20. Niamh

CHAPTER 20

Niamh

O h dear, I have done it now. The ultimate sin. A bloody sin.

I enjoyed it. Killed and killed. I killed and…

It was fun for me. To watch him struggle and wriggle. To watch him gasp and writhe in pain. That man was evil. That creature was sinful.

He deserved to die.

But did he?

What haunts me is the fact that I don't know. I can't know. There are so many memories and truths beyond my reach. Things denied to me, both my fate and other actors. My own mother—her visage, her memory, the sound of her voice—was denied to me.

My father, too. My father, who may have been a monster of a creature, broken and vile. He may have preyed upon poor Aurelia and taught her a ‘lesson' she would never forget. I was not conceived in duty or even in love—but act. Violence. A twisted, cruel act.

It is what I deserve.

A fitting beginning to the life I so wretchedly deserve.

But…

There is a small matter of reliving the murder I am supposed to have committed. I see him writhing. I see sharp beaks and claws snapping and biting. But I hear him too, his voice very much alive.

You little bitch!

I'll gut you!

Tear to you little pieces!

You think you can find her, that fae bitch? She's already dead…

Then I said something. To him. To them—the creatures carrying out that massacre for me. I said…

I can't remember.

They spoke to me in return, little voices whispering into my skull. They said "We do this for you, sister. We will bite, rip and tear. We will stop?—"

Wait.

I told them to stop. I think. I told them to stop so that I could stand over him, bloody Cyrus, bleeding and broken on the floor of his tent. I crouched down low on top of him. I reached for his throat. I demanded.

"Tell me…"

Something.

Tell me something! I screamed at him. Demanded.

Then the world went dark. Blank. Just like that I can't remember anything else. What I asked him. What I said.

I only remember the voices, quiet and cowed. We will stay with you, sister. Hide within you. We will be good to you, mistress. Oh good, yes.

The jackdaws. They go by that name, but it isn't really theirs. In the past, they were something else. Virile and living. Something called…

My heart hurts too much to think. I can't remember. It's better to sit here in the dark. To wallow and wither. To breathe and dream.

I dream of icy coldness. Of gentle touches and delicate kisses pressed to my temple. I dream of a voice, murmuring into my ear, "Come back to me, my dear one. Come back."

I hear…

Him, Caspian. I hear him inhaling my scent into those withered, useless vamryre lungs. I hear him sigh. I hear his footsteps pace and pace and then I hear him whisper to me. I can feel him stroking his fingers through my hair as he does so. Carefully. Cautiously.

He is oh so gentle, and it hurts. What did I do to deserve such gentleness? If I am the product of violence and hatred, then why do I deserve such calming, soothing touches?

Why do I deserve a voice that breaks against my ear as it repeats for the millionth time, "Come back to me, Niamh."

Why?

There isn't an answer.

One good enough will never come.

And yet, I don't need a reason. He asks me to stay, so I will stay. He begs me to return, so I will. Bit by bit, I will life into these withered limbs. I try to speak. Speak. Say anything.

My lips twitch, I know that much.

Caspian sighs and sighs. "Come back, Niamh," he demands more forcefully. "Come back! Come back or… I will burn your book."

No. My eyes open instantly. They burn as hot sunlight trickles in and warms my skin. It is so blindly hot. He's kept the heat running. He's bundled me in blankets that smell like dank mildew, but are somehow still warm. He has made food for me. It is a mass of various things crammed onto a plate, shoved onto my lap.

I am hungry. I swipe a finger through a mass of white and gray substances. Eat. I gag. It tastes awful. I swallow it anyway. My Caspian made it for me, so I will eat it anyway.

I eat and eat until the plate is wiped clean.

Then I look up.

He is watching me with those intent scarlet eyes. He is patiently waiting for something—which is odd. Caspian is never patient. He does not wait. Yet for me…

He hesitates.

Then he crouches low onto one knee and gingerly swipes at the corner of my mouth with the pad of his thumb.

"You were gone for three days," he says.

Gone. Not physically. Most of the time I was here, with him, I know that much. Yet, my mind was gone. Somewhere strange. Somewhere that I can't remember. I learned something. Something vital and awful and spine-tingling.

Something about myself.

What is it?

