10. Niamh

CHAPTER 10

Niamh

A s I wake up, I find myself in a dank, dark, enclosed space. It isn't the peaceful arousal I've come to expect since I entered the mortal realm: stirring awake in Caspian's arms.

This place is colder than he could ever be. So cold my breath paints the air before me white. I'm shivering, my teeth chattering together. Pitch-black darkness cloaks everything else. All I can hear is the distant hum of what sounds like music. And…

Voices. Loud, raucous voices.

My head aches. I reach up to touch my forehead and my fingers brush a dried, crusty substance caked to the skin. A searing pain pulses above my left eye. It hurts to blink.

Where am I?

Tentatively, I reach out. Try to speak. "Caspian?"

Nothing.

Not even a mocking laughter in answer.

Because a possible reason for this predicament has already entered my mind. It's always been there. A small, hidden fear that my reliance on him was a lie. On his end, devotion was a burden. He left me.

And this time a wayward truck wasn't what found me.

Predators. Their auras betray them. A strange word, one I think I stole from Caspian's mind. He liked to catalog people while working under the sway of his master. Easy prey. Not prey. Worthless. Predator.

Given that he was a vamryre, mortal predators were a game to him. He loved pretending to be weak, and then turning the tables. Going for their throats right when they thought they had the upper hand.

Cassius didn't command him to enjoy those moments. He did, anyway. He enjoyed taking the power from those who abused it, even if he didn't know it then.

In the absence of him, these thoughts seem to fester. The old ones. The things he left stuffed in mental boxes and never bothered to sort. The parts of him that Cassius severed from his soul and discarded as useless at various intervals.

Poor Caspian. I can see those shattered bits of him. Visualize them. Yet, if I try to seek out anything more—any actual thoughts—it's like I hit a blank wall. He's cut me out. Closed himself up.

Because a part of me insists, he left you here to die, of course.

He left you to be gobbled up.

Eager to do so, three monsters lurk nearby. I can tell from the cadence of their footsteps and—eventually—the tone of voice. Among the trio, one has a deep, raspy baritone and a heavy, resonant step.

"You bet your ass, Cyrus," he rumbles. "It's our lucky day. An honest to God, fucking fae! We just stumbled across her while tracking the little Lunarian minx?—"

"Who you let prance away. To capture a fae, you say? I'll be the judge of that," a softer voice cuts in. Slick and oily like Altaris's purr, but darker. Somehow gruffer. His voice inspires more unease than that of the first man. It's like, with one whisper, he can penetrate skulls and corrupt minds. He reminds me, in a way, of the Lord Master. Some powerful, elder fae. "You dumb sons of bitches wouldn't know a goddamn pixy from your own arsehole."

"Take a look! She's the real deal, Cyrus," a third man pitches in. His voice is a mix of the two, yet somehow the least offensive. "Pretty as a fucking picture. The spitting image of the one in the ledger?—"

"She isn't fae, and I'll tell you why, you fucking idiots?—"

Suddenly, a bright light explodes into being, blinding me. I shift back, striking a firm surface that rattles in a chilling echo. Ice-cold bars kiss the back of my neck. I'm in a cage. It is tall, made of black metal that clangs with the slightest movement. A circular space surrounds it, with a wooden pillar reaching up to the ceiling. Except there isn't a ceiling in the normal sense: just swaths of dark, scarlet fabric suspended by ropes and cord.

Crowded around the wooden pillar, three men stand before me. One is dressed in vibrant red that reflects off the bars of my cage as he approaches. His suit is as elegant as one Altaris wore, but small details diminish its grandeur. There are subtle stains here and there. Wayward wrinkles. Even his black hat, trimmed with crimson string, seems slightly askew on his head of dark hair. With a sigh, he kicks the metal, sending a clang throughout the narrow space.

"I'll tell you why," he repeats, scanning my face with two intense gray eyes. "Take a good look at her. No fae stone around her neck. No glimmers in her skin. Most important of all, and listen closely now, boys… Do you see any fucking wings?"

"Well, uh…" A shorter man tiptoes into view, rubbing his balding head. "She's got a sweater on, don't she? Besides, look at her! If she ain't fae, then I'm the fucking queen. Here, let's take her top off and see if she--"

The slender man shifts, raising his arm. A sharp sound pierces the air. Flesh on flesh. The second man howls.

