It’s the most vibrantly alive part of me and, for a while, after I escaped my cage, I studied the human brain voraciously, poring over medical journals and scouring the Internet. I even broke into a morgue and stole a cadaver, did a bit of hands-on inspection, trying to decide why I wasn’t like others. Unfortunately, I can’t visually inspect my own brain without killing myself, so I’m still wondering. What I feel with my mind when I sink inward is probably very different than what it actually looks like. I seriously doubt I have lightning visibly crackling on the surface of my brain.

  Then again, maybe I do.

  It pisses me off that, when I eventually die, if I eventually die, I won’t get to autopsy myself. How bloody fascinating that would be.

  Here, deep in the center of my amygdala, I feel a different sort of heartbeat, as if it holds its own darkly beautiful circulatory system that pumps stardust through its veins, bequeathing upon that tiny section of gray matter abilities that defy explanation.

  When I first began playing with my amygdala, it was a small, almond shaped thing. It grew and expanded over time, plumping to the size of a walnut in its shell. It throbs, fearlessly, with passion, power, and eternal optimism that anything at all is possible, if you want it badly enough.

  I sink deeper, letting go of everything in the world, experiencing myself void of thought, existing only as a soul, whatever that is, and, as I continue to sink to the crux of my existence, I know for a certainty, I just know that I’m going to shift this time.

  It’s all about the stardust of which each and every one of us is made. We hold limitless possibility for creation, evolution. Everything is inside us, and if we bring forth the best of what is within us, it will save us. And if we don’t, it will destroy us.

  I have no more thoughts then.

  I drift.

  I am.

  Not human. Not Hunter.

  Not corporeal at all.

  I’ve become the most powerful stuff in the universe: love and hope wed to focused will.

  47

  Sweet dreams are made of these

  Who am I to disagree

  MAC

  I no longer wonder if I’m dreaming.

  I know I’m not.

  I’m being talked to death.

  If this were a dream, and Cruce could truly control me, we’d be in his bed and I’d be blankly, brightly exclaiming about his sensational attributes and prowess, not standing glumly at the balcony with a careful smile pasted on my lips and an appreciative sparkle in my eye, as he trots forth countless grand achievements in an unending parade meant to dazzle me.

  I’m hungry. I need to pee. He’s still talking. I hate him.

  He darts with disconcerting swiftness from one subject to the next, each topic showcasing his accomplishments or espousing his many grievances.

  He’s changed. Become more arrogant. Increased power has intensified his innate tyranny.

  Having torn a page from Lyryka’s book, resolved to be honey, not vinegar, I feign attentiveness, I applaud, and the show goes on.

  “Did you never wonder why,” Cruce is saying, “of all the Unseelie created, only the princes and princesses were beautiful and not driven by insane, bottomless hunger?”

  Despite my resolve to be honey, I can’t help but retort dryly, “Apparently I missed something. Driven by insane, bottomless hunger is precisely how I’d describe you.”

  “Ah, there’s a bit of your lovely fire.” He laughs. “Good to see it again. I’d begun to fear the Damhan-allaidh had damaged you. I assure you, princess—”

  “Queen,” I challenge. I still possess the True Magic even if I can’t use it, and he doesn’t.

  He arches a brow and continues, “—my bottomless hunger is quite sane.”

  A pithy retort is on the tip of my tongue, but I refrain, considering his words. He’s right. The lesser castes: the Shades, the Rhino Boys, the Gray Woman/Man, the Many-Mouthed Thing, the Crimson Hag, the Hoar Frost King were all rabidly determined to feed in whatever manner they did without restraint or thought to consequence. Yet, Rath and Kiall, the other two Unseelie princes—once they’d escaped the prison—had achieved a degree of self-control and discipline. “Why are Unseelie royalty different?”

  “The king didn’t give any of the lesser castes what he gave us. Have you also never wondered how the Unseelie are immortal when we’ve never drunk the Elixir of Life?”

  I stare at him, stunned. No. I didn’t. It never once occurred to me, yet now that he has brought it up, I can’t believe I didn’t wonder. The Light Court drank the Elixir to achieve immortality, destroying emotion and soul in the process, but whatever the Shadow Court took had no such effect. Was there a second Elixir of Life—in addition to the imperfect one Cruce gave me—that didn’t eviscerate essential self? And if so, might I give it to my father? “Go on,” I encourage.

  “Originally, when he began creating the castes, the king cobbled together a recipe using the blood of an immortal creature so hideous and vile he kept it sealed in a pit beneath his kingdom. That creature also bestowed upon the king’s lesser castes a rabid, gluttonous appetite and ugliness. Over time, the king wearied of monsters and searched for something less debilitating to use. When he found it, he substituted that ingredient for us, bestowing immortality without detraction of any kind. It’s the same ingredient I used to birth all my children, ergo their capacity for beauty, passion, and logic.”

  “And what ingredient is that?”

  “Ah, my cunning MacKayla,” he purrs with a dark smile, “I’ll not allow you to make the Seelie immortal again.”

