Pale Queen Rising (20 page)

People
are
staring now, but no one’s coming over to see if Kingston needs assistance with the crazy girl.

He opens his mouth and gapes for a few seconds. I can’t tell if he’s trying to speak or trying to figure out what to say.

“Pale Queen?” he asks.

“Yeah, the Pale Queen. Whoever’s behind all of this is calling herself that. And apparently she has access to your old supplies.”

“I have never heard of anyone called the Pale Queen,” he whispers. His eyes flicker to the tent. He’s lying. “And I have a show to run. I told you, Claire, your answers aren’t here. You should leave. Now. Before you get hurt.”

“Fuck you, Kingston.”

Before he can say anything else, I turn and head back into the crowd.

Eli’s nowhere to be found in the throng, not that I’m really looking. I force my way forward while the crowd heads to their seats, trying my best not to elbow anyone in the chest while I do. Not that I care about their well-being, but I want out. Now.

I don’t know why this has made me emotional. I’ve barely given my real parents any thought over the past twenty years. But something about this place has me on edge, like there’s a crack in my life that’s starting to fissure deeper.

“Are you okay?” someone asks, and I look up to see the girl from before, Melody. Only she’s not quite how I remember her. She’s taller, for one thing, and her arms are covered in tattoos I know she didn’t have before. The face and voice are the same, though.

“Fine,” I reply. I look around, trying to find Eli. I wonder if maybe he’s latched onto a mortal for dinner.

“You look like you’re running from a ghost.” She pauses and really looks me over. “Let me guess: Kingston’s being a prick.”

“How did you know?” I ask, my voice deadpan.

“He’s been like that lately. Ever since Mab put him in charge. I don’t think he’s cut out for the pressure.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t have to take it out on me by hiding things.”

She sighs. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, seeing as he’s been a class-A dick for the last few years, but maybe don’t hold it against him.”

“Why?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it.

“You are more a part of this place than you understand,” she says quietly. “Seeing you here . . . it’s hard for us. For him. You may be the daughter of Winter, but this tent . . . this will always be your home.”

Then she stands up straighter. When she speaks again, it’s much louder, like she’s putting on a show for the zero people paying attention.

“Anyway, it was great seeing you, Claire, but I gotta go back and get ready for the show. The Shifters are doing their monthly Freakshow tonight and I need to make sure none of them are too indecent.” She grins. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile this entire interaction, and it looks just as forced as I’d expect. “Was great seeing you. Tell Mab to drop by and say hello sometime.”

Then, without giving me any time to respond, she leaves me standing there in the emptied promenade. Eli’s nowhere to be seen, but I’m done waiting around here. I have a name to follow and blood to shed, and right now, I want to shed it more than ever. What the hell did she mean—this place is my home? This is the second time I’ve been here. I decide then and there that I’m done trying to get answers from Mab’s contracted employees. It’s impossible. I need to be questioning people I can torture the answers from. I need to have some sort of upper hand. I stalk away from the circus toward the parking lot. Eli can catch up.

I don’t make it out of the show.

As I pass by the booths lining the promenade, a girl calls out to me. Normally I’d keep going, but only a few people here know my name. And when I look over, I realize the girl is the last person I’d expect to be inviting me over.

It’s Lilith.

She sits in a booth that’s draped in velvet and beads and candles. Lilith is similarly dressed, though there’s nothing soft about her appearance: her dress is black and heavy, the beads around her neck silver mouse skulls. And the glow in her green eyes is far from inviting.

“Claire,” she says again. “Come here.”

It doesn’t sound like an invite now. It sounds like a demand.

I look around to see if there’s anyone else named Claire she could be calling, but the few patrons left all mingle blankly, buying cotton candy and popcorn and cheap souvenirs. Lilith’s the last person I want to talk to . . . but then again, she’s the one who told me my mother had been here in the first place. Maybe she’s not bound by contract like the others. If only I could figure out why I have such an aversion to her. I walk over.

There’s a pile of Tarot cards to one side of her, an emerald crystal ball on the other, the stand made of wrought-iron black cats. She doesn’t take her eyes off of me as I approach and examine the objects. So she’s a psychic. I can’t imagine she’s related to the Oracle—the only thing this girl appears to have sacrificed is her manners.

“What?” I ask. I’m done being polite with these people. I want blood.

“You are upset,” she says.

“So brilliant,” I reply. “But I’m not paying you for that wonderful insight.”

