18. Niamh

CHAPTER 18

Niamh

I feel as if my entire life has been a performance. An elaborate rehearsal for an event that never took place. In the grand finale, I would perform, then the curtain would fall, and my moment would come to an end.

Maybe that day was meant to be the centennial celebration. My moment to shine. To be paraded before all the fae—before all the realm, even—and displayed in full before a violent, dramatic end.

I tell myself it would have been a fitting death regardless. I should have been honored to be shown and displayed. Honored that some lone vamryre knew of my wickedness and wanted to exploit my death for his own unknown purpose. Certainly a far better end than the one I'd always imagined, alone, in obscurity, with nothing but dust and cobwebs to bury me.

Perhaps.

Perhaps…

A real stage, however, is contained and small. Only the rapt attention of the audience matters. Their oohs and ahs of wild acclaim. Their enjoyment.

After all, that's the point of a performance. It is for the viewer's and performer's enjoyment.

Atop a strip of wood, dangling above an arena made of metal pillars and striped fabric, I realize something that guts me. Tears fall down my face unnoticed – down, down, down, but I don't bother to wipe them away.

In order for a performance to be enjoyable, the performers must enjoy it themselves. Even Minchae, as much as she hates Cyrus and this work, lives for the moments she preens upon the stage, bathed in the glow of spotlight.

I can't recall any other moment--prior to entering the mortal realm--when I felt as I do now. Afraid. Excited. Terrified. Undaunted. At peace. Compelled to act regardless of my fear.

I sit on a swing, high above the earth, with death just a fall away, and I feel happier than I ever did in the bell tower. More at peace than I ever have in the archives. I was numb and dumb, ignorant of anything beyond my narrow courtyard then.

Here, I am angry. The lies of the past twenty-four years are piling up. The damage done to me—both in mind and body—is piling up. As are the horrific crimes inflicted upon me by those I once trusted.

However, I can let go now and die, shattered into a million pieces, and feel more at peace than ever before. Death didn't scare me before. I would have gladly welcomed it.

But now?

Death is a cat hungry to give chase, and I am a mouse, scurrying just beyond its reach. A terrifying experience, far beyond my sheltered, safe environment.

But, oh, is it fun. As if Caspian himself is on my heels, ready to spill my blood once and for all--only he can't hurt me here. He can't leave me here.

All I have to do is lower my body until only my trembling fingers keep me aloft. Then I let go. I leap into the void!

"I give you, the magnificent wild fae!" The voice explodes against my eardrums along with the roar of a full crowd. I didn't notice until now. It's only when the spotlight falls on me that I see the rest of the arena beyond Cyrus' little circle of dirt.

So many people sit below. Blank, expressionless, staring faces. I can't make any of them out. Which is a good thing. Oh, how is it a good thing! There is no judgment up this high. No whispers to avoid. No gazes to hide from.

It doesn't matter who gapes or stares, or who looks at my odd, abominable frame in disgust.

This high up, no one can touch me. No one.

Fae or not, I can fly. My reflexes allow me to soar through the air. Catch myself. Let go. Spin. Jump. Sit on a swing and smile at no one.

However, there is a role to remember. There is more to this performance than just fun. I must be a distraction. A damn good one. So I stand, bracing my weight gingerly on the balls of my feet. I finger the edge of my red costume. I pull a string tucked into my waist.

Then I rock forward to nudge the wing beneath me into motion. Then I jump.

And I sprout wings.

They aren't real, but that is beside the point. They spring from my shoulders, made of wire and sparkly red material.

The audience gasps in shock and awe.

Then, I perform my role. It is simple in theory, but oh so complicated when done. There are careful movements of muscles required. Intakes of air to propel me forward. Stamina to grip the bar long after my grip threatens to fail.

There is a point to it all, I know that.

Yet…

I simply forget. I move and react and let my body fly. I forget Minchae's careful instructions and go painstakingly slow through the motions. Every movement. I make it last. This diversion. This distraction.

I draw it out until the last possible second when I'm finally lowered to the floor of the arena. Cyrus's words bellow into my eardrums, a meaningless murmur. Belatedly, I remember that I am supposed to bow. Preen. Wave and smile for the crowd as Minchae does.

I can't. I'm crying, and it isn't fair. I truly don't mean to. The tears spill down my face regardless. Through a blurred, hazy screen, blinded by the spotlight, I can't make out any details of the figures seated before me. I can't hear their voices or their shouts.

I can't hear anything but my own heartbeat, playing a mournful rhythm. Thump. Thump. Go back. Go back.

Fly some more.

That entire routine couldn't have lasted more than minutes, but I wish I could have stayed up there for an eternity. If given the choice…

I would never come back down.

"Again, we have the lovely fairy girl! Ladies and gentlemen, she will be accepting donations in the buckets being circled by our lovely volunteers."

I blink. That voice. It isn't Cyrus's—a flaw in our plan. Perform. Distract. Minchae would sneak into his tent. Make an opening. Hide. I would come as he was busy closing up the show.

Something is wrong.

I spin on my heel and attempt to slip out of the arena. A stern hand comes from nowhere and seizes my arm. "Where the hell do you think you're going? You hear them out there? They want a bloody encore!"

An encore. Only now do I finally hear. The screams. The shouts. Demanding. Pleading.

"Encore! Encore! Give us the damn fairy!"