  Which means whatever it is, it’s still around here somewhere. “Is it the same elixir you gave me?”

  “No. I made that one, not the king. You’re merely difficult to kill, not impossible. Perhaps, in time, I’ll gift you the king’s elixir as well. We’ll see.”

  Aha, so there is a king’s elixir. “Why didn’t he use it for the concubine?”

  “Immortality wasn’t the only thing he sought for Zara, and the White Mansion kept her ageless. He wanted her to be fully Fae.”

  “Then why are Christian, Sean, and Jayne immortal? They haven’t had the elixir or whatever the king used to make you.”

  “I’ve not yet deciphered that puzzle. It’s possible the old bastard interfered. You never know what the wily prick’s been up to.”

  Besides still not choosing to pass his power to you? I wisely refrain from provoking. “You mean shared some of the king’s Elixir of Life with them? Why would he do that?”

  “His motives eternally defy me. Perhaps it amused him to have mortals become immortal Fae replacements. Perhaps he knew I’d kill them if they weren’t. Perhaps he decided we might benefit from diversity. Perhaps it was a passing, pointless whim. Perhaps he thought it would piss me off, and that was amusing enough for him.”

  “But they’d know if the king tinkered—”

  “No more than you did. If the king felt like making humans immortal, he could spike something they ate without them ever knowing. Regardless, we, the Unseelie, are immortal.” His smile is all teeth and smug satisfaction as he adds, “And now the Seelie. Are. Not. And the universe is as it should be. But enough talk for now. Come, let me show you more of my world.”

  * * *

  I’m exhausted when Cruce finally returns me to my chamber, where I toss myself on the bed and peer from between the curtains of my four-poster, past the drapes and out the now-closed French doors.

  Dublin of Eternal Night, as I call it, is truly beautiful. I met caste after caste, and, in spite of myself, grew increasingly impressed with Cruce’s creations. He created a court equal to their fair brethren that live together in families, as emotional, bonded couples with children, nurturing goals and dreams. Were a creator judged by his creations, Cruce would take grand prize.

  But the Cruce that began birthing this court is not the being that now exists.

  He changed along the way.

  He’s become nearly identical to the king, and I find it difficult to understand why the king’s power still hasn’t chosen him. If being as much like the original king as possible is the criteria, Cruce nailed it.

  Arrogant, obsessed with his own agenda, self-aggrandizing, he’s sacrificed the finest parts of himself to gluttony for ever-increasing power. He sees the beauty of his children only as a reflection of himself. And, before long, they will suffer diminishing freedoms, incur escalating punishments as they do what children do—evolve, hungering to find their own way in the world. He won’t be able to permit that. His reflection must remain unchanging.

  And the Shadow Court will be right back where it began so long ago: imprisoned, controlled, subjected to the whims of an increasingly absent, obsessed, half-mad king.

  Lyryka was right. It’s the nature of our essential selves that shapes the power we hold.

  As we walked the misting streets of the city, passing the brilliant red exterior of the Temple Bar Pub, Cruce demanded I yield to him the True Magic. I asked why he even wanted it, given how powerful he already is. He replied all power was good, and it is rightfully his because he suffered at the Light Court for so long, and I agreed to do it, and he upheld his end of the bargain; therefore it was time for me to honor mine.

  When I pointed out that the Compact was invalid because those laws apply only to Compacts struck between Light Court royalty and he was not, his gaze had darkened to full black, his skin had deepened to ebony, and I’d thought, for a moment, he might do me harm.

  But he’d swiftly regained control of himself, laughing softly with icy eyes that didn’t match his smile at all.

  Then, abruptly, he terminated our tour, escorted me back to my chamber, and locked me in, even warding the doors to the balcony. He told me the True Magic was neutralized and I would never again be able to use it so long as I lived and, in time, I would certainly pass it to him. Then he told me he would give me three nights’ sleep to come to my senses and yield both the True Magic and myself to him willingly.

  Or what? I asked.

  One way or another, he replied, with a tight, cold smile.

  Then he vanished.

  And I wonder, as I stretch on the bed, yawning, loathing the thought of sleeping in his midnight kingdom but so very, very tired, is this where things might go dangerously awry?

  My waking nightmare/premonition weighs heavily on my mind.

  If I refuse to yield to Cruce in real life, does he truly have the power to submerge me in the confused, enforced submission of an eternal midnight dream?

  I battle sleep with everything I’ve got.

  I don’t win.

  PART IV

  When I was young, Dad used to read a lot, and occasionally he’d read a passage aloud that meant a great deal to him. One of his favorites (which I swear he read to me a hundred times) was from The Collected Works of Kahlil Gibran.

  Your children are not your children,

  They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

  They come through you but not from you,

  And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

  You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

  You may house their bodies but not their souls,

  For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

  Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

  It always struck me as terribly sad, and I’d hasten to assure him, But, Daddy, Alina and I did come from you (this was before I discovered, biologically, we hadn’t), and we’ll be yours forever, and there’s no other place we’d rather be, and you’re in every one of our tomorrows.

