Pale Queen Rising (26 page)

Roxie’s screaming cuts short, and I can’t see if she’s dead or silent or what. A second later, though, and the card’s power runs out, the heat and the light vanishing like the other side of a strobe.

I open my eyes and take quick stock—the mannequins holding me are gone, but Eli’s still bound by his. And there on the floor is Roxie, burned red and bleeding but still working, drawing sigils in my blood. I feel the power building in that circle, the coming storm. Even mortally wounded, the girl’s packing power.

I don’t think. In one seamless motion I grab a dagger from my pocket and fling it at her, and in the heartbeat before it sinks itself in Roxie’s flesh, I have just enough time to wonder if anything I’d felt with her had been real.

Roxie gasps as the dagger hits, and my brain snaps back into business mode. It’s only then that I see her eyes have been burned out, that her flesh peels off like rattlesnake skin, and the scent of her makes me want to gag. Still, she works, even as the magic of my dagger courses through her, even as she slowly wilts into herself like a deflating balloon.

I run over to stop her, to smear away the writing, but she slaps her bloody, mutilated hand to the floor in the center of the circle and begins to laugh.

“You’re too late,” she rattles. “My goddess rises.”

There’s a roar. The whole room shakes as the Dream that had been gathering, the Dream whirling and waiting in the rafters, rushes down into the circle, swirling into her bloody handprint. The circle glows white, then red, as more and more power floods in. I stumble back and away as the ground cracks and light spills from the fissures. Roxie cackles, and then the cackles turn into a scream as the light twines around her arm, turning to fire. She goes up in flames in a heartbeat, the acrid smoke of her body filling my lungs as I scramble back and more fissures break through the floor.

Eli’s at my side then, and I don’t ask him how he got away from his guards, don’t even look to see if they’re still standing. His hand clenches my arm.

“What is it?” I yell over the din.

“I don’t know!” he yells back.

More cracks in the theatre, the whole place shaking, and I fully expect it to come tumbling down. There’s a blinding light, a scream that rips across my nerves like rusted nails.

And then, silence.

No big astral monster. No boss to fight.

The theatre is empty and silent, Roxie’s and Renee’s bodies no more than piles of ash on the floor.

Eli and I crouch there, tensed, my hand on a dagger and his fingers glowing with blue fire. We wait. Nothing comes.

“What. The hell. Was that?” I ask. I clench my wound with a free hand and throw some magic into it, the flesh knitting itself together painfully. I can’t even care that another jacket is ruined.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But whatever she was summoning was bound quite deep.”

“Did it fail?”

“No. I felt . . . something . . . getting dragged from the depths. That’s what those runes were, Claire. They were sigils of some of the deepest layers of the astral planes, where only the worst are banished. If this Pale Queen is coming from there, we are fucked.”

“If that’s the case, why isn’t she here?”

Eli looks at me. “Because she has an army of unclaimed faeries to lead.”

“How the hell are we going to find her? That’s been the whole point all along, and now all our leads are dead.”

He looks to the bodies on the floor.

“You won’t have to search for this creature. It will be too busy searching for you.”

Sixteen

It doesn’t feel right, leaving the ashen bodies there. But then I look around and realize that Roxie and Renee are the least of the cops’ worries—nearly every seat in the sold-out show holds a corpse, and I know the actors and ushers and everyone else in the building have met the same fate. It’s very strange to be standing amid all the destruction when I didn’t actually cause any of it. Well, save for Roxie.

I glance down at her pile of ashes and feel a pang in my chest. I can’t tell what the emotion is, and I don’t want to give myself the time to figure it out. Whatever feelings I might have—or have had—about her are inconsequential. There’s something loose that shouldn’t be seeing the light of day.

Finally, a job I’m suited for.

Eli hangs back as I draw the portal. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he probably feels a little like me: like we were just voyeurs in that show, not real players. It’s not a role either of us is used to, and definitely not one I enjoy.

“Admit it,” Eli finally says.

“Admit what?”

“I was right.”

Normally, I know a statement like that would fill him with cockiness, but I can tell he’s scraping here, trying to make light of the situation. We both just got our asses handed to us and, for all intents and purposes, failed miserably.

“Right about what?”

“You liked her.”

This makes me pause.

“Shut the fuck up, Eli,” I say.

“I’m just saying, I know she got under your skin more than you’re letting on. And I’m worried it’s going to influence—”

“Go home, Eli. You’re no longer needed here.”

I don’t look back when I hear him gasp, just keep sketching the portal even through the small flash of blue light that marks his departure back to the netherworld. Because he’s right. I did care about her. I thought I could protect and help her, that maybe she was someone who would stick beyond the murder and bloodshed and betrayal—a friend, if nothing else.

Not something I’ll ever admit to Eli. Besides, Roxie was no better than Mab in that regard—to Roxie, I was just an instrument in some greater plan. Mab was right all along: friendship makes you weak.

This is what I get for letting a human get under my skin.

It’s not a betrayal, really. It’s a reminder, one I have to hold on to. I’m not a normal mortal. I’m not made for companionship. The best I can hope for is a glorious death that will grant me a statue somewhere, a hint of immortality, before the statue itself fades away.

“Good-bye, Roxie,” I whisper, remembering her curled on my sofa that first night, asleep and innocent. And lying through her teeth. Then I step through the portal into Winter.

Mab waits for me on her throne of ice, her black dress draping around her like a funeral veil. The moment I step inside I know she knows everything—the air in here is colder than snow, and shadows seep in through the corners, making me feel like the room is one blink away from becoming a nightmare. When Mab refuses to descend from her throne at my entrance, I know that that nightmare is about to become reality.

