Pale Queen Rising (4 page)

The next morning, I walk up the dirt promenade leading to the entrance of the grounds for the Cirque des Immortels
.
The massive violet-and-black big top towers above the unlit entrance sign like a living entity. Silent, waiting. Hungry
.
As Mab demanded, the sun has just begun to stretch over the plains rolling out into the distance. Everything is quiet and dusty, the air smelling faintly of bacon. Which is really strange, since we’re in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. A few steps closer and I hear music, but it’s not some organ-grinder BS. No, this is really bad pop music, the type you listen to on the way to some dull desk job to get yourself pumped up for another long day pushing papers. And it’s not coming from the tent; it drifts from one of the smaller trailers off to the side, just beyond a partition of flags and fencing. I head toward it, brushing past the signs that say “Performers Only Beyond This Point” because, in a way, I own this place. Literally.

Besides, I learned early on that you can go anywhere unobstructed if you act like you’re supposed to be there. Never show that you don’t belong.

The area behind the fence is just as empty of people as the endless fields of corn beyond. There are long double-wide trailers lined up in orderly rows on one side, the grass in front mostly empty save for a few meticulously placed lawn chairs. And I do mean meticulous: everything back here, from the angle of the trailers to the line of porta potties, is arranged in a strict grid, lining up perfectly. It feels like walking onto a movie set, one where there’s just been a grisly murder and everyone’s trying a touch too hard to play it off. It’s the circus—shouldn’t there be some sort of chaos?

Pan’s warning slips through my mind. I shove it down and continue toward the music. The scent of bacon grows stronger by the second, as does the allure of brewing coffee. The trailer in question is clearly the kitchen—there’s a huge window on one side and picnic tables are set up out front. The sides are painted in rainbows and stars, Tibetan prayer flags and wind chimes hanging from every available eave. A man and woman bustle about inside, singing along to the music while they cook.

For a while I just stand there beside the trailer, out of sight, and survey the scene. I’ve been hearing of this place for as long as I can remember, but Mab never let me visit. Honestly, it’s a disappointment. No juggling clowns, no roaring lions. Just a quaint Midwestern sunrise and greasy cooking smells and a ridiculously precise floor plan. The chefs don’t even have the decency to be making popcorn.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The voice is right by my ear, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, it takes all my training and self-control not to scream. Instead, I slowly turn my head to look at the girl standing only a few inches to my right. How she got there, I have no idea.

She’s a little shorter than me, maybe in her late teens or early twenties—it’s hard to tell. Her hair is black and curly, with sharp bangs and a blue ribbon in it that matches the
Alice in Wonderland
–esque dress she’s wearing. It’s her eyes that snare me, though—they’re bright green, almost lime, and they seem to glow with their own light.

It’s not a comforting light.

I don’t step back from her; I refuse to show I’m afraid.

“And who the hell are you?” I ask, as deadpan as possible. My heart’s racing, but I keep my breathing slow and steady, keep my muscles relaxed yet ready to react.

“My name is Lilith,” she replies, which is an awfully diabolical name for a girl who looks like she should be sitting on a tuffet somewhere.

“Well, Lilith, my name is Claire and—”

“I know who you are,” she cuts in. She doesn’t raise her voice or quicken her speech. Despite the growing warmth of the day, her presence gives me chills.

“Then you’ll know who I work for. And
she
doesn’t like to be told what she can or can’t do. Neither do I.”

Something about the girl tightens when I say that, like she knows full well just how vengeful Mab can be. Her face remains perfectly composed, no hint of emotion, though her stance is definitely stiffer. She actually steps back. I stand up a little straighter—not that it’s hard to tower over her.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“To check up on things.”

“We are fine.”

“That’s not what I hear.” Which, okay, is a slight lie, but I find interrogations go much better when the hit thinks you have some dirt on them. Guilty until proven innocent, as I always say.

“I was promised,” she says. She looks at me when she speaks, but it sounds like she’s talking to herself. “Promised she would never be here. Would never see her. Never again.”

“Again?” I ask, something close to fear stirring in my chest.

“Is there are a problem?”

I don’t know how I recognize the voice, but I do, and that freaks me out almost as much as Lilith’s vague mumblings. I turn my head slowly, doing my best to retain my calm, because once more, someone has snuck up on me, and that’s just not something I’m okay with or used to.

It’s the magician.

And suddenly, I’m very aware of why Pan told me to be on my guard.

The guy is hot as sin, in that washed-out-rocker kind of way. Thick black hair that’s currently pulled back in a messy ponytail; dark, brooding eyes; and a lean body wrapped with muscles that bulge beneath the sheer white of his tank. His eyes are locked onto mine, though I notice them flicker up and down quickly, and I’m grateful I passed over my usual work attire for a slightly more revealing purple bra under a sheer T-shirt and skinny jeans combo. I can still kick ass in it, but it makes my ass so much perkier. Magic boy clearly notices.

Trouble is, he looks like he’s staring at a ghost. Maybe I need to tan more.

He doesn’t move, but the grayscale tattoo of a feathered serpent twined around his arm does. It slides under his shirt and up his neck, its catlike eyes glaring at me.

“Who are you?” I ask, raising one eyebrow as coolly as possible, trying to convey as much holier-than-thou attitude as I can. Which is a lot. Mab taught me well. Besides, as far as he’s concerned, he’s working for
me.

“I’m Kingston,” he says. He inclines his head slightly, as though that little bow is ingrained. “And you are?”

“Claire.” I can tell he knows who I am. This is all just formality. Whatever. I was raised on this shit.

He doesn’t extend a hand. He holds his coffee cup in one and his other is shoved in his pocket. Just like Lilith, not one inch of his body language is welcoming, and the tattoo glaring at me isn’t helping. Somehow, Kingston’s eyes are even colder than the girl’s.