I can't remember. The harder I try, the more my skull aches, as if it was once fractured into pieces and crudely made whole again. I wince and cradle it against my palm with my messy hands.

Caspian tsks, sucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Let me," he insists, commands. Let him clean me. Let him gently wipe my hands clean with a rag. Let him smooth the hair back from my face. Let him look at me.

His beautiful features are beyond description. Captivating. Even when he kills and is covered in blood, oh my, is he mesmerizing.

I am not.

He looks at me like I am a sad, lost thing. Lost because he left me. Found because he wants me again. Lost and found. Found and lost.

How long before he loses me and never comes back?

"I took my eyes off you for one minute," he says, his voice a deep, unsettling rasp. "One minute."

It's my fault. He took his eyes off me, and chaos erupted. He took his eyes off me, and I was shoved and pushed along with a crowd and taken by vultures.

He took his eyes off me. For what reason?

He doesn't say. I wait for an answer. Seconds pass before I realize he has no intention of providing me with one.

Because I am not worth an answer.

No…

Because he is hesitating to give me one, the real one. Uncertainty on him is a glimpse of heaven. It peeks through those red eyes like a ray of sun piercing through a storm cloud. Just for a moment. Just one.

Still, I will treasure the sight for the rest of my life. He didn't leave me on purpose. He was compelled to. By what?

"Tell me," I ask. Demand. My voice is pleading and soft.

Still…

He takes my hand in his and brings it to his mouth. He presses his lips there, to the fragile skin. He inhales my scent and then raises those beautiful, sinful eyes to mine again.

"I saw paintings," he admits in a rasp. "In the museum. They were in a forgotten room. They made me feel…angry." He hates this. Admitting things to me out in the open. Revealing that he is more than a monster driven by his master's orders and blood. He saw a painting too. Enough to become distracted by it. He saw something in the artwork, just like I do.

My heart sings!

Until he frowns. Until a desperate, confused pain flits across his face, and I am confounded. Whatever he found, whatever he saw, it didn't set him free or inspire happy, wondrous thoughts. It terrified him, my Caspian.

It puzzles him still.

"Oh." I reach out for him, and he leans in close, letting me hold him and comfort him. Soon, I am the one seeking comfort from him, pressing my face against this chest, and inhaling deeply. I was angry at him, I realize that now. Angry and bitter and tormented by him leaving me.

But now I know the reason. The truth.

That space inside my heart doesn't sting anymore. I feel whole again. Whole and safe and wanted by him. It is a delicious, most dangerous feeling. I curl into him and savor it. I bask in it.

And I feel him bask in me.

Our thoughts mingle again. Hesitant and cautious. One of us pulled away from the other, though I'm unsure who or why. It happened in the museum. Perhaps when he saw the paintings that distracted him so, and the chaos that happened after startled me. We were apart, then…

I am quickly realizing that I don't like being apart. He is not like my Day, my dear one, my brother in blood. I could tolerate his absences. Bask in his fleeting attention. Even when he hurt me, I would have accepted another visit from him again.

With Caspian, there is no option. No feeling. No cautious want.

I need him like I need air to breathe. Without him, I suffocate. I can survive but suffocate. It hurts to breathe without him there. It hurts to think and talk and act normally.

Unless I am flying…

"You flew." His confusion is marked by the curious, gentle way he prods into my thoughts. So gentle he is, always. I sigh and lean into his touch, both physical and mental.

"I flew," I tell him. "With paper wings and silk. It was wondrous. Wonderful."

I may never get to do so again.

"I can make you fly," Caspian says. He means so in a crude way. In a sexual, deviant, naughty way.

I don't care.

His promise is music to my ears. With him, I can fly, somehow. Anyway, I'll take it.

I press my mouth to his jaw. I linger there, feeling the muscle flex against me. He is discomforted by this, nearness. Yet, a part of him is unsure whether he likes it or not. Whether he needs more or not.

He spent so long in that mental prison, doling out pleasure as a punishment to his master. He doesn't even remember what it is he wants, or enjoys, or likes.

"I will make you enjoy," I say. A fair enough trade. His gift of flight for my touch.

We tangle into one another, a mass of limbs and prodding mouths. Our kisses are open and tentative, placed against patches of skin. I kiss him along his collar bone. Then peel the material of his shirt aside to see what lies beneath.

