Pale Queen Rising (16 page)

Kingston’s definitely one of those guys you don’t kick out of bed right away. Even though that’s usually my tactic, the words
you should leave
never crossed my lips when our breathing settled and the night crept in. I slept like a baby. I didn’t even push him away when he tried to cuddle me.

Though I won’t admit to it feeling nice.

Once more, I’m the first awake. I watch him for a while, his tattoo twined on his chest, both him and the serpent resting soundly. The sex was good. Very good. And if I didn’t have a strict one-ride-only rule for situations like this, I’d probably try to keep him around for a few more hours.

Trouble is, he works for Mab. Which sort of makes him family. And that’s just not my bag.

Also, there’s work to do. Lots of it. I roll over and slide out of bed, not even bothering to put on clothes. For one thing, the dude’s already seen me naked. For another, I’m hoping it drives him wild—especially since he doesn’t get to play again. Boys always want what they can’t have.

I head to the kitchen, flipping on every fireplace along the way. The place warms instantly, and I set about making coffee and wondering if maybe I could head back into the mortal world to pick something up to go, quick-like, before he wakes up. Then I realize what I’m thinking and shove it down. He can deal with my shitty coffee. I’m not here to try to impress him.

He comes in a few minutes later, sidling up behind me and gently drawing his hands up my back to rest on my shoulders. Despite the heat, goose bumps race across my skin as he kisses the nape of my neck.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says. He kisses a little lower, between my shoulder blades. I pour myself the coffee and make a cup for him.

“None of that wooey shit, thanks,” I say, turning out of his touch. I hand him the cup. He’s not wearing any clothes, either, and the view is pretty spectacular. His tattoo now rests above his hip, drawing attention to the parts of him I’d more felt than seen last night. “That was sex. We’re not a couple.”

“I’d say.” He laughs. “Your bedroom manners are lacking.”

“They’re overrated.”

He gestures to me. “Your back, those tattoos. All wards?”

I sip my coffee. “Among other things. Some glyphs for strength and stamina and that sort of thing. Don’t know if they actually work, but they look cool.”

“They’re hot,” he says. “I like a girl with ink.”

“Likewise,” I reply. He chuckles. Let him fantasize about
that
for a moment. “So be honest. Did you really come here to warn me or did you just want an excuse to sleep with me?”

And just like that, he slips back into serious mode.

“To warn you. The rest was an unexpected surprise.” He sighs. “I wish there was a way to tell you.”

“Try harder?” I lean against the cold counter, ignoring the chill on my bare skin.

“I’m trying, Viv, I really am.” He takes a sip of coffee.

Suddenly I feel like I’m standing on an ice floe a thousand miles away.

“What did you just call me?”

My entire body has gone cold, and it has nothing to do with being naked. The name’s sparked something inside of me, igniting fuses that shouldn’t be lit. My heart is a hammer trying to sledge through the ice of my chest. It’s not like I’m upset he called me by another girl’s name.

Something about
that
name feels like dynamite.

“Claire,” he says. He raises an eyebrow, and if I hadn’t been looking for a clue, I would have missed the slight widening of his eyes, the half catch of breath that tells me he knows he was caught. “What did you think I said?”

“You should leave.”

I set my coffee on the counter and storm past him, heading straight for the door.

“I’m not even dressed,” he begins.

“You’re a witch. You’ll think of something.” I open the door and hold it for him. I don’t look at him as he walks closer.

“I’m sorry, it was a slip.”

“Out.” He walks to the door and stands within the doorway, not yet crossing over the threshold.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He honestly sounds like he means it. I don’t respond. He puts his hand on the door. “I knew . . .” He pauses, swallows. “She’s not dead, you know. Your mother. Not really. Mab hasn’t told you everything. That’s why I came. Because of her. Your mother. And what Mab will never say.”

Then he leaves. The last thing I see before slamming the door is his perfect bare ass and that damn tattoo.

When the door locks and I slide down to a crouch, all I can do is rock, trying to figure out why it feels like there’s a hole in my chest where my heart used to be.

Ten

The moment Kingston’s gone, I head to the bathroom and soak in the tub until my thoughts bleed out and my skin prunes. For some reason, I feel terribly unclean, and it isn’t the sex. Something in Kingston’s final words set my life on edge, like he’d just shown me that the end of the world wasn’t quite as far away as I thought, and that there was something waiting for me on the other side. Something that knew me inside and out. Ironic that one of the last times I soaked in here, Pan told me to be wary of the magician. I guess I hadn’t realized the extent of that truth.

Viv
.

Something in that name is a lightning bolt straight to my heart. I swear I’ve never heard it before, so why does it make me want to scream? I need to get out of here. Away from Mab and Kingston and faeries. And I need to talk to Roxie and figure out why her contract was bound with the same magic as Henry’s.

Finally, I force myself from the bath and change into something not smeared with blood or ash. I really need to do laundry, because my options in that department are running out. As I stare in the mirror and put on eyeliner, I pause and wonder what the hell I’m doing, trying to make myself look nice before seeing Roxie. My hand shakes and I take a deep breath, unable to tell if the nerves are from seeing her or everything Kingston seemed to unleash. Not that it matters, really—the effect is the same.

