LYRYKA

  Upon a high hill that reminds me of the Hill of Tara, which I’ve seen in countless books, my father and I stand, staring out over a vast midnight kingdom that sprawls across hill and vale, as far as my eyes can see.

  Houses rise and buildings soar, leaping from low rooftop to towering spire, alabaster against a black velvet sky that dazzles with an infinity of stars.

  “What do you think of my Shadow Kingdom, Lyryka?” my father asks, smiling at me.

  He’s been smiling at me ever since I returned to the bottle, answering his implacable summons, leaving Death standing in the chapel, looking properly stupefied by what he just learned. What the prince of Death before him never knew, was never told. Once he checks in the tome to which I directed him, where I secreted away the last bit of information he needs, he’ll come into his full powers.

  Then we’ll see which of the possible contenders the Unseelie king’s power decides to choose.

  Cruce, who I’ve been certain is the villain of this piece, is being nice to me.

  Lavishing me with affection, hooking his arm through mine, even, on occasion, taking my hand. Plying me with food and drink, regaling me with stories and anecdotes that showcase the overbearing certainty of his superior wit and strength. Ebullient and charming, he’s shown me wonder after wonder, telling me it’s long past time he brought me “home.”

  Home.

  I try to process the word.

  Decide if I even want to be here.

  Or whether home for me has already been found, in a different sort of place, with different people, in the broadest conceptual sense of the word.

  Once Cruce discovers what I’ve done, what I’ve told Christian, he won’t smile at me anymore.

  Will he ban me from his realm?

  Will he clash in war with Death?

  At least now, it will be a matched battle, two princes at the full heights of their power.

  Either way, my father will never forgive me. And, despite the beauty of his kingdom, despite it being a place where, once, I’d have hungered to dwell with such intriguing and fabulous companions as his new Unseelie, I’m not the woman I used to be. My acquaintances will never be welcomed here.

  I stand with one foot in two very different worlds.

  For hours, or who knows—perhaps we’ve been here for days, I’ve seen so many marvelous things I’ve quite lost track of time—Cruce has whisked me through dazzling streets and lanes of a midnight kingdom he constructed in the caverns beneath the Unseelie king’s castle. Yet there’s no sense of being underground here. The city is so vast, the ceilings vaulted so far beyond my ability to see, that the faraway sky, hung with planets, three lovely moons, and millions of stars seems as real as any that might grace an actual planet.

  “Long ago, I watched the king insert a pocket of reality within a realm. I tunneled down, beneath the old king’s castle, and did so here, seeding it, allowing it to grow,” he tells me. “Humans and Seelie believed me dead and I kept it that way, buying time to build my court as the kingdom they deserve.”

  He’d sequestered, he told me, for centuries in the king’s laboratory, fashioning hundreds of thousands of dark Fae, countless castes, each more lovely, powerful, and imaginative than the last. He’d left me alone so long because he needed to establish sufficient numbers to serve as an army to protect their world, to war against both Seelie and Man, if necessary, as well as give them time to acclimate to their new life.

  “But I could have helped you,” I protest. “Why didn’t you bring me here long ago?”

  He favors me with an affectionate glance that startles and, despite my reservations, which are many, thrills me. I’ve never been on the receiving end of such looks from him before. “You’re always so sweet and willing to help. You did help, Lyryka. It was your research into the king’s endless collection of chaotic notes and books that provided much of the knowledge I needed, your time searching, your answers that allowed me to perfect my kingdom, and the Unseelie that inhabit my city.”

  There it is again: my. On occasion, he says “our,” but most often he uses the singular possessive pronoun.

  If his words are true, then this is my kingdom, too. It was my groundwork that built the foundations.

  “Where are we to live? Do we have a house?”

  He laughs, richly amused. “A mere house for a king? No, Lyryka, I built a castle. Come, I’ll show you.” He takes my hand.