She smiles. Honestly, I can’t tell if it’s menacing or if she’s pleased I’m being rude.

“Your mother would not approve of you being here.”

I look at her. Lilith’s face remains calm.

“What do you mean,
my mother
?” I ask. Because I have no doubt she isn’t talking about Mab.

“You are getting too close,” Lilith says. “Too close to understanding. And when you do, it will break you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I feel like I should lower my voice, but no one’s giving us a second look. The booth is getting a wide berth—something about her is a clear warning to stay away.

“This is where the evil began,” she says, her words completely devoid of feeling. The monotone gives me chills. “This is where the Trade began to falter. And your mother . . . your mother was the cause of it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have any clue what you’re talking about. My mother was never here.”

“She was,” Lilith says. “I knew her well. She was the beginning of the end.” Then, without a shift in tone, she continues, “Let me read your cards.”

She pushes the deck toward me.

“No thanks. I don’t deal with prophecy. What do you mean you knew my mother?”

“Shuffle.” It’s definitely a demand; her smile drops, and I have this funny image of her jumping over the table and clawing my eyes out if I say no. “Trust me. These cards will agree with you.”

I have no clue what the hell that’s supposed to mean. I reach out and grab the cards.

My vision shifts.

The girl behind the table isn’t Lilith. It’s the girl from the vision—blonde hair, pale skin—though now she’s bedecked in shawls and wears heavy eyeliner. She shuffles the cards absentmindedly, watching me, or the promenade behind me, and I’m about to ask who she is, because maybe Lilith’s a shape-shifter and this is all a trick, when Kingston steps from behind the curtain and wraps his arms around her. But it’s clearly not the Kingston I know—this guy, though seemingly the same age, is smiling. The stress and dark circles are gone, and when he hugs the girl, she smiles back and offers to read his fortune:

“I see a beautiful girl in your immediate future.” And he laughs and kisses the side of her neck, burrowing his face beneath the scarves. And then something clamps on my wrist and I look down to Lilith’s hand, white-knuckled, her nails drawing blood from my flesh. Vision gone.

I try to yank my hand away, but she doesn’t let go.

“You should not be seeing,” she hisses. I look into her green eyes—there’s something else in there, it seems, a hatred older than her little body should allow.

One more pull and my arm comes free. My blood splatters across the cards scattered on the table. By the time I clutch my hand to my chest, the wounds are already healed. My magic works fast.

“What the hell?” I take a step back, but she goes from looking at me to looking at the cards. I must have knocked them down in the throes of the vision. If it
was
a vision.

“You have slept with him,” she whispers. She hovers a hand over two of the cards—
The Knight of Swords
and
The Magician
, both splattered in my blood.

“You’re insane.”

“You have slept with the magician,” she says. She looks over to the other cards. Only a few were knocked faceup.
The Ten of Swords
, showing a man stabbed by his blades.
Judgment
, where the dead rise to the trumpets of angels. Each of them covered in my blood. Lilith’s hand shakes. When she looks at me, she actually seems hurt. “He said he would not. He said that it was only me.”

Oh fuck. Of course I managed to get in between the two of these crazies.

“It won’t happen again,” I say bitterly. “He was the one who showed up in my room.”

“Leave,” she says.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what—”

“I said leave!” she screams, swiping the cards off the table.

I don’t hesitate. I turn and walk away, nursing my slightly bruised hand.
What was that all about? What was that vision?

And why do I feel like the more I’m here, the more my life unravels?

I know the Tarot well enough, though I never read them—I don’t usually want to know what happens next. But
The Ten of Swords
is all about defeat, and
Judgment
is about, well, that final judgment day, and I can’t believe the two of them smeared in my blood is a good sign.

I want answers. I want to demand Lilith or Kingston tell me something. I want to go back to Winter and demand the same of Mab. But I know that none of them will speak up and, besides, I still have people to kill.
Someone
has to pay for the way I feel, and since it can’t be the people who are causing my anger, it will have to be someone equally deserving. Not that it’s likely to make me feel better.

For the first time in my life, I’m no longer looking at Mab as a savior. Something about that image has been tainted. Now, I can’t help but wonder if she was more a captor, or if my mom was just another stupid mortal like Roxie, getting roped in by one of the Fey to something far too big to comprehend.

When all of this is over, I’m damn well going to find out.