“And why are you here, Claire? When Mab could just as easily visit herself?”

I shrug.

“She was busy and I needed something to do.” I look to Lilith. “I’m here on official business.
Need-to-know
sort of thing. And this kid definitely doesn’t need to know.”

Kingston tilts his head to Lilith. The girl casts me a glare that could set someone on fire, then turns and stomps off. I look back to Kingston; the slam of a door tells me she’s disappeared into a trailer.

“So,” I say when she’s gone and Kingston continues to be silent and unhelpful, “who does a girl have to kill to get a cup of coffee around here?”

I’m proud of myself. Kingston actually grins.

“You’ll have to forgive us,” Kingston says from across the picnic table, and I’m wondering if he’s actually trying to be sociable now that he knows I can’t be bullied. “We don’t get too many visitors from Winter. And when we do, it’s never good news.”

I fondle the cup of coffee before me. All the magic in the world, and Mab’s kingdom still sucks at making coffee.

“It’s fine. I’m not exactly used to warm welcomes. In fact, they might cause panic attacks.”

Kingston chuckles again, but stops quickly. He doesn’t want to be happy around me. He doesn’t want to show his human side.

Good. If he’s trying to hide that, he’ll be off-kilter, which will make finding out his other secrets just a little bit easier. Sometimes, playing with humans is too damn easy.

“So why are you here? I’m guessing it’s not for pleasure.”

I grin. “I take my pleasure where I can.” I look him in the eyes when I say it. Sex can be the greatest weapon of all. “Though you’re correct in assuming Mab didn’t send me out here to see the show.”

“What is it now?”

He looks haggard. Should witches look haggard? I thought they’d have some wicked magic to reduce crow’s-feet and under-eye bags, but this guy just seems to stick to coffee. Which doesn’t appear to be doing him any good.

“She thinks there might be a leak.”

“A leak?”

“Someone outsourcing.”

He pauses.

“Our Dream goes directly to Mab,” he says slowly. “We’ve never had any problems before.”

“Be that as it may, it doesn’t mean someone else isn’t skimming off the top before it even goes to ship. Maybe someone higher up?”

Things connect in his head, and he leans back a little once he realizes he’s a prime suspect.

“I’ve been in charge around here since Mab left, and I’d appreciate you not implicating me in all this. I can’t be stealing from the show. No one could. Our contracts prevent it.”

“And those contracts have never been jeopardized before.”

Mab told me all about the circus’s history, and how one lone performer banded with Summer to manipulate the contracts every worker within the show had signed. The contracts were magical and binding, but someone named Penelope had figured out how to undo them. The resulting deaths and battles had caused a huge hit to the show’s Dream intake and Mab’s faith in humans. Penelope was Mab’s prime example of why you shouldn’t trust anyone whose word wasn’t binding.

He looks away. I can tell he was hoping I’d be just another pretty face. Sucks for him.

“So you won’t have a problem with me looking around,” I say. “I’ll need to see the show, of course. Front row seats. Y’know, royalty and all.”

“You truly are your mother’s daughter,” he says. Is it my imagination, or does he sound a little angry about that? “But that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Of course not.”

He looks back to me, and for the first time in our interaction he looks at me like I might be something of an equal. I want to pat his hand consolingly and say
there there
,
because he was right the first time—we
are
on different levels. They’re just opposite of what he initially thought.

“Why are you really here?” he asks. “Mab wouldn’t send an assassin to do an investigator’s work unless she was expecting something bloody.”

Pan told me not to trust this guy, and I don’t. Especially because at this moment, the long line of tattoos that stretches up my spine starts to tingle. Bastard’s trying to use
magic
on me. And once I see him smile, I know just what sort of magic he’s trying.

Love spells. The oldest tricks in the book.

I smile back. Good. This is really good. I turn up my personal charm as my own literal charms keep his magic at bay.

“I’m not supposed to say,” I whisper, dropping into a conspiratorial giggle. I glance around to make sure no one’s looking and gesture him closer. He leans across the table, the scent of his musky cologne amplified in the growing heat. “But I know I can trust you. My last hit went south. The guy was hoarding Dream, but he wasn’t sending it to Oberon. He was a free agent. And I think Mab’s scared.”

The truth is, I have no clue why I’m here. Frank was pulling in a small amount of Dream compared to the rest of Mab’s Trade, and I can’t imagine why it would actually scare Mab enough to send me here to check her supply chain. Sure, someone might be trying to rise against her, but the amount of Dream being skimmed is tiny—barely enough to feed a single faerie, let alone an army. There’s something Mab isn’t telling me. Which, I guess, isn’t anything new.

That’s not something I’ll admit to him, though. If it got back to her that I was doubting her rule, there’d be hell to pay.

Kingston doesn’t sit back when I’m done talking. Instead, he leans a little closer, his eyes looking deeply into mine. The only word to leave his lips is “huh.”

“I know,” I say. I move one hand closer to his, so our skin just brushes. It’s electric, and I don’t know if it’s the magic he’s working or my own imagination.

I can see why Pan told me not to trust the guy. My chest is warm, my heartbeat fast—it doesn’t matter that I know the guy’s an asshole and trying to magic me into liking him; he has genuine charisma.

“I was hoping you’d give me the full tour,” I say, a little breathlessly. “You know . . . leave no space unexplored sort of thing.”

“Yeah?” he breathes. Is he getting into it as well or is it just a front? Hard to say, but so long as I get him to trust me, it doesn’t really matter.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll show you anything you want,” he says. He leans in even closer, lets his lips brush my ear, and I almost chuckle. He thinks he’s closing the deal. I close my eyes and let a tremor pass through me in anticipation of his final, lusty words. “I’ll even show you what color your hair would be right now, if you didn’t have so many wards against magic.”