her daughter.

“Did you say someone was killed in that house?” I demanded, sounding a bit like an interrogator.

The woman whose arm I had clutched nodded, her lips compressing into a thin line. “Why d’you think all those Scarlets are out in force? They take care of their own, they do.”

“Seems someone broke into the house and done in the son,” her companion added. “Don’t know how, don’t know why, but on my word, they’ll confirm it all before the day’s out.”

Vertigo revisited me, and I swayed on my feet. The women glanced at each other, then helped me to the bench. Having fulfilled their charitable duty, they hurried on their way, wiping their hands on their skirts as though I might be diseased.

Forcing my breathing to slow and deepen, I tried to ward off panic with reason. The women had to be wrong. News was always distorted before facts were released, and rumors spread faster than weeds. I hadn’t caused the guard serious injury. I had scared him, yes, but he was alive and talking when I left.

But that was before I’d sought out a needle. I racked my brain, trying to remember the rest of the night. What if I’d reentered the house under the influence of Cysur Naravni? What if I had hurt the man during the time I couldn’t remember? I vehemently shook my head. No, the idea was preposterous. And yet, the alley in which I’d awoken was in the guard’s neighborhood.

Another terrible thought entered my head. I had spitefully left the guard tied. What if he had struggled to free himself and tipped over the chair? Could the sash have tightened enough to choke him? Had his mother returned too late to give him aid?

The bell tolled the half hour, and I again looked across the street. A group of Constabularies had just emerged from the house carrying a stretcher upon which was strapped a black-covered form the approximate shape and size of the guard I’d attacked. Remorse hit me like a lightning strike—there was no longer a chance the women were wrong about the man’s fate. A wave of trembling rolled through me, and I stared at my hands. Was there blood on them?

Unable to bear the sight of the guard’s corpse being hauled out of the home, I bolted.


Chapter Seven (#ulink_0f7a783a-f7aa-5f4d-bd86-c67d519ac697)

THE PRIVATE COLLECTOR

When my side hurt so badly I could run no farther, I halted and put a hand to my face. It was wet with tears. I stepped into the shadow of a building, struggling to stop the flow. But the more I tried to suppress my emotions, the more they insisted on release. Mortified by my loss of control, I was seized with a desire to bang my head against the stone wall behind me, believing pain might jolt me out of my fit. I had never felt so wretched in my life.

What I needed was a friend. But it wasn’t Shea who came to mind, or even Tom. It was Fi. Whatever her limited means, I could count on her to give me assistance and comfort, and I was in greater need of both now more than ever before.

A pair of Constabularies walked past me on the street, and I held my breath. When they were a safe distance from me, I straightened my cloak and hastened in the direction of the Fae-mily Home. The guard’s death had shaken me, but I couldn’t let it pitch me into stupidity and panic. Though my missing connection to Nature now felt like a gaping black hole, and the thought that I might be a killer made me sick to my stomach, no one could connect me to the crime. I was safe unless I gave people cause to suspect me. I was safe and, despite everything, could continue my search for the Anlace.

When the Home came into view, I momentarily halted, then slunk down a side road and approached the alley from the other end. I groped in my pack for the key Fi had provided to the back entrance, excavating it from the bottom with a handful of dirt and lint, and let myself inside. Grateful for the warmth that rolled over me, I entered the room I had been given and softly closed the door. The accommodations were exactly as I’d left them. Nature bless Fi.

I abandoned my things, quickly washed up, then decided to chance breakfast. I was light-headed and heavyhearted, and I hadn’t eaten anything since the meal Fi had provided the last time I’d been here. I padded down the hallway to the dining room and peered past the buffet tables into the kitchen, craning my neck to see into the near-empty entryway. Nothing looked or felt abnormal—definitely no apparent signs that Luka Ivanova or his men were here. The tension left my neck and shoulders, and I followed a few insouciant Fae stragglers into the dining hall. There wasn’t a lot of food left, but I grabbed a few muffins from a fresh supply the cooks had added to a serving plate.

Tairmor published a newspaper—several, actually, thanks to a human invention called the printing press—and a copy of one of them had been left on a breakfast table. With a nervous glance about the room, I picked it up and went to take a seat in a corner, aware that as journalistic competition had grown, so had the outrageousness of the opinions committed to ink.

