Stark Raving Mab: Gravity's Daughter, #3

1

You’re definitely getting better, Jude. Diana poured a shot of tequila into my waiting glass.

Maybe I’m not cut out for surfing. I snorted at the platitude, rubbing the rising goose egg on the side of my head. Lying on the sand is more my beach speed.

We clinked glasses before throwing back our shots, but the tequila just made me thirsty. That deviation from the warm, numbing rush of alcohol felt like being betrayed by an old friend.

Not a new experience for me, actually.

Sometimes you have to try something more than twice to improve at it, Diana chided.

Twice is once more than I usually try. She was right, though—she’d been surfing for years, having grown up here on the west side of Vancouver Island. She was full of stories about sharks, jellyfish and riptides and even had a pale scar on the back of her left hand from some kind of stinging coral to prove her dedication to the sport. Only last weekend had she managed to get me—from landlocked, rural Ontario—out into the chilly Pacific waters on a waxed board for the first time.

Even though Tofino was known for year-round surfing, late March wasn’t supposed to be the best time for beginners. Still, I’d figured I couldn’t fail, since ‘good balance’ was basically my defining trait. I’d been looking forward to impressing Diana.

Something about the unpredictable, roiling waves, or maybe the saltwater stinging my eyes had thrown off my Faerie groove, though. I’d had trouble digging into my powers last weekend out on the water and again today.

I still felt an echo of the waves on my body, even slouching here in a second-hand wooden chair in the kitchen of our tiny, warm apartment a kilometre and a half from the beach.

We’ll try again next weekend, if it’s calm. Diana played with the tequila bottle’s cap for a moment as if debating pouring another shot. Instead, she craned her neck to check her phone screen nestled in its waterproof case, then screwed the cap back on. I’ve gotta shower and head out.

You’re back on Thursday?

Probably. My roommate sighed and ran a hand back through her tight black curls, which were punctuated by fading pink highlights. If Mrs. Davis goes late, I’ll probably stay over another—

I didn’t hear the end of the sentence. Searing pain hit the top of my head. It sizzled down through my skull and into my neck like lightning. A distant, strangled cry echoed back to me. My own voice.

When the agony sparked out, I lay on my back on the hard floor, exhausted.

Oh, no, not the floor—the ceiling. Our cramped apartment spread out below me—my shot glass on its side on the kitchen table, Diana in her chair with her head tilted back, eyes wide . . .

Another jolt shot through me and normal gravity caught up.

I dropped like a stone. New stinging waves of pain swept through my knees and elbows as I hit the floor, but unlike the lightning in my head, this felt more normal—to be expected for having, you know, fallen three metres onto the hardwood.

With a huff, I rolled onto my back and unfolded my arms. I couldn’t help studying the ceiling. Had my sparking, splayed body left some kind of charred impression, a shadow on the white plaster?

Nothing.

My motion snapped Diana out of her frozen state. She fell to her knees beside me, prodding my body for injuries.

Don’t move. Does anything feel broken?

No. Despite her warning, I sat up on my aching elbows, testing my muscles.

Have you ever had a seizure before? She touched my face to examine my pupils.

What? No! Startled by the word, I shoved her hands away with more force than I’d intended.

You spasmed, fell out of the chair and . . . Her eyes flickered to the ceiling, then her head twitched slightly as reason seemed to erase my little gravity trick from her memory. She gestured to the floor instead. You fell, she finished, shaking. It looked like a seizure to me.

I just got a little dizzy. Nausea rolled through me hard enough to make me flop back over onto my side in case it brought up the tequila. My skin blazed with sudden heat and a distinct, unpleasant buzzing—a sustained electricity that mimicked how I felt being around other Faeries, only magnified ten times.

Diana tried to stop me when I made a second attempt to get up, but when I growled at her, she gave in and helped me toward the sofa.

I sank back against the cushions, shoulders tensing as if I could shrug off that unnerving Faerie tingle. The nausea had passed, but my nerves still felt distantly raw, like a layer of my skin had been torn off and I was still half-numb to it.

We should go to the hospital, Diana said. I’ll get the car.

No! I protested. I’m fine! I don’t need a hospital!

When Diana gave me her sternest look, I struggled to come up with some explanation that didn’t involve my Faerie heritage. That had to be what had caused my little gravity blip and doctors were only going to find the low iron in my blood strange. Convincing them that I wasn’t dangerously anemic—that it was actually normal for me because I’m half-Faerie and my body can’t handle too much iron—would be a lot of lying I didn’t feel up for.

Not to mention that I definitely didn’t want my name showing up in the government health system.