He kisses me along my throat, then lower, nosing aside the red material of my circus costume. He never took it off. Didn't want to disturb me. It's why he piled me high beneath so many blankets, to shield me from the imagined cold.

Those blankets shroud us both now and become our own kingdom. A private realm. One in which we rule supreme with no other lords to bow to.

Bathed in the darkness here, Caspian bows to me. His kisses become more urgent. Frantic. A lapping tongue and raking teeth that pull at pieces of me as if he aims to swallow them whole. But he doesn't. He doesn't so much as bite. Just licks and tastes and beats my body into submission with his hunger and lust.

My heart pounds. My breaths grow heavy and slowed. I can't describe how he feels. The weight of him pins me down. I am stripped bare by his groping fingers and laid before him like a banquet table.

If he took me like this, I wouldn't know any better. I wouldn't want anything more.

But he doesn't.

He pulls back, flips me over, and makes me mount him. Our pelvises collide with a collective groan. My hands brace against his bare chest for leverage. Those red eyes glare up at me, daring me to take the gift he's offered.

Power over him, body, mind, and soul.

It is a gift more precious than that of flight.

I can touch him unrestrained and trail my fingers across that chest, rippling with muscle as hard as marble. He is perfection in every sense of the word. Nothing—no manmade piece of art—compares to him. Not now. Not ever.

I lean forward and press my lips to the base of his throat. A low grumble resonates there in response. He isn't used to being touched. Worshiped. The terms are alien to him. Savoring contact is unfamiliar to him. He bucks with every inch I explore.

One of his thoughts slips into my mind, unbidden: can't remember. What he looks like, before his current form. What the mortal who once wore this very flesh felt like. Tasted like with warmth and sun on his skin. It haunts him, deep down in the fragmented chaos of his mind, where he doesn't let himself dwell.

It terrifies him to question what sort of person he was like. What drew Cassius to him and vice versa. That is the truth about becoming a vamryre. One they don't like to let slip out: it is a willing gift that can only be bestowed upon those who ask.

Once, the human mortal he used to be went to Cassius and asked to be turned. He asked that bastard to consume him, body, and mind. He hates himself for that.

But I could never hate him.

"You are beautiful to me," I murmur against his skin. My lips trace a path down his breastbone and hover over where his heart should be. Where it is still. I see it there, a fragile, neglected thing, yet there nevertheless. "You are art to me," I tell him, kissing him there. Once. Twice. "When I am with you…" My fingers shake as I spread them out, tracing him, memorizing every bit of bone, muscle, and flesh. "I forget that I cannot fly."

Whenever I am around him, the ache in my soul goes away for a moment. Not because of his gift for persuasion. It is in moments like this, when he takes one of my hands gently in his own and watches the slim fingers hover, bathed in shadow.

"You are artwork to me," he echoes, his voice deep and rasping, eyes blazing. "In this body, I remember what I am. I think. What I was." He frowns and trails off, then he copies me, contouring himself to press his lips to my forehead.

That kiss is the most intimate of any we have shared before. It is strange for him. To react on a desire merely for his own benefit. Not because Cassius was in his head urging him to. Not because Cassius commanded him not to.

He wants to kiss me on the forehead like this. On the lips. Against my throat. Lower still. After that, he stops and listens to the cadence of my breathing. In and out. It is magical to him.

This is magical to him. Silence and nearness and grasping hands that hold each other tightly. There is no need for any more. He could listen to my heartbeat for an eternity.

And I could endure his listening for an eternity more.

"Sex was a chore I undertook for him," he admits, his voice low. I hold myself still, giving him the space to mull over the words before he speaks them. "A duty. I never enjoyed it. Never wanted the bodies I claimed for him. He wanted them, not me. But with you…" He looks up, gazing at me through wayward strands of white hair. I'm captivated. Riveted. Heartbroken. "I saw you, and I wanted you. For myself. Me alone. I ached to be inside of you. Does that scare you, little fae?"

It should. I feel my cheeks flame and my heart race--telltale signs of fear. Or something else. A dangerous, primal emotion I've only ever felt with him. With his hands on my body and inside of it. In the most intimate way possible, we embraced each other with our bodies.

