Chapter 4

M oments after the ancient fae leaves, the door opens again, flooding the room with light. Boots stomp in unison, and ten fae warriors surround me, hastaxi pointed at me, a bristling forest of steel and magic. Their helmets reflect the light while their chitinous armor absorbs it.

A sack is thrown over my head, occluding all light—it stinks of burlap and sweat and old breath. I hear the chains rattle and then feel my mage-cuffs being unhooked from the ring and chain. Rough, hard, powerful hands grasp my arms and yank me to my feet, shove me into a stumbling run—I trip, slam my head against something hard, white stars bursting behind my eyes. More hands drag me to my feet, and this time more gently guide me into a walk. I'm turned this way and that, upstairs, downstairs.

Then down, and down. The air grows cold and damp. I hear dripping somewhere, echoing— PLINK…PLINK…PLINK…

I'm yanked to a stop, and the burlap sack sticks to my mouth, choking me. I shake my head to clear it.

Nothing happens for a moment.

The mage-cuffs are removed. My hands ache, my wrists burn. The absence of the parasitic magic is a relief. The fabric of the T-shirt pulls taut against my front, and I feel something pulling downward, and cool air bathes my spine—and then I'm nude. Shivering—more out of embarrassment and shame and fear than actual cold. Last, the hood is yanked off.

Before I can blink, before I can adjust to the light or the lack thereof, a hard, cold, armored hand smacks my shoulder blades and shoves me hard. I trip forward and hit bare rock, tumbling and rolling. The hard stone cracks against my knees and elbows and shoulder—were I mortal, I'd be bleeding, at least, if not suffering broken bones from that fall.

I scramble to my feet, dizzy and disoriented. I'm in a twelve-by-twelve cell, with bare rock walls and ceiling. There is a cot with a thin mattress and rough gray blanket. Nothing else. No toilet, no sink. A square in the ceiling admits a blinding shaft of sunlight. There is no door, only an opening.

Six fae—three male, three female, clad in belted robes like the ancient male I spoke to—stand in a semi-circle, hands raised, palms facing forward. Their hands glow, pulsing in unison, and they chant in synch with the glow of their hands. The doorway turns hazy, shimmering white-gold with magic, which then quickly subsides. The fae turn in precise unison and pad away silently on bare feet. The warriors do the same, booted feet stomping, the sound receding.

I'm alone.

I approach the doorway with trepidation—I know they did something that will prevent me from leaving, the question is what, and whether I can do anything about it.

I get within two feet and a dull heat bathes my skin. A foot away, and the heat is fiery and unbearable—I grit my teeth and force myself forward. It's another glamour—the pain is not real.

Six inches…my hair sizzles, sparks catch, flicker—I smell burning hair. The fine hairs on my arms smolder. My skin browns, searing pain scorching every synapse and nerve ending…

I cry out and hurl myself backward to the ground. Suppressing a sob, I force my eyes open and examine my forearms—they are burned, red and crisped and crackling and oozing. I'm still blooded enough to bleed, it seems.

I'm still within the effect field, scorching heat smashing me. I crawl away, sobbing as the pain rips through me with every inch I drag myself along the rough granite floor.

Once the heat subsides, I collapse, whimpering.

A black fist of shadows reaches up from my gut and pulls me down into the dark.

I wake to a cloak of darkness—my vampire sight allows me to make out the cot, the square in the ceiling, now dappled with wavery hints of stars reflected in the countless mirrors channeling the light from who knows how many thousands of feet overhead.

How long was I unconscious? No way to know. My body has healed, but I am fully unblooded now. My skin is hardened, turned to marble. I can taste the air—I can scent the fae who cast the glamour imprisoning me in this cell. I can smell a shifter, somewhere. Others—distant, old scents, confused.

I scrub my hands through my hair, a gesture of frustration—I stop, a sob catching against my teeth. My hair is ruined—patchy holes have burned in it by the effect of the ward.

That pain was real, apparently.

