19. Caspian

CHAPTER 19

Caspian

T he Pol-spawn is quick and efficient. In response to the strange one's odd ramblings, he nods once. Then he turns on his heel and leads us through the winding, darkened streets. The street lamps in this part of the city are broken and flickering. No light reaches this deep into the shadows.

It is a night realm. A quiet corner where creatures, mortal and immortal alike, thrive in the dank darkness. This is a black market. Somehow, I know the term. A roving collection of alleys and shops that spring up after nightfall, meant only for mundane eyes.

They do not hoard their strange, faded magic like the fae do. They do not obscure and hide their weirdness like the lunaria, and they do not retreat from view like we vamryre.

They trade their magic and shove it into boxes and trinkets. They haggle and shout and fight over it. They ply their trade right in the open as boneys patrol between them. They think themselves civilized.

They are—the way rats and pigs are civilized. Rutting and fucking and stewing in their own shit.

Yet, my Niamh is here among them. In search of her, I scan the face of every mortal we pass. I pay close attention to their meaningless words and mindless chatter. I sniff the air, testing it for her. Tasting for her.

Not yet.

Not here.

She isn't here.

"Ginni said something about a circus, darling," Altaris remarks while gazing in disgust at a woman who hawks goods from a wooden box. "The same term could be applied to whatever the hell this is, of course, but I think she meant something a bit more literal."

The Pol-spawn nods. Keeps moving, barreling his way through an aimless crowd. He is quick and assured in his steps. His gaze is narrowed and focused. He is a hunter on a mission, determined to track down his prey.

So am I.

I try to grasp her thoughts again. As I pass a woman with long dark hair and a lanky frame, I try to say her name. It isn't her. I knew it from the start. Some part of me needed to say it though. Throw her name into the air and see what answers back.

"This way." Altaris inclines his head as the Pol-spawn changes direction, cutting through another alley. "It seems we might have made headway, at least."

Headway.

Right to a dead end.

There is a brick wall at the end of the alley. There is no escape. No path to continue but to go back.

Yet Altaris marches forward. "Oh dear. I was hoping Ginni meant some mortal playground. Not one of these wretched… I thought I shut this down ages ago." He snarls. Raps on the brick with his bare knuckles.

The brick he struck moves, folding inward, as do several others until a doorway is created. Beyond it, the alley stretches on as if never interrupted and the city gives way abruptly to a wide, massive field where a crowd of tents blaze in lantern light.

The Circus of Souls, reads a sign.

Plastered on a poster is a crude creature with haphazardly drawn wings.

"Oh dear," Altaris hisses, but there is none of his mocking sweetness. No polite air. He is furious, his tone flat as ice. "This establishment, I most definitely shut down. Come. We must be vigilant. The creatures here may seem like harmless attractions, but I assure you that some are very, very real."

"Attractions," I snarl. Is she here, my fae? As an attraction? Shoved into a cage, meant to be gawked at.

"Now, now, Caspian," Altaris warns. "I hate to take this tone with you, truly I do, but I command that you listen! "

I stop short, paces away, fists at my sides, foot in the air. Undeniable power laced that command far more than Cassius could ever compel. Altaris, despite his pretentious appearance, is not like other spawn.

I can't move. Can't resist. Even if I wanted to. But I don't. There is wisdom lurking in his tone. A plea. Be patient. Let me handle this. I will get your fae back if you are patient.

As though I were a dog to him, gnawing at my leash. But for her? I will be. I will be patient. I will bite my tongue and nod in response.

To get one step closer to Niamh, I will heed Altaris's wishes.

Because she is here. I can smell her, faint and crisp in the air. My tongue dampens. I can taste her. I ache for her.

In a way I have never once craved blood, I ache for her.

"Now, we must handle this tactfully," Altaris says, moving to stand before me, his fingers laced together, brows knitted. "If this shitshow is run by who I think it is… We must tread very, very carefully. Oh bloody hell, what is it now!"

His eyes are beyond me, toward the alley we came from.

A trio of black-clad figures stands there now. Boneys, I suspect. One of them was the female he taunted at the prison. Marin.

"Well, well, well." She taps her silver stick against her palm with a wicked smile. "Who the fuck but you would show up at a murder scene? What I wouldn't give you to arrest you."