I feel my throat dampen and my tongue thicken at the thought of him. Maybe…

"From the moment I first saw you," I say, fumbling over the words, "I wanted you too."

Although I am sure he has heard those words before from far more impressive people than myself, he doesn't laugh. Over the years, he has held bodies much more ample and appealing than the thin hips he currently cradles.

He has taken more people than I want to acknowledge. A wealth of carnal expertise floats around that closed-off brain. Yet…

I can't deny that when he looks at me, his jaw clenched, fangs peeking beneath his lower lip, his hunger for me isn't fake. Neither is the desperate way he rocks his hips into mine. Caught off guard, I shift my body in response, bringing myself into contact with the dangerous part of him.

In a choked grunt, he arches himself into me, watching me writhe and my eyes flutter shut. It's so different from how I grew up thinking mating should be--an act I never was meant to take part in. It was described in the archives as another task to endure, another purpose to fulfill.

Not vital.

It is he who makes this moment crucial. I can't breathe without him inside me. I can't think outside of his thrusts' slow, steady rhythm. My only words are frantic chants of his name.

In return, he is silent, ruthless, and endless. He lets me keep a semblance of control until he simply can't. A predator takes over, flipping me over, pinning me down, and slamming his length into me. All of it, no mercy given.

None required.

The friction blinds me. As his fingers glide along my flesh, sending sparks shooting down my spine, I am rendered senseless. There is no reprieve until we both cry out and collapse, his body on top of mine.

Only then can I remember myself again. Who I am apart from him.

Someone I never want to be again.

There are bad, bad thoughts on the horizon in both of our minds. Things that happened in the time we spent apart. We both are hesitant of the other's new secrets, afraid to prod and poke. Yet our curiosity gets the better of us.

He asks first. "Tell me what happened to you. When I left."

I nod and bury my face against his shoulder. Rather than speak, I shove the requisite thoughts into his mind. I let him see it all. Feel everything I felt. Everything.

As a result, he tenses with hatred, anger, and pity.

"They hurt you," he growls, moving his hands to my waist, and gripping me tight. "Made you bleed. You didn't scream. If you had screamed, I would have found you."

Part of his anger is directed at me. For not needing him. For suffering in silence without him there.

I press a kiss to his chest. Then another along his jawline. "I am tired of screaming," I say. "Tired of crying."

He nods. His frown deepens. Those eyes are deep, dark red as he mulls over my thoughts in greater detail. Minchae unnerves him. Cyrus infuriates him, and the mention of my mother…

His fingers run through my hair as he sighs. "I will take you back. Soon. Now," he says, reiterating his earlier promise. "I will kill Cassius and you will find the Aurelia, to kill or not as you please. I will take you and Cassiopeia?—"

Her name. It has lurked in his mind always, but with few concrete thoughts to tether it. Not now. It is a vibrant section of his mind, brought to life by a chance meeting. A beautiful female vamryre with white skin, pink hair, and reddish eyes. Daisy—yet he knew her as a different name. There is no way to describe how intimately he knew her: as his sister, his other half and his partner in bondage.

Cassiopeia. Part of him is so happy to have found her again. Thrilled. It sings as I did when I got my taste of almost-flight. He is at peace.

Yet, he is unsettled. Agitated. Cassius must be confronted. He promised both me and Cassiopeia that he would.

But…

He doesn't want to. He thrives on violence and revenge, but he fears facing Cassius. Not the man himself, but the creature he made him once. Might make him become again.

"No," I say. "You will not take me back. Not now. Not until you are ready."

He scoffs, still petting through my hair. "Ready."

As if he needs to be ready. He of unmatched bravery, ferocity, and strength.

His refusal to admit it even to himself is a testament to his pride. No one else holds sway over him like Cassius. He brings out the worst in him. Rather than being a mere vamryre, he transforms him into a monstrous creature.

"You will not," I insist before planting another kiss on him. As he grunts in response, I feel my stomach flutter.

Although he may have more expertise in the carnal arts, I am learning quickly from him. Kisses that are violent, hungry, and bruising are his favorite. These small, quick, tasting ones, however, mark him deep, deep beneath the skin. After years of being ruthlessly devoured by the mind of another, he loves to be savored. Cherished. Treated like porcelain and glass.