Probably just some water in my inner ear, I stammered. That was a thing, right?

Diana frowned, jaw clenching as she chewed over her protests. Finally, she shook her head, black and pink curls bouncing.

I’m calling in sick for you, she said.

Who died and made you queen? The command annoyed me.

Call it a compromise, she shot back. You say no hospital. Well, I say no running around. We’re both mildly annoyed.

Fine, I muttered, trying to ward off the uncomfortable shift in my stomach. I’d already taken the morning off from stripping hotel beds and scrubbing toilets to indulge Diana’s desire to teach me to surf. Missing my afternoon shift in the hotel’s laundry room wasn’t going to endear me to my boss at the resort.

Still, my body ached from the pounding surf. The pain in my head had turned into a dull throb down the centre of my skull that was starting to trickle into my temples. The idea of the sweaty, humid laundry room, the loud whirring and thumping of industrial washing machines, brought my nausea back with force.

Maybe I should stay, Diana started.

Don’t be ridiculous. I kept from wincing as I jerked my head up to meet her gaze. "We can’t both skip work. Plus, you get paid more. I promise not to stroke out while you’re gone."

She gaped at me, caught somewhere between amused and aghast, then threw her hands up in an ‘I can’t even’ gesture.

I’m holding you to that, she warned.

I drew a finger twice across my heart in an x, giving her my most earnest expression. I liked Diana’s company but I didn’t need her mothering me, especially when whatever had just happened probably had some kind of shitty, magical explanation. She couldn’t do anything about it, and I’d left anybody else who might be able to help behind in Toronto five months ago.

As soon as Diana disappeared into the bathroom at the back of the apartment, I got gingerly to my feet. I took a drink of water from the kitchen faucet, rinsed my mouth and then took another long sip and swallowed, daring my stomach to bring it back up.

I lingered a moment, head bowed and elbows resting on the stainless steel sink. The static sound of the running water calmed me. That jolt of pain preceding my not-seizure had been instantaneous, a tap at the top of my skull searing down through every vein. Like nothing I’d ever felt before. The tingle of goosebumps still shivered intermittently across my arms, though the sensation was muted now. I studied my bronze skin to make sure it wasn’t glowing or anything weird.

I’d run from everyone I knew who might have been able to explain this. Abe, a part-Faerie hybrid like me and a healer, could probably have put his big hands on my head and mended whatever was wrong. At the very least, he could have read me empathically to diagnose the problem.

My aunt Miranda would have even more powerful healers at her disposal, and libraries of knowledge about Faerie crap.

I could probably find some way to contact them—try to force my way into the Faerie safehouse or shout into a mirror until they showed up—but I didn’t want to start that ball rolling if I could help it. Calling the Faeries into my life had only ever made things worse—made me worse.

2

When Diana emerged from her bedroom fifteen minutes later, wet hair pulled back and an overnight backpack slung over one shoulder, she quizzed me halfheartedly to gauge whether I’d admit defeat and ask her to stay. I could tell her mind was already on the births that would be starting to happen, hours away, around the island. My roommate was a travelling doula. I didn’t know exactly what she did, but I knew she had more important things to worry about than me.

Once she’d left, I gave in and embraced the day off work and the empty apartment. I made some instant ramen, stirring in two flavour packets and foregoing my usual fried egg on top, then filled a large glass with water. I curled up on the sofa again in hopes that the food and hydration would ease the headache and the prickling energy in my skin.

When I turned on the TV, I found a soapy medical procedural I might normally have enjoyed, but I didn’t want to think about hospitals. I flipped channels until I came to a movie I’d already seen. With the warm afternoon sunlight coming through the windows and the chatter from the TV, I finished my lunch and managed to doze until a sudden, new sound in the room woke me.

I opened my eyes and started at the shadow of giant wings on the floor. Twisting around to find its source, I saw what looked like a giant, pale green moth on the outside of the window. It beat its wings against the screen, casting the larger-than-life shadow.

Sliding off the sofa, I crossed the room to peer at it. Its wingspan was the width of both my hands side-by-side. I’d never seen anything like it, but I was still a newbie to the west coast rainforest fauna. As I got closer, it freaked out, throwing itself against the screen with what seemed like suicidal angst.

Hey, I said despite myself. Quit it. What was a moth doing out in the daylight, anyway? Was it strong enough to tear through the screen? Scram.

Someone knocked at the front door and I jumped, heart racing. Spooked by a moth. A new low.