The portal I draw is on the side of a semitruck parked in the grass lot a few hundred feet away from the pitch. It bears no markings, so I’m not sure if it’s Mab’s or some lonely trucker’s, but it’ll work. I hop up to the back of the truck and begin sketching a portal along the door, triple-checking the equations and runes and adding in a few extra for good measure. These have less to do with travel and more to do with being prepared, tricks I learned from working with Mab. Some runes for strength, for hardened skin, for better senses. Not a single one of them can trump the runes already burned along my spine, but a little extra never hurts.

I’m not about to have my ass handed to me again.

“You’re just going balls to the wall, aren’t you?” Eli asks as I finish up another glyph. I didn’t even hear him approach.

“Where the hell did you learn that phrase?” I ask.

“I get around. Speaking of . . . how long are you planning on keeping me on this plane? You know my powers grow weaker the longer I’m away. Especially when I don’t feed.”

I hop down from the bumper, my work complete.

“You just ate,” I say. “You can’t be that weak.”

“Yes, but that work with the mannequin took a lot out of me. I’ll need to feed soon.” He glances longingly at the circus.

“No. No way. Mab would kill me if I let you steal one of her patrons.”

“You don’t listen, do you?”

“You’re treading on dangerous ground. What are you so bluntly hinting at?”

“There’s a Tapis Noir tonight.”

“A what?”

“
Tapis Noir.
It’s French. Means Black Carpet . . .”

“I know what it means, ass. What does it have to do with us?”

“It means, in a few hours, that tent over yonder”—he points to a small tent set up just beyond the main chapiteau, this one squat and striped black and dusty purple—“will be filled with mortals who are up for grabs. It’s Mab’s way of entertaining the denizens of her Court who require . . . other sorts of satisfaction.”

“And you want us to go.”

“I was considering holding off, but you’re packing a mean punch with all those runes. If you’re trying to be at peak fighting form, maybe I should be as well.”

I tilt my head back and sigh dramatically.

“You couldn’t have said this
before
I wrote all this down?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

I look back at him. “What about us needing to get to this person before they have time to prepare?”

“I think it’s glaringly obvious that the art of surprise is lost to us now. They’ve been tipped off. You’re used to playing in the dark, I understand that. The game has changed, though. You cannot act as an assassin now. You must act as a warrior. And warriors ensure they are fighting at full strength.”

I glance to the intricate runes covering the back of the truck. Easily one of my finest portals yet, save for maybe the one I used to track down a lich at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Underwater breathing spells are tricky as fuck.

“When’s the after-party?” I ask.

“After the show, thus the term
after-party
.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two tickets to the show. How he managed to get them, I have no idea, and I’m not about to ask. I’m positive I saw the ticket booth turning people away—full house. “Fancy a night out?”

“We have someone to kill.”

“And they’ll still be very much alive after the show. We might not be if we skip this step. So let’s just enjoy our meaningless lives while we can.”

I pluck a ticket from his hand and, with the wave of my other, disperse the chalk dust from the trailer.

“So Buddhist of you,” I say. “But you still owe me for all that work.”

“I’ll get you some popcorn.”

Thirteen

The show’s already begun when Eli and I sneak into the tent. Not that that’s much of an issue—we have front-row aisle seats, so there’s no awkward asking people to stand. I don’t really care about making people uncomfortable like that, but something about this place makes me feel wholly unwelcome, and not in a way that makes me want to fight against it.

My thoughts are swept from my mind the moment the next act comes onstage. Three swaths of fabric unfurl from the ceiling, billowing down to just touch the floor. The moment they begin to fall, the music changes and three aerialists tumble onstage, each heading for a fabric. They begin to climb using only their hands, and when they reach the top, they pose and the audience begins to clap—just in time for the aerialists to somersault down the fabric and catch themselves just before hitting the ground. I watch in awe as they climb and twist, the man inverting and pulling his leg to his head while the women drop into the widest splits I’ve ever seen. They are graceful and delicate and somehow powerful, and as I watch, I feel my own imagination take control as the Dream spirals out of me, twining up into the farthest recesses of the tent with the rest of the patrons’. The aerialists do another drop, this time nearly touching the floor, and my heart leaps into my throat. Everything else is forgotten as I watch—Lilith, the Dream Trade, Kingston, my family . . . None of that feels consequential now, and seeing as I was completely torn up before setting foot in here, that’s saying something.

Under the big top, everything in the outside world feels like a paltry show. I grab the popcorn bucket and settle back against the seat.