"Arrest away," Altaris says, raising his hands innocently. "I beg you to. In fact… I dare you."

Marin laughs. "We aren't here for you, unfortunately. Looks like another creature has run amok that isn't one of your little pets. This area is now a crime scene, so run along."

"Crime?" Altaris wonders in a skeptical tone. "Oh pray tell?"

"Nothing you're fucking privy to know," Marin snaps. "Now clear out, or I will arrest you?—"

"Oh dear, Caspian?—"

I run. I run before he can order me back and close my ears. Fuck him. Fuck them. Fuck.

I can smell her. I can hear her now, my fae. My poor, poor fae. Not sobbing or crying. No, she is dead silent. Too quiet. Her breaths rasp in and out of that delicate throat, but strained. As if she's suffocating. Dying. Frozen.

I run. Through milling crowds and cages of stinking, howling animals. I run until I feel her presence. Until I taste her nearness on my tongue.

I run directly through a cloud of red fabric and into a large room. There she sits, my Niamh, staring blankly, covered in blood. As dead to the world as I was when Cassius severed my mind from his, she sits there.

I call out her name. She does not answer. I take her into my arms and she is still.

"...bloody crime scene! Get back or I'll have your fucking head on a spike, vamryre?—"

"You will do no such thing." Altaris's voice ushers in a deadly quiet. Even the mortals heed his power. They, with their false authority and silver sticks. Though they pretend to hold power, they know who really makes the rules.

As Altaris speaks, they are compelled to listen.

But I don't. As I hold Niamh in my arms, I feel the warmth of her. Her bloodied hair is brushed away from her face as I stroke it. Staring into those black, blank eyes, I am speechless.

Her mind isn't damaged. It has not been severed, cut, and allowed to rot. Angry and raging, she's in there. She is in shock.

"I said get back! Do you not see the fucking mess around here. Hey! That is evidence!"

Evidence. The robe I use to cover her gaunt frame. Evidence. The blood I smear over her skin in my attempts to wash it away. It doesn't belong to her. Odd blood. Rotten blood…

Vamryre blood?

"Bloody hell, Altaris! I know you think you run this damn city, but you and your little pets can't waltz all over a crime scene. And that one certainly isn't one of yours. She's being arrested on suspicion of murder?—"

"You are speaking," Altaris snaps. "Yet I hear nothing of value. Hush. I shall only speak to Jack."

"This is my crime scene," the woman interjects. "You vile, fucking vamryre. One would think you'd want to get justice for your own kind. This bastard was a black market seller. Do you see what the fuck she's done?"

Done. My Niamh, pale, and frail, bundled in bright green silk. She sits amid a pile of blood. Surrounded by a neat collection of body parts. Limbs. An eye. A bloodied, naked torso.

In the center of it…

"Oh dear," Altaris says, and genuine dread creeps into his tone. He's worried. No, beyond worried. He is afraid. "This certainly complicates things."

"That it does, you vamp prick," the woman, Marin, snarls with glee. "This is a capital murder case with all the hallmarks of dark magic being at play. Boys, arrest the girl and get these damn bats out of my fucking face!"

A silence falls, but Altaris isn't the cause.

I was.

"Touch her," I said. "And I will kill you all."

When I am not prodding at my Niamh testing her for damage and danger. When I am not calling out her name repeatedly to no response. When there isn't vamryre blood that isn't mine smeared all over that pretty, crooked mouth.

"Oh dear," Altaris says, his tone hard again. "This will cost me a pretty penny. A capital murder charge is not cheap. She will be denied bond, which means I will have to pull many a string to keep her out of boney custody. Do you hear me, Caspian?"

I nod. I hear him. He wants another signature. Another mark on his contract. What exactly is it I'm selling away, who knows?

Once she's in my arms again, I don't care about anything but keeping her safe. Waking her up. Getting her to speak to me. Blink at me. Anything!

"Boys, clear out," Marin hisses, sounding distant. Her anger is a show. She is more afraid than Altaris is. Her voice quivers. Her pulse is racing. The result is a distracting hum that calls to my predatory instincts.

No, wait. Not mine.