I debated staying silent and ignoring the visitor. It was probably just a tourist looking for the rental property on the first floor of our duplex. The landlord had only included an outside photo of the house in his listing, so more than one person had gotten confused and come upstairs upon arrival, looking for the lock-box.

When the knock came again, I straightened my tank top and ran a hand back through my hair. There was no peephole in the door, which I’d always hated because it went against my natural paranoia. I could have peeked out through the side of the curtain on the front window, but that wasn’t stealthy.

I opened the door to an unfamiliar man on the wooden, second-floor porch. Dark-skinned and a good six inches taller than me, he wore black trousers and a pale blue shirt, a little professional for the neighbourhood—for the laid back resort town in general, actually.

Before I could say a word, he went down on one knee, bowing his head low.

Vacation rental’s downstairs, I managed, studying the muscular shoulders under the tightly stretched blue cotton.

My name is Eli. He didn’t lift his head. I was sent with a message for Judith.

Hearing my full name sent an icicle through my chest. Nobody used that except my father.

Fuck.

It’s Jude, I said, voice more strangled than I’d intended. I hugged my arms to my chest, suppressing a new set of unpleasant goosebumps. Would you just get up?

Eli hesitated then straightened up again, still avoiding my eyes.

The Ubran contacted me this afternoon, he said. They apologize for being unable to come across themselves—

That’s okay. I don’t know who ‘they’ are.

He paused, startled, studying the door frame to my right as if that might hold the answers.

My Lady Jude. He tripped a little over that title, which did sound pretty stupid. I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news.

That’s all I ever get.

Eli finally met my eyes with a pair of pale yellow ones. That unnatural gaze clinched my ninety-percent certainty that he was Faerie, then he shot it to a hundred by announcing:

Your aunt, the exalted Mab, has died.

The words hit me like a fist to the stomach. I stared at him, trying to remember how to breathe.

The Mab is dead. Eli bowed again. Long live the Mab.

Nope, I said—and slammed the door.

3

Knock, knock? A tinny tap came at the trailer door, then the latch clicked open. Marianne Nguyen poked her head in. Her expression darkened when she recognized the trailer’s sole occupant, perched on the tiny, uncomfortable sofa with a notepad on his lap and several decrepit books spread around him.

Daniel Cain wasn’t thrilled to see her either.

Where’s William? Marianne’s insistence on calling the wealthy, American asshole who’d all but kidnapped them both by his first name, as if they were colleagues, turned Daniel’s stomach. She called the man ‘Mr. Leshe’ to his face.

He had to take a call. He didn’t elaborate—everyone in camp knew that when William Leshe took a call, he hopped into his glossy, black SUV and went racing around the empty desert. Leshe had this whole trailer to himself as a private office and sleeping space—the only one in the dig camp who did—but he apparently preferred to be in motion while he negotiated business.

I’ll wait, then. Nice and cool in here. Marianne’s tone was snide and accusing as she mopped sweat from the back of her neck with a handkerchief. Her clothes were streaked with reddish dirt. The substance had found its way into everything at the dig camp.

Daniel didn’t dignify her comment with a response. She knew that the only reason he’d been given access to the trailer for a few hours was because of the books around him and the shard of stone tablet he was currently working to decipher. They required a climate-controlled environment and Leshe’s private sanctum was the only place for miles with air-conditioning. Most days even its generator struggled in the blazing Arizona heat.

He turned his attention back to the stone tablet on the table. When he made the mistake of scratching off a hard speck of dirt to double-check the form of one of the carved letters, Marianne said, You ought to be wearing gloves.

She was right, and it was a complaint Gracie would have made. Daniel had to fight off a sharp pang thinking of his sister. She would have resented the sloppy protocol, but if she’d been the one to who’d woken handcuffed to a hospital bed, then been forced to work for an arrogant, cagey millionaire, she’d have known there were more critical concerns than artifact handling.

Amateur, Marianne muttered. "There are two members of my team who’d have finished this by now."

Well, send them in—I could use some research assistants. It wasn’t worth reminding her that both of those people had already been given first look at the tablet and come up puzzled, but Daniel couldn’t help adding, Unless they’re as duplicitous as your last one.

I only hired Tess on Grace’s recommendation. Marianne looked affronted at the mention of the woman who had betrayed them both to William Leshe and his organization. Probably not a coincidence Tess Foster wasn’t even here on the dig—she’d obviously worked her way up in the world since last fall.

Marianne looked toward the door, muttering under her breath. Daniel couldn’t hear the word but he didn’t need to—she’d already said it to his face a handful of times since they’d been forced to work together.

I’m the traitor, sure, he wanted to tell her. But I’m not the one running after William Leshe and his magic-seeking cronies like a lapdog.