"Well, your bloody highness! I don't give a damn what she looks like. No wings, no fae. No fae, means no high price. You dumbasses have never seen a real damn fairy, but I have. Ain't no shirt that can hide those wings. At least the mundane brat has something to show for her heritage. This one is pretty, but she'll fetch the price of a mere human. Nothing special about her."

I blink as my eyes adjust to the harsh brightness. Slowly it fades to a dull yellow coming from a lamp dangling above. This entire room is not quite a room at all. The walls are fabric instead of wood or stone. A bright, gaudy red, they sway and buckle with the lightest movement, yet they are thick. Impenetrable. The floor beyond my cage isn't a floor at all but grass and dirt. Crates upon crates fill nearly every available space in here, but there is an order to the chaos, unlike in Altaris's domain.

These men are not vamryre either. Their eyes do not glow an unholy red or green or silver. Their skin is flushed pink, and everything about them seems mortal. Except there is an air about the one in red. Something Caspian would deem abnormal. He moves with a jerky, brutal grace and looks at me with a sense of practiced boredom rather than awe.

He knows of the fae. He's seen one. More than one.

But how? How?

I need to know. So, I listen, head bowed, vision obscured by my falling hair. I curl into a ball and watch them all watch me.

"She ain't no mere human," the deeper-voiced man rasps. He wears black from head to toe and sports a long, forked beard awkwardly balanced on a narrow chin. "I mean, look at her, Cyrus! Maybe she's one of those vamryre?—"

"She isn't vamryre, either," the man in scarlet claims. He stalks forward and crouches before me, his head cocked, brown eyes bright with interest. They scan my face and limbs with calculated glee.

As the seconds pass, my heart flinches at what I see in that gaze. He's lied to his two companions. He is interested in me for some reason. A skin crawling, hair-raising reason. I am a piece of meat to him, but one he does not want to devour himself. A darkness flickers in his gaze. As faint and chilling as a lingering shadow.

Caspian knew such looks well. As a predator, it was how he assessed his prey. How he measured their worth for Cassius. Those with the rarest attributes garnered him the most praise. A sated Cassius loosened his leash, and poor Caspian desired nothing more than freedom from him.

This man's intentions are not so basic and not so noble.

He looks at me, and he sees silver. Piles upon piles of silver. Wealth that he does not intend to share.

"You two clear out," he commands without looking to see if his orders are followed—they will be. "Go muck out the goblin pens. I'll see what we can salvage out of this so-called fairy."

The other two leave through a gap in the fabric walls, muttering between them.

Which just leaves the man in red, eyeing me skeptically. Without his cohorts near, he lets more of his real emotions peek through. Avid interest. Marked concern. Something else. Fear?

Not of me. Can't be of me. Fae are peaceful creatures.

Yet, he is cautious. Perhaps like Altaris, he thinks me something else, beyond my true heritage.

A monster.

"What's your name?" he demands. When I don't answer fast enough, he raps on the metal bars with a fist, making them jangle. "Come on! Is it sunrise, or daylight or whatever the fuck your kind call themselves. Oh, that's right, darling—" He chuckles and raises a dark eyebrow. "I know damn well where you're from. The stink of the other realm is all over you. But I also know that whatever you are…it isn't fae, even if they raised you. So, tell me your name. " His voice breaks then, almost as if his true manner of speaking is far different to the poise and polished words.

He reminds me of Altaris—yet different. Altaris, if the man were trying to pretend to be anything but what he is. A powerful creature.

A creature not to be trifled with.

He wants my name, but Niamh is for me alone. Only Caspian is worthy to utter it, and perhaps Poppy and Colleen. Not him, this creature lurking before me.

Lying is a sin, but only there. Out here, there are no rules. Just games to be played. So, I swallow, and eye him fearfully through my lashes.

"Aurelia," I say.

He whistles. His eyes widen. Somehow, I have said the right thing.

The wrong thing.

The piles of silver he envisioned before are morphing as his smile widens. They've become gold. Platinum, even.

"Oh, holy fuck. You stupid little bird. How the hell have you wandered out here and fallen right into my lap? No worries." He rises to his feet, still chuckling low. "Old Uncle Cyrus will take good care of you from here on out. Good fucking care!"

