Fair Peril (18 page)

“Oooooh.” It was an appreciative sigh with a lot of throat flutter. Apparently LeeVon liked the tushie slits, of which he had a clear view from the table atop which he squatted by Adamus's elbow. Also, he had eaten honey bread and roast suckling pork and spiced apple and several other sorts of goodies and was feeling much better.

“But not in front of the others,” Adamus went on. “We're medieval here.”

“Yes. This mall is certainly a Grimm place at night.”

“Yes, it is. And ‘fairy' is a dangerous word. Never use it.”

“Okay,” said LeeVon meekly. “Thank you.”

Sitting opposite Adamus at the small table, Buffy had not eaten, and was listening to this exchange with no more than a quarter of her attention. She was trying to figure out how to find Emily. The first problem, as she analyzed it, was that fundamental information was missing: Emily could have gone back to the “real” world or she could be wandering in the Perilous Realm, and neither Buffy nor Adamus knew which. This initial difficulty might be solved if they could figure out how Emily came to be missing from her pedestal. Had the mall removed her for cleaning or repair? Had someone stolen her? If so, then Buffy needed to search for her daughter in the mundane world. Or had Emily somehow gotten down on her own? Then she was in the Realm of Fair Peril—but the sticking point was, LeeVon could hardly have helped but notice if Emily or anyone else had splashed through his pool, yet he had seen or heard nothing of essence. This had already been discussed. There had been a terrifying blue fox. There had been a terrifyingly nimble raccoon. There had been a consummately terrifying giant frog which Buffy correctly interpreted as the frog-king statue from the neighboring pedestal, but knowing this did not help her. The statues were statues yet themselves as well; so what? It was nothing she didn't already know.

“Addie,” Buffy said.

“Yes, great lady?”

“For God's sake, I'm sitting here with frog slime between my boobs, don't call me a great lady. My name's Buffy. Addie, aside from protesting your devotion to my daughter, what else can you tell me?”

“You never let me ride there,” Addie said, his golden glance drifting down to Buffy's frontage.

“Huh?”

“Uh, nothing. When I was a frog.” With the instincts of a diplomat, Addie kept babbling. “I remember your glass-prison pond not too happily. The night it happened, though, I was in the silver pond. Emily came to me all in star-dark clothing. She kissed me.” His face changed, and his voice, quiet to begin with, retreated so low in his throat that Buffy could barely hear him. “Never have I felt such a furor in me, not even when my father betrayed me, not even when my foster father hurled me from the battlements, not even when the Queen of the Perilous Realm placed upon me the brand of her lips. I love Emily, but it is more than that. I am her slave. She brought my soul back to me and carries it in her pocket. She owns me.”

“Sounds like he imprinted on her,” LeeVon said, “like a goose hatching.”

Addie gave him a blank look.

“Okay, but why are you here?” Buffy asked Adamus. “Back to being a handsome prince again, I mean.” She was trying not to say fairy tale, fairyland. “Back where they turned you into a frog, right? It seems like the last place you'd want to be.”

“It is.” Adamus's voice remained very low. “Emily and I, we were happy, thoughtless, we drove fast in the metal chariot, we—I thank you for the clothing, LeeVon.” He smiled, acknowledging the frog, but the smile did not dispel the sadness in his eyes. “Black. I like black. We are not allowed to wear it here.” His glance touched momentarily on Buffy's black cloak, then drifted away again. “Emily brought me to the mall to buy smallclothes. Calvin Kleins. Then we came to the food booths to eat nachos. Then—I was so happy, so unwary, I was a fool—I think the Queen reached out for us. I am not sure. But here I am again.” His lips barely moved, he spoke so softly. “Still a prisoner in the old tale.”

Did you kiss Emily again? Did you do more than kiss her?

Probably Buffy would not have asked. But as it happened, she had no chance to ask, for a loud and terrible clangor shook the great hall like a physical calamity—fire, dragons, earthquake, volcanic eruption! “What is it?” Buffy cried, but no one could hear her. Yet no one panicked. The musicians put down their instruments, but no one else moved. Everyone waited. As suddenly as the alarum had begun, it ended.

“An irruption from out there,” Adamus told her, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the sky-tinted ceiling, the lavender-green walls. “Your world. But the guards can't see us in here.”

