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Maewen
I had some misguided idea that riling up Rhiannon and Targon, and taunting them in that way, would show Rhodri and Tarrien their parents’ true nature. I thought that would help the warrior and my prince in their resolve, because I cannot imagine what it must be like to have to steel yourself to kill your own parent.
I underestimated both of these evil monsters, as I suspect we all have, over the years. And now, I am about to pay the price for my own stupidity.
Once the door closes on the battle outside, and Targon continues to drag us down the long hallway into a huge room, the atmosphere becomes eerily calm. Targon still holds me aloft, despite his injury. It was an exploding bullet that hit him in the shoulder; he should have been far more incapacitated than this. I feel the supremacy of his fae magic, intertwined with something more, and realize for the first time why he must have studied the ways of the necromancers.
He is channelling their magical powers, to enhance his own.
And he’s doing a damn fine job of it.
I can barely move, though I guess I should be grateful I can still breathe. For now. I slide my gaze to Rhodri’s mother, who Targon dumps unceremoniously on the floor. She springs up and spends time adjusting her long dress and tossing back her hair. Blood spatters decorate the front of her dress. She cradles an injured hand.
“Never treat me with such disrespect again, Targon.” She stalks past him without waiting for a response, and stands beneath me, staring up.
Targon rolls me in the air, right over onto my stomach, so I have no choice but to stare down into Rhiannon’s evil face.
“What is your true name, banshee?” She smiles up at me but the darkness dancing behind her eyes is so eager to get out that a shiver runs down my spine.
We’re getting straight to it, then. I grin back down at her, even though everything within me is screaming out in terror at what I suspect is coming.
“Mother told me what it was, once,” I say. “But I have such a bad memory, you know. I simply can’t remember it.”
That’s a lie, of course. I don’t know why I retain the ridiculous name in my memory. Perhaps it was the earnestness of Renna’s expression and her serious tone, when she told me my true fae name.
Maewennelechiarien. A name I should never reveal, she said, because it would cause imbalance and disharmony among the two realms I hail from, if I ever provide that information to the wrong person. I can’t remember how old I was when she visited and spoke to me—perhaps six or seven—but all these years I’ve done as she asked and have never revealed the name to anyone.
“Just call me Maewen, like everyone else. Or even better, call me boss.”
The queen’s smile instantly disappears.
Targon makes a tsking sound. The invisible hand holding me tight squeezes so hard I lose the ability to inhale or exhale.
A strangled moan releases from my lips. He’s crushing me. I can feel my bones grinding together. One of my ribs cracks.
Black specks swirl in my vision. When they threaten to take over, and consciousness begins to ebb away, the pressure releases and I gasp in a couple of quick breaths, before wincing at the sharp pain in my chest.
“I’m not giving either of you my name,” I manage to grind out. “I’d rather die.”
Rhiannon snickers. “Oh, you will, dear. Make no mistake about that. But we can make it much quicker and easier for you, if you cooperate.”
Targon huffs out a breath, wincing as he moves his shoulders. Lines of gray-green spread up his neck—poison from the shards of iron in the bullet. I hope he turns to pus like that poor necro, Davon, and dies a hideous death.
“We’re wasting time,” he says. “She’s not going to give us her name. The other one didn’t, and this one’s even tougher. We don’t need it. However, without her name, we do need her blood. All of it. Let’s get this done, before we are interrupted.”
“Certainly, Targon. It sounds like fun. Shall we do it now?” She acts as if they are about to head out on a date, and as I watch from my dangling position above them, she links her arm through his and they begin to walk across the cavernous room.
“After we drain her and use the blood in our ritual, I will arrange for a healer for you, my love,” she croons to him. “Your wound is unpleasant, but it will not be fatal unless we leave the iron in you for longer than we should.”
Ritual?
“If I’m going to die anyway, can you at least tell me why?” I say. “What do you need a banshee’s blood for?”
“Quiet!” Targon snaps, but the queen stops in her tracks.
“Oh, do let’s tell her! Bring her down.”
Targon glowers at both of us, but he jerks his arm obediently and I tumble down through the air until I hover right in front of them.
“Banshees are rare, dear,” Rhiannon says. “Your mother is one of the last of her kind remaining, did you know that?”
She doesn’t wait for a response, but continues. “And a banshee’s blood is fueled by the power of death. Such a delightful thing to be powered by, don’t you think? But it is not enough, for what I want. Banshee hybrids are even better than full banshee. You are half human, and therefore you also hold life in your veins. Lifeblood, and death blood, contained in the one being. What could be more powerful than harnessing that?”
It seems the question is rhetorical, because she continues. “You don’t even know what power you hold, my dear. You and your sisters have no idea of the immensity of what runs through your own veins.”
Rhiannon’s eyes gleam and she reaches up with her uninjured hand and strokes my cheek.
I want to bite her fingers off, but Targon has me bound so tight all I can do is glare at her.
“Vampires know. Oh, not consciously, perhaps, but they know. They are drawn to banshee hybrids more than any other creature. And I know. Targon, too. With your full name, we only need a few drops of your blood to enact the ritual. But you refuse to give us your name, so instead, we will take it all. Every last drop.”
