“Two. Brone and James.”
“Oh my god,” Atlas cuts in, “a normal name!”
I narrow my eyes, but it works to bring a small smile to my face. “Brone we don’t really need to worry about since he’s a telepath; communication and reading minds. Useful in a multitude of situations, but it’s never worked on me because of that ingrained protection against compulsion and mind tampering, so you three should be safe as well. And not like he can alter memories or put thoughts in people’s heads, so he can’t trick the changeling’s into doing his bidding.”
I stop when we reach an alley between buildings, gazing down at the line of corpses littering the ground, blood staining the walls. It looks like a pack of rabid wolves tore through here; not hungry ones. There’s too much still intact, similar to the way Azazel tore out Valdis’ throat simply to kill him rather than absorb his energy. Death and destruction, simply for the sake of it.
They aren’t starving anymore, they’re just pissed.
They’ve been free long enough to curb their hunger, to return to a perceived state of their version of ‘normal’, and now, they’re able to think more clearly. This isn’t a mindless swarm after energy, it’s an army after revenge, a territory to settle in now that they need a new home.
Dorian stares at the carnage with the same sort of assessing eye. “And James?”
My eyes stay locked on the alley. “We don’t need to worry about James either.”
“Another telepath?” Atlas asks, but I shake my head, gesturing in front of us.
“Already dead.” His wide, unseeing eyes stare lifelessly at the sky, his neck bent at an odd angle and a hole punched through his gut.
Dorian’s voice is a horrified whisper, drawing the same conclusions I have, analyzing the changelings’ behavior far more carefully. “Fuck.”
We hesitate, sharing a glance. Our entire plan hinged on them reacting the same way as the others, winning them over with energy and recognizing the source nostalgically as the three with us did. But if they aren’t hungry, it isn’t really a selling point anymore.
They don’t need me, so why should they bother listening?
“Well, we’re dead.”
Lucien rolls his shoulders before cracking his neck from side to side. “No, we just have to think outside of the box. You can still manipulate emotions, so you should be able to calm them down.Makethem love you, Cambria. Lord knows it isn’t as difficult to do so as you think it is.”
Not nearly as self-assured as he is, we continue making our way to the castle, passing body after body, blood spatter covering the outside of buildings. Any fae that managed to survive this first wave either ran, or must be barricaded inside somewhere, terrified. But either way, they don’t show their faces, and it makes the long walk a terrifying sort of peaceful compared to what we were anticipating.
By the time we reach the iron gates, a terrifying combination of calm adrenaline is flowing through my veins, like we’re stuck in the eye of the storm. Chaos and disaster surround us, yet don’t seem to directly affect us. We’re in our own bubble as the world falls apart in front of us, too uneasy to speak for fear of breaking the spell.
The gates are already shoved open, but as soon as we cross the threshold of the barrier, the glamour we were all expecting doesn’t appear. That false illusion of perfection, faded away to reveal the stone castle in its true state. It’s still gorgeous, but it's lost the magical charm that made it seem like something out of a story book.
Each grey stone is visible, and there aren’t any flowers vining over the exterior. The multicolored gem path is back to the simple rocks, grass, and dirt that nature intended, and the air doesn’t feel laced with drugs. It’s just a regular castle, beautiful in its own right.
The screams have morphed into shouts and grunts, far louder than before. There’s a brief flash of running bodies in the distance as soldiers battle in the back of the castle grounds, too far for them to notice us. I half expected there to be changelings crawling up the sides of the building like something out of a cheap horror film, but there’s nothing but dead bodies paving the way up the steps to the splintered remains of the front doors.
“All the queen’s horses and all the queens men,” I murmur, glancing around with a detached sort of pity for all that died trying to defend the woman that brought this fate to their doorstep.
So much death lies at her feet, and they callmea horrible person. But I guess the fact of the matter is that nothing is ever simply black and white. Good people make terrible mistakes that they can never make amends for, and horrible people can sacrifice themselves trying to atone for theirs. The line for what even makes a person ‘good’ or ‘bad’ is so blurred that it depends on who you ask. I’m the villain in hundreds of people’s eyes, and the best thing ever to a few. So who decides what’s right and if I’m even the decent person I think I am?
Apollo thought he was a good person while burning off my wings, that he was saving his people from me hurting them like I did his son. Victor thought he was in the right, seeking revenge for his brother in a twisted sense of justice. And then there’s me, trying to protect the monsters that just slaughtered the better part of a city.
Maybe all of the torture I endured doesn’t excuse my callous indifference to all of the death surrounding me any more than it was a defense for my tormentors’ behavior.
Maybe I’m not actually the hero after all, let alone the good person I thought I was.
“We can still go home if you’ve changed your mind,” Dorian offers softly.
It’s a tempting offer, especially in the middle of my silent existential crisis, but if I take him up on it, I’ll always regret it. I’d rather face an early grave than have to look at myself in the mirror for the next fifty years and remember that I was too scared to try. And that right there is how I know I’m doing the right thing; because it scares the shit out of me.
It may not be the right thing to everyone, but it’s the right thing for me.
“Try not to get stabbed or eaten, okay? I’ll never let you live it down.”
Striding up the steps, I enter the main hall. Splintered wood and shattered remains of ornate objects crunch beneath my feet and I hold my breath, knowing that the sound could draw the attention of anyone. Fae or changeling, both are a threat right now. It’s cruel to expect Raziel, Loki, and Azazel to fight against people they’ve spent centuries living beside, but maybe that will make the others hesitate. If they aren’t mad with hunger and thinking clearly enough to orchestrate an attack, then maybe they’ll pause to wonder why three of their kind are protecting us.
