30. Niamh

CHAPTER 30

Niamh

H ow can I be responsible for so many sins if I don't remember committing them? That's what makes this whole ordeal so terrifying. It is the reason why Caspian's instant acceptance strikes me as so odd. Because it is instant. He doesn't think. Doesn't doubt. Not even once.

If I am a monster, then so be it. He will stay near me.

But will Minchae?

Or Altaris?

Or Colleen?

Of course not. To them, I am a danger. A risk. If anything, I should return to the other realm for their sake. To accept my punishment. To keep from harming anyone else.

For if I committed murder without any memory of it, what else am I capable of?

And if I am a creature that Caspian glimpsed in the painting that upset him so, then what does it mean?

Nothing good. I weigh the possibilities over and over in my mind, and I barely notice when Altaris returns. Not until he loudly clears his throat and inclines his head toward the nearest building. "I am to take you around the back. Come now and be quick about it."

Around the back, through an alley that is as neat and pristine as the main street and across a small, stone courtyard containing a fountain in the center and a row of benches. There, he leads us inside through a small door, far away from any prying eyes. A narrow hallway extends beyond it. It takes us up a flight of stairs and down another corridor, into an office.

There, a woman sits behind a stately glass desk. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles are perched on her nose, and not a strand of her white-blonde hair is out of place. She could be a vamryre, sired by Caspian's master, but her eyes are a soft shade of green. Not red or glowing.

"This is the specimen?" she questions, her gaze on me as she pokes her spectacles further up her nose. They magnify her eyes, making them seem enormous. Yet, there is a quiet undercurrent to her interest. It is unnerving.

It makes me uncomfortable.

"Yes," Altaris explains, taking a black leather chair positioned near the desk—one of three placed in a row. "Darlings, this is Dinara Amaz. Formal introductions later. For now, come forward. Yes you, fae one."

I stiffen at the sudden scrutiny cast onto me by both Altaris and the strange woman. Dinara. She eyes me, not like I am a piece of meat or a tool at her disposal to make a pile of coin. She looks at me as though I am a specimen. A book in the archive, but one with no cover, or title visible. The only way to decipher its contents is to peel them apart and scan them page by page.

"Yes, my dear. Do come closer." Dinara waves me closer with a slim hand. She is small, barely able to see above the surface of her desk, but I am not fooled. There is a hidden grace in her posture that even Caspian picks up on. He inches closer to me, his thoughts guarded and on-edge.

Still, I approach the desk and sit on the chair she gestures to.

"Good." She inspects me, her expression unreadable. Then she turns to Altaris. "You were right. This one is odd indeed, but I am afraid my price remains the same."

"Non-negotiable," Altaris snaps. Gone is the polish and poise. He is a haggling salesman, but for once he has met a price he is not willing to pay. A sum beyond any money, I suspect. Beyond any minor trinket, or heirloom he has gathering dust in his store. Something vital to him. Though he is a vamryer, he would rather die than part with it.

"Then we have nothing to discuss." The woman folds her hands and plasters on a false smile. "Thank you for visiting D. Moure and Associates. Please take a complimentary mint on your way out." She gestures to a bowl on a table near the door. Piled inside it are numerous small, white squares in clear wrappings.

Altaris scoffs. "Dinara, dear, I beg you to reconsider. Do you even realize what is at stake?" He sounds serious. This matters to him more than collecting contracts or shepherding his wayward vamryre does. Whatever he and this woman are bartering over, he wants badly.

So badly, he is willing to beg. Yet not badly enough…

"Either you have reconsidered, or there is no deal. Frankly, Altaris, you are wasting my time, and you more than anyone know how valuable my time is."

The vamryre hisses. "You stubborn, selfish grimorer. The fate of the world could be at stake?—"

"You don't give a damn about the world," Dinara replies, smiling sweetly. "Neither do I. Now show yourselves out."

Altaris stands, his chin in the air, eyes blazing. "You will regret this, Dinara. I hope for both of our sakes, you come to your senses before it is too late."

He storms to the door.

I start to follow.

"Wait!" The woman's voice has changed. Gone is her polite boredom. Her tone practically trembles with excitement and when I turn to face her, she's leaning over her desk, her hand outstretched.

"Change your mind already, have you?" Altaris sniffs.

