Samantha Lee Week 187: Ruin

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Ruin

Ryu scanned the ruins, but as far as he could tell there was only dust and shadows stirring in the moonlight, nothing more. This was the third location they'd visited this week, the previous two being even more decayed and destitute. The last place had even had cobwebs fluttering like curtains in the doorways and actual tumbleweeds rolling across the grounds. At least this time the buildings still had their roofs. If you tilted your head the right way, you could even still see that this place used to be some sort of temple or palace - somewhere where an ancient people wanted to flaunt their wealth and architectural mastery at any rate.

Actually, now that he thought about it, the ruins were somewhat familiar to him; he'd probably been there at least once before time and abandonment had taken their tolls.

"Do you sense anything, Kara?" he asked, turning to his companion. She was, of course, gone. Heaven help them all if the little bit ever actually stood still for+ more than a minute; the Earth would shatter from the shock. Ugh, he definitely should have acquiesced when Kara had asked to stop for coffee on the way over from their hotel. Not that Kara on caffeine was much of an improvement - the opposite in fact - but at least HE would have had the caffeine jolt to temper his mood.

Sighing heavily, he scanned the area. Kara was petite and slender, a little slip of a thing, with a fondness for old fashioned corsets, long sleeves, and tiered skirts. She called it nouveau medieval chic. Ryu called it her wannabe princess style. Either way, when coupled with her pale rosy skin and waist-length, snow-white hair, it was hard to miss Kara, even in shadows and moonlight. She tended to stick out like a sore thumb in a world of paws.

Except when she was cloaking.

"Kara! Kara, this is a poor time for hide-and-seek; please come out!"

She appeared beside him a second before hugging his arm and pressing against his side, laughing quietly. "Here I am, Ryu! Is it time to leave now? This place is creepy."

"No, honey, not yet; we're looking for something, remember?"

Kara slipped around in front of him and scrunched up her nose in distaste. "Ryu, this is not a nice place and I don't like it here. Let Daddy come hunt his own trinket; this game is boring now."

Once, Ryu was a warlord - had his own army and everything. Mortals would hear of his coming and flee, whole villages being abandoned at the mere mention of his name. He was a source of crippling terror, a living nightmare, one who soaked entire battlefields with blood and crushed whole kingdoms to dust. He used to delight in the screams and pain that echoed eternally in his wake, taking pleasure in the suffering his claws and blades birthed.

Things were so much simpler back then.

Rubbing at his temple in the vain hope his burgeoning headache would be appeased and retreat rather than flourish, Ryu growled low in his throat and tried not to bare his fangs. This wasn't Kara's fault after all. "We need to do this, Kara; your father made it clear that he expects this artefact found sooner rather than later and he is not a patient man under the best of circumstances." Not that Ryu had ever seen such circumstances, but he'd heard a rumour or two about it at least.

Kara's expression changed, becoming more serious, more shuttered, more thoughtful. "I don't want him to be mad with you; he might take you away from me and I need you, Ryu. I don't want to lose you and I don't want Daddy to replace you. What do we need to do?"

Thank you, Universe; these things always went so much more smoothly when Kara focused.

"Do you remember what we're looking for?"

"Daddy lost something a long time ago - a dagger that's very special. He needs it back now but he can't remember where he lost it."

If Ryu had a gold coin for every mess of that man's he'd been made to clean up...

"Can you scan these ruins? See if it's here?"

"No."

Did other demons have to suffer like this, Ryu wondered, or was he just extra lucky? "No as in you don't sense anything or you're not going to scan?"

"I'm not going to scan. Dad can travel around, scan his own damn ruins, and deal with the guardians himself. I like having limbs, thank you very much."

Then again, too much focus could be a bad thing.

Sighing, Ryu jabbed one hand roughly through his hair and scanned the ruins once again. He didn't sense anything but he knew from experience that Kara was more perceptive than he was; if she said - or insinuated, as the case might be - that there was a guardian around with something to protect, there probably was.

"Kara, what sort of guardian would your father be dealing with?"

She shrugged. "She's sleeping now and locked up in stone like a seal or a statue. She'll wake if anyone gets too close. We should not get too close."

"Your father wants the dagger."

She shrugged again. "So tell him where it is and he can come get it; he told us to find it, not retrieve it, so our mission is fulfilled. Done. Finito. Let's go home now, okay? I want hot chocolate. Do we have any marshmallows left? I like the way they float and bob and melt into goo. You should get whipped cream on yours; the moustache is funny."

Ryu briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He and Kara had been together for nearly a hundred years - since Kara first came into her powers. They were her father's favourite tools, sent out on everything from retrievals to escorts to diplomatic missions. He'd even tried once to send them on an assassination; it had been one of two times Ryu had ever seen Kara stand up to her father and hold her ground. Those two exceptions notwithstanding, however, Kara was usually careful to follow her father's orders and wasn't one for looking for loopholes. That she was now didn't bode well.

"Kara, honey, can you sense anything else about the guardian?"

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure. No, wait, what is she? Who is she? Who put her there? How is she bound? Can you swift her Snare?"

Kara blinked. "Whoa, that's a lot for not being sure."

"I recovered quickly. Can you find out any of the answers?"

Frowning, Kara stepped away from him, a wariness and suspiciousness he didn't like appearing in her eyes. "Ryu, I said I want to go home now."

Ryu winced. Kara was unpredictable. No, scratch that, Kara was insane. Usually, this was okay because, hey, she was cute. Sometimes though it was just one big inconvenience he sincerely wished someone else got to deal with. Anyone else. Maybe someone with a psychiatric degree.

"Ryu? Ryu, we were told to find the dagger. We've found it. The guardian...we shouldn't play with her; she's angry and vicious and not for us, okay? I want to go home."

Yes, well, so did he, but he'd prefer not to end up in her father's bad graces when he got there. It wasn't just the guardian who could potentially cost them a limb but at least the guardian gave them a chance at self-defence.

"Kara-"

"No! We are not going in there. You can't find the dagger without me and I am not going to get it. The guardian is not nice, Ryu - NOT. NICE. We're not going in there. We're not. We're not. WE ARE NOT."

"Kar-"

She slapped him. Out of nowhere, she just slapped him and hard enough to snap across his cheek and jerk his head with the force of it. Glaring at him, her blue-green eyes seemed to catch fire, like sunlight caught in tropical ocean waves.

"No, Ryu," she said coldly, her voice laced with steel. "We are not going to retrieve the dagger. I need you. I can't risk you. It is as simple as that. If my father wants that dagger, let him use his own chevaliers; his are infinitely more expendable than mine, or so he's always treated them."

"He will not be happy, Kara."

She actually growled, throwing up her hands in frustration and pacing away from him. "So? Ryu, you're a demon warlord, a freaking ZODIAC demon; you're much too powerful and way too old to be cowed by a sadistic mortal with a god complex. Acting like this? It's pathetic, shameful. You're like this place; ancient, once terrific and mighty, and now just a ruin of your former self, forgotten and decrepit."

"Kara, you don't remem-" Ryu began, but she cut him off again, slicing her hand through the air as though to wipe his words away.

"I'm broken, Ryu, and I know that; my father shattered me and kept a piece, an important piece. But you? You're ruined and all he had to do was slip a collar around your neck."

Her words stung. No, not true; her words were like knives, stabbing him, slicing him, cutting him. Every syllable was another blade wielded against him, all the more vicious for the truth they carried, a truth he didn't want to admit and certainly didn't want to hear. "You don't understand," he snarled.

She laughed bitterly and shook her head. "I understand completely; I am my father's creation, after all, his masterpiece. You were a wild stallion, untameable and free, the crown jewel of nature's beasts, and my father took offense at all that pride and arrogance and unchecked POWER and took it for himself because that's what he does. He broke you, made you fear him, convinced you that he was the one with the power and the strength, made you forget that you're the warrior, the hellion, the nightmare. That's okay - I get it; Dad's done it to demons a lot older and scarier than you. I guess I just...I just got caught up in your legend and expected more from you. You disappointed me, Ryu. I'll get over it. Will you?"

"You're every bit as enslaved to your father as I am, Kara, and hardly in a place to judge; you aren't punished, you're pampered." Not entirely true, but close enough.

"I play my father's game, Ryu; I'm a piece and a player at the same time, but you? You're a pawn resigned to his fate and without ambition to be more. I NEED you, don't you understand that? I desperately, completely, and absolutely need you, but I need the Ryu who led armies to victory, reduced kingdoms to smouldering cinders and ash - the Ryu who was ruthless, efficient, and brilliant. But...but I think...I think all that might be left of him are-" she gestured towards him, the wave of her hands encompassing all of him, "-these ruins."

Ryu kept silent and looked away, refusing to meet her gaze.

Kara huffed out a breath and made some small, frustrated sound, like a cross between a snort and a sigh.

"Fine," she said, " I guess that answers that. We'll do it your way, but I'm still not going to risk you. Stay here, Ryu. That's an order."

She turned on her heel and started to march away from him. He tried to step forward, to follow her, but couldn't; her command held him in place better than any cage or chain. Panic flared fast and hard, swiftly smothering his bubbling anger and icy shame.

"KARA! Wait! Where are you going?!"

"Stay, boy, just like the good little doggie you are. Me? I'm going to fetch, just like the good little doggie I am. Back in a flash, Fido."

"Kara, no! Kara? Kara! KARA!"

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Samantha Lee Week 170: Appearances

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Appearances

It is a cobbled street rising upwards between old stone buildings. Golden lamp light and ash-hued shadow bathe the view, casting the scene with an eerie tint that, in a word, is just plain spooky. From somewhere down and around the corner, pounding music and rowdy voices drift, the only other sound being the loud echoing click of her heels against the stones. She's a tiny little thing - delicately proportioned, slim as a supermodel, and not even five feet tall. Her skin is deeply tanned almost hiding the smattering of freckles splashed across her nose. Long blood red hair falls to her waist, its underside streaked with black, her face framed by snowy white bangs. She's wearing a dark purple dress with a black leather jacket, fishnet stockings, and black knee-high boots. She's dancing in the streets, twirling and spinning around, and singing a song in a language too old for anyone else but her to remember.

And, most importantly of all, she is alone.

I wait for the perfect moment, until she is midway up the hill, too far from where she came from and where she's going to reach either if she tries to run. The business these buildings host closed hours ago, the bars and clubs now filled with patrons are too far, too noisy to hear anything but their own fun.

When I step out, blocking her path, she halts her dance and smiles. This close, I notice her large eyes are the colour of the night sky above us, complete with stars. Odd, but then given her lack of aura I suspected she was something more than human.

"Good evening, little one," I purr. "Out here alone tonight, are you?"

She cocks her head to one side like a curious puppy, studying me, her expression tinged by just a bit of uncertainty but devoid of any fear. Pity. "Hello yourself, stranger" she says, her voice quiet and flavoured by an almost-but-not-quite Irish lilt. "And I'm fairly certain you're the sort my Da warned me about, the sort I'm supposed to steer clear of."