He will never admit it out loud, no, never.

But I kiss him once. Twice. Thrice.

He rumbles in pleasure.

"You'll go back when you want to," I tell him.

It is clear that he is seething and spinning in his mind, even though he says nothing. His troubles are far greater than Cassius. Mostly to do with me. Something terrible happened at the circus that will need to be dealt with. By all appearances, I did a very, very bad thing.

By all appearances, I am just as cruel a monster as he is.

But Cyrus deserved it. He deserved to die and be poked apart. He deserved to be attacked by his own jackdaws. But did he deserve what came after?

Violence I don't remember inflicting. As soon as he stood over me, everything around me went black.

I shift away from Caspian. Suddenly I need distance from him. I need to feel the cold air, and smell the remnants of food, and dank musk and remember what it's like to feel shame.

I did a bad, bad thing. I don't deserve to bask in peace and happiness. I don't deserve him.

"Your back." Caspian has drawn our blanket aside, exposing us to the rest of this open space. Our space. His eyes are on my spine. On that mass of scars and damage.

Yet, in his mind, I can tell that something new spans this part of me. Something that itches and scratches. Something I don't want to remember. Not yet.

"I don't know," I say, shifting away from him. I hug myself tight and blink, fighting back any hint of tears. No more tears. "I don't know. I don't care."

He is silent. I feel his mind pull away from my own, but not out of disgust. He's hiding his recollections. Hiding how he stares at me, his gaze tracing a path down my spine. Suppressing his urge to reach out and touch. To notice what he didn't before.

Like the deliberate damage beneath the scars.

"I… I had wings," I say. With bitterness and so much anguish, my voice breaks. Then I'm shouting. "I had wings! I did. I did and they took them from me. They lied to me. I had wings. I did!"

He is silent. But in the fragile seconds that pass, his body comes to envelop mine. His mind becomes a possessive, reassuring pressure that shuts the doubts, fears, and pain out. I feel so much pain all the time, but around him, it is banished. He holds me tight, and I find peace in him again.

It isn't fair.

It isn't right.

If he leaves me again…how will I survive the loss of this?

"I will not leave you," he growls into my hair. "I won't."

But he doesn't promise. He knows that he may not be able to keep a promise.

Still, it is enough. I relent to his contact and let him hold me tight. For hours we must stay like this.

It's nearly dark out when someone bangs on the door.

Caspian is up first. He already took the time to dress us both in the clothing Daven Wick supplied: him in a black shirt, brown leather jacket with a hood and dark parts. For me, he chose an orange dress with short sleeves and large round brown buttons going down the front. He likes dresses on me. He likes the way they swish around my legs as I move. Almost like wings.

For now he warns me back as he approaches the door alone. He wrenches it open. Three men stand behind it. One of them is tall, with dark skin and piercing brown eyes that seek me out.

"Niamh the fae," he intones in a deep, booming voice. "You are hereby under arrest for the ritualistic murder of Cyrus Triarc. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney?—"

"Right, right," a figure beside him sniffs. "That is all very well and good. You said your little spiel. Let's get on with it. Not to worry, my darlings," he says, his gaze on Caspian. "We will escort dear Niamh to the station where the boneys will book her in as they are wont to do. Then she will be released on her own recognizance under my guardianship. All is well that ends well. Now come along."

Caspian stiffens, his eyes flashing from the tall man to Altaris and back again. Slowly, he nods. Then he extends his hand out to me.

I take it, and step forward, following him out into the descending night.

The tall man watches me exit. His clothing is so dark, he almost blends seamlessly into the shadows, save for a bright metal object that hangs from a loop in his belt. It looks like a silver rod of some sort. A bashing weapon. Yet…

A faint outline cloaks it. Magic, a voice in my head proclaims. Not mine. Not Caspian's.

I shiver. Then I keep moving, walking past Altaris and the third figure I recognize as Scythe. He is silent but as our gazes meet, he nods once. A polite greeting.

"Well, on with it," Altaris snaps, his eyes on the tall man. "The only good thing about traveling with a boney is your goddamn gift for quick and efficient travel. It almost makes up for the many areas in which you lack."

"You're already on thin ice, Altaris," the man warns, but he frees his stick from his belt and waves it through the air.

