Pale Queen Rising (3 page)

“Back so soon?” she asks. Her voice is rich and deep, like a jazz singer’s, and it fills the chamber like moonlight on snow.

“It didn’t go to plan.”

One doesn’t mince words with the Faerie Queen. She’s good at spotting lies, and to her, small talk to avoid the truth is just as bad as a falsehood.

Even just saying those words is enough to make the room go colder. My next breath comes out in a cloud of white, and there’s a band around my chest, a constriction of frost that wasn’t there a moment ago. It’s not just nerves, either.

“What do you mean,
not to plan
?”

She slides from the throne as she speaks, drifting slowly down to the floor and landing a few feet before me. Even though she only comes to my chin, she holds herself high. I feel myself shrinking down from the sight of her. Her skin is pale porcelain, her hair black nightmare, and her expression unreadable.

I don’t back down, though. Intimidating though she may be, I’m still her daughter, and she raised me not to cower; I look straight into her emerald eyes as I deliver my report.

“I did what you told me to. The guy’s dead.”

“But . . . ?”

“But he wasn’t supplying to Oberon.”

My statement is met with silence. One black eyebrow rises, but she is otherwise impassive.

“And you are sure you killed the right one?”

Okay, I know she’s the queen and I know she could kill me without blinking, but her words are incendiary.

“Who the hell do you think I am?” I ask. My fists tighten in my bomber’s pockets.
Don’t hit her. Don’t hit her. Whatever you do, don’t hit her.
“Of course I killed the right one. You’re the one who trained me.”

That eyebrow rises just a little higher, and my chest warms. It gives me insurmountable pleasure to know I can still get under her skin.

“You’re sure he was mortal?”

“He died like a mortal.” I raise a hand still smeared with blood, forcing it inches from her face. If anyone else in the Court did this to her, they’d be dead. Instantly. She just looks at my bloody palm with perfectly composed calmness.

“Then where was the Dream?”

I drop my hand and shove it back in my jacket. So much blood. I think this jacket’s past saving.

“He didn’t have it,” I say. “His apartment was clean. But he was definitely the guy. I could smell it on him.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That the Dream was going to someone else.”

She sighs. “You are sure he wasn’t bluffing?”

“Positive. But the bastard killed himself before I could get on with the torturing.”

For a while she just looks at me, and it’s impossible to read what’s going on behind those eyes. That’s more dangerous than rage. With Mab, it’s the hooks you think you’re avoiding that will impale you later, when you think you’re safe.

“There have been rumors,” she says slowly. It kills her to divulge any information, especially gossip that makes her look like she isn’t in control of everything. No wonder I’m the way that I am. She seems to reassess her words and continues on in a completely different direction. “If someone else is buying Dream, I need to know who is selling and how much is going unaccounted for. I need you to investigate.”

“Whoa, hold on. I’m an assassin. I kill things. I don’t do private investigation.”

“You do now,” she says. She steps closer to me. I half expect her to rise on tiptoes so she doesn’t have to tilt her head back. She doesn’t. When she speaks again, her voice is just above a whisper. “There are few people I trust in this world, Claire. At this moment, you are one of them. If someone besides Oberon or me is buying Dream from outside, I need to know who it is before the Trade is thrown off. And for that to happen, I need that mystery person to keep buying Dream so you may track them. If I hire anyone else, word will leak and the buyer will flee. We are already suffering from a decreased harvest. We cannot handle any more slipping through the cracks.”

I blink, trying to absorb all this, because A) she doesn’t usually divulge information, and B) I’ve not seen any hint of that within the city, or heard any rumor in the streets. Not that people really talk to me, but still, I have ears.

“So hold some more concerts or something,” I say. “Frank wasn’t pulling in
that
much Dream. What’s it matter if that little bit goes to Oberon or someone else?”

Her lip quirks up to the side.

“I don’t keep you around to ask questions,” she says. Despite the grin, there’s zero humor in her voice. “Or must I remind you of your place once more?”