I grin, take a step closer to her and am delighted when she takes a step back, unease flaring in those star-studded eyes of hers. "I'm fairly certain there are no other strangers like me," I tell her. "One of a kind, I am, and a good thing too; world couldn't handle any more like me."

That unease of hers deepens, becoming something darker at its edges, but still not quite what I'm looking for, what I need. She starts to fiddle with the charms of her necklace with one hand and takes another step back. And then another. "I...I can't, um, chat anymore. I have to go; I have someone waiting for me and he doesn't...doesn't like it when I'm late."

"Ah, jealous type, is he? Who's this then, your boyfriend? Ah, and what will he do then? Punish you? It's not but a wee chat we're having, harmless, through and through."

Shaking her head, she wraps her arms around herself and looks around, nervous now, but still not where I'd like her to be, where I need her to be. "No, not my boyfriend...not exactly but, ah, if I'm not...if I'm late he'll come looking for me. He, ah, he was hurt recently - isn't quite himself yet...coming to look for me would be bad."

Well, this was new. Hundreds of times I've done this, first time I've heard anything like this. Then again, not-quite humans are always a mite unpredictable. "Aw, now, can't be that bad, can it? Only a moment here to chat, that's all, hardly a drop anyone waiting will notice. Cross me heart."

Her eyes narrow, suspicion stiffening her spine. "I have to go." She turns and starts to walk on up the street.

I let her get a few lengths away, then smoothly move to get ahead of her again, my graceful speed easily taking over her stumbling gait. I reach for her and curl my fingers around her upper arm, my grip tight enough to hurt. "Now, now, little girl; didn't your Da teach you it's rude to runaway like that?"

She struggles, pulling on her trapped arm, but it does her no good and I revel in the fear that seeps from her, washing over me like rain in the desert. Delicious. "I'm already late. Please, he can't...he really shouldn't be out. It's d-d-dangerous."

"I'm sure he'll be just fine without you for a spell."

Shaking her head, her hair tangling around her face, she pulls harder on her arm and pushes at me with her free hand. "Not dangerous for him, for everyone else. He's not...not ready. Not yet. He...Oh, just let me go! Please! You don't understand what cou-"

The cacophony of human voices suddenly stills for a brief second of silence before screams suddenly rent the air, cutting off her words. She sags briefly, defeated, bowing her head. "Never mind," she mumbles.

"What the hell is that?" I demand, more alarmed than I care to admit.

As if in answer, a shadow appears at the base of the street, becoming a man's silhouette as it draws closer. His long, dark silver hair is tangled mess, his feet are bare, and his clothes - black jeans and an unbuttoned dress shirt - are ripped, torn, and bloody. He's pale, like marble, with a griffin and hourglass tattoo over his heart, and a smattering of injuries - bruises, gashes, cuts, all of them severe -in various stages of healing on almost every inch of him that's visible. Blood is smeared over his face, a beautiful face, an angel's face, despite the craze in his ruby eyes and the severed arm held in his hand.

The girl sighs, resigned. "That's Tru, my mate. Honestly, he's normally a very calm and level-headed soul and usually leaves the insanity-born murder sprees to me but he was pretty badly injured recently and he's still running on pure instinct. Mostly. Do you think burning down the club or bar or whatever he just slaughtered will be cover up enough? You can't just vanish the entire clientele of a...drinking establishment, after all, not anymore. Um, you should probably let go of my arm now before Tru is close enough to notice."

"THAT is your mate?!"

She winces and gives me a sheepish look. "Like I said, he's usually a lot more, ah, sane. Just having an off few days. Once he heals, he'll be back to his usual civilized, rational, less homicidal self."

There is something very wrong with that picture; like imagining a panther mated to a gazelle. "YOU are mated to THAT? YOU?!"

"Well, it's not like Fate gives you much of a choice about these things, you know; although, now that I think about it, I doubt there'd be very many interspecies matings if she did. Which is a total shame, really; I once had a fling with a Ganesh who, while admittedly not the most well endowed male ever to grace the planet, more than made up for it when it came to what he thought to do with all those arms of his, to say nothing of his trunk. Truly imaginative thinker. My arm, please."

"Huh?"

"My arm? That thing you're currently squeezing and bruising? I'm going to need it back now. Your arm's continued attachment to your body depends on it.

" I let her go and she smiles, beams really, and thanks me, then buries her hand in my chest. The pain burns at first, like a flash flare, then aches, every breath setting off a spearing pang that cuts me through to my core. Her fingers are curled around my heart, gripping hard enough that I can feel the imprint of each finger against the flesh of the muscle, each one a potential knife just waiting to stab in deep.

"You know, important life lesson alert, it would be rather wise of you to do some research into this whole big bad wolf routine of yours; not that it goes much better for his prey, but, so far as as fairy tales go, big bad wolves rarely skip away to happily ever afters." She leans in and places her cheek against mine, inhaling my scent before chuckling and whispering, "And I should know, after all; I was big and bad before there were such things as riding hoods and brick houses."

She opens her hand, pulls it out of chest, and lets me crumple at her feet. I'm injured, yes, but it's not fatal; I'm going to heal, going to live. I lay bleeding in the street, watching as she skips over to her monstrous mate, not a single bit of hesitation or fear about her. She actually laughs and bounces when she reaches him. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him, indifferent to the blood that coats his face.

"Hi, Tru," she murmurs when the kiss breaks, smiling bright enough to dim the sun by comparison. "Did you miss me?"

The vampire growls and kisses her again, roughly, savagely, so that this time when they part, her face is smeared with his victims' blood. And she laughs and playfully smacks his chest with one hand.

"I love you too, you great big dummy."

Appearances.

Gah

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Samantha Lee Week 158: Effects of Troll Beer

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Effects of Troll Beer

"Are you...are you drunk?"

She sounded incredulous and I didn't blame her; neither of us had metabolisms that were usually slow enough to let us get drunk. Just getting a buzz required pure ethanol and it was gone in a blink. Drunkeness was a state that took intent and determination, and even then our average was ten minutes, tops.

I'd like to say that this is a story I'm proud of...but it's not. Not even remotely. Things get a lot worse as it goes on and the last impression I make is that I'm anything remotely decent. Still, it my story - part of it anyway - and denying it doesn't make it magically unhappen. Ah, but if only it did.

So...

"Kostya? Seriously, are you drunk?"

"Maybe. Yes. Shut up. You're short. Shortie."

Laughing, she hopped up onto kitchen counter across from me, crossed her legs, and shrugged. "So glad you've noticed, wolf. It's kind of part of the whole Fae package. Like the golden glimmer and the tattoos and the immortality and the magical powers. Actually, it's a pretty kickass list, height excepted. Maybe a few other things. Anyway, did you talk to D yet?"

"About?"

She rolled her eyes and snatched up a nectarine from the fruit ball on the window behind her. "I thought you wanted to ask him about helping you with that alliance with the Finnish Pack."

Ever have one of those ideas that seem a stroke of genius up until the execution? The Finnish alliance was a lot like that. Only whatever disaster you're currently imagining? Double it. Twice. "I did."

"And? What he say? Oh! And, and, also, and before I forget, I'm changing my name again. I think Nola Finn has run its course - plus why didn't you ever tell me it was so terrible? - so I think I'm going to go with-"

"He said no," I snapped, cutting her off so abruptly she actually blinked at me like a big old owl, caught off guard and mildly confused. "I asked my brother - my baby brother - the man who has loyally stood at my side for over a century - asked him for this one favour, this one thing that would cement this alliance and allow peace between us and our greatest enemy...and he said no. NO!"

"Um, well," she said after a moment, licking her lips and fiddling nervously with her necklace's charms. "Arranged marriages are hard to sell these days, wolf. And Fenris' daughter is...a tough sell. I mean, he has mated her twice alredy and both times she...creatively widowed herself. It would give anyone pause. Maybe her sister -"

"He didn't say no because of Hel, he said no because of you!"

More blinking. "Me? I...I don't understand. I mean, I think Hel is a bit of a nut, but I support your plan and, if it's tweaked a bit, I think it will achieve exactly what you intend it to."

"Tweaked a bit? Sure, why not? We could replace crazy Hel with her sister Loki, no problem. But, tell me, who am I going to replace Darien with? I don't have the overflowing family Fenris lucked into; there's only the two of us, unless you know something I don't, I already used myself for the Greek alliance, and now Darien is poisoned fruit!"

Adjusting her glasses, she turned thoughtful, considering for several minutes before shaking her head. "I...um, he's what?"

"YOUR OMEGA!"

She paled and then started talking, fast. "Oh. That. Well, um, Sabine was...retired and I needed someone I could trust and I only know two wolves and you were just, um, newly made Alpha so that only left Darien but I did ask first and he agreed and then he said he was going to tell you so I thought he had and when you told me about your plan for the arranged marriage and peace treaty I thought you knew and had, um, I don't know, worked something out and I honestly didn't care because, ah, why would I care who my Omega marries or what he does in his spare time so long as the job gets done?"

I slapped her. Right across the face. She fell off the counter, hitting her wrist off the marble top of the nearby island as she tried to catch herself and failed. She landed in a heap on the floor, curling up around her wounded hand and tipping forward so her hair slipped over her shoulder to veil her face. Two wraiths appeared - her bodyguards. One, the djinn, knelt by her side and began murmuring to her, while the other, her berserker, stood protectively between me and her, a massive claymore held loosely in a single hand.

A smart man would have apologized and stopped; she'd have forgiven me instantly and it all would have been that one awkward memory neither of us ever spoke of again.

I am not a smart man.

"You bitch," I snarled, "you STOLE him! You selfish child, you just couldn't leave him be, leave him MINE! Now he's your fucking lap dog and I'm left on my fucking own, literally among the wolves!"

She didn't say anything. The djinn, however, turned his head to look at me with molten eyes ablaze with contained rage and wrath. "Her wrist is broken, wolf, and her face is bruised. Another time, another place, the hand that harmed her would be cut off for the offense. Against the advice of myself and her other wraiths, however, milady asks that we spare you. Instead, we are going to withdraw and leave you alone. We won't bother you again."

He lifted her up into his arms and carried her away, vanishing between one step and the next. The berserker spun his claymore and pressed its tip against the hollow of my throat, his expression blank but his gaze intense nonetheless.

"We are all going to leave you be now, little wolf; all of use who are connected to our Queen, who are still loyal. I hope you realize what that means."

He vanished.

Sadly, I didn't realize what he meant until later. Darien...Darien was connected too, possibly more than anyone, wraiths excepted.

I was alone.

It’s now a century and counting, and I’m still alone. Completely, utterly, entirely…alone.

Stupid troll beer.

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Samantha Lee Week 156: Entwined

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 1

Title:

You know, it may not...may not be my fault. Not entirely. She's just one of those girls - the kind that you can't help but love. I think it may be something in her aura, something that just...pulses from her and gets into your head, makes you want to keep her safe, keep her protected. Decades, centuries, eons - an eternity spent at her side, longer than anyone else, the first - or, well, one of her first...her second, technically, but only by a few years. And I've been good, loyal, devoted. She commands, I obey. She requests, I acquiesce. A lifetime spent as general of my own legions, master of my own domain, now enslave forever after in my afterlife to an insane Fae Queen everyone and their broomstick wants dead.

