The Vanishing Throne (3 page)

As time passes, I notice that every so often stone breaks off the jagged crags and tumbles down into the ravine below. This place is breaking apart bit by bit and falling to dust.

Just like Edinburgh. All those buildings reduced to rubble on the street. Gone. Just like—

I close my eyes hard and sit down on the biting rocks, pulling my knees into my chest. I try to block it all out, the images. My memories. My feelings.

Far below my platform, the sea breathes. I listen to the calm
inhale exhale inhale exhale
of water against earth and pretend I'm somewhere back
there
. Scotland. The human realm. I pretend that there's still a place worth saving. That the people I love survived.

I pretend I'm not the only one left.

When I wake, the breath of distant ocean waves is gone and everything is quiet. The cold winter breeze has stilled.

I open my eyes and realize I'm no longer outside in the ravine. No longer lying against the rough rocks of the platform, but a smooth, cold floor instead. The only reminder of that place is the red, pockmarked texture of my arms where the obsidian pressed into my skin and left imprints, soon to fade. Temporary reminders.

I roll onto my back, flinching at a sudden thought. It's like the darting tongue of a snake, that thought.
It doesn't matter where you are. You're all alone now because you let everyone die. You didn't save them. You
—

My fingernails bite into my palm. The pain redirects my focus, something I learned to quiet the guilt after my mother's murder. All it takes is a pinch, a near draw of blood, and the
your fault your fault your fault
is pushed down inside my chest where I wear it always, an aching scar inside. It's bearable, at least for a little while.

When the thoughts pass, I open my eyes.
Where am I now?

High above me arches a dome made of mirrors that are all focused on the center of the room where I lie. The floor beneath me is mapped with vivid green vines, pressed flat against the ground as if they've grown that way. It's the first sign of color in nature I've seen in the fae realm; the only thing that isn't glass or black stone or metal. The vines cover the entire length of the floor and snake up the walls between the mirrors.

I'm in the middle of the foliage, the copper curls of my hair stark against the greenery. Even from the ceiling I can see the freckles on my cheeks and the tops of my shoulders where the black shift leaves my skin bare.

The blood is gone, wiped away as if my injuries never existed. I press a hand to my temple, my neck. Both are healed over into needle-thin scars where the blade bit into my flesh.

I shudder in disgust at the thought of
them
touching me, healing me, and cleaning me up as I slept. I know it wasn't done out of kindness.

You can unlock an object I seek. That is your sole purpose
.

I have to get out of here. I may not have a home to return to, but Kiaran is still out there. Maybe Gavin and Derrick survived by escaping in my ornithopter.

Maybe maybe maybe. Maybe they're dead, too
.

I tamp down the thoughts and push to my feet. What I thought at first was a room is actually a hall as vast as a palace ballroom, covered wall to ceiling in mirrors. I turn around and around, seeking a door—some means of escape—but only my reflections stare back.

Each reflection is different. One with a subtle, mocking expression. One overcome with mourning. One with blood-splattered skin and eyes as vivid green and violent as a devil's. That Aileana terrifies me the most; her gaze is heavy, sharp as the prick of a blade-tip all over my body.

Like she'd cut out my heart and love it.

I step back, but the mirror only seems to draw closer. Violent Aileana's gaze holds mine. A chill spreads down my arms, the blade jabs growing more acute.

And then she smiles.

I run. As fast as I possibly can in those damn delicate slippers. It feels like I pass a thousand mirrors, a thousand different versions of myself, and never reach the end of the room. Though the side walls press closer, the hall stretches longer. That last mirror grows farther and farther away.

Violent Aileana is close, her reflection overtaking all the others. Her presence feels like fingernails drawing blood down my back as I run, unrelenting and sharp. Her image lingers in my mind as if I were still looking into the mirror, her eyes a glittering peridot like Sorcha's, the faery who murdered my mother. She is inhuman, monstrous. She is death.

She is all the times I've killed and enjoyed it.
Crimson suits you best
.

Something breaks inside me, unleashing a torrent of memories I can't control. My mother, the night of my debut, embracing me so hard that my ribs ached. My mother lying in the street, dead. Me, screaming her name and no one even hears.

I hit a wall of mirrors, my fingers scratching desperately at the surface. I slam the sides of my fist to the nearest mirror to break it, only to discover it isn't glass.

It's rock.

Damn damn damn
. Shaking, I back away. Hands seize my shoulders, turning me roughly.

Lonnrach
.

My first instinct is to fight—drive my heel into his knee-cap—but my feet become tangled in the vines along the floor. The plants rise up, wrapping around my legs as I struggle.
I try to kick—to do
something
—but I can't even move. I tug with my hands, but the vines close around my wrists.

“The more you fight, the faster it grows.”

Lonnrach's half-smile is mocking. He's changed clothes. This time he wears all black, from his trousers to his shirt. Even his long, tailored coat doesn't have a hint of color in it.

I go still, and sure enough, the vines stall their ascent to my hips. “Is this my new prison, then?” I try to match his acerbic tone. I lean forward with my own mocking smile—sheer bravado, but from the way his jaw clenches, it's quite effective. “I suppose it was different once, too. More beautiful or colorful. Just another example of how your kingdom is falling to ruin.”

I hope this place burns. I hope I get to light the bloody match
.