"This agreement will not be with you," the woman says, her eyes swollen with interest from behind their golden rims. "She, however, has something interesting. Something I may take as payment. In your pocket. Let me see it, please. Yes, that one…"

My pocket? I reach inside the front of my dress and stiffen as my fingers brush a hard object. In the turmoil of the past night, I'd forgotten all about it. The fae stone dangling from a delicate golden chain. The one Caspian found for me.

"Someone has been snooping through items that do not belong to them," Altaris remarks as I extend the object for Dinara's inspection. He isn't pleased, but Dinara nearly squeals with glee as she lunges for the stone, tugging it from my grasp. "Oh yes. Oh yes! This will do nicely. Nicely indeed. We may have a deal, after all, Altaris, do you agree?"

The vamryre grunts.

Dinara grins and raises her gaze to me. "Then we may begin. Take a seat, my dear." She clasps the fae stone to her desk and shuffles from around it. I realize then that her already lacking height was aided by a cushion balanced on her black chair. She is even smaller than she first seemed. An adult woman in the slender, compact body of a fae Dawn.

"Face forward," she tells me. "Close your eyes. This should be quick, I suspect. You talk in such terms of drama, Altaris, but she seems no less intriguing than any other fae."

"I'll be the judge of that," Altaris snipes. "Just scry her mind and tell me what you see. I need to know all of the naughty bits. Every nook and cranny?—"

"Scry?" Caspian is at my side instantly.

"Don't worry, darling," Altaris remarks. "It is a simple procedure. Dinara will only tell me any information that could be of use toward discerning her heritage, nothing more. No grisly, boring details about anything else. Just the important bits."

Important bits. I can't help thinking, as Dinara moves to stand beside me, that there is another descriptor Altaris left out. He wants to know what happened at the circus. If I killed Cyrus, the ringmaster. If I am a danger to them all.

My heart races. I feel a wave of bile creeping up my throat. "I don't… I don't want?—"

"Just relax, darling." Dinara takes one of my hands and the suggestion suddenly lands with the weight of an army of Lord Masters, urging the same. Relax. Relent. It will be okay.

For I am happy and calm. There is no danger here. No risk.

Other than a sharp, sudden tearing agony that threatens to rip my skull in two. I can't scream. I can't even flinch or react. In a sudden wave of darkness, the neat, orderly office vanishes. I'm in a dark, cold space. A woman is screaming, and screaming…

A child is crying. A baby, with pale skin, dark hair, and haunting black eyes. Yet, that is not all she was born with. Extending from her naked body, glistening, and trembling with effort, are two black structures, made of thin, glistening flesh. Wings.

The poor baby seems tormented as they unfurl from her and extend beside her. They are so large on her tiny frame. Enormous, but beautiful, more than capable of sustaining flight…

The vision drifts and suddenly, I'm standing over a woman's shoulder. Her back is to me, her face and features obscured. It's as though a black shadow covers everything about her. Except her voice. I can hear it clearly.

"Don't cry, little one. Don't cry," she whispers. Then she adjusts the baby resting on her lap, cradling the infant so it lies on its stomach, its dry, fully extended wings now visible. In the other hand, she raises a knife…

Another shift. I'm wandering a winding corridor. Running. Chasing something. Someone. They're drawing nearer, nearer… I round a corner, and they are gone.

I'm in the archives, standing before a row of books. A boy speaks to me, his voice radiating arrogance and confidence. "I can teach you to read them," he claims. "They say you cannot learn. You are too simple, but I am smart enough to teach you…"

A series of scenes pass in a frantic, overwhelming rush. Countless visits with the Lord Master. The biting of the blade against my lower back. Cutting. Hurting. Bleeding.

Then Caspian…

He is a bright light in this shadow of memory. From the moment I saw him, that was clear. He was a flame, meant to sear and burn. He tore my world to shreds, but it was a welcomed destruction. A necessary one.

We entered the mortal realm.

We avoided his brethren.

Met Altaris.

Then the museum.

The chaos.

The running.

Cyrus.

Sudden quiet. Like a truck screeching to a halt, the world goes silent, fixated on this one moment: Cyrus looming above me with murderous intent. His jackdaws attacked me—only I'm not seeing it from my own point of view, huddled on the ground.

I view it all from above. I see a thing, a gangly creature resembling me, lying in a pool of blood. Her wounds are numerous, her life hanging on by a thread. She doesn't scream, though she knows it could bring salvation. She doesn't want to. She would rather die.

Because to do so would put Caspian in danger…

Because Cyrus the ringmaster, was not a ringmaster at all. A monster lurked inside him, puppeting the mundane's body as though it dangled from a string. It waited until that moment to reveal itself.

