Copper Girl (17 page)

“Most definitely. I think she might be of gold,” I added, considering her blond hair.

“Should I appear as a human?”

“No,” I said, without thinking. Then I considered, and elaborated, “No. I want her to see you as you are.” I reached for his hand. “As I see you.”

Micah squeezed my fingers, and I felt the strength of our togetherness. Perhaps we really were an alloy, and therefore enjoyed the strengths of both and the weaknesses of neither. Together, we walked toward the front door in search of the only human I’d ever known to take on the Peacekeepers with a modicum of success: my mother.

Despite the fact that I’d grown up in these marble-lined halls, the opulence of the Raven Compound usually distracted me, not to mention newcomers; once, a pizza boy let the pie fall with a splat as he stared into the foyer, oblivious to the hot sauce that splashed his ankles. Micah, steeped in Otherwordly glamour as he was, hardly batted an eyelash at the gilt trim, and I didn’t even pause to assess whether the hydrangeas were in bloom. I was intent on finding Mom.

Not that she was to be easily found. We searched the kitchen, both parlors, and a good portion of the second floor. While I descended to the foyer, I groaned; was she really not home, today of all days? She was always home, being that she could hardly bear the outside world now that Dad and Maas were gone. Then I looked through one of the oriel windows and spied a bit of movement in the backyard; there she was, weeding the vegetable patch. I felt foolish for not checking her favorite place earlier, but no matter. I’d found her.

I took Micah’s hand and led him across the expansive, manicured yard to the only place Mom felt at home. There was something calming about working the soil, or so she always claimed, and on any passable day she could be found wearing her floppy sun hat, up to her elbows in compost. After the events of the last week I understood, more than ever, what she saw in gardening; truly, it’s the little things that get us by.

She looked up at our approach and smiled when she saw me, that smile fading as her gaze moved to Micah. Wordlessly, she stood. Micah and I followed her to the kitchen. She flipped on the light over the sink while I started the dishwasher.

“The light obscures the camera,” I explained to Micah, who was staring at the dishwasher in mingled amazement and horror, “and we’re pretty sure the only bug is by the washer. Well, the only bug in the kitchen.” Mom joined us in front of the washer, pulling off her gloves. “Mom, this is—”

“An elf,” she finished, rather loudly, tossing her muddy gloves into the sink.

“Micah Silverstrand,” he said with his most gracious bow. Mom looked unimpressed as she pulled off her hat, but Micah’s own face was cast in wonder as her golden hair fell about her shoulders. “Is it truly you?” Mom only pursed her lips, so he asked me the same question.

“Mom, what does he mean?” I asked, but Micah answered.

“Queen Maeve,” he said, his voice flat, certain. After another awestruck moment of staring at my mother, Micah turned to me. “Not only is your father Baudoin Corbeau, your mother is the Queen of the Seelie Court. Small wonder you possess such power.”

“That was a long time ago,” Mom said softly. “I haven’t been to the Otherworld since—”

“Since you dragged Sadie and me out, that time we got lost,” I finished. “The first time we went without Max.” Mom nodded, remembering the grief-tinged fury of that last, unplanned trip abroad.

Then we were all staring at each other: my elf-man, the Lord of all Silver; my mother, Queen of the Seelie Court; and me. You’d think those two could have held it together, but they seemed to have been struck dumb. I sucked in a deep breath, and took charge.

“Okay. My mother is a fairy queen. I’m consort to a silver elf.” Mom’s eyes bulged at ‘consort,” but I kept going. “We’ll deal with all this tomorrow. Mom, I’ve seen Max.”

The color drained from her face. “He’s alive?”

“Barely,” I replied, and went on to detail his captive state, the human research facility smack in the middle of the Otherworld, and Juliana’s involvement with the Peacekeepers. Her eyes went hard as stone—hard as metal, even—and she set her jaw like a warrior about to enter battle. Once my tale was complete, she turned on her heel and walked toward the front parlor. Wordlessly, I beckoned Micah to follow. He stared at the abrupt transition from the austere granite and polished steel of the kitchen to the cozy, inviting room, but we didn’t allow him the opportunity for questions. Mom grabbed one side of the china cabinet as I latched on to the other, and we dragged the mahogany behemoth away from the wall.

At first glance, it looked like we’d revealed nothing more than slightly less faded wallpaper, until Mom tapped her fingers in a few vital locations. The wallpaper disappeared, revealing a staircase that descended into blackness. Very horror movie-esque. Mom immediately plunged forward into the murky, spiderwebbed darkness; after a moment, Micah and I followed, his hand protectively hovering over my mark. The faint glow of fey stones at the bottom showed the way, brightening as we descended.

No one had been down these stairs in years, probably more than a decade. When Dad had first gotten the call to war, he’d rounded up most of the family artifacts and stashed them here in the old basement, so named because it mirrored the footprint of the original house. When the house had been rebuilt around a century ago, the basement—then a humble wine cellar—was no longer convenient to the kitchen, so a new one had been dug. That left the original as little more than a receptacle for odds and ends - that is, until the war had begun.

Now the old basement housed my family’s history. The government had confiscated a great deal, but if they’d only known what treasures lay beneath their feet, well, they probably would have gotten in a lot of trouble for missing such a trove. There were ancient spellbooks of every class, some little more than runes scratched onto badly cured hides. Others were priceless works of art, richly illuminated with gold leaf, inscribed on vellum; however, I’d learned the hard way that a spell’s potency had little to do with the way in which it had been recorded. Each of these books was powerful, and each could blast your brains to bits if you weren’t careful.