In truth, I don’t want to admit why I’m checking in on her. I know Pan has it under control. I know I should be talking to Mab about the ticket. I know I should grab Eli before tracking down the next hit. But no matter what I do, no matter how many types of meditation or focusing I practice, I can’t get my thoughts straight. I can’t get my breathing to slow or my chest to relax. My world is spinning, spinning, and the last thing I want to do is deal with anyone or anything else of a magical nature.

Because right now, I no longer feel like some badass magical assassin. I feel like a lost little girl dropped in a terrifying world, and I have no idea why.

Even though I could teleport straight into Roxie’s living room, I’m not in the mood to be an unwanted surprise—there have already been enough of them in
my
life for today—and I want to check with Pan to ensure no one’s been trying to get in. When I arrive in the hallway leading to Roxie’s apartment, I realize I’m not the only person who’s been intent on seeing her.

The white wall around her door looks like it has been through a war. There are burn marks and divots, long gashes and even charcoal marks that look like graffiti. And scattered like entrails are piles of dead grass and twigs.
It’s barely been twenty-four hours. How many unwanted visitors has Roxie had?

Jesus.

I hurry over and kneel before Pan, who looks just as bad as the wall—he’s covered in soot and hairline fractures, but he’s still whole. There’s a particularly nasty rune drawn on his forehead in charcoal, one I know I can’t just wipe off. It’s paralyzing to him, but thankfully whoever drew it didn’t make it past the door. I pull out my chalk and draw another symbol over the top of the black rune, one to negate the magic. He collapses the moment the sigil’s complete.

“Oh, Claire, thank the gods,” he says, gasping. One tiny hand goes to his chest as he sits there, leaning against the wall and catching his breath. “That last bastard trapped me before I could do anything. Turned me back into stone . . . The nerve!”

“Did anyone get in?” I ask. I know it’s a little callous not to ask how he is, but Roxie’s the main directive here.

He shakes his head. “She hasn’t left, either.”

“Who were they, Pan?”

“All disguised,” he says. “Some Constructs, some Shifters. Only a few Fey, but they were so wrapped up in glamour I couldn’t tell you what they truly looked like.”

Well, if there were Constructs—magically animated and glamoured twig effigies—that would explain the foliage all over the place.

“Did they say anything?”

“No.” He looks at his hands. “They would just fire a few spells or try to knock down the door and then vanish. Maybe ten seconds each. I barely had time to get a hit in before they were gone. I failed.”

“You didn’t fail. You kept them out—that’s all we wanted.”

“But I haven’t learned who sent them.”

I pat him on the shoulder, which feels like smacking a balustrade.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Besides, your job’s not over yet. I need you in top form.”

“I’ll try, Claire. I’ll try.”

I push myself to standing and open the door, my tattoos going hot as the magic works through me.

Roxie’s waiting there with my dagger in her hands.

In that moment, she’s not the scared or tired girl from before. She’s in black jeans and a skull-print T-shirt, and her hair looks a little frazzled, but still immaculate. Her stance softens when she realizes it’s me, but she doesn’t drop her guard or the knife. Good for her. She might actually make it out of this alive.

“How do I know it’s you?” she asks. “And not one of those shape-shifter things?”

She must have been watching some of the action through the peephole.

“Because no shape-shifter can pull off this shit,” I say, gesturing up and down. I grin. “Trust me, they’ve tried and failed numerous times.”

She lowers the knife a little bit. I step through and let the door lock behind me.

“You sound like her.”

“I
am
her.” I drop the grin—this is quickly growing old. “And by that I mean Claire, the sexy vixen who saved your ass from a crew of asshole faeries. Why else do you think Pan would have let me through?”

“Maybe you killed him.”

I roll my eyes and step over to the door, opening it just enough to show her that Pan is, in fact, still alive. He looks back, startled at the open door, since that was expressly forbidden. I just wave and then shut it in his face before I have to explain myself.

“See? Still living, or existing, or whatever it is he does. In any case, it’s definitely me.” I walk over and collapse on her sofa, spreading out my arms and making myself at home. Really comfy cushions. Very clearly new. There aren’t even any wine stains.

“Why are you here?” she asks. Still a little tentative. When she sits on the pouf across from me, I’m kind of proud to notice she’s still holding the knife.

“Can’t a girl pay a social visit?”

“Um . . .”

“To be honest, I shouldn’t be here. I should be out working. But . . .” I shake my head. I don’t like to make those vague dangling statements, but I really don’t know what to say here.
I slept with a guy who called me the wrong name and it made me feel like vomiting? I have no clue what’s going on and no time to fix it? I think you might actually be a suspect? I often think my mother and boss is holding something big back from me?
“I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to talk.”

“You? Just wanting to talk?” She laughs, and that makes me smile. Because yeah, she understands me. “I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s been a long twenty-four hours,” I admit.

“Tell me about it,” she says. “It consistently sounds like a war zone out there. I don’t think I got any sleep last night.”

