Chapter 12

S unlight, refracted through mirrors, streams down from the ceiling, spearing across the shadows of my cell; dust motes dance in the beam of light, drifting and delicate.

I'm on my cot.

For a long, long time, I just lay there, carefully thoughtless, blank and empty. I just watch the dust dance and do not think or feel.

Eventually, I know I must assess.

Moving cautiously, I sit up. My body is whole and healed. No breaks, no burns. My hair hangs nearly to my shoulders, now, growing supernaturally fast.

How? How am I healed?

I'm vaer, so I heal fast. But…I feel blooded—alive, sizzling with life and energy. My prana seethes inside, an endless and chaotic wellspring of golden-white energy.

Blooded and flush with prana.

Healed.

Oh boy.

I stand up, and a hiss whispers past my teeth—a twinge of something like but not exactly pain sizzles through me, centered at my back.

I reach my arms behind me and feel—five parallel grooves run from my right shoulder to my left hip. What I feel is not pain, precisely. They do not bleed, nor are they scabbed over, nor are they scars. I can't see them, but—

Wait…

I close my eyes and focus on a memory of Mom's closet in our condo in LA, the last place we lived together. She had a full-length mirror on the wall, simple and plain, pitted at the edges, frameless, nothing but a six-foot rectangle of glass. I picture it and hold the image in my mind, pull prana from the ocean within and wrap it around the image of the mirror in my mind, and the image glows golden-white and solidifies.

I open my eyes, and the mirror is real, leaning against one wall. Now part two. For my sixteenth birthday, Mom gave me a hand mirror, an incredible, beautiful thing of filigreed silver and pearls, an antique with tarnished, pitted glass. It's still among my things, back in my room at Andreas's house in Elk Rivers.

I picture it in all its detail, each pearl, each curl and whorl of silver. Once more, I coat the image in prana, and with gratifying speed the mirror resolves into reality in my hand.

Quite proud of my accomplishment, I turn my back to the full-length mirror and look into the hand mirror over my shoulder.

Caleb's claw marks…holy shit.

They shimmer with a dull, metallic amber light. They are, distinctly, claw marks. Huge, terrible claws, flesh-rending claws. I could not span them with my hand.

The marks are beautiful and terrifying.

"What did I do?" I whisper to the dancing dust motes. "Caspian…what did I do?"

Somehow, the ward seems to know I'm not speaking to him, not literally. I'm not reaching for him across the connection.

I feel him, however. I hear him.

Maeve? Little Sparrow? What's happening? Where are you? I felt you, Maeve. I felt you. Who is he? What happened? I love you. Fuck, Maeve, I love you. Can you hear me, Little Sparrow?

What have I done?

It's real ? It's all real.

The Dreaming…what happens there is real ?

He said it, though. My perspective is wrong. He told me he's real.

I fed from him. Took his prana. I had sex with him.

Incredible, amazing, earth-shattering sex. I…I connected with him. He marked me.

Oh god, Caspian. I'm sorry.

A thought niggles at the back of my mind—an idea. I dismiss the mirrors with a wave of my hand, wondering again how I can conjure something within the ward, but I can't so much as think in Caspian's direction.

But then the answer hits me: the ward prevents anything from exiting. Nothing can get out —it doesn't prevent something from coming in .

That understanding doesn't help me get out, as academically interesting as it may be.

No, the idea percolating in the back of my head, now that has some potential. The first real, true seed of hope blooms in my heart.

I sit on my cot and ignore the idea—if I try to think about it directly, nothing will happen; I know this from long experience with essays and creative writing assignments. My ideas have to form on their own, in my subconscious, or whatever.

So, I practice conjuring. What I come to understand about conjuration glamours is that I have to have a very specific image of what I want to conjure. It doesn't have to be a memory, exactly, but my mental image has to be firm, precise, and detailed, which means a memory is usually easier. I begin conjuring things I haven't seen in person: a dagger, for example. I picture a 12-inch blade, serrated near the base, with a curved tip and a black handle—a standard bowie knife. It takes a few tries: if my image isn't firm and detailed enough, the conjuration just fizzles…nothing happens. After a few hours of practice, I can conjure the dagger in the snap of my fingers, nearly as fast and smooth as Aeldfar did it. Then I conjure a shockstick. A hastaxi. I try to conjure a handgun, but the mechanism is too complex—I don't know how they work in enough detail to picture all the elements together, so I abandon that attempt. For some reason, the magical items I have no trouble with, even though I have even less of a clue how they work.