I crawl to my cot, pull the blanket up to my chin, and let myself weep.

Time passes. The depths of the shadows around me change—lessening. A glimmer of light appears, turning the shadows gray and then slowly chases them away.

Full daylight arrives.

I hear footsteps—smell a vampire. A thin male pauses in front of my cell. He regards me silently for a very long time. "WorldBreaker," he whispers, almost reverently. "The Once-Mortal Queen."

I stare back. "I don't know what that means."

A door clangs somewhere, and he vanishes in a swirl of shadow.

WorldBreaker. Somehow, I broke the world? Or I will? Fuck if I know.

But…The Once-Mortal Queen? What the hell does that mean? I mean, obviously, I was once mortal and now I'm not. But Queen? Queen of what? Queen of whom?

Nothing, and no one.

I sink into myself. It's jarring, not seeing the roiling ocean of magic that should be there. Just the shadows, swirling, eddying, shifting. Within them, a dull orange spark.

I push into the shadows and find the spark—a dense marble of pure light as if the sun had been compressed and distilled and compressed and distilled a million, million times.

With invisible, mental fingers, I lift the marble, twist it this way and that—the light plays within it, surging and boiling, storming. It's angry—furious, pent-up, and mad. I search the slick surface for cracks and find none.

I command it to open.

Nothing.

Plead with it.

Smash it, hurl it, scream, rage…nothing.

I summon vitality, pretending to scoop it up, to pull it…nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Fuck.

FUCK!

I open my eyes; shadows play around me once more.

Despair washes over me, then. I reach for Caspian, and his absence crushes me, rips a hole in me.

WorldBreaker.

The Once-Mortal Queen.

Bullshit.

I'm nothing and no one—just a helpless girl, not even twenty years old, without power, without my mate or my coven.

I cannot even pass into sleep—I lay on the cot and stare at nothing as light slants across the floor, dissolving into shadow…

And again, and again. I feel bloodlust screaming in my veins, but despair is stronger, keeping me listless on the cot.

I hear steps.

Slow, purposeful. Scent fae blood—honey and sunlight, and something familiar, somehow, in a way I cannot pinpoint.

The steps approach and stop before my cell.

It's Elias Sparrow, my grandfather. He looks exactly like he did when I spoke to him in The Dreaming, tall, lean, hard, with steel gray eyes and hair the hue of thunderheads—gray, slashed with black and lighter gray. Fair skin darkened by eons in the sun. Lined. Weathered. Scarred.

His presence drips with age—heavy with the weight of centuries, burdened by guilt and regret and sorrow.

"Granddaughter." His voice is more pleasant than I'd expected, smooth and calm—I hear hints of Mom in his voice.

I do not move, do not greet him.

"Come now," he says. "Despair does not befit your lineage, Maeve."

I don't answer. What is there to say?

"The cell, as it appears you have discovered, is warded. It's the most powerful ward fae can put in place, requiring six casters of the highest rank, and days of preparation. You should be honored that they fear you so much. Nothing can get out."

I continue my silent, baleful stare.

Grandfather sighs. "I wish there was more I could do, Maeve. Even had I the power—the literal magic ability—freeing you would be a temporary victory at best."

"So I'm going to remain here, unable to die? Just…what? Go crazy from the bloodlust and the bloodmating issue?" I roll to my back and stare at the ceiling. "So you came to tell me there's nothing you can do to help. Thanks. Noted."

He is silent for a moment. "There are factions within the Tribunal. Zirae is the leader of the faction who believes things ought to remain as they are."

"ZEER-ay?" I ask. "Who is that?"

"The ancient one."

"Oh. The twisted old fuck who tortured me."

"Yes. Zirae is…complicated. He's the oldest known living being, and one of the most powerful. His control over magic is unparalleled. But his mind has suffered from the weight of ages."

"So he thinks immortals ought to just go extinct?"