I'm one of those lucky mighty who didn't just fall; I hit rock bottom and kept right on falling.

Oh, and look, here she is now. Savannah is the perfect specimen of her species; as beautiful and graceful as any angel, as fierce and deadly as any predator. Blood red hair with snowy bangs falls to her waist - she's decided to embrace the fairy tale motif and go for the long, rippling waves you'd expect of a Fae Queen. Her honey golden skin is a network of various dark umber tattoos. And her eyes...her eyes are big and vibrant, her thick irises a constant swirl of colour and patterns. I love her eyes; like endless pools of possibilities.

Why couldn't she be ugly? Everything would be so much easier if she were ugly. Maybe had some warts or a hideous birthmark or two or ten.

"Keeley!" My name is Bel-keelal-tohu. Time was, my name inspired fear, so much so it was whispered in hushed tones for fear its utterance would draw my attention. Then I died for a couple of millennia and woke to a child who told me it was too much of a mouthful and cut it down to Keeley. A name of awe and power brought down to a cute little snippet. By a child.

"I've been looking for you everywhere." The woman can summon me with a thought; why she'd bother to expend the energy actually physically searching for me boggles the mind.

She plops down beside me on the edge of the bed and flops back, going briefly spread eagle before bouncing up to prop herself on her elbows, smiling, oblivious to my resentment, my anger.

"Is something the matter, milady?" I ask coolly, my hands clenching, my fingers digging into my knees.

"Keeley, do you remember when I brought you back?"

"I'm afraid it is not one of my most clear memories, milady."

"You put me in a coma for three days and Da wanted you destroyed. He thought severing our tie would wake me."

"Ah, yes, fond memory. Can't imagine why it didn't come straight to mind."

She laughs, shifting to her knees and draping herself over my shoulders from behind, her cheek pressed against mine. "Fairy tales all start off pretty rough, you know. They usually get better though. I mean, I did wake up after all, and just in time too. And Da let you out of the dungeons, gave you back to me. Do you remember what you did the first time we met?"

"No," I tell her, and it's the truth. Memory lane, at least for me, is a dark and dim street, one I try not to travel too often.

"You tried to kill me," she murmurs, rubbing her cheek against mine. "You took me by the throat, pressed me back against the wall, rattled off a long list of impressive names and titles, and demanded I release you."

I sigh, turning away from her, breaking away from her. I leap to my feet and start to pace, wanting distance but unable to bring myself to leave. Under her thrall, always and forever hers - bound, tied, tethered, linked, whatever pretty word you want to give it, trapped all the same.

"Do you remember what I told you? My answer, Keeley, do you remember it?"

"No." A lie this time - her words haunt me, echoing through my mind in every whisper of silence, but...but it's not my part to tell.

"I have titles too and names," she says, echoing those first words to me. "I'm not even a century yet but already I've got quite the collection going. I have a whole kingdom beyond this room who'd burn the world to ensure my survival. Plus, you know, I'm a princess which is exactly as awesome as you'd think. Unfortunately, I also have a father who's a time walker, so I know exactly where my story's going. A thousand years ago you were a god, a lord of darkness and nightmares, a demon knight, and then you died and woke up here and now to find yourself leashed to a hurricane and, really, truly, I am sorry. There's no undoing this, no cutting the ties, no unlocking the shackles, no setting you free. Ever. From now until my last breath, you and me, we're a package deal. And I'm really sorry about that. My story...my story's going to suck."

I frown. "You're saying you warned me? Suggesting, perhaps, that I should just suck it up and carry on because at the start you gave me the courtesy of a warning?"

I realize too late I've crossed a line, made her angry. Savannah is powerful, the sort of powerful that scares ancient vampires and makes original demons think twice about engaging. All that power does not mix well with strong emotions, particularly anger, and so someone - probably her Da - had taught her that anger and rage, like revenge, were best served cold. Glacial, preferably, if not colder. And so when she gets angry, Savannah shuts down, folding up like one of those night blossoming flowers and swiftly drawing in all the warmth and light around her until she seems to pulse with chilling darkness.

If I'd been paying attention, I would have noticed sooner, would have recognized the danger. But I wasn't and I didn't and now...

Now she lashes out, her hand clamping down on my wrist, her fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and pushes her power into me. It's a spell I've felt before, felt often in fact - it's a favourite of hers, one she uses to share memories and calls her Vulcan Mind Meld. This time, it has teeth and claws, its bite sharp and painful as it drags me into her mind and our past.

"No! Da, no, no, no - I won't do it! I can't...I can't do it." I'm shaking my head and pulling futilely at my wrist that's caught in my father’s grip. Angry tears are a warm weight against my cheeks and I can feel something - some emotion I can't quite name - sitting heavy in my chest, like an iron grip around my heart.

"Kitten, you must; this has to be done to see the extent of your powers, here and now where the fallout can be controlled and not as a surprise that catches us all off guard. Not again."

It's panic, I realize, and fear. I'm afraid; I don't want to do this, don't want this choice taken from me. Khary was an accident, a horrible, terrible, beautiful accident but doing it again, knowingly and willfully inflicting his fate on another soul...it would be monstrous. And I'm not a monster.

Not yet.

I pull harder but Da won't let go. He loves me and wants me to be safe, wants me protected. He doesn't see what he's doing as stealing my choice from me, as essentially raping my Magic. He doesn't see what I'll do as a perversion. No, Da sees this as your classic two-birds-one-stone scenario: he gets a sense of just how powerful my newly discovered gift is and, should it prove successful, I'll have a powerful defender at my side for the rest of my life. That said defender will no doubt resent and loathe me is inconsequential so long as he serves his purpose.

Surprise, surprise - Fae morality is a darker shade of grey.

"You told me death was to be respected! That warriors earn their rest and have a right to it, a sacred right and deserve to left to it."

"I am afraid that Bel-keelal-tohu will simply need to re-earn his happily ever afterlife, kitten. Now, please, get on with it. Now."

Desperately, I summon my energy into my free hand and push at Da; the ultimate useless move seeing as how Da just absorbs my magic with a small grunt and an exasperated look.

Sighing, he shakes his head and turns to one of his guard. "Bring in the ghost!"

His words instantly change the panic and fear from an iron grip to an icy javelin, spearing right through me so swiftly it paralyzes me. I know what they're going to show me before the guards even return but it doesn't make it any less horrifying; Khardeen is chained spread eagle onto a wooden wheel carved with various magical symbols meant to dampen and block our bond and keep him from corporeal and bound. He is bloodied and bruised from torture; apparently someone wanted to test they'd hit upon the right combination of spells to affect our bond.

"Kitten, I am sorry, but I'm afraid your choices are to have two of these creations of yours or none at all."

"You can't kill Khary, Da."

"No, but I have faith that were our dungeon masters to apply their arts to their fullest, we'd at least be able to break him into something unrecognizable to you. Choose."

It isn't a choice at all and Da knows that.

I sigh, defeated, and summon my magic.

Da nods and lets me go, stepping away to give me space. My tears are flowing faster now, sprinkling the dusty floor at my feet like raindrops. This demon, warrior, high lord, whatever he was...he's going to hate me so much. Ripped out of whatever peace he's managed to claim to serve a fairy princess for the sake of an experiment, he's going to hate me. All of time is going to be spread out before us, trapping us together for the eons I'm going to have claim to, and he's going to hate me for all of it. That Khary doesn't is a bloody miracle, one that's probably defunct now after what Da's done.

Is it petty of me to not want to spend eternity linked to beings who loathe and resent me? I...Because of Da's gift, I know what my future holds - I've known, gods, seems like since the womb I've known exactly that nightmares await me. Da says there's nothing to do but endure them, that they're necessary for a future that's brighter than anything I could imagine further down the road. Easy for him to say; he just has to die, I have to live. Is it selfish of me to want at least one person with me through it all who wants me alive by preference rather than necessity?

I mean, doesn't everyone want to be loved?

I wonder...I wonder what that must be like as I close my eyes and set my magic free.

"I'm sorry."

Savannah is gone when I open my eyes. I'm on the floor, collapsed beside my bed, and I have no idea how much time has passed, a side effect of her spell. Groaning, I manage to get myself sat up when I notice Khardeen leaning against the far wall.

"What are you doing here?"

"You're an ass."

"I'm aware, but that doesn't answer my question."

"Milady wanted to be sure you were alright. She's gone for a walk to calm down."

"Alone?"

Khardeen glares, the gold in his eyes heating with anger. "No. London and Banshee are with her and Sabine and Jester are sweeping the area around her."

"Why?"

"She is very angry; we do not wish for her to do something she will regret with the return of her senses."

I nod, understanding, and scrub at my face with both hands, frustrated.

"You should have told her what was bothering you, Keeley. She would understand. She knows us, after all, better than most anyone."

"Because she rents out room in our heads, Khardeen, because she's infiltrated us like some sort of virus to which there's no cure and no recovery."

Khardeen shakes his head. "It has always amazed me how you could be so outwardly loyal while so inwardly resentful, even after all these centuries."

"Not all of us are made to be good little puppies," I murmur. "We're not all like you, Khardeen."

"I'm not her puppy, Keeley, none of us are; that's not how this works and you know it."

"How do you do it, Khary? How do you serve her, obey her, love her, without losing yourself, losing who you were and all respect for yourself?"

"The rest of us - Djinn, Fae, vampires, werewolves - we're used to servitude of one degree or another. Fiddle with the volume, change the channel, play a different song even, and it doesn't change anything, not really; we are what we are. You, though, you were one of the mighty, someone strong and powerful and free, someone who'd had so many centuries of independence, of command he'd forgotten any other way to live. Worse still, you awoke to a world that had forgotten you. Your name, your triumphs, your legend, all of it had been swallowed by time and lost to its ravages. You were nobody, tied to a child. You forget, Keeley, that I was there when Lyr spoke to you, that I heard what he said while milady slept."

Ah, yes, the missing scene from our origin story. After Savannah had brought me back to life as her wraith, before she woke, there was her father. Same hair, same eyes, but a beauty that was more harsh, less graceful, and with none of that vulnerable tint that baited your protective instincts. Quite the opposite in fact.

When I came back to myself, the first thing I remember is Savannah smiling, looking down on me with an affectionate look neither of us had earned a right to. I remember passing out - I've never known for how long, never bothered to ask the few who might know - but when I next became aware, I was caged. On the other side of my bars, two men argued; Lyr and Khardeen, the latter still tied to the wheel that was now hung on the far wall like some sort of bizarre decor piece.

"Let me down, Lyr," Khardeen growled. "I have served your purpose - milady has resurrected the demon lord - now let me go! Let me...let me go to her."