The front page bore the chronicle’s handle: The Dragon’s Blood Meridian. I scanned the bold-faced headlines, none of which reflected the news that should have been there—news of an investigation into the barbaric experiments conducted on humans and Fae alike on Evernook Island. Though information about the destructive fire itself could hardly have been suppressed, the activities taking place on the island remained shrouded in mystery. Had the government contained the incident and wiped the facility clean, knowing how damaging it would be to official Fae relationships? Or had most of the evidence burned? Regardless of the reasons, the Meridian was left to report—not without risk I was sure—on the political mutterings in the streets.

The most prominent of the newspaper’s headlines was: Stuffing the Boxes—How the Rich Man Gets Both His Vote and Yours.

When we’d first met, Shea had mentioned that although the Warckum Territory supposedly elected its officials by popular vote, Ivanova blood had held the governorship for longer than anyone could remember. Whether or not tampering with the elections occurred, I did not doubt friends of the Ivanova regime benefitted from the Governor’s good fortune, fueling their desire to maintain the status quo.

I skimmed the article; then my eye was caught by another, smaller headline in the bottom-left corner of the page. It read: Child Disappearances Still Rampant; Still Unsolved. See page 4.

My heart lodged in my throat, and I practically ripped my way to the middle of the paper. The first paragraph told me all I needed to know.

A new form of population control may have emerged among the impoverished residents of Sheness. As if disease, starvation, and crime-related deaths weren’t enough, child disappearances are occurring in record numbers. The skeptical among us are questioning law enforcement’s devotion to unraveling the cause. Does the loss of infants and toddlers living in squalor really matter to those in power?

I crunched the page in my fist, a single word thrumming in my brain: Sepulchres. Whether humans knew it or not, the timing of the disappearances and the nature of the victims pointed to that conclusion and no other.

I pressed my palms against my temples, compressing the memories of Evernook Island into a coherent whole. There had been Sepulchres on that accursed chunk of rock, once-beautiful beings who had been trapped on the human side of the Bloody Road when the Faerie race had been driven from the Territory; Sepulchres who had survived their separation from magic by feeding on children, the younger the better, because they were so pure; Sepulchres who had been made even more dangerous to humans by torture and abuse. I didn’t know how many of the creatures might have been imprisoned in that fortress, but it was possible some of them had survived the fighting and fire and gone to Sheness.

Pushing back my chair, I dashed to my room and locked the door, images of Shea’s younger sisters, Marissa and Magdalene, springing to mind. They and many other innocent children crawled into their beds safe and sound at nightfall, but some awoke to spindly white fingers and mouths scarred shut. I didn’t know how Sepulchres killed, but no child who gazed upon one would die without screams.

I began to pace, fighting the tide of emotions the memories generated. The human world was gray and black and soiled, full of ugliness and pain—pain that the humans caused themselves and others. And now the masterminds of Evernook had unleashed a horde of monsters. While it seemed clear that Fae-haters were behind the experiments on the island, it wasn’t Fae they were hurting now. I would have reveled in the irony of this fate, except the lives being lost weren’t the right ones. If the creatures would only hunt their tormentors...but then the words I had twice heard from the Sepulchres themselves spilled forth.

“Save us—save us all,” I muttered, repeating their mantra. “But what does that mean?”

Frustrated, I dug my hands into the base of my long hair and tugged, unable to attach any more meaning to the words than on the occasion I’d first heard them. The only certainty was that they were a plea for help. Legend told me Sepulchres weren’t predatory by nature. They needed help, and so did the people of the Warckum Territory.

With a groan of misery, I sank down on my bed. Did I have a responsibility in this by virtue of accidental knowledge? And even if I accepted that I did, what could I do? I dared not deliver the information I had to the unpredictable hands of the newspaper owners. Nor could I approach the Constabularies, who would be duty-bound to arrest me, whether or not they believed my tale.

What about Fi? She seemed to have some line of communication with the Lieutenant Governor, and he knew Sepulchres existed within the Warckum Territory. But he would be smart enough to surmise the information had come from me—Fi would not have personal knowledge of happenings on the coast. And that might also land me in the hands of the Constabularies.

What about Officer Matlock? He had helped me before and was less likely to take me into custody. But was that a risk I was willing to run? No, it wasn’t, at least not until I had recovered and returned the Anlace to the Queen. At that point, with the power of the Redwood Fae behind me, I’d no longer have to fear arrest. And recovering the Anlace had become a far more manageable task thanks to the information I’d obtained from the guard—the sooner I pursued it, the better.

