Pale Queen Rising (15 page)

“What the hell are you doing in there?” I ask. I peer past him, then back into his eyes. My knife stays on his neck. “And how the hell did you get in there in the first place?”

He grins. I hate to admit just how sexy that smile is, the perfect rebel-without-a-cause charm.

“Magic,” he says. He wiggles his fingers.

“Give me one reason not to kill you where you stand.”

He just laughs. “You wouldn’t be the first, let me assure you.” His eyes grow quizzical. “Come to think of it, the last time was just like this, too. What is it about my neck that says
please cut here
?”

Despite his attempts at humor, I don’t chuckle. Mainly because I’m more and more confused with every word he says and am intent on not letting it show.

“Why. The hell. Are you in my room?” I bite down the words as my blade bites against his neck. Just a little more pressure, I know, and I’ll break the first layer of skin.

“Because I wanted to see you. Obviously.” He doesn’t break eye contact when he says it, and there’s something about that smoothness that sets my nerves on edge and relaxes me at the same time. Those are eyes you could fall into and disappear completely. And he knows it.

“Why?”

“You know, it’s really hard to talk with this pressed against my neck.” He points to the blade. “Don’t get me wrong, I like it a little rough. But this might be crossing the line.”

Again, that nonchalant charm, like his life isn’t hanging in the balance. Which, to be fair, it probably isn’t, seeing as he’s under contract to live forever. Though maybe that doesn’t extend past circus lines . . .

In any case, I withdraw the knife but keep it open.

“One wrong move, magic boy,” I say, “and you’re going to learn what your intestines look like.”

I can see the flicker in his eyes, the inner acknowledgment that I am, in fact, being serious. But that’s it—the smile doesn’t shift and he doesn’t apologize or swear he’ll play nice. He just steps to the side and sweeps his arm out, inviting me into my own damn apartment.

I push past him without giving him a second glance, making sure to elbow him in the side as I go.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says as he closes the door behind me. “Very homey. You wouldn’t even know we’re in the depths of Winter in here.”

The last thing I want is to let him know he has me on edge, even if I did kind of blow that cover at the front door. So I hop over the back of the couch and lounge on the cushions. A wave of my hand and the embers in the fireplaces roar into life, along with a dozen candles scattered throughout the room. It probably looks romantic. I just want to appear like I don’t give a shit.

He pauses by the door, clearly a little crestfallen.

“I was wondering how to do that. Not normal magic.”

I shrug and stare at him. Of course it’s not normal magic—I was taught by the Motherfucking Queen of Winter, not some mortal witch. Duh.

I don’t say anything while I look at him. Let him keep making the first moves—so long as we’re in my territory, it should keep him on edge. He’s wearing tight blue jeans tonight, along with a white button-down that looks like it’s been through the Dark Ages and a beat-up leather jacket I can’t help but envy. His hair’s pulled back in a scraggly man-bun, and I hate to admit that—paired with the scruff he’s clearly been tending—he looks pretty damn hot. The Quetzalcoatl tattoo twined around his neck definitely helps.

And it’s then, right then, that I know what tonight’s going to entail. I feel the inevitability crashing toward me like an avalanche, one I don’t think I want to avoid. My chest feels warm at the thought; Kingston’s the perfect way to spend the evening—the perfect focus to forget everything else, the ticket and Dream and even Roxie. He might be here to coerce me or something, but I’m going to use him like he’s never been used before. And he’s going to love it.

Clearly he notices the shift in my mental energy, because he clears his throat and actually looks away, toward the case of weapons. He doesn’t look back to me. Score. After everything else today, it feels great to be back in control of something.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he finally says. It’s the first time words have left his lips that haven’t felt calculated. There’s something raw to them, almost bitter. Though I still don’t doubt for a second that it’s all an act, even if it’s a very good one.

“That’s a shame,” I respond.
Is he really making it this easy?
“I tend to have that effect on weaker men.”

He does glance over then. Good. Let him see I’m not going to be won over by some vain show of self-loathing.