Lyr chuckled, the sound dark and laced with ice. "Twenty years ago, you were dead, a mere figment of people's imaginations trapped haunting ruins no one had visited in centuries, and now look at you attempting to give orders to a king. An impressive turn of fate, wouldn't you say?"

"Your daughter-"

"Is more powerful than I could have ever hoped," Lyr snapped. "Giving corporeal form to a spirit, that was incredible. But what she did today? Drawing forth a long dead spirit with nothing more than the place of his death to draw from? That should have been impossible. She's not even connected to our people, has no other source but herself to draw from, and look what she has wrought."

Bound, bloodied, and bruised, Khardeen should not have been intimidating with a mere glare, but somehow he managed. "At what cost, Lyr? When Fio woke me, she was fine afterwards, walking away like it was almost effortless. Today? She's UNCONSCIOUS, Lyr. And for what? She's Fae, he's a demon; he will never care for her, only ever be a monster to her. You go too far and risk too much."

Lyr shrugged. "Fionnuala is immortal; there is nothing he can do to her that will not heal in time. And it was not for nothing. Eventually, Fionnuala will tame him, one way or another, and have at her disposal one of the greatest weapons our enemies have ever produced and an asset we could never have hoped for if not for her magic. The great and powerful Bel-keelal-tohu, revered for his brutality and viciousness, famed for his prowess as a warrior and skill as a general, leashed like a mongrel cur to a Fae child. Couldn't it have happened to a nicer guy."

He knelt down in front of my cage and smiled coldly when he caught me staring back at him. "Welcome to our Court, Bel-keelal-tohu. May you enjoy that defiance of yours while it lasts."

Five centuries later, that defiance of mine still burned strong, despite outward appearances to the contrary, in spite of all Savannah's efforts.

"Congratulations," Khardeen tells me. "You've resisted Savannah's allure. She was captured and tortured for three centuries, but you resisted. She was driven insane and unleashed two massacres and a plague before I could find her, but you resisted. She has you lead her protection detail and manage her plans, is careful to always ask and never command, and has never once summoned you, but you resisted. And now she's dying, but, hey, you resisted."

Everything stills, the world hit off its axis and unsure of what to do next. "She can't-"

"Oh? She has seven Wraiths tied to her, feeding off of her energy, plus the dragons, plus who only knows what else. Over five centuries at her side and you know I never bothered to ask if the cats feed off of her? If the werewolves?" He pauses to chuckle and shake his head. "She's starving, Keeley, and she's dying. And when she goes, so do we. We're entwined, like vines around a tree; when the tree falls, the vines are crushed, and all die. But, hey, congratulations, demon lord; you resisted. And soon you'll be free. We all will."

"I never meant-"

"For five centuries, Keeley, milady has tried while you've done nothing but hold tight to your defiance and pride. Now, well, as they say, it is too late to matter. But, hey, enjoy your victory."

Damn it.

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Samantha Lee Week 148: Boundries

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Boundries

It was one of those stone walls, the kind made up of different sized rocks stacked atop each other, and it snaked its way around the pastures, its length stretching hundreds and hundreds of miles. And, lucky me, I got to lean on it.

At least I didn't have to lean alone.

"Remind me again why we're leaning on this wall?" Fi asked for about the tenth time that morning, absently braiding her hair as she sat cross legged on the ground next to me. "Not that Scotland isn't swell, but it's not exactly my favourite place in the world. Or any other world for that matter."

"Why not? It's not so bad of you can learn to ignore all the sheep."

"I'm a sun elf. In a place where sunlight is so foreign it needs a stamp in its passport just to visit."

I gave her a skeptical look. Or rather I gave the top of her head a skeptical look; her eyes were focused on the open book she was balancing on her lap. That's Fi - big on multitasking. "I thank you for your sacrifice."

"Sarcasm is totally unbecoming, Rav."

"Fi, it's your default setting."

"That's different though; I'm a professional. And don't think I haven't noticed you're avoiding my question."

"You've asked ten times."

"And you haven't answered once. Should I try for eleven or...?"

I sighed. I knew very well if I didn't answer, she'd go all Lois Lane and poke and prod and push until I caved and spilled my beans. And then she'd go ahead and make chili out of said beans. Not that I didn't love her literal chili, but in a metaphoric sense it wouldn't be fun. Did that make sense?

"We're waiting for something."

"I am shocked by this totally new and unpredictable revelation."

"Sarcasm, Cat. Anyway, yeah, we're waiting. For, um, someone."

"Oh? What sort of a someone?"

"So, ah, this wall we're leaning on? It's a boundary line."

"Most walls are."

"Well, yes, but this wall is separating the Fae territory from the mortal. See over there? The field is a buffer zone until the forest where there's a patchwork Fae tribe. You can't sense them?"

She winced and shook her head. "Scotland has a high Fae population, like Ireland, the Netherlands, Germany, India, China, Africa, Australia, or Canada."

"Long list."

"Well, when you get yourselves locked out of your homeland, you make do with what's available."

"A little human, no?"

"Oh, you should drop that little tidbit into the grapevine. It'll drive the Nobles totally looney."

"Cat, you realize you're the one they'll come whining to, right?"

She shrugged. "I have a buffer."

"Cat, I'm that buffer."

"Shut up. It'll still be amusing. For awhile. Maybe. Anyway, blah, blah, boundary, blah, blah, waiting, blah, blah, elaborate."

Okay, this would be the part with the impending freak out. Fun times ahead, yes sir, lucky me. I was really hoping I could stall for another few hours or maybe a couple months. Why didn't life come with a pause button? "The Fae tribe that lives here? They're sending an advocate. They want to come home."

So it went better than I thought; no earthquakes, no storms, no twisters, not even a rumble of thunder or a darkening sky. No trees suddenly fell, no rocks spontaneously split, no animals so much as chittered. In fact, she seemed remarkably calm as she thought about what I'd said, her Magic and power carefully contained.

It scared the hell out of me.

"You agree? You think I should allow them back into Faerie?"

"Um, no. I, ah, no; there's too much of a security risk. If we just let three hundred and eight Fae into our home there's no telling whose old grudge will come back to bite us in the butt."

"You counted?" She sounded surprised. I decided not to be too insulted.

I nodded. "Twice."

"Rav?"

"Hm?"

"Have I been sitting here for the past six hours waiting for you to build up the nerve to tell me the Wild Fae want to ask permission to come home? Because, you know, we didn't even have to come out there for that. I could be home, playing my violin and ignoring the petitions for audience right now and Keeley could be here. Keeley likes scaring the sheep and intimidating Fae who think they're all top of the food chain."

"Do demon-based wraiths really out place Wild Fae on the food chain?"

She shrugged. "Mine does. It's the teeth; his are bigger than pretty much anyone's and it helps. A lot."

"So, ah, are you agreeing ...I mean, are you implying...do you mean that they can come home?"

Rolling her eyes, she hopped up to her feet and shook out her hair, her book vanishing. "Of course not. I'm saying I don't care if they come home or not so long as one of the wraiths vets them before they step through the portal."

"Didn't you calibrate the portals to, ah, vaporize anyone who meant you harm?"

"Yup. Or Faerie in general."

"Then why bother having the wraiths vet them?"

"Everyone deserves a chance to sing a song about conferring with flowers and consulting with the rain while hunting themselves up a brain. Just because they're angry and upset today doesn't mean it should cost them all the years they have ahead of them, all the time they need to calm down and try again. Was there anything else? I really can't stand the smell of sheep."

"Ah, no, except what I'm supposed to tell the advocate."

"Tell him to grow a pair and come to Court to submit their petition in person. The advocate and whoever wants to claim leadership. Also, makes sure they understand the wraiths - probably Kelley and London - will be coming regardless of their decision."

Oh, fudge. "Why?"

"Because this isn't a mortal playground; they can't just test the waters and then chicken out. I told them - told everyone - after I ascended that the Winter Fae had a choice; remain in the mortal realm and I'd leave them in a sort of limbo unless they chose to act against me, but a return to Faerie meant a return to full Court status, privileges and responsibilities included. This, brother mine, could be a precursor of an act against me, possibly recon of some sort, and I'd like to err on the side of caution. I think I've had more than enough experience with my own Fae turning against me, don't you?"

When she put it like that, it was hard to argue. Still, the Fae of this Wilding were not going to be happy. Not happy at all.

Cue sigh here.

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Samantha Lee Week 146: Loose

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Loose

We tried to warn them. We put up signs: "Stay out of the water" and "Danger: Water inhabited!" I told the creature that children are foolish; they cannot read and do not understand danger. I told him not to eat the children. Children, I told him, deserve to grow up and he, well, he's too good a hunter to rely on what amounts to snack food.

At least the creature listened. Mortals? They never do.

Case and point: the mortals built a cage and trapped the creature inside. They thought they were being clever. With the creature contained, they reclaimed the reservoir for themselves, sometimes using the creature as a experiment subject, sometimes just leaving it be but for regular feedings. It was barbaric.

"One more time - you want to what?"

"Free the, um, bog beast."

"This being the bog beast that's been locked up in a dark stone cage masquerading as bridge for the past...how many decades?"

"Um, eight or nine, I think."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure that's made him real sane. Out of, you know, a wavering sense of self-preservation, are the mortals presently remembering or forgetting him?"

"Ah, well, I think they're, um, using him as a method of execution actually so...remembering?"

"Method of execution? As in, he's grown accustom to having live bodies tossed down to him for the sole purpose of snackage? Cat? Honey? I am not snackage."

"We just need to destroy his cage and he'll be free-"

"-to go on a rampage. Probably a murderous one. Seeing as how he's been sealed up and likely driven Looney toons over the last eight or nine centuries. Cat, this is a horrible plan."

"Well, okay, maybe a little-"

"Try a lot."

"-but you have to admit, I've had worse plans."

"Was that supposed to reassure me?"

"Did it?"

"A little, actually. You do know that reservoir is used as a swimming hole by the locals, right? We let him go there and, Cat, he'll not only eat anyone who goes in the water, he'll actively hunt every man, woman, and child in that town - anyone whose scent he's caught over the years. I mentioned that he'd be insane beyond measure, right?"

"Rav, I'm not just going to leave him there, alone in the dark to be used and abused by those...monsters. I can't."

"Ugh, no fair. You know I am defenceless against the whole protect-the-weak-from-the-strong argument. Fine. Let's go rescue the creature. But please, for the love of all that's holy, tell me you have a better plan than setting him loose on the town. Not that his tormentors are undeserving, but he's not going to discriminate; a lot of innocents are going to get caught up as collateral damage."

"I have a plan! It's an awesome plan. A great plan. Best plan ever. Let's go, shall we?"

"Regret. That's what I'm feeling right now. Regret. And we haven't even done everything."

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This just in, boys and girl! Spotted dragging themselves through the palace hallways, our beloved Queen and her brother, dripping wet from head to toe, mud smearing their faces. Reports further add that our Court's valiant White Knight appeared to be nursing a newly broken arm while Her Majesty is said to have had her hands pressed against a bleeding wound in her side. Neither looked very happy.