There were also more traditional works of art scattered about; well, traditional for the Corbeaus. There were paintings that held captured beings, still running about and pleading for release; enchanted rings and necklaces and, um, handcuffs; and a crumbling granite statue that was, in reality, a troll unlucky enough to have been caught out in the sun. Micah looked over the heaps of magical artifacts, pausing to admire a cut crystal decanter. He picked it up to watch the light dance off the facets, only to nearly drop it when he saw the remains of a sprite crumpled in the bottom.

“Oh, that. Unfortunate,” Mom said, glancing over toward the dull thud of crystal on wood. “Poor thing couldn’t breathe, once we replaced the stopper.”

“Indeed,” Micah murmured, respectfully setting the crystal coffin back upon the shelf. Mom, oblivious to the sprite’s plight, plunged farther into the room and I followed, the fey stones coming to life with a quiet, brimstone-scented puff wherever we walked. She didn’t have to tell me where she was going, because I could feel it. It was in my blood.

She was taking us to visit The Raven.

The Raven had died long, long ago, and an ancestor of mine had had it embalmed.
Well, the legend is a bit more colorful than that. It claims that my ancestor was a wizard without equal, and his pet raven accompanied him in all things, magical and otherwise. After a time, my ancestor learned that his faithful companion was the source of his magic. Eventually the bird had died, as all things do, but as my ancestor was preparing to bury his dear friend, the dead bird offered a bargain: take my name, keep my memory alive forever, and I’ll bestow upon you untold power
.

Since we’re all here, you can imagine that the wizard accepted. Now, whenever there’s a moment of strife or a family member needs a magical boost, we speak to The Raven. That first Raven had not only shared his name with my family, but we bore his image across our flesh. Sure, there are other clans who have magical totems—the Coyote of Southwestern America, for instance—but none have quite the affinity, or power, of the Corbeaus
.

Mom stopped abruptly before The Raven’s tomb, a leaded glass coffin that I suddenly found eerily akin to Max’s current resting place. After a brief moment, she stepped aside. “Sara, you must ask,” she said, turning to face us. “The Raven and I, we’ve never really gotten along. Different sorts of magic, you see.”

I nodded and looked beseechingly at Micah. “No, my Sara, it is not for me to petition your ancestor,” he said, obviously having divined our purpose.

“I can’t,” I mumbled. “I can’t even handle the little magic I have. If he gives me more, I won’t know what to do with it.”

“You’re a powerful girl,” Mom said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “You always have been. When you were a baby, you’d make your dolls dance on their own, create working zoos with only your stuffed animals. Once, you conjured a genie to do your bidding. Then Max was gone, and it was all I could do to hold on to you and Sadie.” She swallowed, her voice catching as she continued, “And The Raven is a part of you. He won’t give you anything that would hurt you, Beau’s daughter. He will only offer guidance.” Mom gripped my hands. “The Raven will help you save Max.”

I stared from Mom to Micah, terrified that they both thought I could do this. “Your mother will not let anything harm you,” Micah said softly. “If I recall, Maeve was always one to kill her enemies rather than capture them. I cannot imagine that the Seelie Queen would lead her daughter into danger.” My mother smiled wryly. “And,” Micah continued, sliding his hand across my lower back, “I stand beside you.”

My mark flared, whether from his touch or his words I could not tell, and confidence rushed through my veins. For the first time in my life, I was more than a Corbeau, more than a member of the Raven clan, more than Max’s little sister.

I may be all those things, but I’m also so much more
.

I smiled at Micah, then took my place before the glass tomb. “Raven,” I began, “please grant me wisdom.”

Twilight came, and under cover of darkness Micah and I left the relative safety of the Raven Compound and my fairy mother behind. I would definitely be asking her a few questions about
that
when we had the time. Now, we were hiding in the woods that encircled the stone prison that, in turn, encircled my brother.

As we crouched in the damp, decaying leaves, I considered how much my life had changed in such a short time. Only a week ago, I had been an office drone whose only indulgences had been caffeinated beverages and fast driving. I had pretended to know nothing of the ways of magic, had hidden my mark from anyone who might glimpse it; I had never hung out at a beach or even sunbathed in the park, never joined a gym, never worn any of the cute, fashionable shirts that might have ridden up and revealed my secret. I had been gifted with one of the strongest bloodlines in history, yet I’d spent much of my life wishing for the magic to just leave me alone.

No more would I hide. I was a Corbeau by birthright, and the daughter of a fairy queen.

I am a force to be reckoned with
.

I slid my hand into Micah’s, seeking a bit of warmth for my cold fingers. He squeezed reassuringly but didn’t look away from the prison. And well he shouldn’t, since we’d been waiting for the guards to change for the better part of an hour.

“Do you think it will work?” I’d asked back at the Compound. The Raven had given me one of its feathers, still glossy and black despite the many centuries since his death, along with the assurance that we would be able to leave the prison with Maas in tow, unseen and unstopped by the guards. Of course, like all things magical, it had come with a hefty catch: our dreamselves could not carry the feather, thus making this rescue all the more dangerous.

“What does your heart tell you?” Micah countered.

“It’s rather silent on the matter,” I replied, though, in truth, it beat a quick tattoo against my breastbone. “But I do know that The Raven has never failed my family, not once, when we needed him.”

Micah had smiled at that; in the Otherworld, the integrity of a long-dead bird was as good as gold.

Once we’d returned to the Otherworld, the rest of our preparations had been simple. First, we’d spent a good amount of time placing small pieces of metal in various pockets and pouches about our bodies, retrievable at a moment’s notice, in case we needed to wield them either to strike a foe with added force or even build a wall. Well, in case Micah needed to wield it, since I was still limited to gently bending small portions of copper.

At first I didn’t understand why the metal we secreted in our clothing was mostly iron. Micah had a quantity of silver within his body to call upon, and I’d assumed he would stay true to his metal. When I asked, he explained that it was far more effective to strike someone with iron than silver.