He stares into space and laughs and laughs. It's not just my appearance that amuses him so. He is remembering something. Recalling someone. Another fae perhaps, that he had in his capture once upon a time. He looked at her and saw silver and gold. She had two wings. A fae name.

"Who?" I croak. Too many questions within me attempt to break free at once. Only disjointed fragments spill out. "Another fae? Who was she? Tell me!"

He cocks his head at my tone. Too loud. Too demanding.

Oh no. I went too far and dropped my ruse. Caspian's insights are all I have to draw from and even in his absence, he has taught me well. Predators react best to docile prey. Those they can toy with. Hunt. Those who they know won't ever fight back.

For a second, he saw me as something else. He didn't like that glimpse of her, naughty Niamh.

I bow my head again. Cower again. I'll do anything to make him speak. I need him to speak.

Because a part of me already knows the answers he may give, even if they are impossible. Even if they are fantastical.

"A pushy little thing, aren't you?" he wonders, stalking back toward this cage. "Not a smartass like the other one. That one. I wonder if she ever made it back, the little bitch. I gave her fame and fortune. She gave me this—" He pulls back the sleeve of his right forearm, revealing a scar etched into tanned flesh. It's silvery white, shaped in the form of a crescent moon. Bite marks.

"Yeah, a tricky little bitch. Made me a fucking fortune, though." He lowers his sleeve with a grisly smile. "I gave her sumthin to remember me by, too. Should be about your age by now. I wonder if you've seen it. What?" he questions in response to my gasp. "You didn't think I could tell you all apart? It's in the eyes."

He points at his own with those spindly fingers. "All you little bitches wear your age right in the eyes. Pretty and shiny until the light goes out. Right before they grind your kind into dust and use what's left of yous to power that little hidden city. Ah, I bet you all think you're so damn smart. That we haven't figured it out by now. We have." He reaches up and taps the rim of his black hat. "Luckily, we use our brains for what they're meant for. Not hiding like rats in a cage, but for making money. You, sweetheart, are going to be my new main attraction."

He spins on his heel and lifts a corner of the heavy fabric, revealing a gap. "Minchae, get your sweet lil' ass in here! Say hello to your new lil' sister."

A slender figure appears, slipping past him. Though she walks on two feet, it would be a crime to call her movements with such a crude, simple term. She floats. Practically flies, though—like me—she has no wings. Grace imbues every inch of her tall, delicate frame. Even Day didn't carry himself with half her poise.

Her posture isn't due to elegance alone. Heavy, rusted chains encircle her ankles, threatening to weigh her down. She must work twice as hard to counteract them, keeping her head high in the air, gaze fixed ahead. As a result, her lean frame is all muscle, visible beneath milky white skin. Her clothing is unlike anything I've ever seen—even on the mortals that wander the city streets, or the strange figures who frequented Altaris's shop. Shiny green fabric encircles her breasts and winds down to her hips, covering little else. Leather sandals protect her feet from the harsh ground. Even so, she is more regal than the Lord Master, cloaked in their robes of pristine white.

Then she looks at me, and I am more confused than ever. She isn't fae, I know that. Yet, she could be one. Her face is as beautiful as a sculpted doll's. The only minor flaw is that one of her eyes is a brilliant blue and the other green—anomaly, the Lord Master would declare, even if she were born of fae. Her features alone would bar her from belonging to any sole house.

Then she approaches and a shimmering glow catches my attention, emanating from her left side.

"Where did you find this one?" Her voice is whisper-soft, yet the man in red flinches in response as though she shouted.

"Never you mind that," the man snaps. "Just clean her up and get her ready. You two will go on tomorrow night as the new star attraction. The Fae Twins." He raises his hands and paints the letters onto the air, beaming as he does so. "Teach her the routines and get her ready. Simple preening and waving stuff. And Minchae?"

An expression of disgust washes over the woman's face. Instead of responding, she simply tilts her head in acknowledgment.

"If I sniff even a hint of funny business out of you both, I'll cut you to pieces and make a pair of wings out of you. I only need one bloody fae."

Again, she doesn't reply, but her strange eyes meet mine and I shiver. Something passes between us. Not thoughts or words, but a shared sentiment.

A quiet longing.

We are both creatures cast aside as strange and unwanted, made to feel unique in our wickedness.

Lo' and behold, we are not the only ones after all. There is solace to be found in that lie.

Whatever demented creature I am, so is she.

A not-fae with one painted wing.