“What’s the ritual?” I hate that I can hear a tremble in my words. I hate even more that they can hear it, too.
She licks her lips, salivating. “We are going to use your blood to bind your power to mine, forever. And in doing so, nothing will stop me retaking the Winter throne. In fact, nothing will stop me from taking over the whole of Faerie. And when I do, the ridiculous Accord will be burnt to ashes in the fires of chaos, and my reign will be unstoppable.”
Her voice rises, until she is practically shrieking. Not as effective as a banshee shriek, but the sound still makes me wince. The dark insanity in her eyes is evident, and there is spittle on her lips from the fervor with which she spoke.
I turn my gaze away from her madness toward Targon. His expression is calculating rather than crazy, and in that it is slightly less terrifying to look upon.
“What do you get in all of this?” My question is genuine. I am curious as to why he would put up with this nutter of a woman for so long.
He raises a brow, and in doing so looks more like his son than he has up till this moment.
Before he can answer me, though, Rhiannon says, “Why, he gets to be my consort. The king consort.”
Targon looks less than impressed with that suggestion. In fact, he seems far less enamored with her than I expect, for someone who gave up his life and family in Faerie because of an infatuation.
“Let’s do this, Rhiannon,” he says, in a non-committal tone. “We don’t have much time before they figure out how to get past the protections.”
Their dynamic is hard to decipher, but I would put money on the fact that somewhere along the way, he fell out of love with her, and instead, fell in love with the desire for more power.
Gut instinct says that, the moment they get my blood, the dynamic will change and he will bind the power to his own magic, rather than hers. Given how powerful he already is, that thought is terrifying.
Does she know that he is likely no longer her minion? Does she realize that he’s probably playing her, until he gets what he needs?
My mind races, trying to figure out if I can use that information to my advantage. Can I play them off against one another? Can I cause enough doubt, that they turn on each other, instead of me?
Targon might have me physically immobilized, but I still have my voice to try and throw some shade. As I open my mouth to speak, an idea unfurls in my head.
My voice. What would happen if I were to let loose my banshee power? It wouldn’t be anywhere near a match for the enormous magic these two wield—whether together or individually—but if what they say is true, there must be some strength in my magic. Plus, they won’t be expecting it. The surprise might just be enough to hold them off long enough for Rhodri to break into this fortress-like structure. Even if the tactic is short-lived, a delay of any kind might prove to be the difference between life and death. For me, and for many others.
Rho, I call silently, still unsure how the mind-speak thing works. I hope right now, that he can hear me. They are taking me to drain my blood. He broke my ribs. There are protections on the entrance, that Targon thinks you’ll be able to break through soon.
We are working on it, Mae. Stay strong. Stay alive. I’m coming for you.
If Targon didn’t have me wrapped so tight in the strands of magic, I’d have jumped out of my skin to hear Rhodri’s voice actually answering me.
Jesus, you gave me a fright. I’d suggest you hurry. If you can. I’m going to attempt to take off my charm. Release my banshee power. I have no idea what will happen, if I do. Hopefully, it will help.
Oh, gods, Mae. Be careful. I couldn’t bear it, if you were hurt, or worse.
I want to laugh and cry at the same time. What a moment to have such a discussion with the person you care about. In my heart of hearts, I don’t believe anyone is going to get here in time to save me. I hold back a sob, biting my lip.
And you, Rho. I couldn’t bear that, either.
His soft laughter rings through my brain, providing hope where moments earlier I had none.
You even sound begrudging in my head, he says. But I know you care.
Of course, I do. I...care...a lot.
My love. After this is over, maybe we can work on your people skills.
I don’t take offence. He’s trying to make me laugh; I can feel it. Just as I feel his strong need for me filtering through the ether. I try to send the same back, unsure how this extra-sensory thing works, but determined for him to know that there is something strong between us that I wish we’d had more time to explore.
I manage to keep my sobs of pain and fear from leaching out, as my captors exit the cavernous room—I’m guessing it is the equivalent of a Great Hall—through a doorway on the other side.
I bob along behind them like an angry cloud, still held tight by those invisible cords being wielded by Tarrien’s dad. As they head up one staircase and down another, and wander along what seems like endless miles of corridor, the queen continues to chatter away to Targon. I’m not sure if she’s always like that, or if the joviality is a show for my benefit.
Every so often she glances up at me and smirks, before continuing her inane chat with Targon.
Yep. Definitely a show for an audience of one.
As we approach a large set of double doors in a dingy part of the castle where there are no windows and no light other than what emanates from a couple of wall sconces each side of the door, I feel the faintest slipping of the invisible ropes binding me.
Is Targon distracted? Can I... no. When I test the binds, they still hold fast. Damn it. But in wriggling, I do manage to position both of my hands together in front of me, rather than clenched by my sides.
I can just touch my charmed opal ring with the fingers of my other hand. Oh, God. Do I have the courage to remove it, now that I can? Nausea fills me at the thought of taking it off. I’ve spent years trying to forget that my banshee half exists at all.
