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  Maribel took a stride forward, and flung out her hand. A crack like the breaking of lightning, and her anger was a whip, snaking out to lash around the girl’s neck. The girl screamed, grabbed at her throat. Maribel narrowed her eyes, tightened her grip. Felt the girl’s neck close. Drove her down to her knees, and stepped right up to her. Looked down into the glazed eyes, the rapidly reddening face.

  “I don’t care about you. About your Courts, or friends, or thoughts and opinions. I am going to get the blade. And you won’t stop me. Try, and I’ll kill you.” The words rang true in her mind. She could, she realized. She could kill. Didn’t want to. But if there was no other option?

  The girl was gurgling. With a wave of her hand Maribel released her, allowing her to topple over, clutching at her throat, choking and gasping. Maribel looked from the girl to the man, who was trying to sit up, face pale, arm flopping at his side.

  “Leave me alone,” she said. And continued walking, leaving them both behind. Down the avenue she strode, the wind pulling and tugging at her clothing, causing her hair to flare behind her, strands blowing like whips. She simply narrowed her eyes, and walked on. She was drawing closer. She could sense it.

  She turned a corner, and there before her lay a park, or no, not exactly such; rather, a park had overgrown the street, had uncoiled tendrils of greenery, cracked the asphalt, pushed trees up where before cars had edged forward in traffic. A winter garden, black trunks and spindly bushes, a carpet of leaves, a solid block of improbable growth. A thin layer of virgin snow lay over boughs and dusted the paths, frosted the dead grass and crunched underfoot as she approached. The lonely call of the wind, and little else came to her ears.

  Maribel approached cautiously. The black hound in the tunnels below had acquiesced to her approach, but perhaps this Asterion would prove less than amenable to having his sword taken. Entering the outskirts of the twilight grove, she slowed and came to a stop. There, in the center, sat an altar of natural rock. Gray and harsh, its flat surface was draped with a crimson cloth, on whose folds lay a curved blade, broad and wicked.

  “Welcome,” said a voice, deep and grave. It sounded like great rocks shifting beneath the mantle of the earth. Turning, Maribel saw Asterion, or parts of him, as he moved slowly around her, shielded by trees and thick webs of branches. Tall, broad shouldered, she thought for a moment that she was gazing at the phooka’s big brother. But no; his head was that of a bull, thickly furred with white curls, the horns horizontal, wickedly tipped, the finest ivory.

  Asterion stepped clear of the undergrowth, emerged before her. Ponderously powerful, solemn in mien and strangely beautiful, he stood still, observing her. His eyes were blue, an intense, electric color, and bronze tattoos of Celtic design were carved deep into his cheeks, around his white muzzle, about his gentle eyes.

  “Asterion,” she said, naming him, and he nodded.

  “You are welcome to my house, daughter of Winter. You have come for the blade.”

  “I have,” she said, wondering at his quiet tone. Was there to be no challenge, no defense. “I’ve come to take it. Will you stop me?”

  Asterion remained still. He looked powerful enough to charge through a cement wall, but instead she felt a sense of peace coming from him. An understanding of events that exceeded her own, that ranged further back that she could understand, and perhaps foresaw consequences she could not gather. He gazed at her, and she felt herself humbled.

  “I will not stop you,” he said, his voice a basso rumble. She wondered if he ever raised it in anger, in fury. How the air would tremble if so. “It is not mine, though I guard it. I hold it in trust. That you have found this grove is testament enough to your right to wield it.”

  “Oh,” said Maribel, and began to walk forward, turning her eyes from the minotaur to the altar. “Caladcholg,” she said. “Why is it so valuable?”

  Asterion watched her pass him, turning his great head, and his voice followed her as she walked the narrow path through dead leaves and over frost spiked grass. “It is a symbol, Maribel,” he said. A great sadness in his voice. “More than anything, it is that. Though its blade is sharp enough to cut the dawn, to sever the strings between cause and consequence, it is first and foremost, and ever will be, a herald of the coming of a Queen.”

  Maribel reached the altar, stopped. Reached out with her hand to trace the rock’s crude edges with her fingertips, gazing down upon the sword. It was wicked looking, curved like a scimitar, its inner edge finely serrated as if with the teeth of a growing shark. The cross guard was cast from a green metal so dark it seemed black, and the hilt was interwoven bands of supple leather. The pommel, a simple sphere of green metal. Stark, simple, dangerous.