Then I might go to Tom.

Once my affairs were sorted.

Once the stink of Cysur is off you.He’ll smell it on you. He warned you not to try it, but you didn’t listen, and he’ll smell it on you clear as if you slept with hogs.

Air. I needed air. I grabbed my cloak and stepped outside, hoping the voice in my head—the voice that echoed formlessly inside my skull, reminiscent of my own, yet quite distinct—would be drowned out by the bustle of the street.

I stood still for a moment, trying to shake my jitters, then headed south toward the business district, where the guard had indicated I might find Kodiak Sandrovich. A collector might have a shop, and even if he didn’t, his proclivities would surely be known. He had to obtain the pieces in his collection from somewhere. And his name alone suggested he was a member of the upper class, a man who could pay top dollar.

The streets grew less dirty, and the windows of the buildings less grimy, as I walked along. By the time I reached the market district, the shops were in decent repair, though their signs and storefronts were worn and mundane. I glanced up and down the side streets while I advanced, searching for pawn, antique, and collectors’ shops. My eyes lit on a man about a block ahead of me who was busily hanging a freshly painted business sign, and I stopped so suddenly that the people behind me stacked up like a deck of playing cards. They stepped around me, some casting withering glances, and I buried my hands in my cloak and darted across the street. After rushing into the store nearest me, I hastened to look out its front window, surprised to find it was grated with bars. Nevertheless, I studied the workman, gradually relaxing my clenched fists. The worker wasn’t Thatcher More. Still, there was little doubt the store was being prepared for him. The sign read: More Clocks, More Cabinetry, More Skill. Despite my jitters, I smirked. Thatcher was a master carpenter and clockmaker, and the play on words would surely make his business memorable. Then the import of the sign registered. If Thatcher was back in town, so was his family. So was Shea. Sweat prickled the back of my neck and revulsion seemed to rise like bile in my throat as I tried to imagine what I would do if I came face-to-face with her. She’d better hope I didn’t have a weapon.

I tore my gaze from the window and turned around to discover I stood in the very type of store I had wanted to find. Baubles and knickknacks were peppered throughout displays of plates, sculptures, weaponry, glassware, and jewelry, the more valuable of which were in locked cabinets. I spotted the proprietor at a desk, apparently engrossed in record keeping, and wandered over to him, glancing at some of the objects I passed. When he did not look up, I cleared my throat to draw his attention.

“And how can I help you?” he almost sneered, his eyes climbing up and down my form, no doubt assessing how much of his merchandise might be tucked within the folds of my cloak.

“I’m looking for a dagger that once belonged to my aunt,” I informed him. I pushed aside the garment to put my hands on my hips in the hope of allaying his suspicion and encouraging his cooperation. “It’s a pretty thing with a red jewel in the handle, though its true worth lies in sentimental value.”

“A dagger, you say?” He stroked the stubble of his chin with some thoughtfulness. “I’ll show you what I’ve got, though I don’t recall anything the likes of what you’re describing.”

He led me to a glass case that held a row of blades lying on a blue velvet lining. I examined them, my hope deflating. The proprietor knew his stock—the Anlace wasn’t there.

“Any other shops like yours? Or even private collectors who might favor knives?”

“A competitor sits two blocks west of here.” He paused, again rubbing his scruffy chin. “The best-known private collector is Kodiak Sandrovich, though he don’t keep a shop.”

Excitement flooded my veins. Sandrovich’s reputation should make him easier to find.

“Thanks. I guess I’ll go check out your competitor’s goods.” I took a step toward the door, then swiveled on my heel to address him once more. “In case I don’t have luck at the other place, any chance I could get in touch with this Sandrovich fellow?”

The proprietor’s eyebrows shot up; then he snorted a laugh.

“Gentlemen like him don’t rub elbows with the likes of us. He sends a dogsbody around once a week to see what new pieces we’ve got on sale. But there’s no point in bothering with that. If he’s got your dagger, it’s gone for good. Mr. Sandrovich keeps what he buys.”

I nodded and walked outside, noting the column of locks upon the shop’s front door and the grated interior door that could be swung shut for added protection. I desperately hoped the next shop would have the Anlace because I didn’t think I could break through these types of security measures, and a wealthy private collector would indubitably have much the same.

