Pale Queen Rising (19 page)

I glance around. My dagger’s nowhere to be seen, which blows. That one took a week to enchant, layer by layer.

“Did it hurt the girl?” I ask. “The one who enchanted it?”

“Afraid not. Once she gave over her true name, it became a completely different entity. She’ll have felt the magic trigger, I’m sure, but it won’t have done any harm to her. There is absolutely zero link between the two. She was smart. Or, whoever told her how to do this was smart.”

I sigh and look around. It’s not like I can expect to find any clues in here—the place is burned to a crisp, save for the tiny spot of wallpaper where I was huddled. The edges of it curl and smoke.

“Then it looks like we’re at a dead end. Whoever this girl is, we don’t have a way of getting to her, not if she’s given over her name.”

“So we move on,” he replies. “Name number two.”

“I need to head back first. Something tells me we’re going to need more firepower. If that was a trap, this next one won’t be any better.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Eli winks. “Though you could always just release me for good.”

“Nice try. I’m not that stupid.”

“A boy can wish.”

I head to the wall and start sketching our escape. If it weren’t for Eli, I’d be dead right now. And that’s not a debt I like on my shoulders.

“You’ll eat well tonight,” I say. “I promise.”

Inside, I also promise that it won’t be Roxie.

Twelve

Mab is waiting for me the moment I’m back in Winter. She’s not even being crafty about it—no, she’s sitting in my living room with a book open in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. The fire’s blazing silently in the hearth and even though the room is warm, her presence makes everything much, much colder.

“Why was he here?” she asks the moment I step into the room.

For a moment, I think she’s talking about Eli, who’s currently grabbing a drink on my dime and who definitely hasn’t been inside the castle. Then she points to the chair in the corner, the one holding Kingston’s coat, and I realize Eli’s the last person on her mind.

“Conjugal visit,” I say, my words deadpan.

She looks at me like she could scream—the purse to her lips, the slight color to her cheeks. For once, though, I’m not pleased by it. I’m more pissed by his visit than she appears to be. Instead of yelling, she takes a sip of wine and tosses the book into the flames. It goes up immediately. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to see what the cover was so I’d know what to replace.

“I do not know if I am comfortable with this,” she says.

It’s the first time Mab’s ever made any comment about my sex life. I mean, she’s a faerie—I learned everything I know from her and the denizens of this Court. It’s not like there are any misplaced notions of purity or love around here. It’s also the first time I’ve heard her say something that isn’t an absolute fact.
I do not know if I am comfortable.
What, is she taking lessons in passive-aggressive behavior?

“Why do you care?” I ask. Despite the fact that I was almost overtaken by a mannequin, my urge to talk about what just happened to Eli and me vanishes. I know I should tell her about the ticket, but she already seems pissed.

“Because you cannot trust him,” she says, which is funny since she’s the one who put him in charge of her main source of Dream. She says it like
the sky is blue
or
mortals die.
Like I’m an idiot to even consider asking. I definitely have no illusions about trusting a man whose sole job in life is misdirection.

“Funny,” I reply, plopping down on the sofa. “Because that’s the exact same thing he said about you.”

“That does not surprise me,” she says to her wineglass.

“It’s a shame,” I continue. “Shouldn’t you trust your employees?”

“It is not
I
who
can’t trust him, but you.”

“What is it now?”

She doesn’t answer, not right away. Instead, she drinks the rest of the wine and stares at the fire, and I honestly start to think she just won’t answer the question, or maybe she hasn’t heard it or forgot, both of which are highly unlikely. The only other time I’ve seen her uncertain was in the storeroom, but that was about something that was actually important to her: the health and wealth of her kingdom. Why is she suddenly giving a shit about me? And why does it actually seem to worry her?

“He has a past that would not agree with you,” she finally replies.

“We had sex,” I say. “That’s it. It wasn’t even that good.” Okay, the last part is sort of a lie but no matter what, she’s still my mother. I’m not going to admit everything.

She raises a hand like she’s warding off that mental image. Holy shit, have I actually found a subject that makes her uncomfortable? This Kingston guy must have really done something bad if the very thought of us together makes her pale. Well, more pale than usual.

