Crown of Salt, page 17
part #4 of Faerie Lords Series
A dark, familiar presence loomed above her, dripping with cold saltwater.
Valentine, the Drowned Lord rasped. His black eyes burned into her. Miserable little Valentine.
He reached down for her with rotten fingers. Valentine tried to pull away, whimpering — but as those fingers touched her, she realized they were a woman’s fingers, pressing gently to her cheek.
Halstead’s voice whispered her name.
I can’t see, Valentine thought, mad and bewildered. What I’m seeing isn’t real. Or maybe it’s more real than real.
The Drowned Lord was coming for her. His blackened fingers closed around her throat in a dark promise, even as Halstead brushed back her hair with fingers too-hot or too-cold or something else entirely.
Brackish water slithered its way up through her throat. Valentine choked, hacking and coughing, desperate to expel it. But the water kept coming, as it never had done before. It tore itself free from every cell of her body, dredging itself up from the darkest reaches of her soul and forcing her to vomit up every awful drop.
A cold darkness burned above her. The Drowned Lord’s features warped and twisted, until she found herself staring down Lord Blackfrost. His icy blue eyes narrowed at her with fury, and her fingers grew numb.
Do you understand? he whispered to her. Do you understand what’s going on?
Valentine curled in upon herself, shuddering uselessly. The water kept coming, forcing its way up her throat, out of her mouth. She closed shaking fingers around the crucifix at her neck, sobbing in confusion.
But somehow, the ivory brought to mind an entirely different memory.
“Don’t give up,” Percy whispered to her. “There’s still hope.”
She remembered the warmth of his touch. The comforting scent of wintergreen. The feel of his stupid Oxford shirt rubbing against her cheek.
The last drop of brackish saltwater dripped from her lips...
...and Valentine awoke a free woman.
The smothering darkness leaned in upon her. Something had trapped her limbs — she flailed in a weak panic, but someone reached out to place a calming hand on her shoulder, and she remembered belatedly that she was blind.
“You’re quite safe,” said Lord Blackfrost. He paused, and his tone became sardonic on the next words. “Relatively safe. You’re in Blackfrost.”
Valentine shuddered, clutching at her stomach. Her body, her soul, felt oddly hollow — as though someone had squeezed away a portion of her very being.
The Deeps. She choked on the realization. The shard of Arcadia that she had carried with her for a hundred years was simply... gone.
“I’m free,” she sobbed. The words wrenched themselves from her violently, with awful bewilderment. Free? She had forgotten was free felt like. Was this it? Had it always been this beautiful, terrible emptiness? Was this what it had felt like when she was a child, untouched by Arcadia?
“Yes,” Lord Blackfrost said dryly. “We’ve had this conversation. Multiple times now, I’m afraid.” He withdrew his hand from her shoulder. “You looked at three faerie lords with your Witchsight, all at once. I’m shocked you even have a mind left. But I suppose if anyone was going to put themselves back together afterward, it would be a Capricorn.”
Valentine sobbed into her hands, unable to speak. And she wanted to speak. She wanted to demand answers, to ask where Halstead had gone, where that stupid Wanderer had gone, why the Drowned Lord wasn’t dragging her back to the Deeps by her hair even now. But the sheer madness of freedom had broken her in a way she hadn’t realized was even possible, and she cried instead, feeling utterly unhinged from herself.
Lord Blackfrost shifted uncomfortably. He was different, she noted distantly. More human. There was still an awful weight to his presence, and a power she knew better than to look upon again. But the mocking chill was gone from his voice, and she could feel his uncertain posture.
“How... how?” Valentine managed finally, in a wavering voice.
Lord Blackfrost let out a relieved breath. Straightforward questions were no doubt a welcome balm compared to mad sobbing. “I bought your contract. Well. I forced your patron to sell, in some respects.” He paused, and she had the impression he had crossed his arms. “It was very expensive, for all of that. You understand that, don’t you?”
Valentine sucked in a ragged breath. Her fingers trembled against her face. “Why, then?” she asked hoarsely.
