The Empty Throne

I pressed my palms against my temples, compressing the memories of Evernook Island into a coherent whole. There had been Sepulchres on that accursed chunk of rock, once-beautiful beings who had been trapped on the human side of the Bloody Road when the Faerie race had been driven from the Territory; Sepulchres who had survived their separation from magic by feeding on children, the younger the better, because they were so pure; Sepulchres who had been made even more dangerous to humans by torture and abuse. I didn’t know how many of the creatures might have been imprisoned in that fortress, but it was possible some of them had survived the fighting and fire and gone to Sheness.

Pushing back my chair, I dashed to my room and locked the door, images of Shea’s younger sisters, Marissa and Magdalene, springing to mind. They and many other innocent children crawled into their beds safe and sound at nightfall, but some awoke to spindly white fingers and mouths scarred shut. I didn’t know how Sepulchres killed, but no child who gazed upon one would die without screams.

I began to pace, fighting the tide of emotions the memories generated. The human world was gray and black and soiled, full of ugliness and pain—pain that the humans caused themselves and others. And now the masterminds of Evernook had unleashed a horde of monsters. While it seemed clear that Fae-haters were behind the experiments on the island, it wasn’t Fae they were hurting now. I would have reveled in the irony of this fate, except the lives being lost weren’t the right ones. If the creatures would only hunt their tormentors...but then the words I had twice heard from the Sepulchres themselves spilled forth.

“Save us—save us all,” I muttered, repeating their mantra. “But what does that mean?”

Frustrated, I dug my hands into the base of my long hair and tugged, unable to attach any more meaning to the words than on the occasion I’d first heard them. The only certainty was that they were a plea for help. Legend told me Sepulchres weren’t predatory by nature. They needed help, and so did the people of the Warckum Territory.

With a groan of misery, I sank down on my bed. Did I have a responsibility in this by virtue of accidental knowledge? And even if I accepted that I did, what could I do? I dared not deliver the information I had to the unpredictable hands of the newspaper owners. Nor could I approach the Constabularies, who would be duty-bound to arrest me, whether or not they believed my tale.

What about Fi? She seemed to have some line of communication with the Lieutenant Governor, and he knew Sepulchres existed within the Warckum Territory. But he would be smart enough to surmise the information had come from me—Fi would not have personal knowledge of happenings on the coast. And that might also land me in the hands of the Constabularies.

What about Officer Matlock? He had helped me before and was less likely to take me into custody. But was that a risk I was willing to run? No, it wasn’t, at least not until I had recovered and returned the Anlace to the Queen. At that point, with the power of the Redwood Fae behind me, I’d no longer have to fear arrest. And recovering the Anlace had become a far more manageable task thanks to the information I’d obtained from the guard—the sooner I pursued it, the better.

Then I might go to Tom.

Once my affairs were sorted.

Once the stink of Cysur is off you.He’ll smell it on you. He warned you not to try it, but you didn’t listen, and he’ll smell it on you clear as if you slept with hogs.

Air. I needed air. I grabbed my cloak and stepped outside, hoping the voice in my head—the voice that echoed formlessly inside my skull, reminiscent of my own, yet quite distinct—would be drowned out by the bustle of the street.

I stood still for a moment, trying to shake my jitters, then headed south toward the business district, where the guard had indicated I might find Kodiak Sandrovich. A collector might have a shop, and even if he didn’t, his proclivities would surely be known. He had to obtain the pieces in his collection from somewhere. And his name alone suggested he was a member of the upper class, a man who could pay top dollar.

The streets grew less dirty, and the windows of the buildings less grimy, as I walked along. By the time I reached the market district, the shops were in decent repair, though their signs and storefronts were worn and mundane. I glanced up and down the side streets while I advanced, searching for pawn, antique, and collectors’ shops. My eyes lit on a man about a block ahead of me who was busily hanging a freshly painted business sign, and I stopped so suddenly that the people behind me stacked up like a deck of playing cards. They stepped around me, some casting withering glances, and I buried my hands in my cloak and darted across the street. After rushing into the store nearest me, I hastened to look out its front window, surprised to find it was grated with bars. Nevertheless, I studied the workman, gradually relaxing my clenched fists. The worker wasn’t Thatcher More. Still, there was little doubt the store was being prepared for him. The sign read: More Clocks, More Cabinetry, More Skill. Despite my jitters, I smirked. Thatcher was a master carpenter and clockmaker, and the play on words would surely make his business memorable. Then the import of the sign registered. If Thatcher was back in town, so was his family. So was Shea. Sweat prickled the back of my neck and revulsion seemed to rise like bile in my throat as I tried to imagine what I would do if I came face-to-face with her. She’d better hope I didn’t have a weapon.

I tore my gaze from the window and turned around to discover I stood in the very type of store I had wanted to find. Baubles and knickknacks were peppered throughout displays of plates, sculptures, weaponry, glassware, and jewelry, the more valuable of which were in locked cabinets. I spotted the proprietor at a desk, apparently engrossed in record keeping, and wandered over to him, glancing at some of the objects I passed. When he did not look up, I cleared my throat to draw his attention.

