The Master (12 page)

Asenatha was a beautiful child—sweet, thoughtful and gifted with a passion for learning that Zee realized would never be fulfilled if she stayed with her family. They saw the child as nothing more than burdensome half-breed chattel, to be sold off to the first male who would have her. Asenatha's psyche would store up scars as surely as her body. And she was too young to defend herself. She was too kind— and too lutin—to get angry and fight back. Zee understood. She, too, had been good and obedient as a child and allowed the others of her hive to eat away at her self-confidence and self-esteem. She had
let
them pull her creative teeth and claws. The thought of that passivity made her despise herself.

Perhaps it wasn't all her fault; expressing anger was never something she had seen demonstrated by the women of her hive. Even possessing such emotion was a sin. Those who lived in a hive—especially the females—weren't supposed to feel or think anything unapproved by the hive master. That their actual master was dead didn't matter, that he'd been killed in the destruction of the Las Vegas hive—Luz was now the one in control. And anger, like personal ambition, had to be kept hidden from him, no matter the cost to the soul. But while the others could do it, Zee had trouble: Possessing that hidden anger and denying her dreams was like having gravel buried in the skin. Some days it was all she could do to ignore it and get on with her life. Many times she had thought about what it would be like to grow long fangs and sharp claws so that she could tear herself open and let the fear and anger and frustration out. She sometimes wanted fangs and talons for other reasons as well.

And then there was Gaust. What would happen to Gaust—Hansel—if she left him behind? Already an angry boy, would the neglect and abuse eventually teach him to be a monster, too? She feared that he
would
grow claws—giant, tearing talons—and would use them on anyone who got near him.

Zee had gone to her mother one last time to ask for help, but took a single look at her parent and knew the question had been decided already; it was useless to enlist her aid. Her mother had always been a quiet creature, somber in nature, but the woman who looked at Zee was more than that. She was grim and petulant, all joy snuffed out from her first husband's death, left with nothing but her lutin family who, though they'd taken her back, would not allow her to keep her human luxuries and would never accept her half-breed children. Want for worldly, forbidden things now distorted her face and lined her forehead and deadened her eyes until she was barely recognizable. Zee knew that there would be no help from her; she'd feed her children to Luz's family without a single protest if it made her own life more comfortable.

Nor would Zee's other kin intervene. She had an aunt and an uncle by marriage who were gentle and sympathetic—and who kept Zee's human books so her mother wouldn't find them—but they were just too afraid to cross Luz. They had urged Zee to give in and seek safety in marrying Paspar, even knowing how she would likely be abused by him. That had seemed far better to them than Zee's idea of leaving.

So Zee could not stay with any of her family. To do so would be to bite the poison apple like the human princess doomed to a sleeping death—a horrible human story that haunted Zee because she knew it was true and not just a tall tale.

There were many poisonous things in her world; Zee had learned this from watching her mother. Always a quiet woman, anxious to please, Zee's mother had become nothing more than a drone, a slave to her new husband. What was that story— Tristan and Isolde?—where the hero was told that by taking the love potion he'd drunk his death. That had been her poor mother. She had fallen in love with a half-human, half-fey. He, being kind and generous, had given her something wonderful, a gift that was fabulous—the chance to dream and see a wider world than a goblin hive. But it also was a gift that had been taken away with his life. Because she hadn't the tools or nature to fight, she had given up her place in the world without a struggle. And though she hated it, in part Zee understood her mother's choice to return to the hive.

Yes, the world outside could be hostile, especially for an uneducated woman with children. Returning to the lutin fold had looked the easiest, safest course. But if Zee herself followed that path, she would be trapped, lost—her soul first, then her mind and finally probably her body, because her cousins were not gentle and most hive women did not live long; they were worn out by endless breeding as the men tried to strengthen their numbers.

Luz and his kin had called Zee a subversive thinker—a charge she had always denied—but perhaps they were right. She hated the way her family lived in the hive, and she didn't believe that life in a larger, organized hive would be any better. All the stories suggested Lilith was a monster, though Zee herself hadn't lived under the goblin queen because her father had taken them away when she was small. Zee didn't recall much of the outside world from her childhood, but she had read the books her father gave her, and she even thought in the human tongue when she was angry. And many small human, rebellious thoughts—and then deeds—had begun to creep into her life. She'd had secret dreams of independence, of friendships outside the hive, of travel—of a fuller life, a life self-created and not handed to her by someone else whose soul and dreams were dead.

Was it so wrong to want to leave footprints behind to mark her journey in the world, so that she wouldn't disappear without a trace as all her lutin ancestors had done?

Of course, it was more than that which moved her. In time, she had come to believe in personal freedom within the hive—even for females—and if she could have her way, democracy would break out all over the lutin empire, giving hive members a chance to decide their own fates. Someday they might even have elections to choose their leaders!

But these thoughts, as seductive as they were, hadn't been enough to compel her to act. It was seeing the light in the children slowly snuffed out that had been the thing that finally moved her to extreme action. Her mother couldn't—or wouldn't— protect them, so Zee had to. The time to leave her family had come, and she couldn't impede her destiny any more than a woman in labor could halt her contractions and abandon giving birth. She'd decided that she and the children were leaving and were going to be reborn . . . somewhere, somehow.

In that moment of awareness, something had risen up inside Zee, and the tide of loyalty had turned and begun pulling her away from the past and her family. She renounced her lutin blood. And she wasn't sorry to see her past life go. Most days, Zee was certain she would eventually find another, more hospitable shore, where she and the children could put down roots and allow themselves to grow into whatever it was that nature meant them to be. In time, she might even forget everything that had happened before and learn to be trusting again. And why not? Very little of the past was worth remembering. She would just treat it as a bad dream.