Lonnrach's face hardens. His finger is on my cheek, tracing downward. I recoil, and the movement only incites the vines to grow farther up my arms. “I can't wait to see what memory you were running from.”

A memory
. Violent Aileana was the symbol of a memory. Though she's gone from the mirrors, I still sense her in the back of my mind. The knife-pricks haven't disappeared completely. I can picture her fierce smile.

“What do you mean?” I try to keep my voice calm, even as the whisper of
crimson suits you best
brushes across my mind like the quick swipe of a blade.

“We found that information could be extracted from the memories of our enemies.” Lonnrach steps away. Now he's slowly removing his coat, folding it. “This hall amplifies the
images and allows them to take form. Since Kadamach slipped out of my grasp before I could do this, I'll have to settle for you.”

God
. The first fragment of fear makes me shiver. Sorcha had used my memories against me before, forced me to relive things I'd rather forget.

“Whatever you're looking for, I don't know where it is.”

Lonnrach places the coat on the floor. Then he's rolling up a sleeve, baring the smooth, shining skin of his forearm. Like he's about to get messy.

“It's fascinating the way human minds work,” he says casually. “My kind can recall flawlessly, our memories perfectly intact. Humans remember in pieces. Everything is given an order of importance and the rest is repressed.” Now the next sleeve, ever so slowly. “Of course, that means slower extraction, more time-consuming. Your mind would break too easily.”

Slower extraction. Your mind would break too easily
. He'd fracture it anyway, bit by bit, to find what he wants. I may be a Falconer, but I'm still human.

“If I knew of an object that aided the fae, I would have remembered it,” I say quickly, trying to defuse the situation.
And I would have found it and destroyed it
.

Lonnrach's eyes meet mine. “You spent a year training under my enemy and that rogue pixie. I assume they often spoke about things you didn't understand.”

I press my lips together before I utter an oath. Kiaran and Derrick were fond of riddle-like sentences, hinting about things in their past they both refused to discuss.
Sometimes they used another language entirely, either in
Gàidhlig
or a fae language that resembled it, knowing damn well I couldn't understand them.

“Even what you did understand would be useful,” he continues. “Their weaknesses. Your weaknesses.” Before I can say anything, Lonnrach is suddenly right in front of me, reaching for my wrist. “I want to know everything,” he whispers, his steel-gray eyes glinting. “I'll take every memory you have, if that's what it takes. I just need to use your blood to see.”

Your blood
.

A sudden memory of my mother strikes me. Her in Sorcha's embrace, Sorcha's teeth dripping with blood. My mother's.

No. No no no
. The vines tighten in my struggle, only slacking on my arm to allow him to pull it up—toward his lips.

Lonnrach opens his mouth and over his perfectly white, straight teeth, two rows of razor-sharp fangs descend.

Just like Sorcha's.

I go numb, dead inside. I couldn't move even if I tried. He's a
baobhan sìth
, too. A vampirelike faery who resembles something out of a nightmare.

Lonnrach utters six words over my wrist, spoken with a hint of a smile, the words coming out in a hiss: “This is
really
going to hurt.”

Then he bites down.

L
ONNRACH'S
BITE is like venom moving through my body, burning within my veins and down my spine. It's pain so explosive that I feel nothing and everything all at once: my skin stretched over bone, my blood rushing and pounding through my limbs, my muscles seizing.

Lonnrach lifts his head, only for a moment. His mouth is smeared with my blood. His eyes are closed. Just before I feel the bite of his fangs again, he whispers, “You taste like death.”

Memories explode through my mind, images passing by so quickly that I can't even hold on to them. At first they're all inconsequential thoughts, repetitions of the time when my mother was alive. Back when my days were all etiquette, tea, and practicing dances, with evenings spent building inventions with her.

I can feel Lonnrach tossing them aside, deeming them unimportant.

My mother's laugh startles me from my outrage. I almost shout at him to stop, but all he allows is a split-second image of her wide smile, as clear as if she were in the room with me. As if she were
right there
. The scent of her heather perfume fills my senses, then is gone just as quickly.

I'm whisked away. Images flood harder with no order to them at all. The nights before the battle when Kiaran and I hunted together, when we ran through the city like vigilantes. The images are a torrent of hunt, stalk, kill, and depart.

I can feel Lonnrach trying to redirect everything into a cohesive stream, to slow down the memories so he can inspect them more closely. He's going back to the beginning, to the night before I met Kiaran.

Don't!

Before I can stop him, I'm suddenly standing in the back garden of the Assembly Rooms. I'm wearing my white silk dress with its lace and floral trimmings. My beautiful slippers peek out at the bottom, the painstakingly embroidered pink rosebuds visible in the bright moonlight. Mulled wine is warm in my belly and my vision is swaying and unsteady from drink.

Don't make me remember this
, I think to Lonnrach.
There's nothing here that will help you
. But my protests only encourage him to hold on to the memory more firmly. It plays on.

I know exactly what's coming. I've relived this in my nightmares night after night. First it's the low intake of breath from the other end of the garden that startles me. I nearly
turn to go inside when I hear something else—a strangled scream, caught in a gasp.

No no no
. I watch myself cross the garden to where the gate overlooks the street. No matter how many times I remember this I always hope for a different outcome. I hope that I'll run for help. I hope that I'll pull out a blade and fight. I hope that someone will come. I hope I hope I hope.

But it's exactly the same. It always is.