According to a source within the palace, Fiachra was said to tell his sister, "Regret was the wrong word. I need a stronger word. A much stronger word."

"Everything worked out fine!" was Her Majesty's response.

The White Knight is said to have just glared back. But, wow, if looks could kill (and Her Majesty weren't immortal) we're told Fiachra's could have sent his sister straight to the grave.

No official word or verifiable theory yet on what those two could've been up to that got them so banged up, but the rumour mill is rife with possible answers. Keep your eyes here as this story develops, folks. As always, we'll keep you looped in as more information comes to light.

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Samantha Lee Week 144: Locks on a Gate

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Locks on a Gate

So.

My best friends lied to me. Surprise, surprise. I should have seen it coming. Should have expected it. People, whatever form they might take, are liars at their core, pure and simple, and you'd think that by this point, I'd have learned that lesson well enough.

And yet.

And yet here I am, screwed over so thoroughly I've made an appointment at the medical clinic for an STD test.

Ugh, I feel like such an idiot. You'd think I'd know better, that past experience had some sort of impression, but, nope, here I am, betrayed, my heart crushed, my life in ribbons at my feet. I should have known better. Gods be damned, I should have known better.

It started...it started with one lie. One of my friends - she wasn't who I thought she was. No, turns out she's someone else entirely, a long lost princess in fact. Oh my gods, she's freaking ROYALTY, and for years - YEARS - she's slumming it with us, pretending, lying. She used us as a smokescreen, hiding in my house. Paid rent in cash. Didn't need to have her name on any bills. Didn't even have her name on the lease. Used us...used me...as camouflage, like a mask or a Halloween costume she pulled on while it served her purposes. I thought she was my friend, thought she cared about me. I used to talk to her, like REALLY talk to her. I told her about my dad. Told her about the boarding schools. Told her about...everything. I trusted her, LOVED her, and so I let her in and told her...told her everything. All of my secrets, all my dreams, everything. And all that time, she didn't even bother to tell me her real name. Hell, I didn't even know she and her boyfriend were actually MARRIED until he let slip about them eloping in Vegas. Over a century ago.

My other friend...turns out she's weak. Bad things happened - impossible, horrendous things - and what did she do? First she watched, then she ACCEPTED them and moved on. Moved. On. My life was RUINED - my friend's little masquerade fell apart and it me - ME - who paid the fucking price and what does my other friend do? My other friend whose own life got spun around by those needless, stupid lies? SHE ACCEPTED THEM AND MOVED ON! Like it didn't matter, like it was no big deal, like...c'est la vie, hakuna matata, que sera sera. My whole world was a crumbled ruin, and she tells me, she looks at me and she tells me, "We can't change the past, Ro; what's happened...well, it happened, and there's no changing that. But, Ro, when your life catches fire you can either let it burn you to ash, or forge you into something stronger."

Platitudes. Everything's gone to hell because of one friend's lies and what does the other offer me? Solidarity? Support? Strength? Nope. She sides with that lying witch and offers empty platitudes.

You want a platitude? Here's a platitude for you: secrets are like locks on a metal gate; but enough up there and sooner or later the gate's going to fall. My friend...she thinks she can lie, can manipulate, can do whatever it is she wants so long as it serves her warped idea of a greater good...well, she's wrong. Dead wrong. And, sooner or later, she's going to find that out.

Is it too cliché to say I'm going to make sure of it?

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Samantha Lee Week 140: Masks

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Masks

We all wear masks, some even more so than others. We have to; it’s a simple fact of life that we conform the truth of ourselves to fit the circumstances of any given situation. We’re polite and formal with strangers, easygoing and friendly with acquaintances, respectful and honest with family. We cut ourselves into pieces and recreate who we are, becoming collages of truths buried amongst lies. Sometimes…sometimes I wonder if any of us remember who we really are.

I look at the woman in the bed. She’s beautiful, every contour, every line so perfect you’d think she’d been sculpted by divine hands. Her skin is so tanned its golden hue seems to almost glow against the dark silk sheets and her blood red hair comes off like rubies on black velvet. When she’s awake, when she’s out in public for all the world to see, she wears brightly coloured gowns and stands out like a sparkling jewel amongst any crowd. Her energy all but vibrates around her, her aura an almost visible inferno around her. Asleep…asleep, she’s delicate, fragile, her vibrant energy buried deep within her and contained. It’s one of the greatest lies I’ve ever witnessed.

This woman…she has so many masks. I’ve watched her, studied her, for what seems like centuries now, and I’m still not sure I know who she is, who she really is.

Today she killed a man. She reached her hand into his chest, closed her fingers around his heart, and pulled it out. It was over in a matter of seconds, his body crumpling at her feet. The heart…it actually beat – thump, thump, thump – in her hand before she let it fall to the floor to join his body. She held out her clean hand and her guard gave her a handkerchief to wipe off the blood, her face remaining calm and dispassionate the entire time. Then she walked back to her throne, bounced back into her seat, and smiled as she asked for the next person seeking her audience to step forth.

Once, I watched her order an entire city burned to the ground. She'd been angry, so very, very angry; the city had learned of a troll under one of their bridges, blamed it for their run of recent bad luck, and dragged it out into their city centre to be drawn and quartered. This after having left it tied up for days while the citizens took turns torturing it. The troll had been gentle and compassionate, had never hurt anyone, and, worst of all for the city, had been a friend of hers. She...she's never been very good at grieving. Case and point: after the city was turned to cinders, she ensured all the adult citizens endured deaths as painful and humiliating as his had been, and then cursed their children and all their bloodline to come to wander eternity without ever finding another home.

Ruthless, merciless, and absolute, she swiftly and decisively eliminates any threat to her people with extreme prejudice, accepting no arguments or excuses. What's worse, she learned first hand long ago that death is far from worst fate to endure and her punishments reflect this.

When she was a child, I witnessed the day she came into her power. She was at the ruins of an ancient temple which, unbeknownst to anyone, turned out to be haunted. Enemies of her father, planning to capture her and use her as leverage against him, ambushed her entourage at the ruins. Her bodyguards were killed and her handmaidens brutalized while she hid, curled in a ball on the lap of a seated statue. Over and over, with no one left to hear her, she whispered "Don't let them hurt me. Don't let them hurt me." When the rebels found her, she scrambled back as they reached for her and screamed, the sound echoing through the ruins, the terror vibrating through the stone so deeply that to this day still it echoes there. Following on the fading tail of that note came the erupting wave of her power, a chilling blast that swept out, searching, probing, hunting, trying to find what it needed - what SHE needed - to survive. And it found him - the ghost of the ruins - a djinn who, millennia ago, had been savagely killed where once a palace temple had stood. It took his spirit, gave him flesh, and summoned him to her defence. He slaughtered the rebels, their weapons and magic useless against him, then sat with her until her father’s guards arrived to bring her home.

She has a mate. He's a vampire prince she met when he tried to assassinate her. Repeatedly. Over several decades. Gradually, a sort of affection took seed between them and, with time, grew and flourished, becoming love. The tipping point happened in New York City. He was chasing her over the rooftops, throwing knives at her back as she leapt and spun and danced through the air, her laughter trailing behind her like silk on the wind. Every once in awhile she'd catch his knives and send them spinning back towards him, her twirling motion so graceful she didn't even break stride. Then another assassin decided to take advantage of the distraction the vampire provided to slip ahead of her and stab a blade through her abdomen. As the other assassin moved to slice a second blade across her throat, her vampire saved her, snapping her attacker's neck and pulling her back from the roof's edge. I can still remember the smile she gave him as he frantically tried to apply pressure to her wound, still hear her tone, pain-laced though it was, as she told him, "I thought me dead was the goal here, slayer." His panicked laughter as he told her he wasn't through with their game yet...it was far from fairy tale perfect but it made her smile, made her laugh, made her...happy.

She would never admit it, but she loves attending the lavish balls she's expected to regularly throw. She loves getting to wear the elegant gowns and the fancy hairstyles, loves being able to dance with her mate, loves getting to watch her people indulge themselves, be happy. She'd have them go on forever if she could. She loves cooking, which is ironic given that she doesn’t need to eat, but she enjoys taking this and that and creating delicious meals for others to consume. She can play both the violin and the cello, what she is allowing her to move the bow more swiftly across the strings than any human could, achieving sounds you wouldn't have thought the instruments possible of. She loves to work at her computer, writing code and hacking firewalls just for the fun of it, says it relaxes her. She rearranges furniture on the spur of the moment, sometimes going so far as to redecorate to get the look right. She has cats - a half dozen fairy cats and a dozen more of various breeds from lions and tigers to Siamese and tabbies. They're around her constantly and she delights in spoiling them rotten. She trains - both in martial arts and with weapons - with her wraiths, brother, and mate. She goes out into Faerie and simply plays, freely using her magic, embracing all that she is like a wild bird at long last set free from its cage.

She's linked to her people; she is the source of all magic, all power for her people, and shares in their feelings, be they physical or emotional. She knows every thought, every secret, every action. She knows when they've fallen in love, when they're frightened, when they're hurt. She goes to their weddings, attends their births, mourns each of their passing. She comforts their children in the dark, promising them to keep the monsters at bay. She soothes them in their grief and wrath, protects them when they're vulnerable, and never - NEVER - holds their nature against them, accepting them for what they are without reservation or judgment. She's angry with them - so very, very angry with them; they stood idly by and allowed such horrible things to befall her. She's there for them, always, but when it was she who was trouble, she who needed help and protection, in their fear they did nothing, just idly sat by, then blamed her when she couldn't take anymore and lashed out. Doesn't hold it against them though. I would.

But then night falls and she's simply...this; the vulnerable, delicate little doll asleep in her bed. Her wraiths leave her at night; they cannot bear to watch what's coming, to stand near her and know there is no way for them to help her, to soothe her. Her mate's away on one of his mission, trying to build up his syndicate to compete with his mother's coven. Her brother, her friends...none of them know about this, about what happens at night when the darkness creeps in and the shadows deepen. It begins...it begins like it always does, with a moan. She starts to twist and turn and kick and roll, her moans turning to screams as she called for a father murdered long ago and begged for an end impossible for her. I wonder sometimes if she realizes that, gripped in the claws of her nightmares, her glamour slips. The scars of her past - the jagged cuts, the smooth slices, the web-like burns, all of it - are laid bare, the illusion of her perfect beauty gone, the reality of her marred and damaged skin revealed. She...she has so many. Claw scratches - now four parallel scars - slash across the left side of her face. Burns are random patches on her sides and legs. Her back bears the marks of repeated lashings. Her torso is a network of incisions, the result of repeated vivisections conducted, the torturer claimed, for science. She...her nightmares were earned, are justified. Her scars...they're not just on the outside.