He didn’t bother. Staying alive in this place meant keeping Leshe happy. The surfeit of men with guns in camp obeyed his commands, so everyone else did too. Only Marianne seemed willing to pretend that she was content with the situation, probably because it won her more freedom and respect than the other ex-Consilium forced labour. She didn’t have an armed escort walking her daily from her tent to the tunnel and back, standing half a metre away from her at the crude pit toilets.

She also hadn’t tried to escape Leshe’s grip three times in the last five months, though. The permanent guard detail was marginally better than the dark, solitary cell Leshe had used as punishment for Daniel’s transgressions before they’d all been hauled out to the desert to dig.

As if her thoughts had gone the same way, Marianne folded her arms across her chest and mused, I’m surprised to find you in here alone. Maybe I should call a guard over.

They know where I am. Daniel lifted a finger to point out the streaming webcam that sat exposed on the shelf above him, and Marianne huffed, startled.

You might have warned me, she muttered, shifting nervously. She seemed to be thinking back over what she’d already said, probably making sure she’d been deferential enough even in her boss’s absence.

Daniel hadn’t actually tested this camera to see if it was really in use, but if nobody was actively monitoring him on it, then somebody would inevitably be standing sentry outside the trailer. Someone in Leshe’s employ was always watching.

Have you placed the discrepancies in the tablet yet? Marianne studied the open books around him and then eyed the piece of broken stone. Age? Regional dialect?

If I had, I couldn’t tell you. That was half for the satisfaction of pissing her off and half for whoever might be listening on the other end of the camera. They weren’t supposed to be talking together without Leshe present.

Before Marianne could snap a response, they both tensed at the heavy rumble of an engine—a vehicle pulling up to the trailer. Marianne twitched, clearly debating between being found waiting unasked-for in her boss’s private sanctuary or caught emerging from it.

She hadn’t made up her mind by the time the latch clicked again and the aluminum door opened.

Having a party in here? William Leshe sounded annoyed as he took in the space.

We should be—that’s what I came to tell you. Marianne deftly turned the subject. We’ve reached a set of doors. We’re still cleaning them up, but it’s already clear there are symbols there, some kind of message.

Fantastic. Leshe brightened. Show me. He swung the door open and stood back to let Marianne pass in front of him, then hesitated.

Daniel realized he had Leshe’s full, piercing attention.

I haven’t finished, he said, indicating the half-legible stone piece on the table. He resented being forced to submit to this asshole, but he still couldn’t help the desperate curiosity that had taken hold around the actual work.

That’s not important anymore. Leshe dismissed a week of study with a wave of his hand. I need you focused on the real prize. Didn’t you hear the professor? She found doors, and there’s writing on them.

He glanced to Marianne to add, I’m betting it’s not in English.

It’s not, she agreed reluctantly.

"And that’s the whole reason you’re here, right? Leshe reminded Daniel. Rather than in prison up in the Great White North?" His chipper tone amplified the threat underneath.

Apparently. Daniel didn’t say the word aloud. Sarcasm was always the wrong tack to take with the volatile American.

Probably only ten years older than Daniel’s own twenty-nine, the other man’s face had been surgically smoothed to an almost computer-generated sheen. It was made more jarring by the perpetually condescending expression he wore, which should have created more lines around his eyes. Even accompanied by a mop of thick, reddish brown curls that seemed to have been scalped off a precocious cartoon child and a trim, athletic figure, Leshe looked older than he probably was.

Daniel still hadn’t figured out his endgame. Leshe’s reassembling by force the remains of the Consilium to pinpoint and excavate a tunnel in some godforsaken corner of the American desert could have been driven by pure ignorance or curiosity. Maybe a simple lust for untapped power or magic. Still, the last few months had given him the distinct feeling it was for a more malicious purpose.

It would be a hell of a waste of resources to have to go out and hunt your sister down now, Leshe mused. If you were bluffing, I mean, when you assured me you knew everything she did and more, so we didn’t need her—?

Marianne gave a derisive snort but Daniel ignored her, shoving the notepad off his lap so he could get to his feet. He hated every twitch in his muscles that pushed him into acquiescence, into following orders, but he had no choice. Gracie was safe out in the world somewhere right now. Leshe and his agents hadn’t caught her yet, even though she’d ostensibly been the one person in the pool of remaining Consilium agents that he wanted, due to her background in archaeology and her focus on the Wild Hunt.

She and Ted were deeply in hiding—they had to be. Still, Daniel wasn’t about to pit their admittedly impressive skills in going to ground against Leshe’s shockingly vast network of resources.