Definitely not. The last time I crossed the line—and I mean
really
crossed the line, seeing as I take a step or two across it almost daily—she’d dropped me in her labyrinth without weapons or magic. The minotaurs had
not
been happy to see me, and I still have the scars to prove it.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask. I keep my voice as level as possible. It’s not a trait I excel at.

Her whole face shifts into a smile—there’s nothing natural about the movement. It is just a mask like all her other expressions. “I need you to ensure there is no leak in our main supply chain. Think of it as a reward for tonight’s
job well done
. Tomorrow, you’ll visit the circus.”

Three

“Who am I going to kill?” I ask. Because, you know, that’s sort of the name of my game. I can’t actually remember a time when my trip was purely for pleasure.

Mab’s smile doesn’t slip, which somehow makes her more imposing.

“It’s the
Immortal
Circus, Claire. I highly doubt you could kill anyone. And I highly recommend you don’t try. I need you to go and check in on them for me. Make sure there are no Dream leaks, that sort of thing.”

Great. A job I’m completely not cut out for.

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

Again, I feel that small note of pride for getting under her skin with no consequence to my livelihood. The twitch of her eyebrow is the only sign I get, but it’s enough.

“Didn’t I just tell you not to ask questions?” she says. “If I show up, it will raise a red flag. I haven’t been in the show for years, and my appearance would not go unnoticed. The Dream I’ve received from them has been lacking lately, and I need you to ensure that someone isn’t stealing from me.”

“Is that even possible?” I ask. “Shouldn’t it be against their contracts?”

She looks at me, really digs into my skull with that gaze, and waits a few uncomfortable seconds before speaking. “Even contracts can be manipulated. Which is why it must be you who does the investigating. You will sneak in as though it is a normal, routine checkup.”

“One I’ve never done before,” I say.

“And once you have made sure everything is running as it should, you will return to me for your next assignment. I need to speak with Oberon and see if he has heard of this new threat. Besides, I have a kingdom to run and you have nothing better to do. It is clear you can’t even handle a simple hit without cocking it up—consider this your second chance to prove yourself.”

“Not my fault.”

“He died by your hand. Thus, it
is
your fault. If he were still alive, we could have questioned him and learned the identity of his buyer. Until we find another seller, we are dead in the water. And until that time, you will prove yourself useful by ensuring that there are no other leaks. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Mother,” I mumble.

“Good. Now, go clean up. I expect you there in the morning.”

The morning
,
of course, was subjective, seeing as the barrier between Mortal and Faerie made timing as fluid as water. But I got the gist. She was giving me a chance to unwind and sleep before sending me out again, however long that took. No matter when I left this realm, I’d ensure it was morning in the mortal world.

A part of me expects her to call out as I leave, some final words of wisdom or warning, but when I turn and stalk out through a side hall, she remains resolutely silent. It isn’t until I glance back that I realize she has vanished.

I make my way back to my room, through a series of twisting halls and tunnels that—like so much of this world—changes by the hour. Tonight the trip seems to take an especially long time, and I wonder if this is the castle’s way of expressing its own displeasure at my failure. I pass through a hall I’ve seen only once before, the carpet here blue and the walls of ice glowing as if the sun is beaming overhead, before heading back into the darkness of obsidian walls and flickering sconces. No doors here. Just an endless tunnel of wavering shadows.

“
You
don’t have to punish me, too,” I mutter to the castle. There’s a distant groan, the sound of settling foundations. Which is just the castle’s way of telling me it hears me and probably doesn’t give a shit.

After one more turn and a spiral staircase that somehow leads to the same landing I just left, I find the door to my room. It’s at the end of a long hall that is completely identical to the rest of the castle save for the tug in my chest that tells me it’s mine. I lay my hand on the gilt frame. The stone is cold and smooth under my fingers, the door inlaid with ivy and twining dragons.

The first time Mab set me loose in the castle and had me find my way back here, I’d gotten lost for three days. If not for the statues that snuck me food or showed me where to pee, I probably would have died. When I
did
finally make it back, Mab was lounging on a settee before the door, eating grapes in a gauzy gown and looking like she could wait a hundred more years for me to show up. Tears formed in my eyes the moment I saw her, but even then I wasn’t certain if they were from anger or relief or both.