  Two phrases were etched clearly into its blade, running parallel down its length. Take Me Up, read one, and Cast Me Away read the other. Maribel gazed down at the sword. Turned, then, without touching it, to look at Asterion. The minotaur was behind her, having followed without sound or signal. She looked up, past its broad chest as heavily muscled and softly furred as that of a real bull, and into his blue eyes.

  “A symbol of what?’ she asked, though in her heart, she already knew.

  “The ascendancy of Winter, should you claim it,” he replied. “The possession of the blade by the Queen of Air and Darkness legitimizes her reign, and ushers in a period of dissolution and darkness. It empowers the Unseelie Court, energizes them, and for a time, for as long as the Queen should desire, the mortal world will fall beneath her spell.”

  Maribel held his gaze, searched it for dissemblance, lies. She saw none. Somehow, for some reason, she trusted his words like she had not those of the phooka, or even Isobel. There was no agenda here, no private goals or desires. She turned back to the blade.

  “I take up the blade, and the Queen of Air and Darkness will appear?”

  “Yes,” rumbled the minotaur. “Should you take up Caladcholg, she will be made manifest.”

  Maribel looked at the sword. It gleamed coldly where it lay, the crimson cloth beneath it rich and portentous. She thought of Isobel’s blood, flowing across the cracked concrete, expanding around her body. She thought, for the first time, dispassionately of Sofia. Perhaps I would not have made a good mother, she reflected. Perhaps Sofia the child could not have been, never would have been, that which I wanted. Perhaps, all along, I have been seeking this. This blade. This symbol of Winter. This admittance of solitude and darkness.

  She felt something go from her then, a last vestige of the person she had once been. Though her memories all remained, she no longer felt connected to them. The girl she had been growing up in Spain, to the woman she had been, married and successful, desired and beautiful, searching for meaning and identity. Those insecurities no longer frightened her, drove her, haunted her. Her face would age. She would one day die. She would not be loved, not as she needed, wanted, had wanted to be. She would find no more joy in this world, but neither would she know sadness, melancholy, fear, or pain. There would be merely pleasure, disappointment, boredom, delight. Base emotions with which to color the grays and blacks. With which to hold back the monochrome until they, too, failed her, and then she would release the reins and cease.

  Maribel reached down and took the sword by the hilt. Lifted it, faintly surprised at how heavy it was, and at her ability to wield it so easily one handed. Its silver blade glimmered, shone in the winter light, and then, as if struck by a spark, caught fire. The flames shimmered and ran up and down the length of the sword, pale and ghostly, and then, without warning, raced up her arm and engulfed her.

  An ecstasy of pain. An immolation that seared her, engulfed her, her eyes flaring open and staring sightlessly as fire caressed her. She didn’t drop the sword. And then, just as quickly, the fire was gone. The blade gleamed in her hand, and everything was different, yet the same. Her decision had been cemented, confirmed. Caladcholg was hers. She had been marked, but in essence, remained herself. All that had come now was a certainty, an awareness,
from which she knew she would never turn.

  Maribel looked at Asterion. Slowly, gracefully, he lowered himself to his knees, placed both hands on the ground, and bowed his great head till it touched the ground, horns spearing out on either side, their points but an inch from the dirt. “My Queen,” he said.

  Maribel took the sword, and with one side step and sure sweep, struck off his head. The edge of the blade sliced through thick muscle and bone with ease, its point etching a thin line in the dirt which was immediately drowned in blood. The corpse of Asterion shuddered, and then slumped over onto its side. Extending her blade, Maribel wiped it clean on the white pelt that grew down to his shoulders. Drew it once, twice across him, leaving crimson smears on his curls.

  She considered his body. He had known his fate, had known it when had first she arrived at the glade. She looked past him, at the rising edifices of the city, at the hollow towers of men, at the endless portals and windows, their warrens and holes. She thought of the million lives that churned ceaselessly within the confines of the Isle of Apples, of the million myriad desires and hatreds and lusts and loves that now encompassed her domain. Never, in all her history, had she held sway over so many.