"I think he believes another solution will present itself. Wishful thinking, in my opinion. We believe that change must happen if we are to survive. Although we do admit that Zirae may be at least partially correct in his doomsaying—war may very well be inevitable. But war has been an integral part of the human condition from day one. We believe you represent the only way forward."

"But you can't, or won't, do anything to get me out of here."

"It isn't that simple."

"Sure it is. Get me out. I can't do anything locked in this cell."

"And you can't do anything without your vitality. And no one can help you with that. Our faction is not ready to openly perform a coup, which is what it would take to free you. There is a certain amount that you must do on your own, granddaughter. You must de-partition your magic. You must learn control over your magic. And above all, you must not allow them to sterilize you."

I sit up, then. " Sterilize me? What the fuck ?"

"Yes. That is their plan. Force an abortion followed by sterilization."

"And there's isn't shit you can do you stop it, huh? So what fucking good are you, then, Grandfather ?"

He rubs his face with his hands. "I will do what I can, when I can. But much will be asked of you. You are my granddaughter, and you are your mother's child. I believe in you."

"Wonderful." I blink and then stand up, discard the old scratchy wool blanket, and step as close to the door as I can bear, heat waves shimmering between us, superheating my marble flesh. "Wait. When Zirae was fucking with my brain, he asked where my prana was. What the hell is prana?"

He makes a pushing motion. "Back away from the ward, child. No sense enduring unnecessary pain." He waits until I step back from the ward. "He meant vitality. For centuries, thousands of years, even, Sanskrit was the official language of immortal research, much like Latin was the official language of mortal academia. The monks, ascetics, and healers of that era and region were at the forefront of understanding how energy systems work in living beings. To mortals, it's been diluted into trite concepts regarding yoga. But the reality is, much of the terminology and teachings are true, in reference to how our bodies and spirits function."

I sigh and sit on the floor with my back to the wall. "Can you dumb it down for me? I'm nineteen, raised as a mortal, and just graduated high school. And Mom wasn't into yoga."

He smiles. "Ah, no, she certainly wasn't. She lacked the patience."

I frown. "She was the most patient human I've ever met."

He answers my frown with his own. "Really?"

I nod. "She never raised her voice. She never got angry with me even if I did something stupid. Andreas told me she had a temper, as well, but I never saw that, either."

Grandfather sighs, and frowns. "Hmmm. Curious. I have thoughts, but I hesitate to share them without further evidence and consideration. I do find it curious that you saw no evidence of the character of the woman I knew and raised: impatience and a fierce, quick, fiery temper. Did the experience in Colorado so drastically alter her very personality?"

I shrug. "I certainly have no idea."

"You have my promise that I will consider this at length and provide you with, if not explanations, at least my theories." A pause. "So. Until recently, in this century—well, the twentieth, I should say—the Three Sisters and the Fourth God were known by their Sanskrit names."

"Wait—the who? The what? The Three Sisters? Who are they?"

He sighs. "I forget you were not taught even the most rudimentary concepts. I must go back, then. There are four types of…energy, I suppose, which form the basis of all sentient life, mortal and immortal. They are known as The Three Sisters and The Fourth God. There was, at one time, a lengthier Sanskrit version, but it phased out of use even among immortals. The Three Sisters are: mana, or dream energy; prana, or life energy, which you know as vitality, and rakta, or blood. The Fourth God is maya, or magic." He arches an eyebrow at me. "Can you piece it together?"

I consider. "Prana—vitality…used by fae. Rakta—blood, used by vampires. Then mana must be used by shifters. But magic is a separate thing? I thought my vitality was magic. I've been thinking about it that way."

He smiles kindly. "That is common, even among fae. The truth is more complex. The Three Sisters form a trinity. All living, sentient beings contain, consume, and require all three, as an essential premise of sentience. Higher mammals, such as dogs, cats, primates, whales, and so on…they are not exactly sentient as we are, but close, and operate on a similar basis, although their balance of the energies more closely resembles that of shifters. See, it's the balance that defines us. A fae, for example, relies more heavily on prana, or vitality—the energy of life."

