Chapter 26 Siren #2
“Malik’s firework display will undoubtedly put on a show to distract everyone to mask our usage. Hopefully they won’t even suspect we’ve gone.” Draven nods to my cards, urging me to summon them.
“Right.” I’ve never used the Hermit for my entire body, only enough to make my hand go unseen. Even then I’ve usually wound up spotting my body the moment it moves, camouflaged but not truly gone, like a chameleon but not glass. “How does it work?”
“Think of every time you were the Wraith of Westfall. The times people would glance right over you. Every time you were too small to be noticed, too insignificant,” he instructs, and I summon the Hermit card, sinking into the memories. I need this. I need this to work.
The memories seep like mud, draping to every inch of my mind. My hands begin to warp in the moonlight, the bronze fading, as if I pull the colors of the world into my skin instead.
“You may be mighty, but you must remember just how no one noticed you even when they should’ve. How your cries went unheard. How your life went unnoticed.”
Tears threaten to rise and when I open my eyes, the opaque coloring fades, my body going clear. I look to Draven, but he’s gone, too. Then his hand finds mine, holding it tightly, and I can feel his body brushing against mine. He leads me inside.
We open the front doors quietly, slipping within, but we’re not alone.
Shit, Draven swears as a mortal woman scurries over. For all his smoothness, he’s not used to having to slink in the shadows. I can feel him moving to try to quietly close it, but I pull him away.
With any luck, she’ll think it’s the wind. I add a warning. Plus, if our magic is leaving traces, we need to move.
Draven lets me lead him away from the door and out of her path. She passes us so close I can see every silver hair threaded through her auburn braid. It’s not my mom, but my heart sits at the back of my throat all the same. Does my mom wear manacles just like hers?
She reaches the door, looking out into the night.
She lingers, confused for a moment. Draven stands deathly still at my side.
The servant sniffs the air but then closes the door slowly, watching to see if it’ll open again.
There’s a breeze tonight, and she seems to attribute it to nothing more. She shrugs and walks away.
Draven’s hand tugs and I have to be careful not to trip on any of the rugs running the length of the halls.
Where are we going? I ask, my thoughts quiet, heart heavy.
I’ve never been here. But I’ve seen enough elven lords’ manors to know how they’re typically laid out.
I rely more than I thought on seeing my body to hold my balance, and it’s strange navigating up the stairs onto a landing.
More mortals bustle up here, moving quickly from room to room. My horror grows with each one I see, the sheer magnitude of humans enslaved to just one house is revolting. It’s refocusing all my anger on the immortals, the callousness of their royal courts.
Voices filter down the hall. High-pitched laughter and glasses clinking.
Looks like someone’s having a party, Draven comments.
We move forward, and that’s when I hear it.
A haunting songstress draws me forward. That voice … I’d recognize it anywhere.
“Her voice could pull a man from a safe ship into teeming waters.” The memory of my father admiring my mother’s skill hits me low, the smile creeping up his face as she sung for a small crowd at some tiny festival in our old village. I blink away the recollection.
We emerge into a large courtyard, where an intimate gathering is underway. But I can’t concentrate on the crowd. Draven leads me over to a fire bowl on an empty table, to mask the scent of our magic. He says, Do you see her? Is she here?
I need to see the stage. Tension ripples through me.
Subtle shadows part the crowd, and her face comes into sharp relief.
She’s lost weight, and her hair is longer, trailing down her back in a crimson flame streaked with silver, striking against her golden skin. Her pointed ears are on display, and she wears so much jewelry.
She’s an elf, one they deemed worthy enough to transform, and I’m a druid changeling. Nature doesn’t seem to care because my heart still thumps off rhythm when I look up at her … that’s my mom.
I’m small again, truly invisible.
The weight of our tenuous last years together compounds all at once.
Draven’s hand squeezes mine tighter, as if I might slip into the breeze.
The crowd sways, surrendering beneath her voice.
My gaze draws to the gold cuffs at her wrists.
An elven changeling maybe, but still enslaved.
How many nights has she spent stuck singing like a nightingale in a cage?
The king said they discovered she had a beautiful voice …
when she was in that prison. Under torture.