I completely lose track of time as the show progresses, and it’s not just the acts. I’m so attuned to Dream I feel like I’m getting a contact high from all the imagination floating around me. It’s all I can do to stay focused on what’s happening onstage. The rest of me wants to let go and drift amid the Dream.

After a while, though, the house lights come up and the stage is empty, and I look down and see I’ve eaten all the popcorn. I glance to Eli.

“Is it over?” My voice sounds more disappointed than I want it to.

“Just intermission, my dear.” He looks at the popcorn tub. “I don’t envy your stomach.”

“It’s dealt with worse.” I dust some kernels off me and stand. I feel really good. And I can’t tell if it’s the Dream or the show, but for the first time in a long time I don’t feel like an assassin. I don’t feel like an outsider. I feel like I’m part of a beautiful secret. “Wanna see the freakshow?”

He smiles. “I doubt they will be anywhere near as freakish as my usual entourage. But sure. Seeing you this giddy is a show unto itself.”

The freakshow is one long narrow alley that feels like an anachronism. Even the air is different back here, as if from an earlier time. The ground is covered in hay and the lane is congested with people. Everywhere I turn is another podium with some Shifter parading as a human oddity. There’s a woman covered head to toe in nautical tattoos, her naked breasts inked like a starfish bra and a thin, netlike wrap draped across her hips. There’s your usual sword-swallower, though this guy’s upped the ante and is swallowing swords lit on fire. I pause and watch as he swallows a long blade wreathed in flame, tendrils of smoke coming from his mouth when his lips reach the hilt. When he pulls it out, it’s still on fire.

But there’s more back here than just hawkers and oddities. There are tents with signs proclaiming any number of things—Elisa the Human Pincushion, Tarantina the Tarantula Lady, Edward the Geek. And, judging from the clucking of chickens coming from that tent, I’m betting they’re not talking about a nerdy programmer. I give that one a wide berth and head into the next tent, which promises to hold Karina and Katja the Two-Headed Contortionist.

When I get inside, I realize the contortionist is, in fact, Melody.

It’s very strange seeing the same girl I’d just spoken to with two heads. Her features are a little different—her skin’s pale and her hair is longer, pulled back into buns. Each face has the sharp, angular features of a Russian dancer, with dark eyebrows and heavy crimson lips. But it’s definitely her; she hasn’t even taken the nose ring out of one of the faces, and when she sees me step into the tent, one face winks while the other looks shocked.

At the moment, she’s in a split with her back leg pulled toward her head in a very uncomfortable looking backbend. She’s not wearing much at all—a string bikini, emphasis on
string—
and for some reason I feel I should look away. Not because I’m not attracted, but because I feel like I’ve stepped in on something even more private than sex. She’d told me she didn’t perform anymore. This feels like an extreme act of exhibitionism, and even though one of her faces is playing seductive, the other makes me feel I shouldn’t be watching. She shifts her position and flips up into a handstand, her legs spread wide and her bikini hiding nothing. Eli’s standing beside me with a small smile on his face and his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He looks entirely out of place surrounded by all these patrons in T-shirts and jeans, but as usual, he doesn’t seem to notice. In here, no one else does either.

Melody twists her feet to her head, still in the handstand, and I decide it’s past time to leave. I grab Eli’s arm and pull him from the tent.

The second act of the show is just as engaging as the first, and with another tub of popcorn in my lap, I’m more than happy to shut out the rest of the world and focus on the acrobats and jugglers and handbalancers that weave their magic across the stage. Even when Kingston comes out doing a magic act, I find it hard to be pissed. He’s just another performer on the stage.

When the lights rise and the curtain falls, Eli and I linger in our seats and wait for the crowd to disperse. I’m more than ready to go and kick this next suspect’s ass, but Eli has a fair point—if we hope to beat someone who’s clearly packing a punch, we need to be ready. And Eli’s probably the best weapon I’ve got, though it pains me to admit it. Being mortal has its limits.

After about twenty minutes, the tent’s almost entirely empty. A few pimply kids—clearly locals, based on the bored, shuffling attitude about them—roam the aisles in Cirque des Immortels
T-shirts, picking up popcorn boxes and stray cups. Outside, the sudden sound of drumbeats fills the air.

“That’s our cue,” Eli says, standing. We hadn’t spoken the entire time, which I definitely didn’t mind. Clearly he could see this wasn’t the time to test me; normally, he’d be chatting away and trying to find a new button to push. I wonder if he’s turning over a new leaf.