“And how can I help you?” he almost sneered, his eyes climbing up and down my form, no doubt assessing how much of his merchandise might be tucked within the folds of my cloak.

“I’m looking for a dagger that once belonged to my aunt,” I informed him. I pushed aside the garment to put my hands on my hips in the hope of allaying his suspicion and encouraging his cooperation. “It’s a pretty thing with a red jewel in the handle, though its true worth lies in sentimental value.”

“A dagger, you say?” He stroked the stubble of his chin with some thoughtfulness. “I’ll show you what I’ve got, though I don’t recall anything the likes of what you’re describing.”

He led me to a glass case that held a row of blades lying on a blue velvet lining. I examined them, my hope deflating. The proprietor knew his stock—the Anlace wasn’t there.

“Any other shops like yours? Or even private collectors who might favor knives?”

“A competitor sits two blocks west of here.” He paused, again rubbing his scruffy chin. “The best-known private collector is Kodiak Sandrovich, though he don’t keep a shop.”

Excitement flooded my veins. Sandrovich’s reputation should make him easier to find.

“Thanks. I guess I’ll go check out your competitor’s goods.” I took a step toward the door, then swiveled on my heel to address him once more. “In case I don’t have luck at the other place, any chance I could get in touch with this Sandrovich fellow?”

The proprietor’s eyebrows shot up; then he snorted a laugh.

“Gentlemen like him don’t rub elbows with the likes of us. He sends a dogsbody around once a week to see what new pieces we’ve got on sale. But there’s no point in bothering with that. If he’s got your dagger, it’s gone for good. Mr. Sandrovich keeps what he buys.”

I nodded and walked outside, noting the column of locks upon the shop’s front door and the grated interior door that could be swung shut for added protection. I desperately hoped the next shop would have the Anlace because I didn’t think I could break through these types of security measures, and a wealthy private collector would indubitably have much the same.

My thoughts went unbidden to Zabriel, and a smile tugged at the corners of my lips. He’d had his own set of lock-picking tools, but when the subtle approach had failed on Evernook Island, he’d blasted through a door with his pistol. My cousin had been bold and a bit reckless, characteristics that had no doubt attracted him to the pirate’s life.

If he hadn’t been so bold and reckless, perhaps he’d still be alive.

I sighed, ever-present sorrow rising from my gut to squeeze my heart. I had always heard that a loved one survived in memories, but at the moment, it seemed to me that memories were more of a curse than a blessing. But you don’t have to let them consume you. You know how to find relief. I shivered, the desire to fly, to soar, to escape, so strong that I would have abandoned my mission if I’d been closer to The River’s End pub. I glanced at my arm, almost feeling the prick of the needle, the flow of the liquid Cysur into my veins, the heady rush of euphoria it brought. The sensation was intoxicating—better than Sale, better than the best food I’d ever tasted, better than the sweetest kisses. My palms began to sweat and itch, for the primal urgency of my need was both exhilarating and frightening.

A tug on my elbow jolted me back to reality.

“So where are we goin’ next?”

I stifled a groan at the sight of Frat. How did he always appear at my side?

“We’re not going anywhere. I’m spending a nice afternoon in the business district.”

“Not so. I saw you ’xamining those knives. You’re lookin’ for somethin’ particular.”

“I don’t think that’s your business. And why is it you always show up? I told you to quit following me.”

“Nothin’ sinister ’bout it. I likes ya, and you need watchin’ over.”

I huffed. “I don’t need someone watching over me. You’re more likely to need help than I am.” In spite of my irritation with him, I truly didn’t want him to come to harm. “Speaking of which, have you heard of the Fae-mily Home? It provides food and shelter to injured and needy Fae.”

Now it was Frat’s turn to huff. Poking himself in the chest with his thumb, he declared, “I ain’t injured or needy. I told ya—I does quite well for meself.”

“Then go do quite well somewhere else. And stop trailing me. It’s annoying.”

He blinked at me a couple of times, then took a step back, and I felt as though I’d squished a bunny.

“Wait,” I said, catching him by his enormous coat before he could leave. “I’m sorry. I’m just not in the best mood today.”

“Then ya should quit usin’ Black Magic. Gives ya a hangover of sorts and makes your mood bounce ’round.”

My crossness instantly reemerged, proving his point. Still, he knew way too much about my life and had no call to interfere in it, even if he was right.

“And how would you know the way Black Magic makes someone feel?”

“Seen enough of its dirty work. Fae and humans alike ruined. And more deaths lately—overdoses most say, but I ain’t so sure. Scarlets are takin’ more notice than usual. You may have seen ’em hangin’ ’round the shelters, trackin’ folks. Somethin’s up sure and certain. It’s one of the reasons you need watchin’.”

“For the last time, I don’t need anyone watching over me. And just what do you mean by one of the reasons?”

“Someone’s trailin’ you, only it ain’t me.”

“What?” My eyes snapped to the people behind Frat, looking for someone out of place. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Course ya don’t. Guy’s good. You got to be followin’ the follower to catch on.”

I nodded, pulse racing. “What does he look like?”