There is a crackling. A sudden tension of energy and air—as though the very life is being squeezed from my lungs. Then, just as quickly, the strange force eases. I gasp, swaying on my feet as Caspian's grip on me tightens.

"A warning would have been nice," Altaris remarks, his green eyes shimmering. "My guests are not familiar with this realm and boney ways. You'll startle them. As we are quickly finding out, these two do not react well to being startled."

The tall man is already walking away, returning his stick to his belt. "Wait here," he snaps, before retreating down a long winding hallway. We are suddenly inside of a building I don't recognize. The walls are an old, faded green. The floors are dark, polished wood. The air in here radiates authority, much like the halls of the Citadel archives do.

But there is a key difference.

In the archives, no one looked at me, directly. No one except Caspian and Day.

Here, the very many people milling about all stop to stare. They gape at me. Some in horror. Some in abject curiosity. Their attention burns and stings. I feel too exposed. There are too many eyes here, and unlike the Circus of Souls, I can't launch myself through the air, festooned with silken wings to ignore them.

"Patience, my dear ones," Altaris says, clasping his hands together. "It took a mighty great deal of strings being pulled to get you both out on bond. How lucky for you that I am a generous and kind benefactor."

But he is not generous. Not kind. His help comes with a price tag attached. He is transactional in everything, even the dealings in his shop. I hate him. Despise him.

I hate even more that Caspian does not.

He listens to him. Maybe in some way, he trusts him. They are vamryre at their core and speak the same language: collateral, debt, ownership. Contracts and dealings are comforts to them.

Not to me. I loathe the idea of owing anything to Altaris. I should face my punishment alone.

"No," Caspian snaps out loud, his back to me, his gaze still on Altaris. "You will not. You will not."

He is warning me, and deep down I know I should heed this one wish. Not for my sake but his. He is afraid for me, I can see that now. Afraid of what I am capable of.

Afraid of what I may have done in his absence.

So am I.

"We will accept your protection," he tells Altaris. "For now."

"Oh goody. It appears Marin will be the one to process her paperwork. What fun," Altaris remarks dryly.

As the woman approaches, he sneers. If she notices, she doesn't react. She holds her head high, wearing an outfit identical to the other man's down to the silver stick at her hip. I can't stop staring at her. Her eyes are wide-set and strangely shaped--almost cat-like, with dark brown irises. Paired with her pale skin, she is as beautiful as any fae.

That is, if her expression wasn't contorted in utter disgust.

"This way," she says before turning on her heel and marching across the hallway. The room we enter next is small and cramped. The silver desk in the center of the room is cluttered with paperwork, and the black walls add a sense of mystery. The offices of the council of elders might look like this, if I had to guess.

Though, perhaps, not quite as small.

"Barely a week in the mortal realm and the both of you have wracked up one hell of a rap sheet," the woman, Marin says, leaning over the desk. She makes a show of flipping through paperwork, but her eyes remain focused on Altaris. He is the sole target of her irritation, no one else. "Who first?"

"Dear Caspian's matter has already been squared away," Altaris explains with a smile. "We are merely awaiting his court date. You can commence with dear Niamh."

"Niamh, is it?" Marin turns her gaze to me, but I notice it is markedly softer. She even speaks in a different tone, stern but nowhere near as cold. "You will need to be questioned. Cyrus Triarc was no saint, but that was some grisly business. Too grisly, in fact, to be explained away as self-defense. We need to know what happened from the start."

"Unfortunately, dear Niamh cannot remember," Altaris explains, approaching the desk. He drags his finger along the edge of it and sniffs in disgust. "She is in shock and will not be answering anything without her lawyer present. Seeing as how her lawyer is now Silas Appleby, and he is currently away on business, the soonest she can be questioned is…hmm, Monday."

"Three days?" Marin slams her fist on the table, making it lurch across the floor. "You arrogant prick, vampire! You think you run this city just because you have more money than God and the scruples to match. Hell no. If we can't question her tonight, then I'll throw her in lockup until Mr. Appleby decides to arrive."

"Temper, temper, Marin." Altaris wags an admonishing finger. "It's the lys that does it, you know. That sweet, rich powder induces calm and happiness, with a lingering aftereffect of uncontrolled rage and irritation?—"

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Marin hisses. She turns toward the doorway and yells out, "Jack!"