My breaths are weighted, anvils attached to each lung.
I need to get her out of here. Right now.
The elves clap politely and my mother curtsies gracefully and walks off stage, gliding through the crowd, fielding thanks as a male performer takes over.
She’s there. Now’s our chance.
Wait—he starts, but I don’t care about being careful. I can’t risk losing her.
I pull him along, dogging her steps, but I bump straight into someone, too busy staring ahead.
The elven woman brushes her blond hair over a shoulder and seems to blame the mortal walking behind them.
I watch her slap the innocent human, berating her about the cost of the dress she wears.
I drag Draven onward, afraid of getting caught, terrified of losing this chance.
We slide down the hallway she exited through, and I catch sight of her lava-cursed hair down a different corridor. He lingers in the collision of halls, confused, and I pull from him, rushing after her.
Rune? Rune?!
I sprint, not bothering to keep as quiet as I should. I don’t know where Draven is, but he’s nearby, slamming on my mental wards. But I don’t want to listen to how I need to be careful.
My mother walks into a bathroom, and I clamor inside, the door catching my elbow. She turns, confusion lining her face, and I drop my magic, shutting the door behind us.
“Who are you?” she asks, tone hostile and sharp.
“You don’t recognize me?”
Her composure cracks like struck glass. Tears shine in her eyes as she searches my face, as if it will reveal everything I’ve been through without her. Her lower lip trembles. “Rune?”
“Mom.” I throw myself into her arms and she clings to me, one hand clasped around my shoulders, the other bracing against the back of my head. Her arms shake as she holds me and I grip right back, tears rising and overflowing, seeping into her silken dress, ruining it.
“What are you doing here? You can’t be here.” Her voice chokes on grief.
“I’m looking for you.” I search her face, but she’s staring at my ears. Soon her fingers trace the tips of them, taking in the brightness of my eyes, then the points of my canines. They aren’t extended but they’re a little sharper than when I was merely human.
“What have they done to you?” She fights the tears, refusing to let them spill over, though she attempts to smile. “My baby.”
My hands grasp her roving ones, stopping her. “I’m a druid changeling now.” I try to wrestle my own tears back. “But Mom, I’m okay. Are you?” My hands find the cuffs at her wrist.
“I … it’s better than it was at first,” she says.
My fury burns through me, but I fight it back, not letting it control this moment. There’s too much else that needs releasing. “The lord here isn’t terrible. He has no interest in me beyond my songs.”
“I’m here to get you out, Mom. We don’t have much time.” I look hurriedly over my shoulder. A pressure buffers against my mind. Draven, searching for me. But I don’t want this moment interrupted, so I ignore him a little longer.
“I can’t. My enslavement binds me to the house.
I can’t step ten paces from the door even if it burns to the ground.
Not without his permission.” She strokes my hair back, a brave smile on her face.
Her eyes shimmer, tears flickering in the light.
“The king would never allow him to let me go. I’ve seen his court.
I know too much and was forbidden to speak about it.
You should return to your new kingdom, before they know you’re gone. ”
No. “There has to be a way.” I feel foolish standing here. We should be running.
“Rune, my darling, you have to go.” How can she be so calm? How can she accept it so easily?
“But Mom, no—there’s more … I’ve seen Dad.”
She stills. “When did you see your father? Was he placed with the druids after the Selection?” Her hands stop stroking my hair, settling on my face.
“No, he’s the advisor to King Altair of the seraphs—”
“He’s what?” She sounds angry, not concerned, and her face heats.
“I don’t know how it happened. Have you seen Remus? Dad said he’s seen him.”
“No, I haven’t,” she breathes, shoulders sagging with relief. She swallows. “I tried to find him but … I assumed he was adopted by a family here.”
“Draven’s searching for records on elven changelings—”
“Draven? As in the Crowned Prince of Sedah? The Blood Prince? The World Chosen? He’s helping you?”
What is with immortals and their grandiose titles? “He’s … we’re …” Her expression hardens and there’s no approval there as I force out, “We’re close.”
“Gods, Rune.” She looks me up and down in disappointment. Her gaze is wild and livid as she hisses, “You cannot trust him.”