“I take it you’ve been here before?” I ask.

“Once or twice. It’s not a party to be missed.”

I, for one, am more than willing to miss a party. I’d much rather either be drinking in the Unicorn or going on a killing spree. Now that the flights of fancy from the show have landed, the irritation from before is back with a vengeance. I need to punch something or drink something or both. Preferably both. I can’t imagine what some fancy VIP party will do to ease that urge or empower Eli.

Once we step outside, however, I realize I might actually enjoy this.

There’s a crowd of patrons standing outside the entrance, huddled like a flock of lost sheep. And a little farther away, descending like a big bad wolf, is Kingston.

He’s dressed like a leather daddy, which is not a look I’d ever expect him to be able to pull off. Somehow, though, his skintight leather pants and chest harness pair perfectly with his lank black hair and tattoo wrapped around his torso. Fire-dancers flank him, moving forward in perfect time to the music, the light of their torches and fire fans making his skin glisten. He locks eyes with me the moment I emerge from the tent. As much as I hate him, my heart goes straight to my throat. That look was made for removing underwear.

When he nears, the dancers part and he steps forward, his eyes still on me.

“Welcome, loves,” he says. Even his voice is different—deeper, huskier. I’d say it’s a bedroom voice, but he definitely didn’t sound like that the other night. This is an even more carnal facade. “I trust you all have your tickets.”

The patrons are too stunned to really respond, though a few of them nod. I say nothing. I definitely don’t have a ticket for this part of the evening’s entertainment. And I definitely don’t think it matters.

Without waiting for an answer, he turns away and heads toward the smaller tent beyond. It perches in the night with its own inner glow, silhouettes and shadows playing out on the tent walls, revealing nothing and suggesting everything. The fire-dancers surround us and begin to urge us forward. I can’t tell if they’re meant to be an escort or to ensure no one tries to escape.

I glance around at the people, wondering who Eli will pick, wondering if all of them are doomed to die or if there’s something else in store. If it’s designed by Mab, I can’t imagine it’s good.

And even though I’m technically mortal like all of them, I can’t pretend to care.

Maybe I should have more compassion for people roped into a faerie trap. All I have is contempt for their stupidity.
What if this is how my mother was involved? What if she was once one of these patrons?
The thought’s an arrow to my heart, but it’s too late now to even think of saving anyone. These people damned themselves. I have to remember that.

The small tent is ringed with men and women in smart black suits and designer sunglasses, all stoically facing outward, like a much sexier version of the Secret Service or the guard outside Buckingham Palace. And at the entrance, with another pair of flanking guards, is a small table draped in velvet and covered in white and black masks.

Kingston waits beside the table, gesturing the first patron—a twentysomething hipster bedecked in flannel and an overly large beard—forward. The patron gives a guard his ticket, and the guard hands over a white mask. The man puts it on and slips inside the tent.

A few more patrons come forward, all shapes and sizes and ages, but each and every one of them gets a white mask, save for a few black masks that go to guests that I’m 100 percent positive are Fey. Then it’s just Eli and me left. No more masks on the table. Just Kingston standing there with his own black mask and the guards staring ahead motionless.

“You going to let us in?” I ask.

He looks at me without a hint of emotion on his face, like he just used up all his acting for the day and is now as blank as the mask in his hand. For a moment, I honestly think he’s going to say
no,
you aren’t welcome here.

“Do you promise to leave after this?” he asks.

Not the question I was expecting and not too good for my ego.

“Trust me,” I respond, “I wouldn’t be here if this one didn’t need a quick meal.”

Kingston looks to Eli, sizing him up. It’s the first time Kingston’s given my partner the slightest acknowledgment.

“What plane?”

Eli just grins and raises his sunglasses, letting his eyes answer for him.

“Thought so,” Kingston says. He takes his own mask in both hands and pulls a second mask from it, then a third. I barely even feel the magic used, it’s so subtle. He hands them over to us and looks to the guards. “These two are with me,” he says. The guards don’t even nod, but Kingston doesn’t let us enter until we’ve both tied on our masks.

“Have fun,” he says. Then he ducks inside and leaves us to enter behind him.

“The hell is his problem?” I ask the guards.

As expected, neither answers. Eli chuckles, then steps forward and holds the flap open for me. I glance inside—there’s nothing in there, just shadow.

“Après vous,”
Eli says.

“At least someone here’s a gentleman,” I respond, and head into the tent.