I go closer, kneeling beside her, wanting to offer comfort but unable to do more than watch, bear witness, and remember. Remember nights long ago - so very, very long ago - when she'd cry out for me and I could go to her. My mother, she told me that comfort bred weakness, that strength needed to be forged through pain and suffering successfully endured. My mother, in other words, was more than a little cold. I was, I'd like to think, more compassionate in my views and, consequently, more pragmatic in my practices. I would comfort my daughter, soothe her nightmares. I would race with her through the forest, play hide and seek with her in the palace, practice magic with her in our gardens, teach her swordplay in the ballroom. She used to love archery but her eyesight...after she came into her power, she couldn't see as well, couldn't aim accurately. She was heartbroken; her wraith - the djinn from the ruins - started teaching her knife-throwing not long afterwards.

I don't know if my empathy bred weakness, but for almost a century, my daughter knew happiness, knew laughter, knew joy. I knew. I knew that monsters would come, knew that her years would fill with torment one after the other, knew that the darkness would swallow her whole and set to shredding her with its claws. Before she ever took her first breath, I knew how one day her voice would grow hoarse from screaming, how one day her mind would snap under the deluge of constant pain. I knew. I even understood it was necessary. But...but I wanted her to have something more, something bright and full of joy that she could cling to in her darkest moments, something to remind her that the hell she endured was but a perversion, to show her that life could be so much more than what it had become for her. My daughter...my darling girl...

Her cat - a fairy breed she found half-dead as a kitten centuries ago - leaps up onto the bed. He nudges her with his nose until she shifts enough for him to slip in next to her, shifting his size from domestic kitty to something larger, something wilder. She sighs and snuggles against him, her glamour rippling over her once more, her peace restored for tonight.

So, yes, we all wear masks, some even more so than others. We have to; the truth of who and what we are...if everyone saw it, if it was laid bare for all the world to see...it would destroy us. And so we hide, we bury deep our secret selves, and we present to the world what the masks we need to. It's, to put it simply, survival.

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Samantha Lee Week 136: Words

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Words

Conversation is an underrated activity. Words...words are powerful, more powerful than people give them credit for. A bunch of sounds shuffled together, that's all they are, and yet they're able to convey millions upon millions of different meanings, birth thousands of different languages. Every emotion, every idea, every thought that a mind can conceive, words can encapsulate and share, putting them out into the world for us all to embrace. Take out the actions, take out the expressions, and what you're left with, what it all boils down to, is conversation.

Conversation. Two souls using words to exchange pieces of themselves. It doesn't matter what those pieces are - even the barest of utterances hold importance, hold relevance. It's...it's the most beautiful way our souls have to touch each other.

"Tru?"

He opens one eye but somehow manages to convey at least three eyes' worth of wariness. A totally unmerited response if you ask me; you'd think I was one of those women prone to wild and crazy ideas in the middle of the night. Which, okay, I am, but I still don't think that look's merited.

I glare at him. "Don't give me that look, Tru; I'm hardly all THAT bad. Not even kind-of, sort-of."

"Only someone who has never been on the receiving end of your present look would believe that."

Frowning, I try not to pout and sigh instead. "You should at least hear the follow-up before reacting. It's really not that bad."

Another skeptical look. I'm beginning to take offense. "Hm, and yet, lumina mea, you have yet to enlighten me with this not-that-bad thought."

"Tru?"

"Yes?"

"It's Christmas. Or it will be. Soon."

"Thirteen days, unless it has been moved again."

"Right! And, no, it hasn't. That I know of. I don't really pay attention. Anyway, that's not the point!"

"It seemed like it might have been."

"Pretender to the throne."

"Ah, yes, of course, silly me. What is the point?"

"Christmas!"

"I believe you declared Halloween your holiday. As I recall, you said it carried the right ethos."

"I'm a necromancer, Tru - Halloween carries the PERFECT ethos to be my holiday but this isn't about official holidays. And before you say it, it's not about Yule either. It's about-"

"Christmas. Yes, I seem to recall hearing that once or twice before. I am still, however, rather confused about why."

I flop down beside him on the bed, wiggling about until we face each other on our sides. He's cool. I'm hot. It's perfect.

I smile and his lips curl with his own, but he doesn't say anything, waiting for me. He does that a lot - wait for me. It seems, sometimes, like we spend whole decades, centuries even, with him waiting for me. Gods, the man must have been a right monstrous beast in a past life to incur the karma black enough to have earned me as his mate.

And I must have been a saint to have earned him as mine.

"Do you remember Paris?"

"Which time?"

"1943."

"You tried to kill me."

"Only because you were there to assassinate me."

"Lumina mea, you had just killed a nest of my mother's elite guard."

"Who had also been sent to kill me!"

"After you butchered a squadron of vampires in Germany."

"It was an accident!"

"How does one accidentally kill five vampiric warriors in an empty field, lumina mea?"

"They wanted to eat me, Tru. As in, literally devour me piece by delectable piece as though I were chocolate cookie in a kindergarten classroom. Admittedly, I may have, um , well...overreacted. I hadn't MEANT to kill them. Thus, accident."

"Da, of course, accident. Is the long line of...accidental corpses your point? Because, if it is, lumina mea, I must say it does not seem very...Christmas."

I glare, far from amused. "No, Tru, the corpses are not my point. Although I'd like to point out I DID gift wrap a couple. Anyway, do you remember your would-be assassination attempt?"

He smiled. "Lumina mea, we played that game for nearly a century. There were many, many...many - how did you say? - assassination attempts."

I nodded. "Yup. Like, hundreds." Our relationship had gotten off to a start rockier than most. Fortunately, we fell in love before either of us actually succeeded in killing the other or this story would be radically different. And infinitely darker. Probably bloodier too. Bleh. Moving on. "Do you remember Paris 1943?" I press.

"It was the first time we fought on the Eiffel Tower. You had daggers. I had a sword. We danced on the rail because you said if we were to fight on the platform it would defeat the whole point of being on the Eiffel Tower. You were barefoot and your dress was torn. I never asked how that happened."

I knew he'd remember; he remembers everything. Well, almost. "You did ask," I remind him. "I told you I'd had a busy night."

"Ah, and did you elaborate?"

"Yes, you hadn't been the first to try and kill me that night. I was a popular girl."

"And what became of my predecessor that night?"

"Predecessors - plural - it was a team of two. Oz ate one and I, um, well the other, he, um..."

"Died?"

"Eventually. Probably. I think."

He sighs and shakes his head, the amusement in his eyes belying the indignation in his expression. "One day, lumina mea, you must learn to go for the quick kill."

"I do do that! Sometimes."

"Lumina mea, your quick kills can be counted on a single hand."

He's right, but that hardly matters. I glare.

"Paris. 1943. It was Christmas."

"I had thought your dress, ruined though it was, seemed rather festive. It may have been the Santa Claus on the skirt."

"It was a reindeer on the hip and I happen to LIKE Christmas, okay? Especially the clothes. I loved that dress too. Its destruction is what prompted me to start buying everything in doubles, just in case."

"You wish for me to find you this dress? The reindeer one from Paris 1943?"

"What? No! I have like a dozen. It has sentimental meaning."

"Because you wore it to fight barefoot on the rail of the Eiffel Tower?"

"No, nut, because I wore it while we kissed for the first time."

"I thought that was Venice. 1925. You had kicked me in the chest but caught my arm before I fell into the canal. You pulled me towards you, kissed me, then pushed me into the canal, laughing."

I rolled my eyes. "That was me kissing you. Doesn't count. Paris was you kissing me."

"Lumina mea, the first time I kissed you was in Sri Lanka, 1957."

"No, it wasn't. Although, that reminds me that I've really got to rescue you from feral gremlins more often."

"All those teeth, lumina mea, are not to be taken lightly."

"It's the venom you really need to take care with; their bite's just the delivery mechanism. Your gratitude was endearing though. It wasn't the first time you kissed me though; that was Paris, 1943. When you caught me as I slipped."

"You do not slip."

"Everyone slips sooner or later. I just do it more spectacularly than most. I think we should go back."

"To Paris?"

"No, Christmas 1943."

"Lumina mea, the last time we sought to travel in time, we had to - what did you call it? - take the long way home."

"It wasn't that bad, Tru-"

"It was five-"

"It was awhile, yes, okay, I admit, but it wasn't...it wasn't so bad. It was like...interactive history. And, come on, we saw some cool things, met some cool people, and accomplished loads. Oh, and, and, also, and we now have so many aces up our sleeves it'd take all of Vegas to actualize this metaphor. Probably Monte Carlo too."

He nods, agreeing, and sighs. "Once, though, was enough, lumina mea."

"There's more ways than one, Tru, to relive the past."

"Oh? Even when one is not in Paris? Or France? Or Europe?"

I laugh. "At least we've got the right planet. And the right company."

"Are you saying you would like me to try and kill you, lumina mea?"

"Maybe we could...skip to the end."

"Ah, da, yes, I suppose that I could do."

I smile. He kisses me, his arm coming around my waist to pull me roughly towards him. The cool, clean touch of his aura washes over me, his cinnamon-like scent teases my nostrils. I let my hands sweep up his arms and around his neck, tugging him closer, a growl rumbling in my throat as I deepen the kiss.

Dumitru chuckles, breaking the kiss. "I have a gift for you, lumina mea."

"Where?"

"Outside. In the garden."

"That's so far away."

"But worth the effort, I promise."

I narrow my eyes but acquiesce, rolling out of bed and scooping up Dumitru's discarded red silk dress shirt to put on as I go. There's a dusting of snow outside; it's cold enough that I can see my breath fogging in the air, cold enough that it bites at my exposed flesh. But I don't care. I can see Dumitru's gift.

It's a pear tree. He's planted it just in front of the fountain and tied a big gold bow around its slender trunk. Something dangles from its bottom-most limb, something gold and glittering. I move closer and realize it's a necklace, its charm some sort of stylized bird like a tailless peacock or a pheasant or a quail or...

Oh. D'uh.

He's given me a partridge in a pear tree. It's the first day of Christmas and my true love has given me a partridge in a pear tree.

What a goof.

His arms come around my waist, his cheek coming to rest on the top of my head. "Merry Christmas, lumina mea."

"Do I get turtle doves tomorrow?" I ask.

"Perhaps."

"Tru?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"For all eternity, lumina mea."

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Samantha Lee Week 134: A Series of Transitions

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: A Series of Transitions

I'm having a bad day. I've come to recognize them by the simple fact that almost all my days lately are bad to one degree or another. I think Fate might be having one of her petty tantrums at my expense. Want some stellar advice? If you ever have the misfortune of meeting Fate face-to-face, don't let yourself get drawn into a duel. The dear can't swing a sword to save her life, regardless of what she thinks, so, yup, you'll win and then get to contend with centuries of hurt feelings. Fate: the greatest sore loser in all existence, no contest.

"And then he killed my sheep!"

Oh, dear gods, who in the name of creation cared?!

"The entire flock?"

"Well, no, just six."

"Of?"

"Three hundred. But that's not the point! That troll had no claim to them and he ATE them!"

Well, of course the troll ate the bloody freaking sheep - he's a TROLL! Do they not cover the Billy Goats Gruff in schools anymore? I mean, really, if my ancestors had gone to all the trouble of gifting mortals with dozens upon dozens of handy, child-friendly warnings, the least they could do is pay attention to the blooming things.

