Every muscle in my body is cramped from those hours on the Kelpie. Even without heels on, my feet wobble like dangerously placed dominos. I’ve been in this mortal form for two months, yet it still amazes me that only forty sleepless hours can weaken me so completely.
I shuffle into the sitting room and Richard is there: curled on a settee, asleep. His cheek is smudged against its embroidered cushion, hands bunched in front of his face. He’s still wearing his tuxedo—wrinkled black and stark white. He must have stayed up all night. Waiting for me.
The coffee table supports my theory. Its surface is cluttered with signs of Richard’s sleepless night. His laptop is perched there, covered with papers and illegible ink notes. A tray of tea and untouched biscuits sits beside it. And next to that is a newspaper, splayed wide. There are the usual headlines: UNDERGROUND TRAINS MALFUNCTIONING ON THE CIRCLE LINE and THE SECOND LIGHTS-DOWN: ARE YOU READY?
I’m all over the front page. Pictured mid-leap. Loose hair flares like fire around my shoulders. The flowers and frills of my dress parachute, showing a good deal of leg.
Probably not what Anabelle meant when she told me to impress the press.
Richard’s face is on the edge of the photograph, its expression made of agony. His hand grasps at empty space. Reaching for someone already gone.
TURMOIL ON THE THAMES
One of the year’s most anticipated social events was crashed by an unwelcome guest on Friday evening. Lord and Lady Winfred’s guests were being wined and dined to perfection when a monster appeared in the water.
“It was shiny and black!” said one eyewitness, Doris Hapsley, a waitress at the Winfreds’ gala. “It kept ramming into the boat, trying to sink us. I thought for sure I was going to die.”
The most notable attendees of the evening—King Richard and his escort, Lady Emrys Léoflic—were predictably in the middle of the fray. Britain’s fledgling king and the former Fae were spotted in a heated argument just moments before the redhead threw herself over the side.
“It was very clear they were upset with each other,” Elaine Forsythe, the new wife of rising-star politician Julian Forsythe, told us. “He grabbed her arm and she tore away.”
Both Lady Emrys and the creature disappeared moments after. No sign of Lady Emrys has been seen since.
Officer Eric Black of the king’s Protection Command also reports that the gala’s table centerpieces were composed of the poisonous flower birdsfoot trefoil. One of these deadly bouquets was placed at the center of King Richard’s table. Whether an assassination attempt or a bungling florist, Black and the other officers have declined to comment.
Both incidents are ill-timed for the king and his pro-Fae supporters, who will be celebrating their second Lights-down this weekend. They call into question the safety of immortal integration, as well as the general public’s support. For some, including M.A.F. leader Julian Forsythe, even the holy grail of self-sustaining energy is not enough to assuage his fear of the magical. “These creatures aren’t pixies or Cinderella godmothers. They’re monsters. My wife and I might have died tonight. I think it’s high time King Richard’s motives be called into question. Is he truly doing what’s best for the kingdom? Or is he listening to the siren lure of a certain ginger?”
The article goes on, but I’ve already crumpled the paper between my fingers.
Escort? Heated argument? Monsters? Siren lure?
I toss it aside and collapse into the nearest chair, the muddy remains of my tulle gown puffing out around me. There’s a pounding in my head and an ache in my back, jabbing reminders that I’m coming apart at the seams.
Immortals do not sleep. They cannot give themselves to dreams. These are things only mortals know.
The first time I ever fell asleep—after I surrendered my magic to Herne—I was terrified. Nothingness slipped into my mind, as vast and dark as the black around stars. My thoughts became watery, warped. I couldn’t grab them. Couldn’t hold on.
Then came the dreams. Life which was not life. Conversations, emotions, love and loss, all playing like a movie inside my head. It wasn’t until I woke up and took in the crumpled sheets of my bed that I realized it wasn’t real.
I know I’m dreaming now because I see Breena—my lifelong friend undone by one of Mab’s final spells, months dead now. We’re on a solitary hill. All around is cloud. Thick and white—like the inside of a seer’s crystal ball. Breena stares into it. Her back is to me, hair an unreal gold against the clouds.
“Bree?”
My friend turns. “Remember, Emrys. You have to remember.”
“What? What do I have to remember?”
Breena grips my arm, pulls me back to where she was standing. She points into the mist, her eyes keen, focused on something I’m unable to see.
“Remember.” Breena’s fingers dig into my skin.
“Bree.” I try not to sound exasperated as I look into the fog. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Remember! Remember!” More voices join: a rough, croaking chant coming from my feet. The ground is black with ravens, their eyes glittering like tiny beetles, their sharp beaks clacking out the same syllables. “Remember! Remember!”
Breena isn’t talking anymore. She’s just staring. As if she’s trying to tell me something, but can’t.
And then the mist falls away, crumples like an invisible giant drawing back a curtain. We’re standing over a valley, looking down on death. What was once green is mud— churned and mixed with the blood of a thousand men. Full of flailing horses, snapped spears, and knights carving each other to pieces with crude metal. Just below us—on the long low ridge of our hill—a castle burns.
It’s been years upon years. So long that the mortals have forgotten it. But I know this fortress even in the thick of sleep. This exact image has lived in my mind for centuries: turrets and stones wreathed high with fire.
Breena and I stand on the hill, watching as Camelot falls apart. Knight by knight. Flame by searing flame.
“Remember,” Breena says again.
“I do.” I feel King Arthur’s fall, tumbling around in my chest: the broken blood magic, the ruined castle, the sink of Mordred’s black blade through Arthur’s armor.
“No!” Breena’s scream is sharp, a needle jammed into my eardrum. “Remember!!”
My neck whips around and I’m ready to yell at her. But Breena is gone. The fingers around my arms belong to Guinevere. Those ratted, yellow nails dig into my skin again. Her eyes are as white as the mists—sucking me in.
I want to tear away from her. But all I can do is stare as her shrieks fall down like rain. “I will show you ruin! Kingdom’s fall! I flipped wrong and the world burned.”
Heat sears my back, as if the fire from the valley has clawed to where we stand. I try to pull away, but the ancient’s grip is tight.
A snaggletoothed smile takes over her face. “You found it. But blind eyes still need to see.”
I look away from her, down to the ground. The ravens are gone.
“Puppets. With smiles on their faces. That’s how they died.” Guinevere cackles and releases my arm. I stumble back. Over the ledge, and into the valley. Onto the coal-hot stones of Camelot.