“Will you see him again?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“As your mother . . .”

“It’s very awkward we’re even having this conversation,” I say, cutting her off quickly. But something in her wording strikes a chord, something Kingston referenced.
As your mother . . .
She isn’t my mother though, is she? She’s just a queen who plucked me from my family. “Wait,” I add, “is this about before? Before you found me?”

Her usually stony face turns to ice.

“It is, isn’t it?” Things click. “Kingston knew my—”

“You will not bring up Kingston or your mother anymore,” she interrupts. I don’t know if she realizes she’s just confirmed that Kingston knew my mother, but she doesn’t cover her tracks. Instead, she stands and moves to the door. “Nor will you see the magician again. You will focus on your duties. As you have always done. Let your past remain in the past—there’s nothing there for you.”

It’s so close to what Kingston warned me about that my intrigue level multiplies. It’s not like she can keep me locked up in here. Winter may be hers, but my room is my domain, and I can escape it if I want. And if I’m not supposed to see Kingston, that’s precisely where I want to go.

“What are you hiding?” I ask.

But she doesn’t answer. She pauses in the doorframe and looks into the shadows.

“I have heard from Oberon,” she says over her shoulder. It sounds like an afterthought. “His kingdom is beginning to falter. I even hear his citizens are fleeing. You must find this threat, Claire. Before our kingdoms collapse.”

I don’t let her go, though. Not yet. There’s a fire in me that suddenly rages—I just risked my life for her, and all she can do is chastise me about my life choices and say I need to try harder? Screw that.

“Why can’t you do anything about this? You or Oberon? All you do is sit on your throne and order us peons around to kill or be killed. I’m sick of it, Mab. I’m not your doll.”

I don’t know the last time I called her Mab and not Mother. Judging from the flicker in her eyes, neither does she. She turns to face me, locking eyes.

“I must play my own part,” she replies. “I cannot be involved directly in affairs related to the mortal world. I may only plot and coax. It is governed by the rules of nature.”

“Yeah. And
you
wrote
those rules.”

“Which is precisely why I must abide by them. As must you.” I fully expect her to leave in that moment. It’s a great exit cue, a
remember your place
sort of thing. Instead, she glances toward the fire.

“I have lost much in the last thirty years, Claire. Much more than you will ever know. I do not wish to lose any more. Think what you will of my means, but you will always be a daughter to me. And no daughter of the Faerie Queen is without her rightful place in the world. I want to ensure you are able to take that place, when your time has come. I do not want some charlatan rebel to steal it away from you.”

Then, before I can ask what she’s talking about, she goes, and I’m left with the impression that even though she’s said a great deal, she hasn’t told me anything at all.

I’m not one to chase down the guy. It’s not my nature.

The fact that I’m jogging up the promenade toward the Cirque des Immortels
is completely out of character for me. Especially after I kicked the bastard out that morning. But I need answers. Now. And if it involves my family, well, suddenly this whole shit-show is beyond personal.

It’s already evening in the mortal world, and the place is packed. Music blares through the night air, and performers dance around with fire staves and poi, everything sparkling and shifting like disco shrapnel from neon lights and searchlights. Dream is so thick here I could choke—it pours from the crowd like a tempest, and it has a tang that no other venue’s had before. The Dream tastes like cotton candy and hay, like burning lights and laughter. No wonder Mab puts so much stock in this place. It brings in more than any other single venue I’ve seen. Probably because it’s the one place people feel like they can actually dream again, no matter their age.

I can’t imagine it’s going to be too hard to find Kingston—he doesn’t seem like the type of guy to just let himself fade into the crowd. But the crowd’s as thick as the Dream, and I wander past the admissions booth with the wave of my hand, and the area inside is just as crazy. There are jugglers wandering outside the tent, and sword swallowers, and a little farther off there’s a new area of smaller tents, all tightly knit into an alley straight out of the Old West. Above it is a simple wooden sign that reads, in crooked hand-painted letters, “Freakshow.”

It doesn’t look like the place someone like Kingston would hang out, so of course I find it incredibly appealing. I’m about halfway toward the backstage area when there’s a hand on my arm, pulling me to a stop. I spin around, knife already in hand and ready to cut off the offending wrist.

