Pale Queen Rising
Authors: A.R. Kahler
ALSO BY A. R. KAHLER
Cirque des Immortels
The Immortal Circus
The Immortal Circus: Act Two
The Immortal Circus: Final Act
The Vampire Diaries
The Tristram Cycle
The Initiation
(A Short Story)
With Blood on His Hands
(A Short Story)
Other Titles
Martyr (The Hunted)
Love Is in the Air
A Child of Wight
(A Short Story)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 A. R. Kahler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503946934
ISBN-10: 1503946932
Cover photo by Kindra Nikole Photography
Cover design by Jason Blackburn
For the Dreamers
who knew the show must go on
One
Most people think my job as a royal assassin sucks. I don’t blame them. There aren’t too many perks when you kill for a living: the hours blow, retirement is a joke, and—excuse the pun—it’s bloody thankless work. But when you factor in the small detail that I’m not killing for just any queen, I’m working for
the
Faerie Queen, things suddenly get a little more interesting. For one, my arsenal puts the world powers to shame. And the hits? Much, much more exciting than killing your usual middle-aged diplomat.
Take this guy. An hour ago, he was turning tricks in a seedy basement parlor in Queens. And no, not
those
kinds of tricks. I’m talking magic tricks.
Real
magic tricks. “Summon the dead” or “make that stranger fall in love with me” tricks. He’s the real deal.
And I think, if he could speak, he’d appreciate that the cast-iron headpiece he’s currently wearing is the real deal, too. Spanish Inquisition. They knew what they were doing when it came to witches.
I circle his chair slowly, tapping the flat of my dagger against my open palm and watching his frantic, bloodshot eyes watch me. The poor guy looks like shit—a fact I can only take partial credit for—with his shirt mostly undone and his jeans scuffed to hell. He definitely doesn’t look like a guy you’d pay a hundred bucks to for a spell. He looks like a deranged barista coming down from an espresso high.
Which is partly true; he works in a café a few blocks down.
“You know why I’m doing this, don’t you?” I ask when his back is to me.
He doesn’t shake or nod his head or even grunt. The poor guy can’t answer, of course. That’s the whole point of the headpiece—a thick bar wrapped in old leather is firmly lodged between his teeth, theoretically to prevent him from casting spells.
“It’s not because you let my espresso sit too long,” I say, “though that’s part of it. Seriously, that Americano was four bucks.”
He moans. Okay, when I said the Inquisition knew what they were doing when it came to witches, I was kind of lying. This guy could still cast a spell on me without words—chanting has
very
little to do with real magic. Not that words don’t have power. They have more power than most people ever give them credit for. In this case, though, the headpiece is just for show, for that shock factor. Most witches cave the moment I have their head in a bind. This guy is a little too stoic for my liking.
I finish my circle and crouch down in front of him, using the tip of my dagger to nudge his name tag. It reads “I’m Frank” and has a pencil drawing of an owl beside it. Damn hipsters and their damn owls. I inhale deeply, and it’s not just the scent of espresso and cheap cologne that washes over my taste buds, but secrets. My next words unroll over my tongue like a scroll.
“I am here, Ludwig Fennhaven,” I say, watching his eyes go wide with recognition, “because you’ve not been paying your taxes.”
Every time I deliver that line, a part of me hopes for a laugh. I mean, c’mon, it’s funny: here I am, this gorgeous six-foot bombshell with platinum hair and a penchant for leather, demanding he pay his taxes?
I
would have laughed, even if I were bound and gagged and about to be tortured—gotta enjoy life when you can. Especially when it’s about to be cut short.
Ludwig just looks stunned.
True names do that to a person. Everyone has them, though most people don’t know it and go through their lives thinking that whatever their parents called them is true to their nature, or whatever. It’s not. A true name is bound to your soul, is an aspect of your full being. A true name is true power. It’s probably for the best that most people don’t know about true names, though—if you know someone’s true name, you can control them. And mortals are horrible when they have the slightest bit of control over their fellow man. Not that I’m any better in moments like this.
I drop my grin and slide the dagger up to his throat, resting the tip in that pretty little indent between his clavicles, where a lone strand of chest hair lingers.
“You know who I am,” I say. “And you know who I serve. There are two ways out of this encounter. In one of them, you live. In another, you die. The choice, as they say, is yours.”
I reach up with my free hand and undo the lock holding the bar gag in place, the knife held steady at his throat.
“Now,” I say, rotating the bar out, “where is the Dream?”
“Fuck you, Claire,” he spits. I’m surprised he remembers my name; I kind of figured he’d forget, though I did tell it to him when ordering my drink. He must have enchanted his own memory. Now that he knows I’m not just some random crazy girl with a fetish for ancient torture devices, he’s no longer scared—the lines at the edges of his eyes are tight with rage.
I roll my eyes. Like I haven’t heard
that
line a hundred times before.