My thoughts went unbidden to Zabriel, and a smile tugged at the corners of my lips. He’d had his own set of lock-picking tools, but when the subtle approach had failed on Evernook Island, he’d blasted through a door with his pistol. My cousin had been bold and a bit reckless, characteristics that had no doubt attracted him to the pirate’s life.

If he hadn’t been so bold and reckless, perhaps he’d still be alive.

I sighed, ever-present sorrow rising from my gut to squeeze my heart. I had always heard that a loved one survived in memories, but at the moment, it seemed to me that memories were more of a curse than a blessing. But you don’t have to let them consume you. You know how to find relief. I shivered, the desire to fly, to soar, to escape, so strong that I would have abandoned my mission if I’d been closer to The River’s End pub. I glanced at my arm, almost feeling the prick of the needle, the flow of the liquid Cysur into my veins, the heady rush of euphoria it brought. The sensation was intoxicating—better than Sale, better than the best food I’d ever tasted, better than the sweetest kisses. My palms began to sweat and itch, for the primal urgency of my need was both exhilarating and frightening.

A tug on my elbow jolted me back to reality.

“So where are we goin’ next?”

I stifled a groan at the sight of Frat. How did he always appear at my side?

“We’re not going anywhere. I’m spending a nice afternoon in the business district.”

“Not so. I saw you ’xamining those knives. You’re lookin’ for somethin’ particular.”

“I don’t think that’s your business. And why is it you always show up? I told you to quit following me.”

“Nothin’ sinister ’bout it. I likes ya, and you need watchin’ over.”

I huffed. “I don’t need someone watching over me. You’re more likely to need help than I am.” In spite of my irritation with him, I truly didn’t want him to come to harm. “Speaking of which, have you heard of the Fae-mily Home? It provides food and shelter to injured and needy Fae.”

Now it was Frat’s turn to huff. Poking himself in the chest with his thumb, he declared, “I ain’t injured or needy. I told ya—I does quite well for meself.”

“Then go do quite well somewhere else. And stop trailing me. It’s annoying.”

He blinked at me a couple of times, then took a step back, and I felt as though I’d squished a bunny.

“Wait,” I said, catching him by his enormous coat before he could leave. “I’m sorry. I’m just not in the best mood today.”

“Then ya should quit usin’ Black Magic. Gives ya a hangover of sorts and makes your mood bounce ’round.”

My crossness instantly reemerged, proving his point. Still, he knew way too much about my life and had no call to interfere in it, even if he was right.

“And how would you know the way Black Magic makes someone feel?”

“Seen enough of its dirty work. Fae and humans alike ruined. And more deaths lately—overdoses most say, but I ain’t so sure. Scarlets are takin’ more notice than usual. You may have seen ’em hangin’ ’round the shelters, trackin’ folks. Somethin’s up sure and certain. It’s one of the reasons you need watchin’.”

“For the last time, I don’t need anyone watching over me. And just what do you mean by one of the reasons?”

“Someone’s trailin’ you, only it ain’t me.”

“What?” My eyes snapped to the people behind Frat, looking for someone out of place. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Course ya don’t. Guy’s good. You got to be followin’ the follower to catch on.”

I nodded, pulse racing. “What does he look like?”

“Stocky sort, dressed to blend in. Can’t say much more—’e wears a hat low over ’is face.”

I nodded, considering the description. It didn’t fit Tom or Farrier. And why would a Constabulary follow me, anyway? They’d be under orders to arrest me. Who, then? Realizing Frat was staring at me, I patted him on the head.

“Thanks for the information—I’ll keep my eyes open. But I really do have to be on my way. Alone.”

Frat shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He tipped his hat in his usual fashion and sauntered away. I watched until he disappeared from view, then turned and walked west at a quickened pace. After half a block, I glanced over my shoulder but saw no sign of trouble.

The next shop was much like the first—major security, but no Anlace. And, again, the name Sandrovich came up but no information about where he lived. How was I to locate him? I’d have to stalk the area to find the dogsbody—he might lead me to his master’s home. I sighed, and fretfully tugged on my hair. I was once again considering sneaking into someone’s house, only this time I had neither the finesse nor brute force to carry it out. On the other hand, I might have the connections to get what I needed.

I took a roundabout route to the Fae-mily Home, deliberately ducking in and out of crowds and stopping in doorways to look behind me. Though I saw no one matching the description Frat had given me, I waited for darkness to descend before stealing into the alley and through the door that led to my room. I was surprised but pleased to find Fi had left a lamp burning on the small stand next to the bed.