“Guards?”

“The ones in blue.”

Cops? “But they saw me when I was talking with Emily.”

“Perhaps you had not completed the transition. Had your clothes transformed?”

No, they had not. But before Buffy could answer, something garishly golden and familiar, rather like a gilded parsnip, moved at the far end of the hall. Fay walked into the court.

“Oh, I see,” Buffy said. She understood what the appalling noise had been. “Mall security alarm.” Then her own alarm system began to go off, and her sprinkler system too, drenching her with sweat—because entering after Fay was a six-foot miasma, probably Prentis.

Buffy's first impulse was to run and hide. But pride, along with other priorities, overruled that option. She sat and sweated for only a moment before she got up and strode over to meet Fay, irritably aware that in the clothing hierarchy that seemed to prevail in this place, Fay probably outranked her; Fay wore an elaborate multilayered gold lame evening ensemble and very large hair. But so what. Buffy demanded, “Is Emily back home?”

“NO SHE IS NOT.” Fay seemed a wee bit tad bent out of shape about something. “I beg an audience,” she bespoke the court in a tone that did not beg at all.

The silent throng of shining courtiers parted to form a processional aisle leading to the personage seated on the dais. Buffy had not been paying much attention to the golden orbs which illuminated the great hall, but now she saw that they were not suspended from the vaulted ceiling, as she had supposed; rather, they floated, golden bubbles of light drifting in a slow but purposeful pattern on the still air, forming swirls, sunflower whorls, moving mosaics which emanated from the hub, the monarch, the presence on a high golden throne. The smooth-faced alabaster watcher who spoke to no one. The ageless, cool-eyed Queen.

Buffy realized suddenly that the polite move would have been to introduce herself when she came in.

Oops.

In this realm, Miss Manners probably carried a whip. Wondering what the protocol might be now, post-lapse, Buffy stood where she was as Fay sailed up the aisle toward the Queen of the Perilous Realm with Prentis trailing behind her like a smoggy bridal train.

Buffy had never seen anyone in a tight skirt curtsy so low before. In fact, she could not remember when she had ever in her life seen a real person curtsy at all.

“Speak,” the Queen said.

Woof?

Fay stood up and spoke, concisely (for Fay) if not eloquently. “Your Majesty, that Murphy person—” Pointing to Buffy. “—has done
this
to my son.” Pointing to the cloud of haze standing by her side.

Her Majesty seemed unmoved. “So that is her name, the one in black.” Chilly golden eyes turned toward Buffy. “She has not yet been properly introduced. Let her come forward.”

Buffy came forward. She knew she would topple on her proboscis if she attempted a curtsy, but she knew she'd better do something obsequious, even though her boobs felt like they were about to ooze out of their bustier. Spreading her cape, she bowed as low as she dared and held it, not sure whether she was allowed to come up for air or say, Hi, I'm Buffy, nice to meet you.

“Madeleine Murphy is a superlative storyteller, your Majesty,” said a male voice.

Buffy blinked, then straightened and looked. Adamus? Yes. The prince was standing by her side.

“Really,” said the Queen in a voice which, like her perfect face, possessed no texture at all. “She is an entertainer? Yet she wears black? And where are her manners?”

In a voice which sounded as coarse as her hair by comparison with the Queen's, Buffy said, “Sorry, your Majesty. I've been under a lot of stress.”

The Queen regarded her with shimmering golden eyes somewhat less warm than the North Star.

“Your Majesty.” Fay's constraint gave Buffy an inkling of how much this thousand-year-old monarch was to be feared. “This Murphy person is not only unmannerly but spiteful. Look at my poor son.”

Instead, her Majesty looked beautiful and bored, more dangerously so than Emily at her very worst.

“He deserved it,” Buffy said. “Anyhow, he's improved this way. He can't talk.”

Golden eyes turned on her, somewhat less bored. “You acknowledge the deed?”

“Certainly.” Buffy sensed that her best chance was to flaunt her shortcomings. She wore black, which could put her either below or above everyone else here; she had spit in the eye of protocol; she might as well be outrageous and interesting. “Though I did mess up,” she added. “I was trying to turn him into a frog.”

“Indeed. Why?”

