Chapter Twelve

There is a moment where I don't know where Janet is, what has happened to her, and it makes me ache the way that Aoibheall must have done after her loss of Dubhlaing, centuries ago. But then the blanket moves, and from it comes the largest snake I have ever seen. I reach round for my sister, to warn her, but she is vanishing out of the room, the door closing slowly behind her.

Its dark scales glint ominously and I'm about to trip backwards, off the bed when I notice its eyes.

Janet's eyes.

I freeze. Perhaps that is the wrong thing to do, for serpents are known for hypnotising their prey, but I don't feel hypnotised. I feel horror.

I should have known better.

Not that I could have expected this—because who could possibly have expected this—but I should have known better than to pay too much attention to a mortal whilst Aoibheall was in the club.

My sister, my beloved, infuriating sister, has been cursed to grief by the foibles of mortals. Her mortal lover Dubhlaing, who thought that he knew far better than a fae queen in the ways of the world, threw off the cloak of invisibility that she'd gifted him before battle, and died thereafter.

I never knew what she saw in him. He was handsome, true, but also far too fickle for my stalwart, loyal sister.

My sister who would do anything to protect me. The accusatory words she'd shot At Janet might have been about me treating her badly, but it had been to scare Janet off, to protect me.

The giant snake glides towards me, and its forked tongue hisses across my skin. I try not to shudder. I cannot abandon Janet now, just as Janet cannot escape this curse that Aoibheall has put upon her. The only way through for the both of us, is to hold on.

The thought haunts me, echoes of my urging Janet to hold on as I loosed her from the cross a mere hour earlier.

I have to hold on.

The snake does not look calm. It looks pissed, as much as a snake can look pissed. There's no way for Janet to speak, to make herself heard, and from what I've come to know of my kitten, that's the worst possible scenario for her. Trapped inside her head, no way to let her thoughts or feelings out.

Tentatively, I reach out a hand to touch the snake.

It snaps in my direction and this time I do jump back.

Mortals misunderstand what immortality means, much of the time. Gods and Goddesses can die, and fae queens even more so. And this fae queen is deathly afraid of snakes.

I curse Aoibheall. It's been too long since we've had a fight, and she always forgets herself if I go too long without reminding her that I, too, have agency and autonomy. I can and will choose what to do of my own volition, and whilst her input is often welcomes, it is neither necessary, not an order.

She needs to spend some more time in that catshape she so abhors.

The snake moves now, and the movements do seem hypnotic. I watch warily, and inch backwards when it goes to loop itself around me.

I fucking think not.

How much of this is the snakeshape, and how much of it is Janet is hard to tell. I wouldn't blame her for being pissed at me. I'd be pissed if I got turned into a snake without so much as a by your leave.

But shifting is an odd experience, even with hundreds of years of knowledge behind you. When I turned Aoibheall into a white cat, she spent the first week chasing after sunbeams and drinking milk.

I have never allowed her to live it down.

But now I see the downside of such an experience. Because a snake—especially one as large as this—would see me as food, and I would rather not be eaten by my Janet before I even have the chance to tell her how I feel about her.

But leaving is not an option.

I leave, and Aoibheall will shift Janet back and send her on her way, and I'd never see the mortal again. That is unacceptable. I shall not stand for it.

"Janet," I say, my words sounding oddly hollow against the opulence of silk sheets lit seductively. "Janet, it's me. Clíodhna. Your queen."

The last word registers with the snake, if nothing else. Its fangs come down hard on the coverlet next to me, and tear into the fabric. An anarchist serpent. Wonderful.

"Fine, forget the queen part. It's me, Clíodhna. You wanted me, you wanted all of me. Well, I'm here. I'm yours."

Cool scales slide across my skin and start to wrap themselves around my body. This is horrifying, nightmare-inducing. There is nothing I'd like less than to be held in the embrace of a giant snake—namely because I doubt I'd ever live past it—but there doesn't seem to be much else I can do. I cannot think of any other way to prove to Aoibheall that I am truly capable of making my own decisions, even if she considers them foolhardy.

Closing my eyes, I lean backwards, letting the coils of the serpent support me, and I give myself over to fate.

What's the worst that can happen?