To strike.

For it was a monster, who sustained itself not on selling or buying creatures. Not on violating fae. On pure blood. Rare blood.

It was a vamryre, but a strange one. Demented. Wrong. It reeked of a cloying, horrific stench of decay and when it opened its mouth, its fangs were elongated. Extended.

It would bite into the body of Niamh before its jackdaws could finish her off. It would drain her dry. Extend its life. Feed.

For it had waited for this moment for twenty years. Not out of hunger or necessity, but…

Revenge.

"I'll filet your body, little whelp," the creature told me. "Leave it for your sire to see. That bastard. That fucking prick. He must think himself so smart." The creature laughed at me. Then it kicked me hard in the stomach, tormenting me. "So godly. But he failed. He failed to sniff you. Suss you. He let you out of his sight. Despite the little dog he saddled you with, hand-picked. Perfectly placed. All a waste, for I will drain you dry." He moved, and there was no denying that the fae curled on the ground would soon be dead. She was too weak.

Suddenly, the vision shifts yet again. A new figure emerges from the shadows of the room. She throws herself at the monster though she knows she is no match. Minchae.

Easily, the creature tosses her aside. She lands in a crumbled heap across the tent, lifeless, broken.

But in that moment, something changed. It happened the second he touched her. A bright light emanated. A figure appeared as if summoned from the shadows themselves. Like the woman from before, their shape was obscured, covered in shadow. Only their voice gave them any sense of definition. Lilting. Soft. Female.

"It has been a long time," they say to the creature. "Decades for you to become sloppy. What a shame."

The creature snarled something in return, but it is too garbled to make out. Whatever it said devolves into a shout. Then a scream as the shadow lunches. Ripping, tearing noises betray the scene I don't remember. A heart being devoured right out of a chest. Body parts tearing. Ripping. Becoming strewn about.

Then a moan from Minchae. She is still alive. Finished with the creature that once was Cyrus, the figure cloaked in shadow approaches the part-fae. They crouch down beside her and gingerly extend her forearm for their inspection. Then they bite.

I wince at the sound. Bone cracks with the force of it. Flesh sizzles, dissolved by venom. Yet, the figure does not tear into her. They do not kill her then. They incline their head toward the ceiling as if knowing a disembodied figure watches them.

"Hello," they say. "Give Altaris my regards. Tell him his bloodling remains, for she is his punishment. His doom. He shall be seeing us soon."

The vision fades. The pressure relents and I find myself gasping on a cold hard floor. My stomach roils. I fell sick. Without caring for decorum, I hunch over and vomit then and there. Too many thoughts and recollections swirl in my brain. I can't tell what is mine. What is another's. Something went rampant in my brain and left a mess behind.

Even Caspian's comfort can't soothe the ache.

Because his comfort is a lie. He is a lie. A dog. A plant, meant to retrain me. Manipulate.

All as a part of someone's plan.

Altaris's plan. He knows something—more than he let on. He is a liar. A villain. A monster.

He wanted this from the start: me, a wingless, lonely abomination.

All in a game of revenge.

There is no time to process these recollections. No place to think. I need to think. I need to breathe. I can't. I can't.

"We can help you, mistress," those voices tell me, surging to the forefront of my mind, louder than ever. The jackdaws that hid inside of me, so fearful of the figure draped in shadow that they had no choice. "Trust us. Come. Come!"

I stand. As if from miles away I hear Altaris and Dinara converse as though I don't exist. As though I don't matter. Somewhere, beyond the wreckage of my mind, I can sense Caspian, demanding to be let in. He is calling for me.

But I can't answer.

There is too much shame, and guilt, and hatred. I drag myself upright. I spy a window and I run toward it without thinking. I listen to those greedy little voices urging me forward.

"Go! Go! We shall catch you!"

The glass gives way as though it was made of tissue paper. An illusion that shatters into a million sparkling shards. I fall in a sudden, terrifying motion. There is no audience below. No series of movements to perform.

I just fall.

Then lurch upward as if tugged by a hand clenched around my spine. Caspian's? No. For this strange, gripping contact yanks me higher. and higher still.

Then I feel a rush of air, rhythmic fluttering against my skin. I hear a strange, whooshing sound.

Then I look down and see the entire city at a glance.

There is no other explanation for it.

Somehow, I am flying.

With borrowed wings.