“El asked me to do it.” She felt the weight of Lord Blackfrost’s gaze upon her now. “...no. That’s only half of it. I did it because I could. I felt pity again, for the first time in ages. I wanted it to mean something.”
Valentine licked at her lips. They were cracked and bleeding. The only thing holding her body together, she realized, was her stubborn Capricorn magic. Here in Arcadia, her relentless determination was made physical, and it had kept her alive in spite of the terrible injuries she still sported.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
An incredulous lightness spread through her limbs, up behind her sightless eyes. “Th’ Drowned Lord can’t produce me,” she whispered. He can’t have Percy.
“I don’t know what that means, precisely,” Lord Blackfrost said. “But I take it to be a good thing.” He straightened. “Of the many things I can do now, I’m afraid that healing is not one of them. The Wanderer left something for you, though.” He took Valentine’s hand carefully in his, pressing something into it. A flower? Valentine wondered.
The stem slithered up her arm, and she hissed back, startled. Its roots dug into the gouges in her skin... but before she could lash out at it with her magic, a warm, pleasant tingle surged through her body. The aroma of fresh roses filled the air, and she leaned back with a heady sigh as the tamed power of the Briars reluctantly shored up the worst of her injuries.
“He sends his apologies,” Lord Blackfrost said dryly.
Valentine blinked her blind eyes hazily. “Course he does,” she mumbled. The sardonic bite in her voice wasn’t quite as sharp as she might have hoped.
She drifted for a few long moments before she realized he had spoken again. Probably isn’t polite to drift off on a faerie lord, she thought dryly. “What was that?” Valentine mumbled.
“I said...” Lord Blackfrost paused uncomfortably. “I said there are things that I need from you. But I won’t command them from you.”
Valentine turned her head into the stiff pillow behind her. Focus, she thought. Whatever Halstead had done to change Lord Blackfrost, he was still a wicked, dangerous faerie lord. She couldn’t afford to take him lightly. “Accordin’ to what you said, I owe you an expensive debt,” she said roughly. “Wouldn’t you be in your right to command me?”
The Drowned Lord won’t have Percy, she thought. The idea made her giddy with relief, in spite of herself. If Lord Blackfrost had asked her to walk back into the Briars in return, she’d have done it without hesitation.
“I don’t want rights and debts,” Lord Blackfrost told her bluntly. “Those are Arcadian conceits. What I need...” He shook his head. “I need allies. Friends.” She heard him shift again, frustrated. “I’m an aberration here. I no longer belong. Of all people, you should understand what that means.”
Valentine struggled to piece her thoughts together. It didn’t take much doing, as the implications sank in. This isn’t happily ever after. Lord Blackfrost told my patron to go fuck himself. That wasn’t a smart move. It was a human move, but it wasn’t a smart one.
“I’m going to make enemies,” Lord Blackfrost whispered. “I can’t avoid it.” There was a soft fear in his voice. “If it was just me... but it’s not. I have a queen. And they’ll come for her too.”
Halstead.
Valentine set her jaw. The idea of things like her patron getting their hands on Halstead made her deeply uncomfortable for reasons she wasn’t quite ready to articulate. “I owe you a debt,” she repeated. “Not a contract. A real debt. Th’ kind you don’t even know.” She rubbed at her face carefully, avoiding the pain that still lanced at her eyes. “What is it you want?”
Lord Blackfrost hesitated. “...you’re still a wreck,” he said finally. “And if I’m not mistaken, you have things left to do. If you still feel obliging afterward... we’ll speak again.”
Valentine shook her head slowly. “All due respect, Your Frostiness,” she said acidly. “You’re avoidin’ somethin’ right now.”
An astonished silence fell between them.
“...I’m not sure I heard that right,” he admitted. “What... what did you just call me?”
Valentine forced a ghastly smile onto her lips. “You wanted to be friends,” she reminded him. “That’s how I make friends. Unless you’ve gone an’ changed your mind now?”
The silence turned almost painful. She felt the incredible effort it took him to restrain himself.