  Throwing back her head, the Queen of Air and Darkness laughed. It was a chilling sound, rich with delight and cruelty, mockery and amusement. Then, Caladcholg by her side, she took one step, moving past the corpse of the minotaur and disappeared from his House.

  Chapter 16

  Maya trailed Kevin into the CVS. Entered through the gleaming glass doors, and was confronted by the aisles and empty aisles of snacks, toys, drinks and cleaning products. Kevin cut right down the center, not heading to the over the counter medication section, but right for the pharmacy. Maya watched him go with a sinking feeling in her stomach. She didn’t know what he was going to grab, but she didn’t doubt it would be strong. He was close to snapping, ignoring her ever since their encounter with the woman, heading straight to the CVS down the street without another word. Not knowing what to do with herself, she went to the office door behind the counter, and let herself in. Found the bathroom, and emerged a few moments later feeling much, much better.

  There was still no sign of Kevin. She wandered down an aisle, trailing her gaze over gag gifts, birthday cards, remote controlled cars. Then, struck by a thought, she hurried over to the far side, and searched until she found the section selling arch supports, extra shoe soles, knee socks and arm slings. She grabbed one, and then, some of her enthusiasm diminishing, walked back out to see Kevin slouched by the front counter. He had a huge bottle of PowerAde in one hand, half of it already empty. A plastic shopping bag was set before him, filled, she saw, with pills of various descriptions.

  “Here,” she said, flipping the sling onto the counter. “I thought this might help.”

  He grunted, and with one hand tried to open the box. Fumbled at it for a moment before swiping it off the counter. “Fuck it,” he said, and grabbed his bag. “I’m going to find a liquor store, and then I’m going to find a way out of here.” He walked to the glass front doors. Maya watched, something within her sinking. He paused, hand on the glass, and then pushed it open without looking back and left.

  Maya sighed. Alone again. She bent down and picked up the sling. Slipped it into another plastic bag. You never knew. Then she quickly grabbed a few bottles of water, some chocolate bars, and paused in the makeup section. She could grab some stuff, go into the employee’s bathroom, fix herself up. She looked a wreck. Dusting her fingers over several expensive little bottles, she caught sight of herself in a mirror, and stopped.

  What was she doing? Trying not to think, that was what. Not deal with that woman, with the sword, with what was going on. Right now, out there in the city. In the House of Asterion. She was hiding. Flushing, suddenly furious, she strode to the front of the store. Spun the sunglasses column around, and grabbed the largest, darkest pair. Jammed them on her face. Yanked her hair back, lifted her chin.

  A deep breath, and out the doors. Back onto the avenue. She didn’t know what she would do, but she’d try something. Swinging the bag angrily by her legs, she marched down the street in the direction the woman had gone. Retraced the two blocks, and then took the same left. Nothing but street, extending out to the East Village. She slowed, frowned. Picked up her pace again. Tried to cover ground.

  Ten minutes went by. She took some random turns, but heard nothing beyond her own footsteps. Saw nothing but desolate avenues. Doubt began to creep back into her mind. She fought it down. Tried to figure out some logical way to execute this search. Was defeated by the scale of the city. Surely that woman had found the blade by now. She began to jog, and then run. Raced down the center of the street, past endless shops and stores, sprinting now, driven by panic, despair, fury.

  Finally, she slowed, stopped. Panting, she put both hands on her knees, lowered her head, tried to catch her breath. Failure. Well, what had they expected, sending a stupid girl like her to save everything? Of course she was going to fail. She failed at everything. Couldn’t even keep a job at a Chinese restaurant, couldn’t even keep her friends. Breathing hard, she closed her eyes. She should just give up. Go sit down somewhere, wait for somebody to find her. Sit this whole thing out. After all, she’d not asked for any of it. It wasn’t fair.

  Another deep breath. Held it. Allowed stillness to enter her. With her eyes closed, hands on her knees, she thought of the things she had seen, the people she had met. Thought, with clarity for the first time, of the Green Man, who had kissed her, who had told her he could help. And had then done so by gifting her with a magical power to make belts.