"Jack and I have already discussed these details," Altaris says sweetly to Marin's immense aggravation. The redder she turns, the more pleased he seems. "It's all settled. However there is one matter you can assist with. The body. It seems your new medical examiner may not be as well-versed in mundane lore as most. I have arranged for Ginni to assist her down at my clinic?—"

"You mean your chop shop?" Marin hisses. "It isn't like we don't know what you do down there. You and that creepy, demented, little vamryre. Selling body parts. Draining them of blood to feed your fucked up brood. If I had my way, you would have been shut down ages ago--"

"Ginni has kindly offered her assistance in this despicable matter," Altaris says over her. "I would suggest you not insult her, or my ‘brood,' in front of me."

Marin swallows hard, heeding the warning. "I'll have Aleska find you on your way out. As for Niamh. We'll need a booking photo, fingerprints, a blood sample, and her visa paperwork."

"We will arrange for everything but the blood work," Altaris says. "It's a fae thing. A cultural exemption, you understand."

Marin hisses. "And let me guess, you cleared that with Jack too? If she's the one that envoy was here about, even you won't be able to sweet talk your way out of this."

"Oh, Jack was very understanding. And you are right, seeing as how the council will be after her, a simple visa will not be necessary?—"

Caspian whirls on him. "What?"

My heart stops. At the thought of going back, I can't breathe. Can't think. I need to run. My back prickles and the pain distracts me enough from what Altaris says next.

I only know that he holds up his hand, stopping Caspian in his tracks.

"Calm down, both of you," he warns, his tone stern. "Allow me to explain the particularly complicated status of Niamh's immigration. She will be applying for full citizenship, given that her heritage is part mundane."

I blink.

Caspian flinches.

"Really?" Marin scoffs, an eyebrow raised. "You want me to believe that she—" she looks me head to toe and laughs, "Is part mundane?"

"Yes, Ellarika Willtze is drawing up her application as we speak. Given the circumstances, she is not eligible for extradition or free travel between the realms. Therefore, she is completely suitable to be released upon her own recognizance. If you are having trouble understanding, my dear, Jack may be able to fill you in."

"Oh, I bet he can. One day, I hope you rot in hell, Altaris," Marin hisses.

Laughing, he waves his hand at our surroundings. "My darling, where do you think we are? Honestly."

He chuckles as she storms from the room, but the second she's gone, he falls silent. "I know you have questions," he says, though I'm not sure if he's speaking to me or Caspian. "But now isn't the time. That was a powerful creature you may have killed, my darling. Very powerful indeed. You must trust that I know best. Keep your mouth shut in boney halls. We will discuss the finer points later. For now, be patient."

I nod.

So does Caspian.

An odd tension permeates the air. Something is wrong, and it goes far beyond what happened at the circus. Caspian feels it too. As he approaches, he takes hold of my hand.

Some of the feeling goes away, just enough to breathe normally again.

Marin returns with a folder that she hurls onto the table. "Just one more thing. Then I suppose we're done here."

"I suppose we shall be," Altaris remarks in a smug tone.

"This girl." Marin opens the folder and slams an index finger against a glistening square. "Do you recognize her?"

I do. With far more detail, the image is as colorful as a painting. A photograph, Caspian remarks. He knows the term but doesn't remember how. Whatever it is, the person depicted, with shorter black hair is unmistakable.

"Minchae," I say. In retrospect, I recall Altaris' advice, but when I look at him, his expression is unreadable. So I tentatively add, "She worked at the Circus, as a performer."

And now she's taken the ledger with any hope of seeing my mother along with her. The strange part is I'm not angry with her?—

I am, Caspian interjects. She betrayed you. Abandoned.

She didn't hide her intentions, however. Even though it makes little difference to him, that means something to me.

"Minchae Almony. She's got a rap sheet about as long as your memory, Altaris." Marin's tone implies she doesn't mean it as a compliment. "Larceny. Theft. Assault with a deadly weapon. As far as we know, she's our only witness. Unless you killed her too, in which case that would make it two capital murders. Serial killers are denied bond, per the latest ordinances."