  * * *

  Hours later, after a sumptuous feast with my father during which I’d stoically refrained from inquiring about my half sister, unwilling to let him know I knew, I sprawl across the bed in the chamber to which he escorted me (and I believe, locked me in; I haven’t checked yet but heard a suspicious click, as if he’s forgotten I can sift now that I’m free of that infernal bottle) with the curtains billowing in a crisp yet temperate breeze that’s the precise degree of perfect.

  I place my book aside—one I found tucked on a high shelf in this chamber, filled with grand exploits by the Seelie prince known as V’lane—and stare out the open French doors at the sparkling lights of the city, wondering who is this being that told me I’m free, after an eternity of captivity, yet still forbids me to show my true form and who, despite sharing with me the many wonders of his kingdom, kept me unseen, both of us hidden beyond the vision of the many Unseelie we passed?

  I’m their king, he told me when pressed, and if they see me they’ll present matters of business, disputes and the like. I want this time to be yours and mine, alone.

  I wanted to argue, protest: but I’ve been alone for so bloody long and I’ve had to hide who I am for the entirety of it, and it’s time for me to be truly, fully free!

  But, wisely, I held my tongue. Because, despite his seeming warmth, and sharing his splendid world with me, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong with this abrupt plot-detour into happiness.

  Stories don’t unfold in such pleasant fashion. The long-suffering heroine, imprisoned by her father, isn’t suddenly released to live happily ever after, at his side.

  Irritated by my current circumstances, which were once all I might have asked of life—to be in my father’s house, sprawled on a bed fit for a princess in a castle fit for a king—I push up, and hurry across the room to check the door.

  As I suspected, it’s locked.

  Snorting, I whirl and hurry through the French doors, onto the balcony, considering reverting to my true form and, with my unique, lovely wings, soaring out over the city beyond.

  As if I’ve tripped some hidden threshold alarm, my father appears beside me on the balcony, smiling down at me, and I have no idea why, but the look in his eyes doesn’t match the curve of his lips, and it chills my blood.

  “Come. There’s one other place I want to show you.”

  I try to thrust my hands in the pockets of my gown, but he’s swift and sure and catches one of mine in his; then we’re—

  —standing together, on a ledge, thousands of feet up, perched on the side of a great cliff, a bitter wind whipping my hair into a tangle.

  It takes me a moment to get my bearings. “Is this where you once lived?” I exclaim, staring everywhere at once, with shock and disbelief. I recognize it from pictures in my books and descriptions. All Unseelie were once confined here.

  Again, I’m seeing something I’ve only read about in books and, although I’ve quite the imagination, no written words could ever capture the palpable misery, horror, and despair of this place.

  “A hellish half-life as it was. I want you to understand me, comprehend why I’ve done the things I’ve done. Why I worked so hard to create a superior court, a superior kingdom. I succeeded, did I not, Lyryka?” He startles me by asking, as if he cares what I, or anyone, think. “Did I not?” he repeats vehemently, and I realize it’s not that he cares but that, by the Goddess, he wants applause. He wants praise, and I’m being cued to give it.

  That was the true purpose of the tour of his kingdom. I was being prodded to gush and exclaim over his many achievements, gaze worshipfully up at him, as he paraded me past creations undertaken to demonstrate his superiority to the king; a test I’m quite certain I failed.

  “How long did you live here?” When I shiver, he puts his arm around me, providing warmth with the heat of his wing. In the ancient, brutally cold Unseelie prison, there are cliffs upon cliffs of chilling, killing black ice, jutting up at nauseatingly wrong angles, divided by deep, narrow chasms and ravines. The entrances of thousands of dwellings are chiseled into the cold, unyielding ice and a sickly blue glow emanates from the seemingly bottomless ravine below us, as it belches a sulfuric blue-black fog. An arctic wind sluices down from high above us, biting deep to my core.