"But he left the wool from the sheep on your doorstep?"

"Damn near gave the missus a heart attack is what he did!"

"Were the sheep healthy?"

"They were the-"

"Sir, try to remember that here, now, with us, honesty is not only the best policy, it's the safest."

Oz raises his head from my lap, a deep growl rumbling from his throat as his lips peel back to show off his fangs.

Good kitty.

"They were older, yes, but their value was in their wool."

"Which was left for you on your porch."

I don't understand. Am I supposed to understand? Is...is this some sort of mortal mindset thing? Do I, like, shift my brain to the left, take three steps back, tilt my head and magically - BAM! - comprehension dawns? Hungry troll eats old sheep, leaves wool. Farmer (or would it be shepherd? Is that a term mortals still use?) gets the wool, troll gets to eat and...

Oh.

"What else?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"There was something else. If he returned the unused parts of your sheep, then he would have offered trade for what he took. Honour is an all-or-nothing sort of thing among my people. What else did he leave?"

"There was nothing else."

My people cannot lie. It's physiologically impossible, although personally I've always thought it was some long ago curse we never figured out how to break. That being said, with centuries at our disposal, as a general rule we tend to become very good at using the truth as affectively - if not more so - than any lie. Of course, that's more a hobby of the idly powerful than your run of the mill Fae. Still, either way, it's nice to know you can take a straight answer, rare as they might be, at face value.

Mortals, sadly, have no problems with lying, letting them slip as easily as air from their lips.

It's very annoying.

"There was something. If I ask the troll, he will tell me. If I ask the troll, he will tell me the troll. If I ask the troll, he will tell me everything. I haven't yet because benefit of the doubt is an easy enough demonstration of trust. I like trust. Trust is nice and fluffy, like a kitten, all purring and content. I love kittens, don't you?"

"Uh..."

"Of course you do; everyone does. Kittens are cool. You know what's not? Lying. It makes me itchy. Hate feeling itchy. Now, be a good mortal and tell the truth; I want to try and fit in a manicure before the next item on my agenda for today. Incidentally, what IS the next item on my agenda?"

My assistant - because apparently I have one of those - rustles some papers, although I'm pretty sure it's just for appearances' sake; my schedule is on his tablet. "A gremlin infestation."

"A...whose bright idea was THAT?! There is no way I most certainly, most freaking definitely approved that."

"Your brother's, I believe, milady. Should I cancel it?"

"Um, hold off on that. I may need the emotional release, depending on how this goes and whether or not I fit in the manicure. So, what else did the troll leave on the doorstep?"

"There...there was an infant."

Oh, for the love of gods.

"Khary?"

"Milady?"

"Bring me the freaking troll. And anyone he happens to be with. I also want the farmer's wife and the infant. And I want you to bring that last one yourself. Oh, and could you bring me back a chocolate milkshake too?"

The big jerk laughs. Totally ruins my desired mystique when my most trusted sidekicks respond to commands with laughter. I've always wondered if all those big, powerful mortal leaders had to face issues like this. Was Napoleon plagued by short jokes from his advisors? Was Caesar teased about his epileptic seizures? Did Alexander the Great get to hear his best friends' giggling while he announced his plans to march on Persia?

Maybe I can find a time skipper to take Khary back and make a gift of him. Let him be someone else's joy and pride.

"Milady?" He smiles. "It wouldn't work; I know you lo-"

"Oh, shut up and go fetch. You've been hanging out with Rav way too much; his cockiness is rubbing off on you. Totally unbecoming."

I pause. He gives me his patented patient-meets-knowing look. I sigh. "Yes, yes, of course I do - now will you go?!"

"Of course, milady." He vanishes.

Everyone is staring at me, their expressions a mix of amusement, surprise, worry, fear, and outright shock. I sigh. This has been happening a lot lately. It's very annoying. Or maybe I'm just prickly that way.

"When I accidentally bring you back from the dead and get stuck with you for all eternity, it comes with certain privileges, okay? The whole taking liberties with shows of public respect thing? One of those privileges, so let's move on, shall we?"

A couple uncomfortable coughs and averted stares is my reply. I sigh. Figures.

Thankfully, Khary's an incredibly fast fetcher; he's back in minutes with two trolls and a mortal woman in tow and an swaddled infant in his arms.

"Milady, your delivery as requested. What shall I do with the infant?"

I take a slurp of my milkshake. Say what you will about mortals, there's no denying they know their chocolate. Yum. "Bring - is it male or female?"

"Female."

"Bring her here."

The baby's mortal enough to look at, all pink and soft, a bald little human in miniature. There's power in her, Magic that's yet undefined and undecided, still too young to tell me more than that it's there.  Now, power I understand, it's nice and straightforward. Babies, on the other hand, I admit, are not my most favourite thing in the world. In fact, were I list all my likes, they'd be near the bottom. As in, last couple of lines bottom. Actually, come to think of it, I'm not sure they'd even make the list. Khary, however, is merely indifferent as opposed to begrudging like bordering on complete dislike. This is why he gets to hold the infant and I get to give the orders.

Thank the gods I get to give the orders.

"Check her for a Mark. She's mixed blood; I'd like to know which side of her bloodline won out. Gawain? I'd like to know where you got the child. Her story must be...interesting if you chose to trade her for a few sheep rather than just eat her."

"Found. On bridge."

I love trolls; they're all about getting to the point. Sometimes that point is their teeth, but still.

"And you didn't eat her because...?"

"No eat cubs. Rule."

"Of course not. Okay then. Murphy? Why, pray tell, were you with Gawain when Khary went to fetch him?"

"Milady? He was with the farmer's wife."

Oh, for the love of all life, why me?

"Murphy, tell me you're not...tell me this isn't...oh, for pity's sake are you freaking kidding me?! We're the FAE, does this mean NOTHING anymore? We're proud. We're mysterious. We're ethereal. We're noble. We're bloody freaking divine! We are not - NOT! - a bunch of soap opera cast-offs who think with their nethers and kill willy-nilly! That's what the freaking mortals are for!"  

Wolves. We're meant to be wolves, graceful, lethal, united, eternal. Mortals? They are Chihuahuas compared to us and yet, here we are, reduced to the same pathetic melodrama. I'm totally going to ban mortal television after this.

"Keeley?"

"Here, milady."

"Kill him."

The farmer's wife actually screams, her eyes going wide and she begins begging me in Spanish to spare him, telling me I didn't understand, that I had to have mercy.

It is official; I am calling Fate after the manicure, before the gremlins, and requesting a rematch she is totally going to win. This is becoming ridiculous.

"Milady? Shall I carry out the order?"

I sigh and study our little cast of players: the troll having an affair with a married mortal, his lover pleading with me to spare his immortal life, her husband, oblivious and greedy, still demanding restitution for his lost sheep, and the dumb pawn caught in the middle of it all. Oh, blech. I have, truth be told, no idea what to do. Were this the sort of rule I was bred for, I would just have Keeley slay the lot of them and move on to the manicure. Were any of my people's past leaders, I'd...well, yeah, kill them all for the inconvenience and move on.

But me? I'm trying to cultivate a different sort of image, not so ruthless and merciless, a little more understanding and compassion. It's part of my big Master Plan and sadly that means I can't just go around killing whatever annoys me.

On a completely unrelated note - no, seriously, totally unrelated - I cannot wait for the day my Master Plan is complete and I'm free to be me without the facades and masks. Dear gods, the day cannot come too soon.

"Milady?"

First things first. "Farmer, what is it you would have of this Court?"

"I want repayment for my sheep and compensation for this inconvenience."

Huh. I honestly didn't think this farmer the type to go for multisyllabic words. And he used them correctly too. Colour me impressed.

"Gawain offered repayment. You've declined it. As for this inconvenience, it is of your own making and thus, as the mortals say, not my problem. However, I do appreciate having this...situation's deeper facets brought to light. In my gratitude, I offer a boon."

"What the hell is a boon?"

Apparently that little demand of his was the extent of his upper class vocabulary. Surprising, this was not.

I sigh. "You know the story of Cinderella? Going to the ball? That was her boon. It's...it's like a wish. Sort of."

"Why would I want to go to a fucking ball?"

Oh, for crying out loud... "Cinderella and her ball was merely an example; you may ask for whatever it is you want and, should it be within my power to grant, you shall have it. But be warned, wishes granted by the Fae can be...Keeley, what was that story you told me? The one about wishes and a, um, donkey's hoof?"

"Monkey's paw."

"Ah, yes, thank you. Wishes granted by the Fae can be rather like those granted by the monkey's paw; they don't always turn out...as expected. Think King Midas."

"Who?"

"...ancient king with a touch that turned everything to gold? Accidentally touched his beloved daughter and...you know what? Never mind. Point being, you may want some time to think about it before-"

"I want wealth. Wealth and fame and power and success and women and-"

"Blah, blah, blah, I get it. You want to be a billionaire playboy with all the perks. How original. Your boon is granted. Get out."

"Granted? But...nothing's happened! Nothing's changed!"

"You get that I'm not a fairy godmother, right? They're like the peewee league and me? I'm the majors. So if I say your boon's been granted, it's been granted. May it bring you everything you deserve. Enjoy! Oh, and also? Go away. Keeley? Help him."

The farmer disappears, off to enjoy a new life of power, wealth, beauty, and success until the inevitable moment it all sours and turns to ash in his hands. The more powerful the Magic, the more selfish the wish, the darker the end it tends to have. Da said it was how Fate ensured balance, the little twisted finish to added to each spell like this. Whatever. It's not as if it's a problem I'll ever need to face personally, thank you very much. Besides, I did warn him. Of course, mortals rarely if ever actually listen to that warning, but still, I gave it. His impending downfall and misery is so not my fault.

Which leaves me with two trolls, an adulteress, and an infant. There's sure to be a joke in there somewhere.

I am so over this whole personal touch thing. Surely I can figure out a believable reason to fob this job off on Rav. I'm sure he'd love it; the man lives for this sort of public horse show.

Oh! That reminds me. "What's on my schedule after the gremlins?"

"At the moment? Nothing. You mentioned tentatively wanting to go to the fair with London and Fang."

"Yes, I want their advice on a horse I saw there the other day. I don't think it's actually a horse but I can't figure out the what, how, or why exactly and it's been driving me bonkers. When is Tru expected back?"

"Noon tomorrow. Your schedule's been kept clear except for the meeting with the dignitaries he and the others are escorting back and the ball in their honour."

"Awesome. Are we doing a masque?"

"Did you want to?"

"They're sort of my favourite."

"Then, yes, we're doing a masque."

"Double awesome. Right. So, Murphy, what was the plan? No, wait, better question, how did your little mortal hide a pregnancy from her husband?"

"Glamour."

Huh. Not a lie, impossible to be a lie, but that isn't exactly the truth either. I look at the woman again. She's beautiful by mortal standards, long red hair in a tidy braid, strawberries-and-cream complexion, big sky blue eyes...Oh. Oh, my gods. That's...I'm going to be sick.

