Pale Queen Rising Read online

  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

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  EXCERPT: SEQUEL TO PALE QUEEN RISING

  About the Author

  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 t
ell 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.

  Two

  Snow stretches before me, a well-traveled path pressed into the eternal white. The footsteps permanently embedded in the snow aren’t just mine, though I probably use the path more than most. Behind me, a long, low wall of concrete stretches for forty paces, the surface rough and windswept. There are hundreds of ways into Winter and the world of Faerie—knotted trees, particularly inviting ivy paths, and the ever-popular faerie mound—but this wall acts as a quick medium between the two . . . provided you know the right symbols and magic, of course. I trudge down the snow-swept hill toward the sprawling expanse of Winter.

  If Frank wasn’t selling to Oberon, I should at least have been able to sense where it was going. I should have had a hint of direction, or even of the person buying it. But his place was antiseptically clean, at least in terms of magical footprints. He knew he would be sought out. And, judging from his complete lack of reaction to my reveal, he knew it would be me.

  I’m not about to say I feel like I’m being watched. I just don’t feel as incognito as I used to. And I really don’t like it.

  There’s nothing behind me but rolling hills and jagged mountains and swaths of black forest. The real heart of Winter lies within the wall that glimmers like a sheet of midnight up ahead. The wall stretches far off into the horizon before me, disappearing in the shadows on either side. The buildings within tower high up into the everlasting night, their angles sharp and cruel. Everything in Winter is built from ice and stone, and whoever laid the first building block decided that anything less than an acute angle was passé. It’s a city of razors and frostbite, deliberately built to be as imposing as possible.

  As far as I know, the walls have never been breached. I don’t think anyone ever got that far.

  I near the wall and place my hand on the freezing stone. It’s smooth as glass and just as reflective; my mirrored image stares back at me. I try to rub off some of Frank’s blood from my cheek. I’m only moderately successful. My reflection smiles and mouths the words “Rough night?”

  I nod.

  “You have no idea. Nothing ever goes as planned, does it?”

  My enchanted reflection just shrugs.

  “What did you expect?” she asks. Then she shifts in a blur of grey, and it’s no longer my reflection staring back, but Mab. She points a finger at me accusingly, her green eyes glaring. The reflection is eerily accurate, from her wavy black hair and curving frame to the silver bone stilettos.

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “She’s not going to be too happy. And she probably shouldn’t be kept waiting.”

  My reflection shifts once more into my likeness—I look like shit, all sleep deprived and bloody—then she traces a large rectangle on the surface separating us. A brilliant white line of light trails in her finger’s wake. When she’s done, she steps to the side and vanishes.

  Ever wonder what would happen if you touched a mirror and your reflection didn’t press back? Mab managed to figure that one out.

  I walk through the pane of obsidian glass, and it slides over me with a chill static, like a sheet of frozen gel—just a little bit of give, and then I press through to the other side.

  I emerge in an alley quite unlike the one I hunted Frank down in Queens. Sure, there’s trash littered against the buildin
gs and rats scurrying between refuse piles. But here, everything is black and glittering like an oil slick. Light filters down from iron-ensconced globes that dangle above the alleys like some steampunk Chinese lanterns. Only, the light glittering inside the globes isn’t fueled by electricity or gas, not like in the mortal world. I pass under one as I head toward Mab’s castle, the shrill buzz of the lantern almost comforting.

  It was admittedly jarring when I first learned those lights were captured Summer faeries doing penance in their iron prisons, but that’s just how life is. Mab doesn’t mess around with her punishment. She would let them go. Eventually.

  I don’t think too much about my surroundings as I head toward the castle; my feet navigate the twists and turns of alleys and avenues on their own. I’ve walked this way enough to know it by heart, and Mab ensured that I’m good at remembering my surroundings. Often, that’s the difference between those who live and those who die after a hit—a quick escape route is paramount.

  It’s a good thing, too, that I don’t have to pay attention. All I can concentrate on is my conversation with Frank. His words were like a curse. Not a real curse, of course—I had plenty of wards and charms against those—but his words were just as effective at knocking me off my guard. I’m used to my hits begging or lying their way out of a messy death. I’m used to attempts at bribery, at lame threats. But this . . . this was new. Normally I’d just figure that Frank was hoarding the Dream for himself, but he was a mortal: mortals can’t use Dream, not in the same way the Fey can. To a mortal, a small dose of Dream is just a temporary high. In larger doses, it can be deadly. Frank didn’t have the typical signs of a mortal Dream junkie anyway: his eyes were clear, he wasn’t jittery, and he wasn’t delusional. The mere fact he could hold a job meant he was clean. But he was bringing in a lot of Dream. Which meant he was selling to someone else, someone outside of Winter, which meant Oberon. It always meant Oberon.

  I sigh. This was supposed to be a simple hit. Knock out the bastard, sever the vein to Oberon, come home and celebrate like always.