Another performance. My heart soars. But then I remember—it would waste time. The plan is already derailed. Something is very, horribly wrong.

"No!" I try to wrench away from the man.

His grip tightens. His upper lip curls back from his teeth, his arm tensing. I know he will hit me. My body is already tensing in anticipation of the blow.

But then I remember something Caspian said—no, not quite like that. It was something he did. I was hungry and he went up to a food vendor. Give me, he demanded sweetly, his voice sin. So the man did.

"Let me go," I say, copying his confident demeanor, making my voice sweet. But then I go further. Girls like you who bat their eyelashes, Minchae had said. I look him in the eye. I try to look meek and appealing. "Please," I say sweetly. "Let me go."

He does. He lunges from me as if burned. Struck. Dumbly he blinks and stares at his hand. "Um… You sick or something? Just go to the loo, then come back."

I leave. Then I race, panting and sweating as I head for Cyrus's tent. There is no need for stealth. I can hear the shouts from here. As I wrench aside the entrance to the tent, I hear Minchae's scream.

"You think you could trick me, you little bitch?" Cyrus has her pinned flat against this desk. His hat is askew, his teeth bared, eyes blazing. His fingers are clenched tightly around her throat and he aims to kill her.

I can feel his intentions wafting through the air. He doesn't need her anymore. Not with an honest to god, real, damn fae in his clutches. He knew what I was from the second he saw me. It's why he didn't bother to chain me. Without wings, as weak and frail as I am, I pose no threat to him. No chance I could ever escape.

Not like the other one. Not like her.

But the name that pops into my head is wrong. Not Aurelia.

Parna.

But I am being silly. My brain conjured that name from nowhere. Fae cannot read thoughts, even though Caspian's… Caspian is different. We shared body, mind, and blood. He is different.

Yet…

I can look at his man and see his fears and hatred spill out onto the air. He hates Minchae in a way beyond pure annoyance. She needles him. Challenges him. He hates her because she has never ceased to remind him just how weak and powerless he truly is.

"Let her go!"

"N-No!" Her multicolored eyes fixated on me, blazing with anger. "Run!" she chokes out. "Get the hell out of?—"

"Did you really think this fucking stupid plan would work?" Cyrus laughs and shoves Minchae aside. "That you could waltz in here, steal from me and then take your new little companion away? She's planning on selling you to the black market," he says to me with another cold bark of laughter. "I bet she spotted you the same way I fucking did. A broken, distorted fae, but fae all the same. You're gonna make me so much fucking money once the boneys hear. They'll have no choice but to extend their protection. Now get the fuck back on stage?—"

So intent on me he was, he didn't see Minchae clamor to her feet. Didn't see her grab a long wooden stick from the corner of the room. Never even saw her wind up and slam it into his skull.

He isn't dead. Not yet. But she's bought us minutes, at least.

Panting, Minchae tosses the stick aside and meets my gaze. "Help me find the ledger."

I nod. Then, without a word spoken between us, we both lunge toward different sections of the tent. She moves to a bookshelf, I approach the desk. I open a drawer and find nothing but parchment. Open another. Another.

"Here," I say, spying a leather book. Somehow I know instantly what it is. Cyrus's ledger. His most prized position, lying unattended in an unlocked drawer.

"Wait!" I hear Minchae cry out as I start to reach for it. "Let me do it! The jackdaws!"

Too late. My fingers brush the leather surface and a cold, rustling wind rushes past my ears. It seems like a breeze—as though someone left the tent flaps open and a gale storm has blown in.

Knocked me back.

Off my feet.

A storm of swirling knives.

CAW!

CAW!

CAW!

The shrieking noise deafens me. Sharp, stabbing pains rip through me. Everything is a blur of pain and ice and agony. I'm being torn to pieces. Slice, by slice, by slice…

"That's enough boys," a cold, cruel voice calls out. "Leave her body intact. The stupid, little bitch."

I blink as Cyrus appears, hovering above. He crouches low, his gaze cold, his voice unnaturally hot against my skin.

"You stupid, little bitch. You know, I thought you were defective. Different from the other one, that little cunt. I guess not!"

His foot swings out, slams into my side. A scream rises in my throat, but I bite it back. Fight it down. I am done screaming and crying.

I force myself to meet his gaze. I won't huddle and cower any longer.

I got to fly.

I can die happy.

Die even at his hands.

I got to fly.

In death, maybe I can fly again…

"...Just like that other bitch," he says, chuckling. "Maybe you need to be taught a lesson too? A long-term lesson." He moves for the buckle of his pants. I know the threat—what it entails.

Long-term lesson. Too.

Long-term.

Too.

Is that what he did to Night Aurelia if she was the fae he held captive? Gave her a long-term lesson? No. He gave that lesson to me. That torment to me.

The reason for everything--my existence and my pain--may lie with some bastard I never knew existed.

He is the reason.

And I want him dead.

I want him in bloody, bleeding pieces.

I want to rip out his throat with my bare hands.

I want to?—

"What the hell? Get back!" Cyrus is moving, inching back, back. Away from me. Two large, black creatures fly at him, with nipping beaks of unnatural sharpness. Their red eyes blaze.

We hear you, sister, they sing to me, whispering in my skull.

We will do as you ask.

We will rip and tear into bloody chunks.

Tear his throat out.

I watch them do so. I watch…

And I smile.