My fists clench, knuckles whitening, defenses rising.
“He is the only one who’s tried to keep me safe since you were taken.” She has no idea what I’ve been through, none. Draven’s the only one who has given two shits about me since before she was taken, if I’m being honest. The pain of those thoughts chokes me like weeds strangling a rose.
She shakes her head as if she doesn’t have time to explain her loathing of a prince she’s never met, as if there are more pressing matters. “And you’re sure your father is the royal advisor of the seraph king?” She doesn’t look impressed, only terrified.
“Yes. He tried to get me back. Convinced King Altair and King Silas to barter but when the seraph king questioned me—”
“Tell me he did not ask about me.”
“Actually … he did. I told him you were taken by the elves.” I’m lost as she swears, more tears springing to her eyes. This is what she cares about?
“Oh Gods,” she breathes, moving from me, pacing in the small space in front of the sink. “Do they know you’re here?”
“No. I mean … they could. It’s not a secret I’m in Alfheim with Draven.” I’m stunned to silence as she hugs herself, looking to the door as though enemies will burst through at any moment. “Mom … what do I not know?”
“You’ve led the seraphs to the doorstep.” She stares at the floor, her voice a disconnected thing, as if she doesn’t even know she’s speaking. “They cannot find me. It’ll put all mortals in danger. You and your brother won’t be safe.”
“What’re you talking about?” Has she lost her mind? Has being here broken her?
“Rune, I never wanted you to know this—” She stops as the door opens by magic.
“There you are.” Draven slips into the room, locking it, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He makes it two steps in before he stops. His head tilts as he stares at my mother, and then his gaze flashes from sapphire to red in a dizzying speed. “Well, I didn’t expect to see your face again.”
She blinks, and her expression changes in an instant. “You are the prince of darkness?” Thrusting me behind her, she stands tall, hands curled to fists, snarling.
Draven’s fangs have descended, wings spreading to the point he fills all empty space. I haven’t seen such hatred from him since he squared off with King Altair.
Judgment fills her eyes, a sour, scorned thing. She spits at him, “Your father would be rolling in his grave if he knew this is what became of you.”
“Well, you’d know, you helped put him there.”
“What’s going on, Mom?” I demand, hating the panic lining my voice.
My mom’s gaze snaps back to me before she looks to him again.
“This is your mother?” Draven looks me up and down, as if he didn’t see it before, the accusation obvious.
My back slickens with sweat, legs shaking. What am I missing? “How the hells do you two know each other?”
He glares as though I’m fucking with him, then looks at her incredulously. His hand hovers over his cards and my mother flinches.
My heart is hammering in my chest, this moment a horrible, warped version of what I imagined. This must be some kind of mistake …
“Wait … Kal … just hold on—” my mother pleads.
“Who’s Kal?” But neither seems to hear me. All right, that’s enough. I growl at them, “Will you both just explain what’s going on?”
Draven looks to me, nodding in resignation, then draws the Hierophant.
Suddenly a past version of my mother stands between us.
Her younger self leans down to a small boy with indigo eyes.
He’s maybe five years old, his dark hair holding a little curl to it, hanging below his rounded ears.
The echo of her past self says, “We’ll make sure they pay.
The immortals will never again forget who we are, or what we’re capable of. ”
“You want to tell her, or should I?” Draven snarls.
My mother holds a finger up to him, as if she can stop all this with that simple gesture.
Anger burns a trail through me at all this waffling. “Tell me. Now.”
“Rune, your father and I were part of the uprising.” She stares into my eyes. There’s no hint of a lie there.
But all I can do is laugh. “No, you weren’t.” But I don’t know what else to add to that soft rebuttal. My parents? They were no one. Merchants and craftspeople, always too poor, barely scraping by. We were nobodies; all we had was each other.
But she just holds my gaze, apology lining her head to toe.
“And how do you know each other?” I glance at the space where those phantom images still stand, frozen in time.
My mother levels a look of fury at Draven now, seeming to draw some satisfaction as she spits back.
“You’re looking at Kieran Ceres’s youngest son. Though he was called Kallos then.”