“How did you find it?” she asked when I neared. No congratulations. No notes of worry. Just business.

I shook my head and told her I didn’t know.
I just closed my eyes and walked.

It was the first time I’d done something to make her smile.

“That’s the greatest rule of magic,” she’d said. “You can’t control it. You can’t understand where it comes from. But if you give in to it, you can allow it to work through you.”

That was the beginning of my training. The moment I realized that basic fact of magic, that it was something you lived and sensed but probably never fully grasped, was the moment I understood Dream—how to track it, how to gauge it, how to manipulate it. That was also the moment I stopped being her daughter and started being her tool.

Maybe I should feel regret. Or coldness. Or something. Instead, my heart is empty. I’ve seen families in the mortal world, know how they’re apparently supposed to work. But that sort of relationship is so far out of my realm of understanding, I can’t even yearn for it. Mab’s all I’ve ever known. I push open the door and step into the one place in this entire kingdom that actually feels like home.

Mab gave me free rein in here, and I crafted the room to be the antithesis of Winter. I might have spent most of my existence in the chilly hellhole she calls home, but I am mortal. And like pretty much every other mortal I’ve known (and probably killed in the greeting process), my nesting habit is strong. I step inside to a temperature that’s almost tropical, shucking off my coat and throwing it over a rich velvet armchair beside a roaring fireplace. The walls are lined with bookshelves crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers and leather-bound tomes. The ceiling itself is vaulted and gold, a rich architectural style I stole from some churches in Scotland. There are sofas and oak tables, a liquor cabinet stocked to the nines, not to mention a fantastic vinyl player and sound system that’s so state of the art, the mortal world hasn’t invented it yet. I sigh and inhale the scents that make this place perfect: cinnamon and wood smoke, cardamom and clove. No matter how shitty my day has been or how bloody my return, stepping in here makes me feel like maybe things won’t be so bad.

The place has changed over the years, though in truth I probably didn’t have a typical teenage life or room to reflect it. No boy band posters, unless they were for dagger-throwing practice. No pink and gauze and sequins. My teen years had been Spartan, and my room had reflected it. It was only in the last few years, when I started . . . entertaining . . . that I began to cultivate a sense of style.

Trouble is, seeing as I’m the one in charge of keeping this place clean, it kind of looks like a horde of drunken satyrs blew through here. The tables are littered with books and bottles. My clothing is strewn everywhere. Hell, it’s not even all
my
clothing. Books aren’t my only entertainment, even though they tend to last longer and have more satisfactory endings.

The horde of drunken satyrs thing isn’t just a phrase.

I head into the bathroom, stripping out of my boots and clothes as I go. Ass-naked, I flick my wrist toward the sunken Roman tub, which starts filling with water immediately. Magic isn’t my forte, but I’ve rigged this place to make the most of what I’ve got. You don’t have to be a witch to use the stuff. You just have to know the motions.

The massive tub fills in a matter of moments, lavender-scented bubbles frothing up and onto the bathroom tiles. Everything in here is gold and ivory and crimson, a lush indulgence. Mirrors glint on all four walls, amplifying the light of a few hundred candles that never drip or die. I stare at myself in that light, tracing the scars that line my body like scores to lost music. The gash on my hip from a werewolf that got a little too friendly. The burn across my shoulder from where an ifrit’s fireball got too close for comfort. A hundred brushes with death
.
A hundred markers for my retribution. I’m proud of them, in a way. My little gold stars for surviving. For thriving. They aren’t just mistakes. They’re reminders that I have a purpose here. I’m worth something—at least, I’m worth more than the ones I’ve killed.

I turn and slip into the tub. The foam and water lap up around me. Perfect temperature, every time. Far away, I hear the scream of a banshee—maybe laughter, it’s always hard to tell with them. One underwater twitch of a finger, and the vinyl player in my living room turns on. Enya blares through the speakers laced throughout my place. Don’t judge. She’s relaxing.