It was simply unfortunate that her journey had turned out darker than she had guessed it would be. Privation and physical hardship she had expected. But who could have known about the monster that stalked her dreams? It seemed so unfair that he had been at the mall. She had taken the children inside because of the big red-and-gold banner that had proclaimed peace on earth. And because of all the wonderful lights. It was wrong that a monster should be hiding with all that beauty.

Still, she was winning the war, one small battle at a time. She had managed to take back her confiscated life from the sadistic Luz, and done whatever she had to in order to keep herself—and the children—safe from him. She would win against this other monster, too.

Of course, it was a pity that the only place where she could think to take the children was to the human world. They would probably never be fully accepted, perhaps never marry or have close friends. But that was how it had to be. They had the human language, more or less; Zee had seen to that. And they could pass for human as long as they kept their clothes on. They would even be able to go to school and learn to read and write and to do math, just like all the human children. They could have a dog, or maybe a cat. Zee loved cats and had always wanted a pet.

And the humans were turning out to be kind after all. Look at Nick—no one could be more generous or sweet. If only . . .

Zee touched the pendant that she wore over her heart, seeking comfort. It was her father's pendant, an heirloom. On one side was a family crest, and on the other were the three faces of the goddess whom she had never been taught to worship. Though she often wore it, Zee never felt like the medallion was truly hers. It had belonged to her father, and to his father before him—and to all his grandfathers back to its creation. It had belonged to those of
before
, and perhaps it would belong to one who came
after
, but it could not belong to her because, though born in her father's family, she did not know them—did not know who and what she was herself. And she did not know the Goddess. She wanted to, sometimes desperately, but she did not know how to find Her.

Zee didn't know why, but she had never been taught how to touch that side of herself. Her father had said only that it was too dangerous to be fey. But though she trusted her father, Zee realized this ignorance of her nature kept her from many things that she needed to know in order to live a
good
life, a life where she wasn't wasting precious energy fighting her very nature. A life that had love and a family . . . and hope.

Zee shook her head. Her father had told her once that because of the magic in her, she would know the right man when he came along. His magic would speak to hers and—whether he was goblin or fey—they would come together because the magic willed it so. But, though hugely fond of the human culture, he hadn't said anything about humans as mates—ever. And that was worrisome. Everyone knew that humans didn't have magic. And perhaps that was fine, since Zee was trying to be like them and she didn't have much magic either. But how would she know the right man if he didn't have any enchantment in him?

Of course, that begged the question—could any
human
be the right one for her? Carrying goblin blood, could she ever be the right woman for a human? She looked almost like them, except for those scars on her chest. But she wasn't human—not all the way, not down deep inside.

Zee wished she had a scrying stone, some clear gem she could gaze into to focus her thoughts. Perhaps then she could find an answer. Nick certainly seemed like the right man. Even before his car had appeared, she had felt his approaching heartbeat outside her door, knocking, asking to be let inside. And what had passed between them later when they made love had felt like magic—at least magic as she understood it. He was generous, passionate, caring— and gentle with the children, too—and he made her want to do wonderful things to please him.

Oh, how she wanted to be the right woman for him! She wanted to be the one who would share his life and dreams, which had to be rich and wonderful, and she'd never go hungry again. This thought was nearly an obsession now. And if this change of thinking wasn't magic, then what was? That they had made love at all was amazing. She had resisted this transition for so long, resentful and also fearful of the changes that happened to lutin women when they gave themselves to men. Until tonight, Zee had thought she would rather endure the worst beatings, torture and even death, before she gave away her body and will. Yet, she had made love to Nick only hours after meeting him, and was even now wandering in a dark forest in the freezing cold trying to do something to please him.

That had to be magic, didn't it?

Which led her thoughts back to Christmas trees. She had to find one before the sun rose over the mountains. She had to find it and bring it back as an offering to Nick. Only then would everything be well.

Zee trudged on. The cold had frozen a tiny stream that she had to cross over. It had also made the ground harder and less forgiving. Sticks and branches, which once would have bent with her passage, became weapons—cudgels and knives that gorged her flesh when she touched them. The cold had also rarified the air so that every breath of wind seemed loud. This had to be the coldest night of the year.

If one were of the nervous sort, Zee thought, it would be easy to imagine something was perching in the twisted limbs of that old oak tree, or hiding in the thick needles of that ancient fir.

Zee saw a flash of light from the corner of her eye and spun about quickly, but it was nothing, no wild beast about to attack, just a choked thicket of Himalaya-berry vines that had crept among the trees in the summer, decorating them with dark but hard to obtain fruit. The now-brown vines were denuded of fruit and leaves, but were still armed with thorns. Those numerous claws sparkled prettily, even in the faint light of false dawn.

She hadn't gone much farther when her prayers for guidance were answered. Someone had left her a clear sign. There was an entire stand of young pine trees marked with plastic ribbons—some red, some green and some yellow.

Had Nick's elf been here after all? Zee's skin prickled, and she sniffed the air carefully while checking the ground for prints.

Nothing. The snow was pristine. No one had been here since the storm stopped, not even deer or other nocturnal forest animals. Which, now that she thought about it, was rather odd. Surely she was not the only living soul! Yet, she had seen and heard no other beings since leaving the cabin. Perhaps they had been frightened away by the storm; animals were often sensitive to magical phenomena.

She advanced slowly, watching the dawn shadows as she went. But all remained peaceful and calm.

Most of the trees in the grove were small, between four and ten feet tall. They were somewhat sparse-looking, suggesting that perhaps they were ill or holding back their delicate limbs because of overcrowding. If thinning the trees out would make the other trees healthier, then she was doing a doubly good deed by cutting one down. She had to think that way because there were very few trees in the place where she had grown up and, though stunted by sun and wind, they all seemed like miracles to her; killing them—even for a ritual—seemed wrong.