I could conjure clothes, I suppose. I bring forward a simple silk slip, plain ivory with lace around the plunging neckline, the hem ending at my knees.

After being naked for so long, being clothed is just…odd.

The idea has become firm enough that I start wondering if it's possible. And if so, how to make it happen.

I hear him, smell him—fae blood and pipe smoke and ambrosia. "Granddaughter," he says by way of greeting, as he conjures his chair and sits. "How are you faring?"

I shrug. "Fine, I suppose." I realize again, now that I'm clothed, that it never once felt weird to have entire conversations with my grandfather while nude. An immortal thing, perhaps. Who knows?

I'm becoming more immortal-minded by the day, I suppose.

"I sense a lie in your answer, Maeve." He crosses one knee over the other. "Truthfully. How are you?"

I shake my head. Turn away, pacing the cell back and forth across the doorway. "Are we being listened to, Aeldfar?"

He shakes his head. "No. There are certain things I am literally unable to say due to my oath of loyalty, requiring me to be…circumspect in how I phrase things, but no, there are no listening devices here, whether technological or magical. Why?"

I turn my back to him. Hike my slip up to bare the marks left by Caleb. "This happened."

A long, stunned silence follows—I drop the slip and turn to face him. His expression gives nothing away.

"The shifter?"

"You know of him?" I ask.

"We know he lurks nearby—we have his pack held captive." His eyes cut to mine. "Here on this floor, as a matter of fact. Along with a few other individuals you may find interesting, should the…opportunity… arise."

"It happened in The Dreaming, Aeldfar."

"That is…highly unusual, Maeve." He frowns, stares into space for a moment or two, and then looks back at me. "We can be harmed there, I know, but to leave permanent physical marks on your body, here in The Waking…I would not believe it under other circumstances."

I move as close to the doorway as I can bear to stand. "Can I escape through The Dreaming?" I ask. "The ward doesn't seem to exist, there. But my body does, somehow. With him, at least. I don't claim to understand what happened or how, Aeldfar, but…I think it could work. Do you?"

He stands up and paces, chin dropped to his chest, hands clasped behind his back. Many minutes pass.

"Yes. Given the presence of the mate-bond on your back? Yes. It would be…well…incredibly risky. It would require enormous amounts of energy—all three sisters, in mind-boggling amounts. You would have to commit to the attempt wholly. Your mind, your body, your spirit—mana, prana, and rakta. If you fail, you will be trapped in The Dreaming for eternity, and I cannot think of any possible attempt that could be made to bring you out, should you become trapped."

"They're going to kill me, so…what do I have to lose?"

He nods, stopping his pacing to face me. "Yes. That is why I came, in fact. The execution is scheduled for two days hence. It will be public—held here and livestreamed all over the world. It is their thought that this will squash the revolt or revolution, or whatever you wish to call it—the extreme civil unrest you have caused."

"I didn't mean to cause anything!"

He exhales hard. "I know, dear one. But you did. And it was necessary—unavoidable, I might even say. I have warned the Tribunal that not only do I vehemently, passionately disagree with the decision to execute you on a personal level—I am your grandfather, after all, and I have already sacrificed my daughter for them—but to kill you in this manner is simply foolhardy. It would only make you a martyr for the cause, adding fuel to the flames."

"I have to try, Aeldfar." Something he said pricks my attention. "Wait. You said mate-bond ?"

He flicks a finger at me. "The mark? That is a shifter's mate bond-mark. It…well, my understanding of such things is incomplete, as the shifters are notoriously tight-lipped about their practices and traditions with outsiders. But, as I am given to understand, mate-bonds between shifters are…applied, I suppose is the word—in layers. Or, in two parts. In The Waking and The Dreaming. That, then, is The Dreaming mark. If—when—you mate with him in The Waking, he will mark you again, in the same place, and it will change. You will be connected to him as you are Caspian. And his pack, I think."