"Speculation doesn't suit you, Marin," Altaris warns. He crosses over to the desk and snatches up the folder. "Since Ginni is already handling the autopsy, I will take it upon myself to do the rest of your work and find this ‘witness' to get her statement. No sense in risking a shoddy investigation, is there? I hear that lys addiction can make those who suffer from it a tad forgetful."

As Marin looks at him, she smiles. "Fuck you."

"Well, if that is done, let us get her paperwork underway. Snap. Snap. The sooner we can leave this place the better."

"Fine." A frown crosses Marin's face but she doesn't give Altaris a response this time. "You there. Fae. This way." As she turns back to the hallway, I follow behind her. "She doesn't need an escort," she snaps, without looking at Caspian. Ignoring her, he holds my hand as we trail in her footsteps. The second room we enter is wider and longer than the first.

"Stand there." She gestures to a wall adorned with neat, black lines. From a nearby table, she raises an electronic device to her eye level. There is a blinding flash. Then she sighs. "Now for the fingerprints and blood sample?—"

"No blood," Caspian snaps, his fangs bared.

Marin doesn't even flinch. Taking an item from the drawers on the desk, she approaches me. With stern commands she makes me dip my finger into ink. Presses it against a smooth page. Left behind is a beautiful mass of tangled lines.

"All done." Marin returns to the table, inspecting my fingerprint. Then she stops. Frowns. "That's odd. What the hell?"

Once again, she reaches for my finger. When I look down, I see that the mark I left before has disappeared.

Frowning, Marin tries again. A beautiful mark speckles the page, as impressive as the first. But…

As if it never existed, it vanishes within a heartbeat.

"What in the world? Did we order some faulty ink or something?"

"Well, we cannot be blamed in that case, can we," Altaris remarks from the doorway. Unlike Marin, he doesn't seem surprised. In response to her puzzled expression, he smiles warmly. "If you would just direct us to the medical examiner, then we may be on our way."

With a growl of disgust, Marin storms into the hallway and bellows "Aleska!" She vanishes into another room and the door slams behind her.

Meanwhile, another woman pokes her head through a nearby doorway. She is beautiful, with long, dark hair and golden skin that seems to glow from within. "Um… I was summoned?"

Altaris looks at her, an eyebrow raised. Then he shrugs. "This way, dear one. A mortal? Not even a mundane? Strange. I am told that you are to assist with the autopsy? In any case, watch your fingers around poor Ginni. She sometimes gets too excited."

The woman, Aleska, nods, unfazed. "I just need my supplies."

Minutes later, she reappears, dressed in a black coat with a black bag slung over one arm. "Aleska Fraterani at your service."

"Altaris Ipsum, at your service." Though he bows his head elegantly, his eyes reveal skepticism. "I do hope you've worked here long enough to qualify for medical. I honestly don't know how my Ginni will respond to… Well, if you would prefer, she can do the procedure alone?—"

"Oh no!" Aleska's hazel eyes glisten with excitement. "I've always wanted to study a murder up close. This is my first one. Even if I get bitten, I won't press charges or file a claim. I have my own private insurance anyway."

Altaris shrugs. "Well, onwards."

Through a pair of green doors, he steps onto the street. I'm unfamiliar with this part of the city. The streets are narrow here, the buildings towering and gangly. It isn't like the neat row of establishments near the museum. In some aspects, I prefer this wild place.

It is as far from home as one could get, the polar opposite to the orderly Citadel.

With Caspian's hand in mine, it is easy to let the rest of the world melt away. To forget any and everyone else that could intrude. Our minds are linked, entwined as tightly as our fingers are. No one else can invade our world without permission.

And here, in this stoic silence, Caspian lets himself wonder things he would never give voice to. How beautiful he thinks I look in the glow of the streetlight. How the hum of electricity—what the mundane use to power their homes and magic—reminds him of a time he can't place. A calming time. He wracks his memory to find the answer but one eludes him.

Even so, he enjoys this time with me, in a way he didn't think it was possible to enjoy anything after Cassius. His world had become narrowed to a single, driving purpose.

Resent.

Disrupt.

Rebel.

Without that burning hatred to drive him, he felt lost.

So do I.

In any case, this feels…nice, walking with him along a darkened street in the mortal realm I once thought I'd never see.

In some ways, it's better than flying.