He opens his mouth to say something, then stops, leaving his lips slightly parted. I really, really want to bite that bottom lip, to give over to lust and just forget about everything else. And I will. But first: business.

“Why are you here?” I ask. I funnel as much cold into my voice as I can, using Mab as my muse. It sounds more like an accusation than a question, and the slight flinch in his eyebrows tells me I pulled off Mab’s rendition flawlessly.

“Why do you think I’m here?” he responds.

“No. We’re not playing that game. You’re on my turf, you answer my questions. Or you get the fuck out.” I grab an empty wineglass from the table and circle my finger lazily around the rim, letting its crystal chime ring out. As it does, the glass fills with red wine. A very nice old-vine zin. “So, last time: Why are you here?”

“I’m here to warn you.”

“Ooh very dramatic.” I take a sip and pointedly don’t offer him a glass, even though there’s another waiting on the coffee table. “Let me guess,
end of the world
or something like that? I already know.”

“No.” He doesn’t move from his spot by the wall. “How safe are we to talk in here?”

“I enchanted the place myself. So pretty damn safe.”

He grins again, a little more uncertain than before. “In that case, I should probably give it another coating.”

“No magic.”
I don’t trust you not to weave in something else.

“Okay. Well. What you’re getting into . . . it runs deep. And you shouldn’t be setting foot there, not if you know what’s good for you.”

“I’m not
getting
into anything. I’m already there. But thanks for thinking of me. Was great seeing you and all.”

Because yes, I want to screw him, but I also want him to work for it.

“No,” he says. “You’re just starting.”

I take another sip, letting him know his revelations are far from, well, revelatory.

“If you know something, you will tell me. To do anything less would be treason, and you know how well our dear ruler takes to that.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that. I told you, I have no idea who’s stealing Dream and if I did, I’d be as far removed as possible. I’m not coming between Mab and her Dream.”

“So what are you warning me about?”

“You. Your life. What you’re about to embark on. What you’ve already seen, even if you don’t understand it.” He looks torn when he says it, like he’s not quite supposed to tell me. I wonder if it’s against his contract somehow. I perk up inside but try to appear disinterested. The conversation’s finally getting interesting.

“Thank you, Mr. Enigmatic. What are you, a fortune-teller now?”

He actually winces at that. Huh. Must not like being associated with charlatans.

“Jesus, Claire,” he says, running his hands over his hair. “I’m trying to keep you from getting in trouble.”

“Then just spit it out.”

“I can’t!” he yells. He looks like he wants to punch something—both fists balled up and his tattoo writhing around his neck angrily. “I’m trying but I can’t. Listen, you . . . you’re not . . . Ugh!”

He does punch the wall then. Not that it does any good, since the wall is solid stone, but the thud is oddly pleasant. Something about the sound of smashing flesh trips a trigger. Kingston doesn’t shake his hand out, just takes a deep breath and clearly tries to collect his thoughts. It doesn’t seem to work.

“What do you know about your . . . your family?” he mutters to the stone.

“Why?”

“Just answer.”

“Dead,” I say. “Or, according to Mab, as good as dead, which I assume means vegetables of some sort.”

Another deep breath. “That’s what I thought.”

He pushes himself from the wall and walks over, collapsing on the sofa by my feet.

“So you don’t know anything. About before?”

“Before this?” I ask, spreading my hands. “Not really. What’s it matter? It’s the past. I’m here now, I have a job to do, and there isn’t anything else to think about.”

He shakes his head. His hand is close to my calf, but I don’t move my legs. I like the closeness. Especially since he’s finally realized he doesn’t get to control the situation in here. There’s a lost look to his eyes; a single lock of hair has slipped out from his bun.

“Don’t you ever wonder, though? Who they were. Why they . . . why they gave you up?”

“No.” I know this should probably be touching, somehow. Like he’s trying to get to know me. Maybe I should be defensive or annoyed. But I really, honestly don’t care. I’m here. Now. Focusing on the past has never helped me. I have more than enough on my plate as it is without working in some Long-Lost-Mommy Issues. “Why do you even care?”

