Feversong (Fever #9)(79)
The small planet reminded her of her home, and she’d wondered if the king put it there deliberately, knowing she’d find it, giving her an escape route, because each year, century, millennium she didn’t use it, he’d continue to know she’d truly chosen him over all else.
That was just like him. He’d required endless reassurance that she was happy, that she wanted to be where he’d put her.
She’d intended to go to that small world now, and die there, alone, when the Earth ceased to exist and so did she.
But no.
She was in dirty, human Dublin.
Gathering her cloak around her, she whirled and stepped back through the door of the pub.
And entered only the pub.
She hissed, “This is unacceptable!”
“Awk, unacceptable!” the T’murra squawked.
“I will not be trifled with! Show me the way back!”
“Awk, the way back!” the T’murra agreed.
Dust motes sparkled in a ray of moonlight that spilled through a broken window, spiraling suspended in a gentle, relentless current.
Was the king watching her? Still manipulating her? The idea was infuriating. She was not his toy, his plaything. She was a woman who would be free. He owed her that much.
They’d tried. They’d failed. It was time to let go.
Why would he send her to Dublin? “What do you want from me?” she demanded.
“Awk, what do you want?” the T’murra echoed.
Lips thinning, Zara whirled and stormed back through the doorway, willing it to transport her instantly to the sunny floors of the White Mansion.
A piece of toilet paper stuck to her silk slipper and she stubbed her toe on a piece of broken concrete she hadn’t seen in the dark.
Still in Dublin.
“Hey,” a male voice called out. “Are you all right? Can I help you with anything?”
She spun stiffly toward the intruder in the endless Fae drama that was her life and her eyes widened infinitesimally. A man was hurrying toward her, and as he moved into the pool of light cast by the streetlamps outside the pub, she realized he was a very attractive one, lovely in the way that had made the Fae occasionally abduct one of them. Young, strong, with dark hair, the lithe body of a dancer and beautiful eyes.
“I’m fine,” she said tightly.
“You don’t look fine to me. This city can be a dangerous place, especially for a woman alone at night, in such attire. Come. Let’s find you different clothing. There’s a store down the street.”
Zara belatedly recalled the diaphanous gown she wore beneath her cloak that revealed all, concealed nothing, and glamoured it instantly into a more solid gown, willing it to a soft, solid yellow.
Nothing happened.
The young man narrowed his eyes. “Fae? Or human?”
She yanked her cloak tightly around her body and sifted him into a different, far-off city.
He stood there, gaze fixed on her face, awaiting her reply.
She’d had no idea what fate befell queens who transferred their power before their time, and was discovering it the hard way. His question was a valid one. She wasn’t sure what she was anymore either.
She glanced at the debris on the cobbled street, spied a bottle, stooped, seized and shattered it, shoved her sleeve up and used the bit of glass on her arm. A thin line of blood formed.
Then vanished.
“You’re Fae then,” he said. “If so, you have power enough to leave this place, don’t you?”
Of course, to hell with the king’s portals he could so easily manipulate. She was free of the Silvers and could now sift. She instantly transported herself to the Isle of Morar to refine her plans.
Nothing happened.
She opted for a tiny, inconsequential bit of magic and tried to make a sudden fall of snow where only she stood.
Not a flake, not a flurry.
She knew then. The passing of the power had taken all her power, even that which was not part of the True Magic. Undoubtedly, the O’Connor possessed it now. Now she knew why queens waited until they’d nearly evaporated into that mysterious, shadowy realm to which some of the Fae went, before yielding their reign.
They became powerless. Yet remained immortal. A hellish existence.
She smiled with bitterness that would once have turned the entire city into a glacier of sufficient width and depth to spawn an ice age.
The planet was dying. The portal behind her was closed.
She was trapped.
Again.
Powerless.
She didn’t know this world. Had no idea how to survive on it.
“Come,” the man repeated, extending a strong hand. “I’ll help you.”
Zara ignored the hand but moved to join him.
JADA
I stood, at dawn, in the pouring rain in the suburb of Kilmainham, south of the River Liffey, west of the city center, staring at a nondescript area of high stone wall that ran the entire circumference of Kilmainham Gaol, enclosing the former prison-turned-museum.
The irony hadn’t been lost on me the day I’d exploded from the Silvers to find myself home in Dublin—after so many years of wandering with no idea where I was—that my gate to freedom was tucked inside a prison wall.
I remembered that night. I’d hit the ground running, drawn up short, turned and stared back at the wall, committing the location of the portal to memory.