Good. Leshe flashed a toothy smile as Daniel joined him at the door. No use shaking the team up now, right? Not when we’re on the precipice of such a lucrative discovery.

Lucrative how? Daniel dared to ask.

The other man’s smile only widened. Let’s find out.

4

I threw the deadbolt on my front door and stalked across the room as a tentative knock came again. I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt tight, amplifying the sudden, rushed pounding of my heart.

Miranda was dead. The Mab was dead.

My aunt had been a distant cousin in the royal Faerie family. She’d gotten kicked up in the line for the throne when the palace had been decimated by human adversaries in a big battle a year ago. The crown always went through the female line, so since Miranda had no kids of her own, as her closest female relative—maybe the only one—I’d automatically become her heir.

But I couldn’t be the Mab.

The polite knocking at the door turned to a pounding fist.

I don’t wish to break this down. Eli’s voice carried through the wood, low and terse but deadly serious.

I gritted my teeth to keep from daring him to do it. Diana would be furious if she got home to find the front door kicked in. With a growl, I crossed the room again and unlocked it, yanking it open to repeat, No. Find somebody else.

W—what? Eli hesitated, brow furrowed.

I can’t be the Mab, I said. I’m only half-Faerie and I used to work for the Consilium. I’m an enemy.

Your Highness—

"Do not call me that."

Then . . . Eli started to look lost.

Jude.

He balked. I can’t.

It’s my name.

But you’re . . . you’re the Mab and respect needs to be maintained, even in—

I’m not the Mab, I said again.

Eli stopped, dropping his hesitant respect to gape at me in amazement. Yes, you are, he said. The power has already passed to you. I can . . . I can sense it.

"That’s what the seizure was? Maybe this wasn’t a conversation to have on the outdoor landing in a crowded neighbourhood. Inside," I said, stepping back to let him in. He didn’t seem like a guy who did well when given options.

After he’d entered and closed the door, I paced the living room, running a hand back through my short hair. What happened to Miranda?

I’m not privy to that information. Eli stood in front of the door, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back like—of all things—a soldier. His earlier cool had returned.

Another chill went through me—maybe a touch of grief mixed in with that disbelief. The last time I’d seen Miranda, she’d been trying to co-opt my womb to carry a more suitable heir. No—the absolute last time I’d seen her was when she’d forbidden me, through a mirror, from going to save my human friends from a murderous Faerie cult. I’d smashed the glass and gone anyway.

I’m not qualified for this, I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

Your blood says differently, ma’am.

I shot him a dirty look for the ridiculous term of address and he looked toward the window to ignore it. The Ubran will cross over as soon as possible, he said, but I was warned it could take twenty-four to thirty-six hours here before the ban on travel is lifted.

What’s the Ubran?

When Eli realized that was a serious question, his expression melted into one Abe had given me each time I’d revealed the depths of my ignorance about Faerie politics. Everyone always assumed that my supernatural DNA made this information magically appear in my head.

The council of advisers that serves under the Mab, Eli finally said.

So these guys are like the Parliament? They can hold onto Faerie for a while until they find themselves another queen, right?

That isn’t how it— He took a sharp breath, then his tone turned distant and formal again. I haven’t got the authority to speak on these matters. I was only sent to protect you.

"Protect me? My pride itched under my skin. Who are you, anyway? Why’d they send you? Why not somebody I know?" It hadn’t occurred to me that this could be a trap, something shady. Probably should have thought that through before I let him in.

I was stationed in this world, Eli answered, and the Ubran are unable to cross over. The portals are restricted and all travel’s been suspended. I didn’t ask them why they chose me.

Operating without all the information. No questions asked. It did sound bureaucratic. Maybe it was legit. After all, I’d had the seizure and my skin was still humming. A little more now that Eli was in close proximity.

Why’s travel suspended? Was Miranda murdered?

Not like it would be the first time a Mab had been assassinated, or even the first time in the last few years. A bunch of Consilium agents had managed to get through the portals somehow last spring and taken out Miranda’s predecessor and her whole Court. From what I’d heard, they’d used some kind of bomb.

But the Consilium was gone.

As I said, I don’t know. Eli’s voice thinned. We should go somewhere safer, he said, glancing to the large front window. This apartment has two, probably more entrances— He craned his neck to see into the bedrooms, looking for more windows. —and is situated in a populous area.

Pass, I said.

Eli clenched his jaw, though I wouldn’t have seen that if I hadn’t been looking hard. He was pretty good with the stone face.

"Your safety is the first priority