  I tip back my head. No moon will ever rise here. No stars will ever be glimpsed. No light will ever grace this barren, desolate place. This was the first queen’s ultimate cruelty. She created a monstrosity when she might have created any number of wonders, or even taken the time to pass the melody of the ancient Song of Making to a successor.

  I’m staggered she created such a horror. The air itself hangs heavy and bitterly cold, saturated with the residue of pain, hunger, and bottomless need of those who once dwelled within their icy abodes, with undercurrents of the crushing truth that there is no satisfaction to be found, ever, in this place.

  Futility is the oxygen here. There is nothing else in the air, if even air exists.

  And I realize the Unseelie prison, despite my half-Unseelie side, is my antithesis. It’s anti-life for one like me. I can feel it preying on the energy of the Light Court deep inside me, licking with rapacious tongue at my flesh and bones, trying to devour me, and I know, instinctively, I wouldn’t survive long here. Shivering, I wonder why he really brought me to this place. Am I to gasp with horror, commiserate, and laud him for the many grand things he’s achieved? Is more applause being cued?

  Frowning, I wonder why, on a gut level, the prison seems somehow familiar, beyond what I read in books. As if I once tasted this despair and it seared itself into my memory, driving me to embrace the light side of myself with abandon.

  Although half Unseelie, I’m light and bright and, despite my innate irritability, happy to be alive and experience yet another day, read one more book, dream one more dream, perhaps even—as of late—make one more new acquaintance. I’ve been especially happy, working with the small confederacy that requested my aid and who will never simply take everything from me, giving nothing in return before locking me away again.

  Death is my protector.

  The queen herself is light and bright and strong and has spoken of freeing me.

  “Three quarters of a million years,” Cruce murmurs. “That’s how long I suffered this hell. But come. I have more to show you.”

  I could feel sorry for him. He wants me to. But I don’t. Because what he just admitted to me was that, although all the other Unseelie were trapped here, he could leave. He has always been able to leave and live a life even when no one else could. I know he left. I know how old I am. He went to Seelie and seduced someone there while all other Unseelie were trapped in this hell.

  And I was born. My mother was someone from the Light Court.

  “The princess of Summer,” he murmurs then.

  I look at him sharply. Can he read my thoughts?

  “You think them absurdly loud, Lyryka. You always have. You bear everything on your face. Every emotion, even the truth of your heritage.”

  I’m the daughter of Summer and War. No wonder I’m a disgruntled, perky sunbeam. I wonder, why did he really bring me here?

  “I brought you here because I want you to understand how much I overcame. Given whence I sprang, I might have become a monster, like him.”

  Oh, father, I think, but hastily plunge this thought deep into a trunk, how can you be so deluded?

  “But I’m not a monster. I created a court of beautiful things. Only a beautiful being can do such a thing. I will see my children raised to the light, walking openly in the world. I will see the Seelie bow to them, genuflect, and beg for their lives. And I will watch the Light Court die, one by one until the only court that remains in this world is the only one of worth. And we will take all of Faery, my children and I.”

  “Does that include me?”

  He favors me with another of those odd, remote smiles. “Ah, Lyryka, you will always be part of me and my plans.”

  That was an uncomfortable and not at all reassuring reply. How? Does he intend to extract my teeth, perhaps wear them on a string about his neck after he’s disposed of me in some horrid fashion?

  I shiver. I need to get out of here. Perhaps I’m being melodramatic—these icy, dark cliffs persistently and urgently invite one to plunge down any number of slippery slopes of paranoia—but I feel as if some terrible plan of my father’s is about to come to fruition.

  I do a foolish thing then. I try to sift back to the world of my friends.

  It’s beyond foolish, springing purely from instinct, not thought at all, for I know well the rules of this place. Only two of whom I’m aware are capable of sifting in, but no one can sift out of the Unseelie prison. Were it possible, all of the higher castes would have left. I have no idea how my father was able to escape on those occasions he did, but I know it wasn’t sifting. Perhaps a Silver secreted away somewhere only he knew?