A soft, half-drugged snicker slipped its way free from her lips. “Th’ Wanderer ought to sell this stuff,” she managed. “I can hear th’ world spinnin’ right now.”
“Right,” Lord Blackfrost muttered crossly at himself. “You’re mad and medicated.” He paced for the exit, and she heard a door open. “Rest up. El is dying to see you, but I can keep her off a day or two more.”
Chapter 15
Everything was miserably cold. Painful. Frustrating.
Halstead hauled Valentine up from the Toronto snow for what had to be the fifth time that evening. The ragged coat that Valentine had borrowed from Oliver was soaked through with frigid water — and for the first time in ages, she felt it.
Valentine gritted her teeth against the humiliation. Her Witchsight was a dull, blurry haze, here in the Lower World — barely helpful at all. Halstead’s aura blazed like a cold light in the darkness, freshly-infused with the great portion of Blackfrost’s mantle she’d been gifted as queen. Everything else seemed dark by comparison.
Valentine had just managed to figure out her coping mechanisms in Arcadia. Navigating herself by Witchsight in the faerie realms wasn’t perfect, but it was workable. It had made her arrogant, perhaps. The moment she’d stepped back into the Lower World, it was like waking up in darkness all over again.
“It’s not far now,” Halstead said carefully, keeping her hold on Valentine’s hand. “Perhaps you can lean on me for the last little bit?”
Valentine started to respond snappishly, to insist that she could walk on her own — but she stopped herself. Her body was still weak; the shivering that had overtaken her wouldn’t stop, no matter how much she tried to calm herself. If she didn’t get indoors soon, she realized, it was entirely possible she would come down sick for the first time in a hundred years.
“Fine,” she gritted out. She dug her fingers into Halstead’s palm with a hint of petty, helpless fury — but the other woman barely reacted. Blackfrost’s mantle had probably inured her to pain, the way that the Deeps had once done for Valentine.
I don’t miss that power, Valentine reminded herself, as Halstead helped her along the quiet, snowy streets. And she didn’t miss it — not at all. Had someone offered to hand her back that shard of faerie magic, she might have murdered them on the spot. But the sheer helplessness of her situation was only now beginning to dawn on her, and it was a rude awakening indeed.
“It’ll be an adjustment,” Halstead offered weakly. “It’ll take time.”
It won’t be forever. Valentine didn’t say the words out loud, but she clung to the hope anyway. Percy would be horrified at the state of her injuries. She suspected he would heal her eyes the very moment that he saw her again, regardless of her own opinion on the matter.
And I will see him again. The thought gave her just enough strength to stumble her way through the last stretch toward Halstead’s garden shop, and up the stairs to the loft above it.
A hot shower helped immensely — the actual sensation of heat was so shocking that Valentine nearly cried again. Halstead had to help her clear the tangles from her hair though, and the simple, stupid task of brushing her hair nearly broke her.
Worse — far worse — was the realization that her memories were disappearing.
I’m not a warlock anymore, Valentine thought dully, as Halstead carefully unknotted another tangle in her hair. As soon as I left, Arcadia began stealing my memories.
For a hundred years, she’d spent most of her existence in Arcadia. Would all of those memories and experiences just... disappear? How much would be left of her, when all of it drained away?
It was one more fear, on top of everything else. Valentine forced herself to ignore it in favor of the sheer exhaustion that dogged her, as Halstead shoved her into the one bed in the loft. Even her bones ached.
I need to call someone, she thought dimly. Someone needs to let Percy know...
But she fell asleep halfway through the thought.
“Bonjour-hello! C’est le bureau de Monsieur Moreau.” The distracted voice of La Voûte’s secretary filtered through the borrowed cell phone at Valentine’s ear.
“I need to talk to th’ Frenchie,” Valentine said roughly.
A long pause hovered over the line. Finally, the woman coughed lightly and recovered. “Er. Monsieur Moreau is heading out to lunch, I’m afraid. I can schedule you an appointment—“
“I slipped my warlock’s contract,” Valentine said shortly. “Figured he’d want to know.”
Another long pause followed this. Valentine heard the woman get up from her desk very slowly. “One, um. One moment, please.”