“Mab, I—”

“I know.”

“What happened?” I ask. “The Pale Queen, whatever she is . . . I mean, who is she? Why is she doing so much to rise against the kingdoms?”

“That I do not know.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Kill her, of course. Why would you do anything else?”

“But how? She’s in the Wildness. You know we can’t find her in there, not if she wants to remain hidden.”

Mab tosses something down from her throne. The blur doesn’t hit the ground, though, but hovers in the air before me.

A book.

My body is suddenly cold as ice. The book is open, and at the top of the page is my name. My full name, the name she’d always denied me:
Claire Melody Warfield
. I actually gasp.

Melody?
My middle name is
Melody
?

Below the name is a block of text so tiny and crammed I’d need a magnifying glass to read it. At the very bottom is a blank line.

“Why are you showing me this?” I ask.

“Because, my child, it is time for you to sign your own contract.”

“Why?” I look up to her. I just killed someone I thought was a friend, just witnessed some severely potent magic—and an apparently vengeful queen—get released. That, I can take in stride. But this . . . this gets my blood racing faster than anything else. I want to run. I want to make it go away. “I’ve served you all of these years without question. Why are you doing this now?”

“Because your next job will require more than just devotion. I need a guarantee of your loyalty.”

I don’t want to sign. I’ve seen what happens when humans sign faerie contracts.

“You have my guarantee. What in the world could be so bad that you’d need this?”

“Sign.”

Behind me, the great door to the chamber slams shut. Snow begins to fall, and I know there’s no way I’m getting out of here without signing this. Not if I want to get out alive.

“You can’t make me sign this,” I say. “I have to be willing. You can’t just force me into doing it—the magic won’t work.”

I can feel her smile even from down here.

“Trust me, child, you want to sign. I’m about to give you everything you’ve desired.”

The only thing I’ve ever wanted from her was information. Could she honestly mean . . . ?

“What are you going to have me do?” I ask. Because no offer comes without a price. A very hefty price. A pen materializes in my hand, a quill made from a raven feather the size of my arm.

I try to read the text, but it literally swims on the page, refusing to let me see what I’m signing my life away to. Mab doesn’t answer my question, just waits. She can’t lie. If she says she’s about to give me what I’ve been wanting, she is. But I know she won’t speak until after I’ve proven myself. Shaking, I sign my name, the last two words feeling both alien and familiar as I write them down in ink as red as the blood staining my shirt.
Warfield . . . was that my father’s name, or my mother’s?

The moment I finish the last
d
, I feel her hands on my shoulders. The quill disappears and the book slams shut. She reaches around and plucks it from the air, the book dissolving into shadows under her touch.

“What have I just done?” I ask. My voice is hollow—there isn’t much room left in me for emotion. Just acceptance. I am her weapon. And that is all I will ever be.

“Don’t look so sad, my child,” Mab says. Her smile is a thousand terrible promises. “You should be rejoicing. You wanted to know about your mother. And now, it is time for you to meet her.”

“My mother?” I ask. She’s actually going to take me to my mother? Then my hope snuffs out. “Why? What’s the catch? What do you need her for?”

Mab just laughs and pats me on the shoulder before turning away.

“We need her to help us find this Pale Queen.”

“But you said my mother was a mortal . . . as good as dead.”

“She is. But somewhere, deep inside, she is still the Oracle. And tomorrow, when you meet your dear mother, Vivienne, you will coax that spark back to life.”

Adrenaline floods me. The statue outside, the girl who had a war named after her, the girl who saved all of Faerie . . . that was my mother? That blonde girl with bloody jeans was the Oracle?

“Why?” I ask again. My voice is hollow, just like my chest feels. “Why do you need me? Why can’t you do it yourself?”

“Because you’re her daughter.” Mab reaches the door and turns. “And you carry her spark within you. Why else do you think I’ve kept you apart? Meeting you would bring her powers to light, and I’m afraid they are a one-time-only thing. Now, we need those powers more than ever.” She pats the doorframe. “Sleep well, my child. I’ll need you in top fighting form; we have a great many people to kill, and precious little time in which to do it.”

Acknowledgments

Like all big shows or stories, this one took the collaboration of a great many people. Many of whom I’ll probably forget to thank because I have only so much space. But I’ll try. Really.

First, and always, to Laurie McLean of Fuse Literary. I couldn’t ask for a more amazing ally, either in life or in publishing.

To my family, of course, for believing in the dreams I had barely formed and supporting me through thick and thin, no matter where I was in the world.

To the amazingly passionate team at 47North, for continuing to help me breathe life into this world of strange faeries and sexy circus artists and wry assassins. Special kudos to Jason Kirk, for taking this on, and Nicci Hubert and Rebecca Jaynes, for getting the words in shape.

To Will St. Clair Taylor, for being a sounding board and editor and co-conspirator. This book wouldn’t be the same without you.

To Danielle Dreger and Kristin Halbrook, my Seattle writing gurus. And to Danny Marks, who still counts even though he lives far away.

To the loving community of circus artists I’ve met the world over. And to the noncircus friends who patiently smiled and nodded when I rambled about plot points.

And finally, to you.

To the readers and Dreamers who knew the story couldn’t end with the final curtain of The
Immortal Circus
. Thank you for craving more. This one’s for you.

AN EXCERPT FROM THE SEQUEL TO A. R. KAHLER’S PALE QUEEN RISING