  Then he’s laughing and shaking his head at me as if I’m such a fool, and he grabs me and swings me up in his arms, and something bites into my hip with the sting of a bee, and his wings are opening, powerfully beating air, and abruptly we’re flying, soaring over ridge and ravine; for miles and miles he flaps his great wings, carrying me in his arms.

  Then we burst through a sort of façade of a scene, and he settles us on a ridge adorned with hundreds of square, raised platforms of blue-black ice that jut above the ground, and the vision makes me think, with a convulsive shudder, of the sight of a human graveyard, although there are no markers adorning the cairns.

  In all the books in the Library, I’ve never once stumbled across mention of such a place within the prison.

  “I keep it concealed. It is a graveyard. Of Fae,” he says. “My enemies.” He shrugs. “A few friends that got in my way. You may resume your true form now, Lyryka.” He settles me on my feet.

  I’m free to change at last, to be what I really am, and I’m horrified to discover, standing precisely as he deposited me without moving so much as an inch, it’s too late.

  I can’t move. At all.

  What has he done to me? How has he done it?

  The sting at my hip—did my father poison me?

  He sighs. “I forgot too much of that potion has an immobilizing effect. I may have overdone it, but it was to help you sleep, make this less disturbing for you. I can’t ensure that you will slumber until the end because it would require additional doses and, as you can see—or rather can’t see, because you can’t turn your head now—you’ll be beyond my reach, and I won’t be returning. This is goodbye, my dear. The bright side is, as only half of you is Light Court, you should last only half as long as your mother. Perhaps a month, mortal time. It won’t be long, Lyryka. Blink of an eye to ones such as we.” He scoops me up, a mute, wooden doll, and carries me to one of the platforms. He places my stiff body on the slab of ice and begins to murmur the words of a spell.

  I feel my body begin to change, my glamour dropping away, as he strips Mac’s face and body from mine, to reveal my true form.

  He stares down at me when it’s done, and I see all too plainly what he thinks when he looks at me. Disappointment and contempt glitter in his starry eyes.

  Because of what I look like. And only that.

  I weep, but no tears fall. Not because of what he thinks of me, but because I’m denied the simple pleasure of flexing my magnificent wings one last time. Or even feeling them at all.

  I’m in a waking stasis for now and, according to him, will soon sleep.

  After that, if I understand him correctly, I will die. Awake, at the end.

  Why? I think as loudly as possible.

  “You’re a half-blood,” he says. “This is not what I wanted. You were to be the first of my secret army hidden with the Light Court but, from the day you were born, you were a walking, incessantly needy, crying, hungry liability. Your mother lies in the coffin to your left. I brought you with us the day I buried her, long ago. I nearly interred you the same day but relented. I granted you a life, Lyryka. I fathered you. I permitted you to live. When you think of me, remember that. I might have drowned you at birth, an unwanted mongrel. When the princess saw what she’d been carrying inside her, ah, my ugly, unwanted Lyryka, she screamed and screamed, denouncing you, threatening to expose me. I’d glamoured myself as her consort, you see. She believed I was Seelie. She had no idea Unseelie existed. I thought you would merely be a darker version of Light Court Fae, but you came out so utterly wrong, you betrayed the existence of our court. At the very moment of your birth, you betrayed me.”

  But they’re long dead now. Yet you never released me. Why?

  “Half-blood,” he says with a shrug, eyes narrowing with distaste “The universe marked you a monstrosity. It knew, too, that you should never have been born. You will never be accepted. There is no place for you. No Fae could look at you without seeing their enemy court. You don’t belong anywhere. I protected you from their scorn and savagery. I promised myself the day I buried your mother that I would grant you two kindnesses. I would give you a life, and a fine one, such as it was with your books. Then I would bring you home when it was time. It’s time. You don’t fit in this new world of mine. This is where you belong, beside your mother. You can rest at last.”