"I need to get her out of here," I say, still stroking her black hair. Those black eyes stay fixated straight ahead, watching nothing. But I can hear something within her rustle and stir to life. Its only musing is base and cruel: hungry, so hungry.

My voice rises. "Altaris!"

"Oh blast! Enough! Will everyone just let me think for a bloody minute!" He paces into view, stroking his chin, those green eyes darting to the bloody mess my fae made. The torso draws his particular interest—namely, the hole in the center of it.

A hole where a heart is meant to be.

"What the fuck is this, Altaris?" Marin hisses. "Those bloody vamps you swore to keep on a leash, but a bloody fucking fae! That is beyond all the codes and ordinances. You'll have that council come down on our fucking heads?—"

"Oh poppycock!" Altaris waves her off, still frowning. Her mewling words mean little to him. He has the means to smooth this over. Even this—bloody murder and missing hearts—he has the means to smooth over. It is the details that startle him. This place. This body. This crime scene in particular.

It unnerves him.

Unsettles.

He's seen it before.

"You know," I say. What exactly am I implying? I don't know. Can't say. But he knows something that has him restless and pacing and muttering to himself aimlessly and bitterly.

"Damn," he mutters. "Bloody damn. Blast."

"What am I? Fucking invisible?" Marin marches toward him, flashing her silver stick. She stops short, frozen in place.

Because I growled at her. I whirled on her, teeth bared, vision turning red.

"Touch her and I will kill you?—"

"Now, now, Caspian, it is alright," Altaris warns, using his commanding tone, keeping me from lunging at the mortal and ripping out her throat. "Take your little darling one home, hmm? The other house, not the one where my precious ones live. Take her home and only there. Understood? Scythe will accompany you."

"Altaris! We're in the middle of a bloody murder investigation and you want to traipse off with the prime suspect. No. I refuse. Not on my watch?—"

"What in the hell is going on here?" The voice is different from the rest. Deeper, more assured. This boney is not like others, playing pretend. He means business.

"Ah, finally," Altaris says, turning to face him. The dark-skinned man. Jack. "Some real authority. We have a few minor details to work out, you and I."

"Jack!" Marin's voice is an agonized rush. "This bloody bastard wants to take a stray fae suspected of murder to God knows where! You can't let it happen! Arrest them all?—"

"That would be a very bad idea," Altaris says sweetly as I lift my fae into my arms. Her head lolls. She is so weak. She's so light, she could float away.

I move toward the door.

In an attempt to stop me, the woman blocks my path.

"Jack," she insists, like a child pleading for the punishment of another.

"Yes, Jack," Altaris interjects. "Let them go and you and I can make arrangements to salvage this mess. There will be no arresting of anyone. These two are under my protection."

"Two stray other-realmers," Jack begins, his voice deep. "I think that's beyond even your meddling, Altaris. I heard about that visiting envoy. This is an immigration issue. That makes it boney business."

"Ah yes, well it seems you need some convincing. Marin, I suggest you corral the witnesses or whatever it is you do." He waves her off.

She scoffs.

The man, Jack, nods with a sigh. "Marin, please."

In a huff, she storms off and the second she's gone Altaris drops the act. "Now, then. We can talk plainly." His true age seeps into his words, making everything around him feel heavier. He is ageless. Not to be trifled with. "I will give you three reasons why you will let my new darlings go unaccosted."

Jack crosses his arms, a black eyebrow raised. "They better be good bloody reasons?—"

"Oh, they are." Altaris smiles, baring his fangs for all to see. "Yelim, Yarrow, Max?—"

"Fucking…" Jack's voice breaks. His will shatters. Wide-eyed and stoic, Altaris has his full attention. "You sick son of a bitch. How did you even?—"

"Clear the scene, darling," Altaris says, his charming self once again. "I suggest you do so now. Caspian, why don't you run along as well. Take the fae with you."

Run.

I cradle Niamh in my arms and leave the room—no, a filthy tent. Filth and rancid creatures abound in this place. Too many noises, sounds and sights itch at my senses. Scratch at my psyche. It is a destitute place for exploitation and sin.

Yet she wound up here, because of me.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, my mouth near her ear, voice low and soothing. "I am so sorry."

She doesn't say anything. There is nothing on her mind but blank space. As I take her through the enchanted alleyway and back into the city proper, she flinches. Just once, nothing more.