Because she hadn't understood at the time that she could just as easily have turned him into a rutabaga. Well, maybe not. Some words were too long and hard to spell. Buffy decided on a different reason. “Because my daughter ran away with Adamus and Fay wouldn't help me find her and Prentis didn't care. I had to do something.”

“Your daughter?” The Queen of Fair Peril stirred like a sleeping snake as she made a connection. “Is that the one I immortalized on top of the pillar because Adamus adored her so?”

For a moment Buffy could not speak. Then she said sweetly between clenched teeth. “You acknowledge the deed?”

“Certainly.”

A bone-deep chill of ontological awe kept Buffy from shouting some of her thoughts: witch, bitch, vixen, snake. Abstractions had never worked for Buffy; she had heard of amorality, had no feel for the concept, but face-to-face with embodied amorality, she understood it. She understood it right to the pit of her crawling gut. Some truths can be expressed only in story, and this Queen was what generations of story had made her. So ancient as to be nearly immortal, she was the stone-white bone-white beautiful one without a heart. She did not need to attempt to be evil; evil merely happened when she was in charge, because she cared about nothing anymore.

She's in me. In my mind.

“But where is the little wench now?” the Queen went on in tones of lazy puzzlement. “I seem to have mislaid her.”

Buffy could not move or speak, but Adamus folded to his knees. “Greatest Majesty.” He bowed his head before the Queen who had left the brand of her lips on his forehead just at the hairline. “Please, Majesty, where have you put her now, where is Emily?” His voice quivered. “I cannot eat for thinking of her.”

The Queen actually smiled. “You're funny, Adamus.”

Cold old heart. She's there inside me. Archetype.

“I want my son back,” Fay begged.

Buffy had never heard tears in her former mother-in-law's voice before. Startled, she turned her head to see Fay's golden mascara melting, running muddily down the gullies of her cheeks.

“I'll put him back,” Buffy said. Some which way. She did not yet know how.

“That's a promise. And you always keep your promises, don't you, Madeleine?” Mockery in the Queen's voice told Buffy that she knew otherwise. Of course, dammit. The bitch was in her; she knew everything.

“I'll keep this one.” Those soulless golden eyes challenged her. “But I need to find Emily. Will you tell me where she is, Majesty?”

“Assuredly not. What would be the purpose?”

“To restore order.”

“Nonsense. What do I care for the order of your little universe?”

Having no answer, Buffy shrugged with a lot more nonchalance than she felt. “Adamus and I will have to find her on our own, then.”

The gold of those eyes heated up. “May I remind you that Adamus is
mine, my
little froggy, to amuse me?”

Just a user. Total user.

Just as Emily had said. Once again Buffy could not speak.

She could be me in a thousand years.

The Queen leaned forward on her throne, suddenly interested. “Such a face you are making, you there in your fine black cloak and starry gown. Storyteller, I will make you an offer: tell me a story, and if I am amused by it, we shall see about your daughter.”

No ordinary tale would do, Buffy knew. No grade-school ghost story with hand motions and ghoulish voices. She looked around for inspiration, and found herself face-to-unface with the fog that was her ex.

The best and truest stories come from where pain is, she knew.

She said, “Once upon a time there was a handsome young prince named Prentis—”

Three pairs of golden eyes turned upon her in surprise: Fay's, Addie's, and the Queen's. Beyond them, a hundred courtiers had formed a shining ring, listening. Buffy barely saw them. Like them, she was listening for the story to come to her.

“A handsome young prince named Prentis who matriculated at a top-notch institution of higher learning,” she continued. “Now, living in a chimney at this college was a grubby sort of Cinderella named Buffy. The day she first saw Prentis, her heart jumped right out of her shirt and fell at his feet like a hankie, and he picked it up and absentmindedly stuffed it into his pocket. That was it. From that moment on she adored him. She cleaned herself up and shaved her legs and one thing led to another. After the usual rigors, he asked her to marry him. I will take care of you, he said. And she knew that, according to the plotline, they were supposed to live happily ever after, so she said yes.”

Buffy could tell nothing from the Queen's porcelain mask of a face, but all the others were standing silent and attentive. Even the fog seemed focused on her, looming close to her, clearly defined and profoundly still.