"How is that different than blood?"

"Blood is physical, a solid, material manifestation of the energy here in The Waking." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Do you understand the principle of The Waking and The Dreaming?"

I blow out a breath. "I need, like, a primer on this shit. I feel like I'm learning a whole new language or something." I shrug. "Sort of? I mean, I know about The Dreaming. It's where I talked to you."

A nod. "Mostly correct. I will go into that in more detail another time. For now, let us focus on the energies. Prana is metaphysical, you might say. The energy of your soul, your mind, your personality. Prana is what tethers your spirit to your body."

"Are spirit and soul the same thing?"

"Excellent question. Your spirit is the embodiment of your soul. Your soul is the eternal part of you, undying, immortal, whether in this realm or another. Your spirit is the…facet, I suppose, of your soul which embodies your Waking form—your body. This very act of embodiment requires an energetic exchange. Prana is the byproduct, so to speak, and we fae are more sensitive to the presence of prana in The Waking. Our bodies use prana to operate in a manner similar to blood, which we also require, but…well, it's hard to put into words. The Sanskrit is more accurate, but I do not have time to teach you. The point is, prana exists in the world, Waking and Dreaming, and all sentient creatures have it within them, use it to live, to breathe, to exist, and fae use more of it, need more of it, and are more sensitive to it."

"I'm following so far, I think."

"The same applies to Shifters and Vampires, but in reference to mana and rakta, respectively. Mana is dream energy. This is where I must provide a tangential explanation of The Waking and Dreaming, but I will keep it brief for this conversation. Essentially, The Waking and Dreaming are sides of a coin. When sentient beings sleep, they venture into The Dreaming, which can be thought of as a kind of gradient. Mortals never pass the shallows when they dream, lacking the sensitivity to mana. We immortals can pass deeper—fae and vampires, I mean. Our heightened sensitivity to mana means we can pass beyond the shallows into deeper, more dangerous realms. Shifters are different. They are of The Dreaming, with dual selves—a Waking self and a Dreaming self. A shifter in animal form is embodying their Dreaming self here in The Waking—and they use magic to do so. In The Dreaming, they hunt and consume mana, usually from dreaming mortals. This does not harm the mortal, beyond a bad dream or some such, occasionally. A Shifter could better explain this to you. A vampire, then, operates on blood, on the same basis. You follow?"

I bob my head from side to side. "Mostly. Shifters confuse me, though."

"Understandable."

"So, maya. Magic. The Fourth God."

"Magic is the transition between Waking and Dreaming. It is the fuel that allows us to manipulate prana, mana, or rakta. A vampire manipulates blood—the physical manifestation of life. That is what defines a vampire's physical self as different from fae, shifters, and mortals, whether blooded or unblooded: heightened speed and strength, the ability to lighten themselves, all that. But maya is that which allows the vampire to utilize rakta in that way. When you, as a fae, perform a glamour, you are using maya, not prana, if you wish to be technically precise, but prana is the physical manifestation of that maya, in this example. When a shifter shifts, he or she uses maya to perform the shift, even though it is mana that they utilize. You cannot manipulate, see, or feel maya directly, which is why it is termed thus—The Fourth God, instead of being The Fourth Sister. Maya is what underpins the supernatural elements that defines immortal existence. We immortals are just different—we are human, just different kinds of human, with different sensitivities."

I nod. "That, I understand." I consider. "So, all sentient creatures, as well as some higher non-human mammals, require The Three Sisters in order to be sentient. Do animals use maya, too?"

He shakes his head with a shrug. "That is less understood since no mammal other than humans has ever been observed to perform magic or display characteristics consistent with the presence or utilization of maya. I phrase it that way because it is not known to have been observed, which is not the same thing has not having ever happened."

"I understand the distinction."