He opens his mouth to speak but can’t. Clearly contractual.

“I just do. I feel responsible.”

This is getting old. I mean, sure, it’s endearing that he’s trying or whatever, but I’ve had enough doomsaying for one day.

“You aren’t. I’m a big girl. And you’re a big boy. If you want to help, you can tell me what you think about this.”

I pull out the ticket from earlier and hold it up to him. He takes it.

“Where’d you find this?” he asks, examining both sides.

“Some rando’s house in Winter. Power it up. It’s a trip.”

He does—I feel the small flux of magic—and his eyes glaze over as the vision takes hold, his body going suddenly rigid. A few seconds later and his body sways, like he was hit by a strong wind, and he blinks a few times to reacclimate.

“You know what this is?” he asks, though it doesn’t really sound like a question.

“Some sort of propaganda.” I snatch the card from him and put it back in my pocket. “Which makes no sense since it’s coming from Mab’s show.”

“My show,” he responds, almost on reflex. “She gave it to me, after . . . after she was done being ringmaster.”

“Okay, touchy.” He really does sound upset about the statement, though I can’t figure out why. Though it does sort of explain why everything behind the scenes was OCD-neat. Kingston seems like he’s one of those carefully curated types, even when he’s trying to look like a bad boy. “So what can you tell me about it? You’re the witch here—you should know this magic better than me.”

He shakes his head. “Faerie magic. You know it’s a different arena. Besides, I don’t know what it’s trying to show. And I don’t know how they got ahold of those tickets or why they’re using them.” He seems disturbed by it, his voice trailing off into a question.

“Well, I mean, it’s not like it would be too hard to steal stock from the Cirque—they could just hijack the cargo before it gets to you. The question is why.”

“No, they can’t.” He sighs and looks at the floor. “We haven’t used those tickets since . . . in years.”

The stutters in speech are getting annoying—I can’t tell if he’s leaving things out because he wants to or because he contractually has to.

“How many years?” I ask.

“Twenty-seven.” He doesn’t even pause to do the math.

“So someone’s been holding on to these for a while.”

“Someone’s been waiting.”

He looks at me again, and this time there’s something scared in his expression.

“Please, Claire. If you only listen to one thing I tell you, please. Stop looking. Let someone else do this. It can’t end well for you.”

That old bullshit again.

“Not an option. Mab put me on the job, but you’re welcome to try and bargain with her—gods know this isn’t something I’m excited about. But there are other things I do enjoy, so, if there’s nothing else you can tell me tonight, you either need to leave or start taking off your clothes.”

He looks at me, and once more I’m delighted to see that shocked little expression on his face.

“Are you serious?” he asks.

“Don’t expect me to cook you breakfast or anything. Apparently I only do that for captives.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Are we doing this or what?”

It’s not the most romantic line I’ve used but there’s only so much BS I can take for one evening. And I’ve definitely hit my limit. The last thing I needed tonight was more to think about—he’s here to help me forget. I have no doubt he’ll be good at that sort of thing.

“I thought my charms weren’t working on you.” he says. The grin creeps back.

“They didn’t. But I need something to get through the night and you’re the best I’ve got.”

“Wow. That’s . . . easily the most insulting line someone’s used on me.” As expected, though, the grin doesn’t slip. He and I are cut from a similar cloth, I can tell. We’re not interested in the small talk or the romance. We’re both hunters. It’s about the kill. Sometimes it takes a bit of stalking, and sometimes, like right now, you go straight for the throat.

“And I’m sure you have a long list.” I smile and stand up, sliding out of my jacket and throwing it at his feet. Then I step over and straddle him, resting my hands on the sofa’s back. He looks up at me with the same intrigue as the day we met, when I thought he was trying to put the moves on me. Only now, he actually is. “So then, magic boy. Let’s see what else you can do with your hands.”

He chuckles and I press my lips to his. He doesn’t try to answer.