I swallow. "I…I'm so mixed up, Aeldfar."

"You feel guilt? About Caspian?"

I nod. "I…I guess I thought The Dreaming was just…dreams. Like, not fake, but…not real, not like The Waking is real." I sniffle, and I can't stop tears from falling. "I…I was so…lost, and alone, and I've been through so much pain, and every time I go there to The Dreaming, he's there. He…he comforts me. He quiets the bloodmate sickness. Right now, as I'm talking to you, I can hear Caspian and he's in so much pain, he can feel everything I feel. The Ward can't seem to stop that, it can just stop me from contacting him. And…and Caleb, I…" I turn away and cover my face. "I cheated on my mate. I didn't know it was real, but I still…"

"You knew. Deep down, you knew. We all do. And it isn't real, not the way The Waking is—it's different. I do not have the language to explain it—no one does. But the best I can put it is that The Waking and The Dreaming are like two sides of a coin. I believe I've said this already. They are connected. Parts of a whole. There are…creatures, or beings, that exist in The Dreaming. They are real, and they can harm you, there. Most immortals cannot and dare not venture deep enough into The Dreaming to encounter them."

"I have," I say. "Before I knew what I was. I was just…dreaming. Something had me. I don't know how else to put it. It felt like…like a giant octopus or a squid or…or a giant sea snake had me all wrapped and was dragging me down. Caspian rescued me. I don't know what he did, but he scared it off."

"They are opportunistic. They feed on maya. I'm not sure 'feed" is the right word but it's as close as we can come, insofar as we understand them at all, which is very little."

"I suppose I did know in some part of me that what I was doing was…" I shake my head, trailing off. "I can't bring myself to say it was wrong, because it didn't feel wrong. Like, sometimes, we'll do something we know is wrong, and even while doing it, we know it's wrong, and we know there will be consequences, but we do it anyway. This wasn't like that, Aeldfar. I felt guilt, but the act itself of being with Caleb felt every bit as right as when I bloodmated with Caspian. I just…I'm so mixed up."

"Immortal society is not as fixated on monogamy as mortals tend to be, my child. Especially vampires, and especially sexually. A bonded mate may be a different thing, I cannot claim to know for sure. But you are something that has never been. You are bloodmated to a vampire but you are only partly a vampire yourself. It is not so shocking, to me, that you would also find yourself mate-bonded to a shifter, especially one as powerful as Caleb." He shrugs. "The only advice I can give you is to do what you must. Do what feels right. And then make the best of it. Caspian may be hurt or angry, or both. Or neither. He may understand. He may not know what's going on at all, except what he feels through the bloodlink. But a true mate, Maeve…that is a rare thing. We choose mates among our own kind. I am mated to your grandmother, but we are not true mates."

"So vampires are bloodmated, shifters are mate-bonded, and fae are…" I prompt.

"Prana-bonded. Spirit-linked, or spirit-mated. There are many terms used interchangeably by various generations. We fae adopt new terminology more easily than shifters or vampires. Shifters resist change. They do not like things to change. Vampires appreciate old things, the old ways, antiques, things like that. It is not so much a matter of change for them as it is an affinity for history, for the old things and old ways." He waves a hand. "My point is that for you to have formed true matehood with two different men from two different races? That is highly, highly unusual—like everything about you, it is unheard of and long considered not just taboo but impossible. Non-existent. And now, here you are, proving everything we thought we knew about immortal love, relationships, mating, and reproduction to be…not false, but wildly incomplete and inaccurate. This changes everything yet again, my dear. And, if I may be so bold, it is a huge advancement for the cause. All the more reason you simply must find a way out before the forty-eight hours have elapsed, so the world can see you, your mates, and your courage. You must show the world what can be." He pauses, looks at me. "This is a civil rights movement, Maeve. Immortals should not be forced into the shadows. We do not deserve to go extinct. We deserve mates, and children, and a future. You are making that possible."

"It's a lot of responsibility on my shoulders," I whisper, collapsing heavily on the cot as if the weight of it is too much for my legs.