He regards me with an unreadable expression for a long, silent moment. "You are different. An unknown factor. Or, if you wish to be precise and pedantic, your status as a vaer brings with it a multitude of unknown variables." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "As a scientist, I admit I am quite eager to study you, Maeve. To understand your physiology, as an immortal. To watch you cast glamours like a fae and function as a vampire, to understand, scientifically, what makes you unique as a vaer, and how you are like your individual genetic halves."

I curl my lip at him. "I am not a lab rat, Elias."

He smiles, unfazed by my anger. "No, you are not. You are my granddaughter. I was not finished, my dear. I would only wish to study you with your active, willing cooperation. I did not have a hand in bringing you here. I am on the council and the Tribunal, as I'm sure you are aware. But I am but one vote among several, and I was outvoted. It was close, however, I will tell you that."

"What do you want from me?" I ask.

I want to hate him. But all I'm getting from him, so far in this conversation, is a sense that he's genuine. He's telling the truth. This makes it hard to sustain my hatred, especially with what Mom told me in The Dreaming—that he is not a monster and not evil, just a man faced with an impossible decision.

He blows out a long, frustrated breath, pinching the bridge of his nose—an all-too-human gesture. "To help you. Perhaps to even have something like a relationship with you—albeit I understand your reservations on that score, given…" He swallows hard, jaw tensing and relaxing as he struggles for emotional control. "Given what I did. To your mother. And, by proxy, to you." A shake of his head. "I want to help my people—immortals, fae, shifters, and vampires."

"And vaer," I add.

A nod. "Just so." A sharp glance, then. "You know, it wasn't just her. The experiment, I mean. There were others."

"I assumed. There are others like me, then?"

"Like you? No. you are the only vaer in existence."

It seems like he wants me to understand things that he can't say—that we are being listened to, somehow, perhaps.

"But there are other hybrids."

He wrinkles his nose. "I dislike that term."

"Halfbreeds, then."

A shake of his head. "Even worse." A sigh. He leans his shoulder against the stone near the doorway, as close as he can get. "Come closer, please."

I cross the small room until the heat billows against me. "This is as close as I can get before it starts setting me on fire."

"You must find your maya, Maeve. You must . You are our best and only chance. The others…they don't know what's out there. What's at stake. They will be instrumental in the days to come if you succeed. But you must lead."

"Succeed in what?" I ask, feeling hysteria bubble up. "I'm trapped here. What can I do?"

"Do not give up. Keep trying. Learn control."

"Grandfather, I—"

He presses his lips together, frustrated, as if there are certain things he simply cannot say, even if he wants to. "I am bound by oaths to the Council and the Tribunal. There is much I would say, otherwise." He meets my eyes, and his gaze, his expression becomes intense, emotional. "You must not allow them to sterilize you, my child. Fight . Do not go gentle into that good night, as the poet Dylan Thomas once wrote. It is no secret among my colleagues that I vehemently oppose that plan."

He hisses, as if in pain. "By the Blood, this cursed oath." He backs away, then. "There are answers in The Dreaming. Answers, and allies. You, as a vaer, might have a different access to it than even a shifter. But to do so, you must have your maya de-partitioned."

"I've tried. I don't know how."

He winces. "It is notoriously difficult, far more so than the partition itself. Many of those who manage a partition are unable to unlock it. You must, though. You must . Find the spirit within, my child. In that spirit is power."

"I don't know what that means."

"You will. For now, I must go. I will return and we will speak more."

"Grandfather…I…"

He pauses, having turned away. "Yes, dear child?"

"You aren't what I assumed you to be."

"I can only hope that I will not be defined by one choice. Right or wrong, I cannot take it back. I am proud of you, Maeve. I believe in you. You are the future. You will not fail. You must not, and you will not." He offers me a smile, then. Encouraging, sad, intense—complex. "Look within. Look to The Dreaming."

He departs, then, and I am alone once more.

My eyes sting at his words.

I'm proud of you. I believe in you.

The words burn in my chest, fuel to renew the fight.

For Caspian.

For the child within me.

For my coven.

For everyone.