The line switched over to cheerful elevator music.
“Madame Valentine, I presume?” La Voûte’s voice overtook the line, sudden and professional.
“Last I checked, yes,” Valentine replied wryly. “Your advice worked out. Not quite as-intended, but still.”
“Am I to presume that you now work for a different faerie lord?” Monsieur Moreau asked brusquely.
“No.” Valentine frowned at that. The memory of her conversation with Lord Blackfrost was strangely blurry, trickling away from her conscious mind as though it were a half-remembered dream. “I... don’t know. It’s complicated. I ‘aven’t got a contract anymore though, is th’ point. Th’ Drowned Lord got forced to sell.”
La Voûte considered this. She heard the wheels turning in his head. “Bon,” he said finally. “I will confirm your account, of course. But I am sure that Mister Atheling will be relieved to hear it. Will you require transport back to England?”
Valentine frowned at that. “I still can’t see him,” she said cautiously. “Not until th’ year’s over.”
“Incorrect,” said Monsieur Moreau smoothly. “The terms of the wager were quite clear. ‘Until such time as our wager concludes, you shall neither see nor speak to my warlock — and if she helps you in any way, you shall forfeit your side.’” He paused for a significant moment. “You are no longer the Drowned Lord’s warlock. Therefore, you may see and speak to Mister Atheling as much as you see fit.”
Valentine blinked. The words ran through her mind again and again, slowly processing.
I can see Percy again.
Her fingers dug into the bedsheets beneath her.
La Voûte was still speaking, however.
“Moreover,” he said. “You may help Mister Atheling win his wager, and place your previous employer into a very precarious position as a result.”
Valentine frowned, knitting her brow. “Percy doesn’t need to win,” she said carefully. “Th’ Drowned Lord can’t produce me. That means he’s broken his side of things.”
“I would be wary of such an interpretation,” said Monsieur Moreau. “One might also successfully argue that such a clause applies only if Mister Atheling wins the wager, and the Drowned Lord is forced to attempt to produce you. I am of course prepared to work with such an eventuality, but it seems most prudent to cover all possible avenues.”
Valentine’s heart sank into her stomach. He’s not safe yet. And look at me, stuck in this useless state. “What other avenues are there?” she asked.
“Divorce, naturally,” the lawyer said. “You were married by the Anglican Church — they’re quite amenable to the concept of separation, as I’m sure you’re well aware. But our case will be best-served with your husband’s signature on any paperwork. The Drowned Lord will be hard-pressed to argue that you still belong to him if he gives you up of his own volition.”
Valentine set her jaw. Of his own volition. She suspected the situation would involve at least the suggestion of violence. “You know where Sidney is, then?” she asked.
“Not yet. I haven’t been searching long, though.” He sounded supremely unworried on that score. “You’ll be the second to know, as soon as I’ve found him.”
Valentine scowled. “Th’ second?” she asked.
“You aren’t the one paying my retainer, Madame Valentine.” She heard La Voûte tap a pen impatiently against his desk. “My lunch hour is ticking away. Do you or do you not require transport to England?”
Valentine swallowed. The idea of getting into one of those ridiculous flying contraptions made her shudder. “No,” she said. “I’ll get there on my own.”
“As you like. Bonne journée, Madame Valentine.”
Valentine fumbled with the phone, frowning. The smooth glass gave her no indication of where she ought to press in order to end the call. A short distance away, someone cleared their throat delicately, and she dropped the phone entirely with a hiss of surprise.
“Sorry!” Halstead said quickly. “I was trying to let you know I was here. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her footsteps padded over toward the bed, and Valentine heard her kneel to retrieve the phone.
“You can knock next time,” Valentine muttered tightly. A hint of anger seeped into her voice, though she tried to keep it under control.
Halstead paused. “Did something happen?” she asked. “You seem upset.”
Valentine knotted her fingers into the sheets. She considered putting the nosy woman off again... but a tiny, more reasonable voice in her brain reminded her that she wasn’t likely to walk through the Hedge to Hull without help.