"You are equal to the task, my dearest child. You have risen up and met every challenge you have faced. I have every confidence in you." He lifts his chin, and straightens his body, adopting a formal, upright, rigid posture—he bends at the waist, low. Bowing. "My Once-Mortal Queen."

"I'm not. I'm not a queen of anything."

"You are prophesied, daughter of my daughter. I cannot say how it will play out—will you wear a literal crown and hold court? Perhaps. Will it be less literal, a figurehead? Possibly. I do not know, and no one does. But you are the Once-Mortal Queen. All of those of The Blood will follow you, in time."

"Aeldfar—"

His gaze cuts to me, hard and firm. "You are . You must accept it. Work toward it. Such prophecies are rare—true prophecies, I mean—but those I know of have always come true. Always ."

"What others have there been?"

He shrugs, shakes his head. "That is a topic that can, and does, occupy an entire university-level course, my dear. I cannot possibly cover it all, even in synopsis. You must simply trust me and believe me when I say the prophecy of The Once-Mortal queen is one of the most important that has ever been, and it is about you . There is no doubt."

"I just wish I could comfort Caspian. Hearing him suffer…" I put my face in my hands, and my shoulders shake. "It hurts so much."

"The only way to do that is to free yourself from this place." His voice hardens. "You must consider yourself a general, Maeve. It is war, make no mistake—or the beginnings of one. And everyone in this place—excluding me—is your enemy. Do what you must and harden your heart to the necessity of death for those who oppose you."

"I've killed so many already, Aeldfar," I whisper.

"And yet it has only begun."

"But immortals are already so few."

"Because we have stubbornly refused to accept the new reality which you represent. Win this war so our numbers may increase. We may not be purebred immortals beyond this time, but our history, our culture will not just vanish. We will teach it to our children, even if they are not exactly like us, but like their mother and their father. There are countless variables and unknowns, Maeve. We cannot know them all, or how it will all play out. But what is coming must come. And you must lead it."

"I don't want to," I whisper. "I never wanted to. I didn't ask to be what I am."

"'Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them,' as Shakespeare wrote in Twelfth Night—Act Two Scene Five." His eyes pierce mine. "You have a unique distinction of being all three."

"I don't feel very great. I feel lost and hurt and confused and scared."

"Strength is not the absence of weakness, but the determination to overcome weakness, just as courage is not the absence of fear but the determination to do what must be done despite the fear. Be strong, and be courageous."

"I'm trying."

"Believe in yourself. Do not question yourself or your abilities, or your decisions. You have mated with Caleb. It is done, or nearly. Do not second guess it. Caspian and your coven will come to accept it. They must, and they will."

"Thank you Aeldfar," I say, standing to face him. "I wish I could give you a hug."

He reacts as if I've struck him, and—as unlikely as it sounds—his eyes mist. "Truly? After what I've done?"

I shake my head, pushing closer until the heat of the ward is a furnace blasting against my skin, billowing my hair out behind me. "I forgive you. Mom…well, she's part of me, now, so I forgive you on her behalf because I know she would have. She told me, in the video, that you aren't evil. You aren't a monster. She knew you had no choice, or that you were faced with an impossible choice. So yes, Grandfather. I forgive you. And…I love you."

He swallows hard and drops his head, turning away. His shoulders shake, and then his knees give out and he drops to the stone floor on all fours, heaving with sobs.

I watch, distraught and uncomfortable with such a display from such a man.

After a few moments, he gathers himself. Stands. Squares his shoulders. Plucks a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket and dabs at his eyes and nose. Turns to face me.

"You cannot know what your words mean to me, Maeve." His voice shakes. "Your forgiveness, and your love…I shall treasure them for all my days, however many the Fates allow." He bows once more. "My granddaughter…my Once-Mortal Queen. The next time we see each other, it will be face to face, and I will collect that hug."

My eyes burn, and I let the tears join the others tracking down my cheeks. "Aeldfar. Till we meet again. I love you."

"I love you, Maeve." He whispers this. And then he turns on his heel and leaves. It's not until his footsteps are out of my hearing that his chair abruptly pops out of existence.

I lay down on my cot, clear my mind, close my eyes, and delve inward, into the dark…

Into The Dreaming.