  There had to be more to it than that. What had she done that allowed her to create so many? What power had been given to her? She tried to think, and then stopped and tried to feel instead. Reached down into herself, sought. Found, in her core, a nugget of stubbornness. What had she been thinking when she made those belts? She had been despairing, depressed from being fired. Had thought that everything was over—but still resisted.

  Like now. Eyes still closed, Maya relaxed her mind as best she could. Focused on doing one last thing, but doing it as well as she could. No matter what anybody ever said of her, nobody would say she was a quitter. She would do her best. She would be her own judge, and she would not find herself wanting.

  Opening her eyes, she saw that grass had grown about her feet, dry and brittle. Winter grass. Looking up, she saw that a grove had grown about her, trees having sprung up silently, bushes burst into view, taking over the lanes, spreading out onto the pavement, desiccated black moss climbing the sides of the buildings. Wondering, she turned in a circle, and saw a stone altar behind her, draped over with a crimson cloth.

  Nothing lay on it. A pang as she realized what it was. What had been taken.

  “You are too late,” said a voice, deep and profound, sympathetic and sad. Maya looked to her side, saw a white minotaur standing five yards away, hands linked behind his broad back, head lowered as he stared at her with electric blue eyes.

  “Too late,” said Maya. “She took it?”

  “She did. I was beheaded, and she is become the Queen of Air and Darkness.”

  “She’s the Queen?” Maya blinked. Beheaded? “I thought she was summoning the Queen. She was the Queen all along?”

  “No,” said the minotaur. Bronze geometric patterns were incised into his face, she saw, inlaid directly into his flesh. “It was here that she completed her journey to becoming the Queen of Darkness. She has been walking that path for many years, but her journey was quickened these past few days. She realized a potential, and when she took up the sword and cut off my head, she took the final step. Sealed her ascension with a death, as she has always done. She is now the Queen of Air and Darkness, yet is still, and continues to be, Maribel.”

  “Oh,” said Maya. This was so much larger than her. Events in play that she didn’t understand. “So… the last time the Queen appeared somewhere, that was Maribel too?”
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  “That was another, though she walked a similar path. While each begins this journey a different person, each finishes in the same state of mind, state of spirit, becoming an embodiment of the Unseelie Court, a woman of Winter. It has been,” said the minotaur, “A long time since the Queen has walked the earth.”

  Maya approached the altar. Reached it, and touched the cloth. It was smooth, smooth as silk, yet thick. It would be warm to wear, she thought. “What happens now?”

  “She has returned to your world. She ushers in a dark time, when the members of the Unseelie Court may revel openly without fear of the Seelie Court’s displeasure. The Isle of Apples will fall under her sway, and dark passion and pain will rule the nights and days.”

  Maya felt tears sting her eyes. “I failed. I should have gotten here quicker.”

  Silence.

  “Do I go home, now? Is my part over?”

  Asterion shrugged, “What role you play in what comes next is yours to decide. Even though one Court is ascendant, the other remains, locked in loyal opposition. No Court has ruled in perpetuity. Every Queen eventually dissipates, losing the desire to rule, and ceasing to be. A day, a decade, or an age, each will step down. None can say when, but it is inevitable.”

  “Oh,” said Maya. “Well, I don’t think she’ll be listening to anybody. She was so cold. So… inhuman. She almost killed me.”

  Asterion remained silent for a beat, as if he would say something, but refrained. Then, “She has suffered much. The world has not been kind to her. But never forget. Though she now wears the guise of Queen, she is yet human. Cannot be other. Within her chest beats a mortal heart, and her thoughts, cruel and capricious as they may be, stem from her mortal mind.”

  Maya shrugged. “Okay. I’ll try to remember. Not that there’s much I can do now. Can I… can I go home, though? Can I leave?”

  “Of course,” said Asterion. “Perhaps we shall see each other again.” And then he stepped back, bowed, and disappeared. Maya blinked. He was simply gone. Sounds were beginning to fade in from all around, muted roars of a garbage truck, the honking of irate drivers, the tinny blare of salsa music from cheap speakers. Maya blinked again, and when she opened her eyes, the trees, grass, growth and glade were gone. She was standing in the middle of a busy New York street. A white SUV was barreling toward her, and with a little scream she darted aside and made it to the pavement, shaking and upset.