I know the water’s turning pink underneath all the gossamer foam, but I don’t pay attention to it. Blood’s the least of my worries right now. I know Mab much better than she thinks I do. I know my little revelation worries her. Dream is more than just sustenance; it’s strength. After all, a starving kingdom can’t thrive. If someone’s building up a reserve, someone outside of her or Oberon’s control, she could have a new adversary. Someone who doesn’t play by the rules she and the Summer King have stuck to since the dawn of time. Sure, she calls it a war, but I know that she would die of boredom if she didn’t have their little game. They both would. I’m just here to keep things interesting, to be a little more of a threat.

An outsider, though—someone with an ax to grind—that could be a real danger.

I push the thoughts down. It’s late by my biological clock. My body wants nothing more than a shot of whiskey and ten hours of sleep. The liquor cabinet in the living room promises at least one of those things. Sleep in my world is left for the dead. I close my eyes and lean my head back and try to tune out my thoughts. Mab’s problems can haunt me another day. Right now I have foam and music and heat, and that’s enough. I take a deep breath and let my muscles unknot one by one. The darkness behind my eyes pulls me down into a floating, shifting mass of comfort.

“Claire?”

The voice shocks me awake. Before I can push myself from the tub and execute the half-dozen crippling blows already running through my head, I realize there’s no point trying to kill the intruder. He’s not even technically alive.

“Jesus, Pan,” I gasp. I try to settle myself back into the tub, but there’s definitely no relaxing, not anymore. My heart’s going a thousand beats a minute. Instead, I turn my attention and self-anger toward the faunlike statue in the doorway.

Pan bows his head. He’s crafted after one of those cherubic satyrs, with tiny nubs of horns poking from his sculpted curly hair. Well, one horn. The other’s chipped off at the base. Even though he was made to look young, he seems kind of the worse for wear, with little pockmarks and fissures all over his youthful body.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He really does sound it, too. That’s the problem with being angry at him—he always takes it to heart. “But I heard about your night.”

“Word travels fast when you fail,” I mutter. The foam in the bath has pretty much dissipated. I blow across the surface and it replenishes in a wave of froth.

“Only when you’re listening,” he replies. “May I?”

I nod and gesture him in. He takes a few steps into the room, his hooves clopping harshly on the marble.

“I take it you didn’t just come here to offer condolences on a job shittily done,” I say.

“It’s not your fault he killed himself.”

I sigh. “You might be the only one who thinks that way. So why
are
you here?”

“To warn you.”

This perks me up.

Pan has been many things throughout my life—mentor, friend, and, more often than not, babysitter. I wish I could say we’d spent many fun evenings with kid-me trying to play dress-up, but from the stories he tells, it was more like me chasing him down with a pitchfork. Aside from Celeste, he’s probably my closest confidant here, and he treats me like his kid. But he’s never been one to question Mab’s orders. I think I’m the only one who does.

“Warn me about what?” I ask.

“The circus.” His reply is so blunt and earnest, I actually laugh.

“It’s a circus, Pan,” I say. “Unless you’re worried I’ll get trampled by an elephant, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He crouches on the floor beside me.

“Just . . . promise me you’ll be careful. Trust nothing you hear, especially not . . .” He cuts himself off and looks away.

“What? Especially not what?”

He looks back to me. “Especially not what you hear from the magician. You can’t trust him. Not with your heart.”

I laugh bitterly.

“With my heart? Are you feeling okay? Because I’m wondering if you remember who you’re actually talking to here. You know I’m the lust-and-leave sort. No heart-giving involved.”

“Just be careful,” he whispers. Something about the way he says it sobers me instantly, like he’s saying his last good-bye before I’m sent before the firing squad.

“Always am.” I try not to sound confused. Or worse, concerned.

He nods, as though that’s consolation enough. Then he stands and leaves without another word, patting the side of the tub as he goes.

Statues. Not known for small talk.

I sink back into the tub and consciously try to undo the knots that re-formed the moment Pan appeared. The water’s cooled down, but a push of magical intention and it warms back to its original temperature. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, and right now, I need all the relaxing I can get. Especially since I apparently have an amorous magician to contend with.

Won’t
he
be in for a surprise.