So I run. I move blindly in the direction of Altaris's domain and I barely notice the creature relentlessly keeping pace. It isn't until we arrive at the decrepit warehouse that he comes from nowhere to open the heavy front door.

"Stay out," I tell him.

Out. Out.

It's her domain, not mine. The place where she gaped at the windows unrestrainedly and danced away the cobwebs. Her place with its food rotting away in a refrigerator and persistent heat crawling through rusted vents.

I set her down in our corner, against the wall, at the far end of the room. Then I strip off the gaudy robe and stare at her in full. Underneath, she is shaking. Blood coats her delicate skin. There are bruises all over her body.

Despite this, her skin remains unbroken. I find a rag and wet it with lukewarm water. I clean her limbs meticulously and find her arms unblemished. Her perfect torso, devoid of wounds. Her throat. The scalp beneath her thick cape of hair. I nudge her around. Eye her back.

Rip the rag in two. Don't mean to. It happens as I inspect a mass of black on her back that shouldn't be there.

It looks like ink, but it isn't. In shimmering black lines, two birds are etched into her flesh. When I try to wipe them away, the marks don't budge.

Nevertheless, she flinches. It hurts her. I can feel her pain. Good. Good. She's still in there, that shocked brain. She just needs time to come out again. Coaxing.

As if I know how.

Hands like mine are made for killing and tearing. Ripping. Gentleness is unknown to them. They can't stroke soft, silky skin without breaking bones underneath. This voice is incapable of maintaining a soothing hum.

I try to talk to her. I'm growling at her.

"Niamh, wake up. Look at me!"

But she is looking. Staring into some infinite void right past me. It isn't natural, I know as much. Something has her mind captured, dangling on a string. When I reach for her, she's yanked further away.

Bringing her back will require drastic measures.

Searching, hunting, I scan the room. Near the door, I see a pile of things on a wooden table. The mortal's things. Daven Wick. He brought her clothing. Food. A book.

One of Altaris's, dark and foreboding, reeking of unseemly truths and forbidden histories. This book frightened her. Alarmed.

I try reading from it. "...hybrid creatures are…"

Her body flinches inward as if she is in pain.

I throw the book aside. Crouch down beside her. Stroke her.

"Come back to me, dear one," I say, using words that this murderous tongue stumbles over. It's new to me. I'm not good at this. The fake one, Poppy, would be. I should ask her to come. Beg her to coax Niamh back from this dark, far place.

No.

Only she was able to bring me back from an internal hell that I had retreated to after being cast out of Cassius's mind. I alone will save her. It's just a matter of finding the right method for me. The right language.

But what?

Not speaking. My words aren't beautiful like hers are, my voice isn't liquid sin. Every grated, grumbled word I speak will harm her more.

But what?

What?

I pace again. Stalk toward that pile of items. Tear through it. There is nothing. Just clothing with parchment shoved into the pockets. In one I find a crumbled nib of wood and lead no longer than my littlest finger.

Pencil, a part of me declares, recognizing the shape. A tool. Utensil.

But not to stab with. Jab with. Kill with.

Something else…

But WHAT?

I pace. Growl into the air. Slash the pencil at nothing.

Wait. That motion. Movement. It is familiar.

Still holding the thing aloft, I crouch down low and flip open that infernal book to the very back page.

Little lines here and there. Scritch scratch.

Magic. It flows through me as it does in her voice when she reads. Only it is in my hands. Magic that makes me drag the pencil across the paper. Magic that makes me shape and mold a creature from thin air.

Magic that resembles her in the end when all is said and done.

No, not magic. An imitation of that which she is so impressed by. A sloppy excuse for a painting with no pigments. No oil. No canvas.

It is ugly.

No…

Even in these unseemly, murderous hands, her beauty shines through. She makes this ugly, forbidden book whole once more with her image.

I rip it out, my defaced page. I shove it into her hands. Wait.

Were she in her right mind, she would wail and rage. How dare I desecrate a book, even one she despises?

I wait.

She doesn't stir.

Her pale hands clutch at my page, but her eyes gaze right past it.

She is stubborn, my fae. A stubborn wretch. A stubborn, beautiful wretch.

But I will wait her out.

For I am a vamryre, and all I have is time.