“Eli, Jesus,” I hiss.

“You’re not the first to call me that,” he says. He isn’t smiling, though. “Where have you been?”

“Speaking with Mab.”

“And why are you here?”

“Because I have some unfinished business with a magician.”

He scans me up and down.

“Oh, I know that tone. Surely it can wait.” His hand still hasn’t left my arm. He’s lucky I’ve not cut it off.

“No. It can’t.” I glance around quickly, but no one’s looking at us. No one looks when you’re part of the crowd. So I pull out the ticket I found in Faerie and hand it to him. “I found this. In Winter. It’s propaganda for whoever’s recruiting in the Wildness.”

He takes the ticket and spins it around in his fingers, his face unreadable and eyes hidden. The only response he makes to let me know he’s even seen the imagery is a low “hmm” before handing it back.

“So they aren’t just hoarding Dream,” he says. “They’re actively recruiting.”

I nod. I don’t ask how he found me, or why—he can follow our bond just as easily as I can.

“Have you told Mab?” he asks.

I shake my head. “She was already yelling. It wasn’t the right time.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Now, if you’re done, I’ve got work to do.”

And I turn and keep heading for the backstage area.

Eli doesn’t follow.

I almost expect someone to try to stop me, but no one gives me a second look as I storm backstage. The performers are all warming up in costume—contortionists stretching on a long blue mat, acrobats doing handstands on top of each other. And there’s Kingston, over near the corner, wearing a ringmaster coat and top hat and tight leather pants. For a split second I almost forget why I came here, what I wanted. Because suddenly all I can see is him naked in my bed. All I can hear is his heavy breathing.

Then he looks over at me and the rest of the world comes crashing back in a cacophony of voices and music.

I don’t look away, either. I stride right up to him and ignore the performers who stare at me like I’m a ghost.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“What do you know about my family?” I ask in return.

He opens his mouth like he might actually answer. Then he shuts it and looks away.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Don’t bore me with your contractual bullshit,” I say. I grab his arm, force him to look at me. “If you know something, anything at all, you will tell me. You knew them, didn’t you?”

He’s clearly warring with himself, but he’s too good an actor. I don’t know if it’s for show or if his lips are honestly magically bound. Not that that makes any sense—why would Mab prevent him from telling me about my past? How could my mother have been that important?

He nods.

“And you can’t say anything because of something Mab put into the contract.”

Another nod, this one a little more pained.

“You need to go,” he says. “Before Mab learns you were here. You’re not supposed to be here. You were never supposed to be here.”

“If that was the case, why would she send me here to take stock of the Dream?”

He locks eyes with me. He might be a good actor, but his next words are no line.

“Because sometimes, Mab uses us to play a bigger game.”

I let go of his arm.

“You need to go, Claire. Leave the circus and never come back. There aren’t any answers for you here. None that you want to find, at least.”

I want to punch him. I’ve never put much thought into my family. I never needed to. But now, knowing that he knows
something
,
and that that something’s enough to forbid him from speaking of it . . . that ignites my curiosity like nothing else. He’s here. The information is so close. And he won’t—or can’t—reveal it.

“I don’t know what sort of game you two are playing,” I say. “But you’re hiding my family from me. My past.”

“Nothing good can come of searching for your past in here,” he says. His words are heavy, weighted with a history I can’t begin to understand. “Trust me on that. It will only bring you pain.”

I want to push him. I want to scream and force him to tell me what he knows. But he won’t. I don’t even care if it’s a
can’t
:
in my eyes, he’s just being a dick.

“What about the tickets?” I ask. I pull it out and hold it in front of his face. He looks around but no one’s watching. Probably not the first time he’s been accosted by an angry female before a show.

“I don’t—”

“Bullshit!” I scream. “That’s bullshit. You’re in charge of this show, Kingston. You know everything that goes on in here, everything that comes in or goes out. Don’t lie to me. You know how those tickets got into Faerie. You know how they’re connected. So who the hell is this Pale Queen and why is she trying to fuck up my life?”