My heart was already beating extra fast with the adrenalin running through my system, but now it feels as if my heart is about to jump out of my chest.
I can’t breathe. Or I’m getting too much oxygen. I can’t tell which. But I feel dizzy and faint, and at the moment, the binds are not tight enough to be causing that. Neither is the broken rib, which has settled into a dull ache, most likely because I’m not able to move and flare it up.
Get yourself together, I order my recalcitrant brain. This is not the time for a panic attack.
Last time I had one of those, was just before I bought the charm and stopped the banshee curse in its tracks.
It’s the reason I approached Topaz’s shop in the first place, out of desperation to get myself back under control. A police officer having a panic attack every time she heads out on a case is not conducive to moving fast up the career ladder.
You can do this. Just slide the goddamn ring off, and let nature take its course.
We enter through the double doors. There is an altar ahead of us. It is nothing fancy, just a raised slab of stone, but I know this is likely the same chamber in which Indie almost lost her life. Moved from its previous location, but I suspect almost exactly the same, minus the audience of necromancers and abominations she described.
Oh, God. I need to do something, or I’m about to be drained, too.
I hold my breath as I slide off the ring and clutch it in my other hand. Power rises up within me. It competes with the mounting panic, until it feels like there’s a tsunami tidal wave building, ready to blow.
What the hell is happening? I never felt like this in the past, before I bought the charm. I never felt so much energy—so much pressure—as if I have to let it out or risk exploding into a million tiny pieces.
Does it feel like this now, because I’m in another realm for the first time? This isn’t quite Faerie, but it’s close enough—far closer than anywhere in the human realm. Has my location amplified the effect of my banshee magic?
Or is it simply because I’ve denied my own nature for so long, that whatever I tamped down, now finally has the chance to be free?
I can’t seem to stop whatever it is from welling up and out of me in wave after wave of hot burning energy.
Moans erupt from my mouth, the noises morphing into full-blown sobbing and wailing. I sound as if I’ve suddenly gone insane. Have I gone insane? I am powerless to stop the hideous noises leaching up and out.
Targon and Rhiannon stare at me, their mouths dropping open and their eyes wide. Then Targon’s gaze narrows and he tugs on the magic cords wrapping me. I tumble down fast, landing hard on the top of the altar.
The breath whooshes out of me at the impact and pain blooms from the broken ribs, but the wail does not diminish. In fact, it increases in volume. The pain of all the deaths I’ve been holding inside over the years, comes rushing up and out.
What have I done? I haven’t disabled my captors. Instead, I’ve disabled myself.
Now that I’m out of the binds of Targon’s magic, I can’t do anything except curl into a ball on my side, drawing my knees up toward my chest and howling as if death itself is upon me.
It is. This is death. This is a thousand deaths. Who was I, to think I could control this? I can’t control the banshee magic at all.
My nose is wet with snot, my eyes streaming with tears, and the pain almost unhinges me. It hurts so bad. I can’t bear this. I can’t.
My voice rises, piercing in its intensity.
Through my tears I see Rhiannon cover her ears. She backs away with a horrified look on her face.
Targon strains against the sound, his hands outstretched in a claw-like shape as he tries to direct some kind of repelling magic my way.
But nothing will stop the tsunami of the banshee power that has been held down for twelve long years.
Death is coming.
Eventually, he gives up and backs away, too.
Both turn and run for the door, bursting through and out of my sight. Even though I can no longer see them, I allow my voice to follow them down the halls.
My voice—my inner banshee—finds them, almost at the entrance to the castle. My power does not halt when they do. It continues on, like the tidal wave it is, rolling over the top of them and crushing them down onto the stone floor.
They lay flailing, like tiny beetles helpless against a larger predator.
Death is coming.
The wave of power smashes into the castle doors. The charmed wood is no match for twelve years of pent-up banshee magic. The timber splinters into hundreds of tiny pieces that rain out over a sea of warriors lined up outside.
Countless warriors. A whole army of them. Far more than were there before I was dragged inside.
Winter Faerie came, in support of their leader.
The banshee magic bursts out into the cold winter air, over the warriors’ heads, caressing Rhodri at the front of the army, recognizing him as he recognizes me. My power. My essence. My partner. We are one, fated and entwined.
Even without him, I am more than one part. I am two. I am the banshee power that swirls through the air, exultant to be free, and yet I am still the frail human woman writhing on the floor two levels below.
The banshee celebrates life—and death—as the human rocks back and forth, letting the pain roll through her—through me—allowing it all out, finally, into the light of day.
Whose death am I calling in, now? Is it mine? Is it theirs? Or is it every one of the deaths I’ve witnessed as a police officer all these years? Deaths when I did not let out a peep. Deaths, when I held everything deep down inside.
All those people, dying, for whom I never spoke a word. I did not give them a voice. I did not allow this song in celebration of their lives. I did not provide the respect they needed to move on from this life to the next stage of existence.
I am sorry.
I should not have denied you all.
I will not deny you, ever again.
Hear me, now, and rejoice, because death is life. And life is death. And there is nothing in my existence, but dying...and I sing for you...for you all.
Death.
Death is here.