  Like so many other careful seeds he planted, I get it now. Alina and I, the new Unseelie Court, the Hunter’s offspring, they dwell in the house of tomorrow, and any parent, any ruler, must understand his or her position is a shepherd of transition, no more, no less, as the student becomes the master.

  One must know when to step up, and when to step down.

  From the Journals of MacKayla Lane-O’Connor

  High Queen of the Fae

  SHADOWDREAM

  You held it all but you were careless to let it fall

  I stand at my father’s grave, beneath a gray sky and a lightly misting rain, great black wings trailing the ground.

  Wet, those great feathery appendages smell of silk, fine leather, and peaches-and-cream candles, which I find inexpressibly odd.

  I buried Jack Lane in the cemetery at the abbey, with a vacant plot beside him for Mom. I’d say, hopefully, “one day far in the future,” but for Mom’s sake, I don’t know if that’s the best call. Dad’s death sent her back into the same black depression she suffered when Alina died, and she can’t even look at me. She didn’t come to the service. Mom refused to leave the townhouse she shared with Dad. She told me she already said her goodbyes, but I know the truth. She can’t bear to look at me.

  If Daddy were here, he’d tell me something like, Your mother loves you with all her heart, Mac, and she knows my death wasn’t your fault, and one day, you’ll be close again; give her time. It heals all wounds, baby.

  To which I’d say, No, it doesn’t. At best, time is the great leveler, sweeping us all into coffins, except for me, not me, never me. There will be no plot in this graveyard bearing my name, because I can’t die. But everyone I love will, and the best for which we can hope is to find ways to distract ourselves from the pain. Time is neither scalpel nor bandage. Scar tissue is merely the wound’s other face.

  To which he’d say, Mac, the walls would have come down anyway, whether or not you and your sister went to Ireland. All of this would have happened, with or without you. Who’s to say, had you and your sister not gone to Dublin, the four of us wouldn’t have died at the Shade’s hands, years ago? Been four of the billions of humans that were lost? You can’t second-guess every action. You can only greet each day with a loving, true heart—and, baby, you do that.

  Funny, how clearly I can still hear his voice.

  To which I would reply, bitterly, No, I don’t. My heart got dark at a critical moment. That’s how I ended up here.

  And he would say something, anything that would make my grief bearable, like, But if given one more second, the dark moment would have passed. It was a clusterfuck, baby. We all have dark moments. We get through them. And he would remind me that getting to love, at all, even for the briefest of hours, is life’s greatest gift, and hindsight is 20/20 (but not that dreadful human year many of us lived through). He would tell me that Barrons and the Nine know this, and I need to remember it, too. Take a page from their books. Learn to live with grief.

  And I would have, in time.

  I didn’t get that time.

  And Daddy’s not here. That’s the problem.

  It’s also the blessing. I don’t want him to see me now.

  I have no doubt Jack Lane is in heaven. But I don’t want him looking down. I don’t want him to see what I’ve done. Who I’ve become.

  His slow, agonizing death destroyed me, too, but I don’t get depressed when I lose people that I love with all my heart.

  I get angry.

  Furious.

  Vengeful.

  It happened when Alina died, it happened when I believed Barrons was dead, and it happened again when my father finally, with dignity and grace, requested the dual mercy of Ativan and morphine as he lay, feet blue and fingers dusky, struggling to breathe with a heart no longer capable of providing sufficient oxygen to his lungs.

  In my defense, I tried. He’s been dead only three days. I was struggling to convince myself that his death was not my fault and, even if it was, there was nothing to be gained by going postal on the world, but grief does funny things to your brain. Like, it turns it off, leaving you one big, stupid bruise of red-hot pain and confusion, unable to make the slightest decision.

  You wander in a gray fog from day to day, and, on those exceptional days you actually manage to take a shower and feed yourself before going straight back to bed, you consider the day a major triumph.

  I destroyed the Seelie.

  All of them, even the Spyrssidhe.

  I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t even in Faery when it happened. I was at the bookstore, curled in my bed, a mushroom cloud of pain and rage expanding far too large for my body to contain.

  As I raged and wept, the great, dark stain of the Unseelie king’s power drifted into my room, hovering above my bed, studying me.

  I rolled over on my back, face wet with tears, teeth bared and snarled: I want your power, I want all your power, every bit of it, because I don’t want a single Fae to have one ounce of it, and Cruce is still out there, dicking with our lives, planning some other dreadful disruption that will kill someone else I love, and, by God, he is not getting your power, and if I have it, I can destroy him for good, destroy all Fae, and our world will be the way it should be—only human life on this planet. I’ll kill the old gods, too. This is our world. Give me your power!

  In that kernel of time and pain that encapsulated all my deepest flaws—a moment that would have passed in time, you must remember, such moments pass—I crossed the line into “Oops, shit, it’s too late.”

  One instant. That’s what condemned me. An instant of craving power with all my heart coupled with a moment of hungering to crush my enemies.

  I’m not perfect. None of us are. Like I said, mercifully, we aren’t all powerful and those moments pass. That’s what you have to hold on to.