Though my stomach was grumbling, I fetched Illumina’s diary, trying not to think about the drawing it contained, and tore out a sheet of paper. Settling on the bed, I began to write the note I had already composed, my request couched in innocuous language in case it fell into the wrong hands.

Dear Gwyneth,

I am in pursuit of a relic that was much loved by our mutual friend. I hope to present it as a gift to his mother, who will soon be arriving for a visit. I’m having difficulty obtaining it, however, as its access is restricted. I’m hoping you might recommend someone with the special skills to help me negotiate its release. Time is of the essence.

Gratefully yours,

A

Satisfied with the content, I folded the note and tucked it safely in my pack. More tired than hungry, I crawled into bed and extinguished the lamp.

I awoke sometime later, clammy and quivering, with the distinct sensation that I was being watched. Lying still, I examined the room, my gaze landing on a shadow in the corner near the washbasin. I stared at it, barely breathing, trying to determine its shape and size. Images of Sepulchres, hunters, and Constabularies flashed in my head. Though reason insisted the door was locked from the inside, preventing anyone from entering, my instincts told me otherwise. I groped for the long knife I had laid on the nightstand, then threw off my covers to spring to my feet.

“Who’s there?” I demanded, squinting to bring the shape into better focus.

There was no answer, but it seemed to me that the shadow shifted, moving along the floor, and I hopped on top of my bed.

“I’d leave if I were you,” I cried, trying to sound menacing but having no idea to whom I was speaking. “You’re not welcome here.”

Still no reply. Should I stand my ground and fight? Or should I scream and draw the attention of the residents of the Home, making my presence known? But perhaps my presence was already known. Liking neither option, I leaped from the bed to land in front of the door. I threw back the lock and shoved it open, then dashed barefoot into the small hallway and out the exit to the alley. I broke into a run, not daring to look over my shoulder for fear of what might be following.

I ran until my sides hurt and my feet felt bruised and bloodied, then stopped to join a group of homeless huddled around a trash heap fire for warmth. A few people were cooking cups of coffee or watery soup. No one gave me a glance, telling me the makeup of the group changed frequently. Feeling anonymous, I scoured the direction from which I had come but detected no sign of pursuit.

I exhaled heavily, then tried to determine what had happened. What might have been lurking in my room? And how could it have entered? There was only one small, high window, and it had not been broken. And the door had been firmly locked from the inside. I rubbed my hands together over the burning rubbish, considering the possibilities. An intruder could have been in my room at the time of my return. But the lamp had been lit. Surely I would have noticed.

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog that had of late inhabited my brain. There was one other possibility that scared me as much as, if not more than, the presence of an intruder. Could I have imagined the whole thing?

I had to quit using Cysur. Despite the hunger I felt for the peace it could provide, it might be causing me to hallucinate. Now more than ever, I needed to keep my wits about me, and I needed to leave behind the world of utter depravity that I found so appealing.

Considerably calmer, I returned to the Fae-mily Home, not wanting to sleep on the street and believing it was best to face my fear. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that my imagination had transformed a shadow into a threat.

I entered the shelter from the alley, acutely aware of the pounding of my heart, for it reverberated in my temples, my ears, and my very skin. I took several deep breaths, then forced myself to push open the door to my room. I tensed, clutching my long knife, but saw no intruder. On the other hand, the light from the interior of the Home did little to illuminate the space. I crossed the threshold and crept toward the lamp on the nightstand, keeping my back to the wall. There was no sound other than my soft footfalls and my ragged breathing.

After what seemed like hours, I brought the lamp to life. I scanned the room, taking note of every shadow, then crossed the floor to close and lock the door. I was alone. Or was I? My eyes shot to the cot. Could something be skulking underneath it? I knelt down, my heart once more drumming, and took a look. The only thing hiding from me was dust. With a relieved laugh, I reclaimed my feet, internally chastising myself for being so foolish. Then I crossed to the washbasin and dampened a cloth, wrapping it around my damaged feet. When they stopped smarting, I crawled into bed. Only this time, I didn’t douse the lamp.

* * *

The next morning, I obtained an envelope from Fi and stuffed the note I had written inside it, asking her to post the message by snowbird to the Dementya Estate. She readily agreed but refused the coin I proffered, leaving me feeling even more indebted to her.





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