"Khary? I need to know what that child is. Exactly. We're going to need Fang. Did you find a Mark?"

"There is a scar on her hip, I think from a burn. It may have been a Mark someone has tried to remove or conceal."

"After Fang has his taste, I want her healed. Especially that burn. And someone who isn't me should probably summon the Mater."

"Yes, milady."

I recognize the need for the Mater; she provides a necessary service for my people and as such is meant to be held in some regard, especially by me. She's...she's sort of like a nanny and a nursemaid all in one; she tends to our children without parents of their own for whatever reason.  Unfortunately, I can't stand the woman. She makes my skin crawl and I've yet to be in her presence and not feel inclined to incinerate her. Of course, I've also yet to actually act on that urge so at least there's that in my favour. It's just that she's...she's...she's just so damn smug. She knows I can't kill her. Knows I can't banish her. Knows I can't even freaking fire her. And so she treats me with a familiarity she hasn't earned and informality that sets my teeth on edge and I really, really, REALLY wish someone - ANYONE - would drop a freaking house on her. Maybe splash her with some water. I'm not particular; any method that results in her death will suffice. I don't even care if it's fast or slow so long as I never have to deal with her again.

"Fio! Darling! You called, sweetie?"

I hate that nickname.

"Mater, it has been awhile since our last meeting. I trust you've been well."

"Oh, well, there's something of a draft in my quarters and the young ones have all caught themselves colds but we trudge on best we can, don't we, Fio?"

Due to, well, me, pure blood Fae children haven't been possible for the past eight hundred years or so; the only young at Court have been the rare child born to mortal heritage, usually scooped up by the Mater within mere hours of their first cry. Little known fact: mixed blood children need time to grow into their immortality, only coming into it once they've reached maturity. Until then, they tend to be an ill and sickly lot, their chances of actually living long enough to live forever slim. Hence the need for Mater. And why her babes were able to catch colds.

"You should have said something earlier, Mater; we could have acted to prevent such illness. Perhaps, if your responsibilities are too great for you to manage alone-"

"No, no, little Fio, little darling, that's quite alright. No help needed for me, no indeed. Just making an observation, that's all. What reason brings me here, little Fio?"

"In a moment, Mater. First things first. Fang? The child."

Fang appears, his entrance a dramatic flurry of bat wings that coalesce into his human form. He is such a show-off, the brat.

Several people, including the Mater, the trolls, and the farmer's wife, hunch in on themselves and take as many steps away from him as their pride will allow. I always thought it was rather funny, since of all my wraiths, Fang's the most...civil. Khary was a djinn, Keeley a demon, London a berserker, Sabine a cursed werewolf; personally, I would have thought any one of them much more intimidating than Fang, who's lithe and pale and angel-faced. I blame these display of his.

Which, I have to admit, are pretty freaking badass.

Khary hands Fang the baby. Both the Mater and the farmer's wife protest. Loudly.

"Fio, you can't let the Beast FEED on an innocent child!"

"He is not feeding; he is merely having a taste to determine exactly what she is."

"It is not proper, Fio, not proper at all. Poor little Fio, clearly your time away, your past, have affected your judgment. To be expected, of course, but really, dear, feeding children to beasts is just not to be done."

"Not. Feeding."

"Your fath-"

"ENOUGH! Fang, taste. Now."

He does, bless him, nipping the infant's shoulder, the anesthetic in his saliva keeping her from feeling the pain or crying. Vampires. Handy little creatures when they're on your side. And, um, genetically modified, for lack of a better phrase. Which is kind of the only way to get them on your side.

Demons; who'd've thunk it?

"She's a half breed."

"That's information you already had, little Fio. You've harmed the child for no-"

"What sort is the Fae half, Fang?"

"Squonk."

Ha! Called it. Little Miss Farmer's Wife was no more mortal than the troll. In fact, if I were to guess, I'd say she and Murphy were in fact a mated set. She likely used the farmer to get with child, then set up this whole elaborate ploy to get the child accepted into the farmer's home until immortality took hold. Why, you might ask? Because, shock of shocks and weirdest of all weird, adultery is second only to treason on my people's list of taboos, even if you did have your mate's permission.

Oh, and by and by, that list of taboos? Does not include murder, although, that being said, only a total moron would kill a Fae; you never know who might take offence at the death and come seeking yours.

What's gross, however, is the wife's glamoured appearance; a washed out and dulled down version of me. Her true form would be something a lot less appealing and, hey, I don't begrudge my people looking however they want - I actually know of one Fae who goes around looking like one of those blue aliens from that old movie - but personally I always try to look like myself, just toning down the more obviously Fae features. I make my blood-red hair copper, round my pointed ears, remove the shimmer from my golden skin, tone down the beauty factor, and turn my sky-reflecting eyes sapphire. Little Miss Farmer's Wife has toned it down even more, strawberry hair instead of copper, creamy skin instead of golden, pale blue eyes instead of sapphire, but I recognize the curve of her jaw, the smattering of freckles, the cut of her hair; the colouring may be dimmed down, the features slightly off, but her glamour is basically me.

So very, very, very gross.

And creepy. Really, really creepy.

I wonder if I can make the argument that mimicry of my appearance is treason. I'll have to talk to Rav about it later, see if I can get it made into Law.

"Well, that clears everything up. Thank you, Fang. So. The child is staying with us. Gawain, as punishment for being such an easily manipulated pawn, you're losing your bridge and are hereby prohibited from claiming a new one for the next fifty years. Murphy, as punishment for being an accomplice of whatever degree in this little scandal, you're hereby sentenced to one century in Tartarus. Someone please tell Torment to think Greek, preferably in the vein of Artemis rather than Zeus; I like her sense of irony."

"Yes, milady. How long should we tell Torment to keep him?"

"Until the child's come into her immortality; then we'll turn him into a puppy or a ferret or something and he can be delivered to her mercies. If she dies, then Torment can decide for himself."

Torment (who was actually rather new to his position; killing his predecessor had been one of my first moves upon my homecoming) has something of a Hotel California policy with the dungeons. I'm oddly okay with this.

"And the squonk?"

Ah, yes, the squonk. My little fangirl.

"What was the plan for the mortal? You set up this whole elaborate plan to get your daughter accepted into your mortal husband's home...but why? It seems like such a lot of wasted effort; the child was his, after all...unless...Fang? Go find that obnoxious little farmer; I want to know if he's the girl's father."

Fang hands the infant back to Khary and vanishes. The Mater moves towards  Khary, likely to take the baby, but I stop her with a gesture; I'm not ready yet for the child to be officially claimed by my Court, an act that becomes sealed with her transfer to the Mater.

"Khary, I'd like you to heal her now."

"Yes, milady."

Fang reappears and shakes his head, saying nothing. Doesn't really have to. I sigh.

"So, you chose yourself a nice mortal - one with land, with some degree of wealth - marry him as part of this big plan and then, because you're clearly a total mastermind, you discover your mortal is missing a key element necessary for your plan; he's impotent, isn't he? So you, what? Have an affair with mailman? But then you're stuck with a child the mortal will never accept, who you can't bring back to live with you and your mate, at least not until she's been Recognized by a Court and neither Bran nor I is dumb enough not to notice your mortal is a glamoured troll. Next time, genius? Try coming to me."

"I did! I stood in this room waiting for my audience over and over again - every day for a month, I waited to speak with you, to ask you for help! You NEVER had the time for me and I couldn't wait much longer; we're only fertile for so long! But then..."

"But then someone approached you. Someone who claimed they'd be able to help you get what you wanted. Someone who came up with this whole elaborate plan, including the part where your mortal came here and sought restitution for six dead sheep. Because, just like Murphy and Gawain, you're a pawn."

I sigh. My people might be powerful and immortal but when you got right down to it, some of them are just idiots. "You guys do understand that true Royals are privy to the thoughts and memories of any Fae in their Court, right? And you remember that, unlike my regent, I'm a true Royal?"

"If you knew then why-"

"Did I let you carry through with it? Because I fully embrace the idea that it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. Plus, I find everyone's scandals and plots and conspiracies more interesting than anything else right up until they implode and get muck on my shoes. So, little Squonk, prepare yourself; you get to be a weeping lady for the next century! Khary will find a lake or river or whatever for you to haunt. Which, I'm thrilled to say, brings us to the next item on my agenda. Before the manicure and gremlins, that is."

Khary vanishes with the infant and reappears empty handed to take the trolls and squonk away. The Mater is smiling at me, big and wide, showing off her fangs. I roll my eyes; as if she's the biggest, baddest predator that's ever tried to eat me. Please; she doesn't even rank the top fifty list.

Plus, hello? I'm the bloody freaking Queen - I can do this:

"Guards? Restrain the Mater."

Sure, I could do it myself with a thought, but where's the fun in that? So much more satisfying to see the Mater in the custody of my guards.

...with my power restraining her as well. You can never have too much insurance, after all.

"Mater? You're a moron. Never mind the part where you're trying to kill off your current charges. Never mind the part where you've somehow decided to cultivate your very own half breeds by manipulating their parents into committing crimes you then rat them out for so you might take custody of their children. What makes you a moron is that you seem to have honestly believed I wouldn't notice, that I wouldn't do anything about it."

"Oh, come now, little-"

"Finish that nickname and I vow here and now I will take the tongue from your mouth and feed it to my cat. I know what you're going to say - there's no crime in trying to build yourself a tidy little power base. And you're right; there's not. But, unfortunately for you, there is a crime to be had in risking the future of our people.  Specifically, in risking our children. I may not like the little darlings personally, but that doesn't mean I'd allow anyone to hurt them, especially - ESPECIALLY - when they are MINE!"

I let my power slip with my anger, the force of it shaking the hall. The cats - dozens of them of all breeds and sizes from tigers to domestics to Fae - roar and hiss, sharing my displeasure. Khary, Keeley, Fang, and Sparrow all appear by my side, weapons drawn and ready. It's quite the image, I have to admit.

I flick my wrist before the Mater can speak, taking her voice before she can say anything else to annoy me. Which, let's face it, would only take a syllable, if that.

"Milady? What, ah, what would you like done with her?"

"First things first, someone competent has to go and tend to the children, check them for potions, poisons, curses, and anything else that comes to mind. Then we need to hire a pediatrician, preferably one of Fae blood or at the very least Magic Touched. And we're going to need a new au pair. Probably going to need to restructure that whole premise. Blech."

"And the Mater? Shall we kill her?"

"Nah, we're going to-"

"Curse her? Go for slow vengeance rather than swift justice? What a shock."

"Quiet, you. But, um, yes. That's what we're going to do. The Mater will be made mortal and cursed to live a hundred lives doomed to have children she will only ever lose. Perhaps then she will come to appreciate what it is she was messing with."

She looks horrified. Good. I never liked the woman it was always for just cause; she deserves every moment of her impending pain and grief. Every. Moment.

"Think of it, my dear, as a series of transitions."

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