“We’re not really going down the road that sees you keeping all your blood,” I say. “Which is fine with me. Winter’s been rather boring lately.”
“You’ll have your hands full soon enough,” he says. He starts shaking, and I can’t tell if it’s anger or laughter. “The snow will be red with faerie blood.”
“And now you’re threatening me,” I say with a sigh. “This really isn’t going to end well for you.”
“Nor for you, assassin.”
“Whatever you say.
You’re
the one bound to a chair.” I dig the blade deeper, just enough to shut him up and coerce a little rivulet of blood. “Now, I’ll ask again: Where is the Dream?”
“Go to hell.”
“According to Dante, I’m pretty much already there.”
The witch smiles.
“You have a sharp tongue for a slave,” he says.
“And you have a wry wit for a man about to die. Now tell me, where is the Dream and how much have you given to Oberon?”
The guy laughs. Oberon’s the King of Summer and, thus, Mab’s mortal enemy. They’ve been at war since way before humans were even a thing. I think that’s just how the two of them like to operate.
“I don’t serve Oberon.”
His statement is rather unexpected. I mean, Mab sends me out here because her Dream is being diverted, which means Oberon’s getting handsy with our resources. There’s
no other place for the Dream to go. Winter or Summer, dark or light, Mab or Oberon. When it comes to the Dream Trade, you pick a side and stay there for life.
Still, this guy’s mortal. And mortals are notoriously bad at following the ancient rules.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “If you don’t serve Oberon, where’s the Dream going?”
Ludwig smiles.
“You don’t know as much as you think, girl. You, or your queen.”
And before I can ask him what the hell he means, he jerks his head forward, skewering his neck on my blade.
“Shit-sucking—!” I jump back, cursing, but it’s no use; his blood is already coating my hands and splattering my black bomber jacket. I’m drenched. I reach out and pull my dagger from its fleshy sheath, and the man immediately starts choking on his own blood. He’s past saving. Not that I was going to try.
Of course. My knowledge of his true name kept him from using magic against me or himself. But it didn’t keep him from physical acts.
He chokes for a few seconds, and I stand, then kick him in the shin. I look down at my white shirt coated in blood. So much for going out after this.
I tune out the sound of his frantic gagging and look around, hoping
something
will catch my eye and give a clue as to where he’s hiding the Dream. If it’s still here. I’d already given the room a cursory once-over before Ludwig—oh hell, “Frank,” since it doesn’t matter anymore, and “Ludwig” almost seems like an insult to his character—arrived home from his closing shift. Nothing here.
Like most New Yorkers, he has a small place, a basement studio. Tiny kitchenette, standing-room-only bathroom, and a twin bed in the middle of his living room. The only things that set him apart are the fact that he lived alone on a barista’s income (dead giveaway he was selling on the side) and the extreme tidiness of his living space. He definitely entertained some high-end guests. I mean, seriously, not a creature is stirring in here, not even a cockroach. There’s an altar along the wall—a small steamer trunk covered in a scrap of purple silk and a few odd and ends: candles, an iron pentacle, an athame. And in the center, a shallow brass bowl containing the head of a pigeon (fresh) and a lock of hair.
He’s still gagging when I walk over to undo the headpiece and throw it in my bag. A trail of blood streams from his lips and the hole in his neck, his eyes wide and rolling around in their sockets, trying to find something to cling to. Something to anchor him to life.
You’re not going to find it, bud,
I think.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, kneeling in front of him. I shouldn’t taunt him, but he’s pissed me off. No trace of Dream in his place and no clue from him. Mab
hates
it when I come back empty handed. The least I can do is funnel some of that rage toward this jerk. “Dying like a martyr not all it’s cracked up to be?” I shake my head as one last gurgle comes from his mouth. His eyes don’t close in that Hollywood way when he dies, but the light behind them goes out. I stand. Magic and faeries might exist, sure, but the dead don’t talk. Sadly. My job would be
so
much easier if they did.
It’s not often that I let myself admit defeat, but I’m an assassin, not a PI. I was sent here to scare the location of the Dream out of him and then send him on his merry way.
“Mab’s gonna be pissed,” I mutter.
The Winter Queen is many things.
Understanding
definitely isn’t one of them. And now, apparently, there’s someone else out there stealing her Dream? I can only imagine how lovely this interaction will be.
I head over to the door and pull a piece of chalk from my pocket, scribing a symbol in each of the corners. It’s simple magic, and if Frank were still alive, I’d feel a little ashamed using it—not that I care now, since Frank technically died by my hand. When I open the door, I’m not facing a sweaty summer evening in Queens. Snow blows over my boots and the dark sky glitters, not with streetlamps, but with crystalline stars. The Winter Kingdom beckons, its spires of onyx and ice glinting in the darkness. It’s not the most inviting sight, but that’s sort of what makes it so appealing. I guess that’s just the allure of home.
“Coming, Mother,” I say under my breath, and step into Faerie to meet my queen.