“Sorry about that.”

“How has no one called the cops? I mean, I hear my neighbors walk past and they haven’t said anything.”

“Enchantments. And, well, most mortals are bad at noticing anything magical. It’s like a survival mechanism for them.”

“And I was just unlucky enough to be born without that mechanism.”

“Apparently,” I say with a smile. “But that means you can see me.”

Her return smile is genuine, with the hint of something else within it.

“Well, thank goodness for that, then.”

My chest feels warm, and suddenly the shit from this morning and the night before seems to fade away.

“How are you doing, Roxie?” I ask.

I learned long ago that the key to seduction is saying your target’s name. But in this case, I’m not trying to seduce. I’m trying to connect.

Wait, what? What’s gotten into you?

“I’m bored,” she replies with a shrug. She leans in closer, almost conspiratorially, and I find I want her to shuffle over, sit on the sofa beside me. I’m here with her alone and there’s no one to ruin the mood. Trouble is, I have no idea what the mood in here
is.
“Do you know how many times I’ve cleaned this place? I hate knowing you’re out there risking your life and I’m just sitting here dusting the blinds.”

“You dusted the blinds?”

“Twice.” She chuckles. “I’m sorry, I’m not really used to playing hostess. Can I get you something? Coffee?”

“I’d kill for some.”

She stands and heads to the kitchen. I sit there for a while, watching her go, her hips swaying and head held high. She doesn’t look like a captive within her own apartment. She still looks like the queen onstage.

As I watch, though, a thousand different questions stampede through my head.
Why am I not trying to sleep with her? Why do I feel protective? Why can’t I just outright ask her about Henry—why do I feel I have to soften the words?
Now that I’m here, I realize it’s not for utilitarian reasons: I’m here because I want to be. I want to spend time with someone doing something other than working or killing or fucking. I want to feel what it’s like to actually be human. And Roxie, for some strange reason, seems like someone I could experience that with.

I shake my head and stand, following her into the kitchen.

“So what have you found out?” she asks. She’s using one of those fancy glass pour-over things I’ve seen in cafés but have been too appalled by to try. Somehow, she makes it look unpretentious.

“Not much.” It’s easier to talk business than emotions. Even though I came here to ignore the former, it’s the only thing keeping me from getting swept up by the latter. Time to see what she knows. “The last guy we got was a witch. Some modern dancer in Chicago.”

She sets the water kettle on the counter, hard. She doesn’t move again.

“Roxie?”

In the movies, this would be the point when I put a hand on her shoulder. But I’ve seen the way she wields a knife.

“What was his name?” she asks slowly.

“Henry. Real dangerous-sounding name, I know. Maybe it was a cover.”

“No.” She turns to me. Her expression is a strange mix of blank and confused, like there are questions bubbling way below the surface. “That was his name. He never took a stage name. Henry Lewis.”

I raise an eyebrow. Well then, so much for the tiny chance it was coincidence.

“You know him?”

“I lived with him.”

She shakes her head and pours the coffee into two mugs—each in the shape of an animal, about the only cutesy thing in this place—and hands one to me.

“You lived together?” I ask. That’s a little too . . . convenient. Despite everything, my guard immediately rises. So much for her being “just caught up in this.”

She doesn’t answer at first. Instead, she takes her mug back into the living room and sits. She doesn’t make eye contact, and it’s not until I sit across from her and wait thirty seconds that she speaks up.

“Remember that apartment I told you about? When I was living with all those artists?”

I nod, the coffee forgotten in my hands. It’s suddenly the least of my interests, which is saying something. It smells heavenly. “I remember.”

“He was one of them.”

“So, wait, how did you connect those dots? I mean, did you know he was a witch?”

“We knew he was different. He . . . knew things, sometimes. Like when the weather would change or one of us would get a gig. Things like that. And there was something about him that was more . . . I don’t know, polished, I guess. He never seemed to be struggling like the rest of us, and it definitely made us wonder why he was choosing to live that way.”

“This can’t be a coincidence. Did you ever know someone named Frank? Barista in New York?”

She shakes her head. “Not that I can think of.”

“I need you to tell me everything you know about Henry and the rest of your roommates. Where they went, what they do now. Do you still keep in touch? Did anything strange happen before you left?”

“What do you mean
strange
?” She, too, has forgotten about the coffee in her kitten mug.

I don’t want to tell her about the similar contracts yet. I want to know what she knows, without me planting ideas.

“I mean, at least two of the four of you are working for the Fey, who are connected to a buyer we still haven’t been able to trace. It’s too much for random coincidence. Especially since you, at least, weren’t snared until months later.”

She stares into her mug for a long while. I take the first sip. So much better than coffee in Faerie.

“There was something,” she says, like she’s recalling it from a haze.

“Yeah?”

“The night before we moved out . . . we had a final dinner. Just the four of us. It was pretty normal—we were all sitting on the floor having pizza and wine. Everything else was packed and the place was empty. Henry had some candles going. It was really cute, you know? We were all a bit drunk at the very end, and the next day I honestly thought I’d just dreamed it.”