Impostor Syndrome Read online

  Tjuan shook his head slowly. “I’m not letting you near another fey monarch on your own.”

  “Clay will be here.”

  “He was here when you set loose the Beast Queen, and if I hadn’t been here today, Winterglass would have snapped your damn neck. You piss people off, Roper. The only things you’ve got going for you are that you’re good at solving puzzles and you shut up when I tell you to.”

  “Come, or don’t,” I said. “But don’t use work as an excuse for this meeting not to happen.”

  “If it’s happening, I’m there. But you’ve got to give me permission to tell Naderi why, so I don’t lose my damn job.”

  “We can figure something out,” said Alvin. “Naderi knows at least a little about what we’re dealing with, and if that’s not enough, I can get Inaya to lean on her.”

  It was happening! Claybriar would be coming here! I felt as though a weight had fallen away. If my Echo couldn’t fix me, fix all of this, no one could.

  • • •

  “Who were you thinking about that time?” asked Zach later in the evening, his voice lazy in the dark. I was sprawled on a cheap mattress on the floor of his bedroom; he could have afforded better if he cared. He set his teeth into the inside of my thigh—the right one, since I hadn’t removed my prosthetic legs, and the AK socket on the left didn’t expose enough skin to be worth a nibble.

  I squirmed and gave his thinning hair a little scratch as though he were a dog. “Would you believe,” I said drowsily, “the Fairy King?”

  “Wha-at?” His laugh was a puff of warm air against my skin. “Oberon?”

  I was surprised he even knew that much. I hadn’t told him word one about the Arcadia Project, including my complicated relationships with my boss and my Echo. “Actually,” I said, “his name’s Brian.”

  Zach laughed again; his laugh was my favorite of the handful of things I liked about him. “Brian the Fairy King,” he repeated, then kissed his way up over my bony hip, my scarred ribs. I frowned. He’d been taking his time lately, lingering over tertiary parts of my anatomy.

  I closed my eyes as he settled himself on top of me.

  “Hey,” he said quietly.

  I opened my eyes. In the dark I could just make out the leftward list of his nose.

  “Look at me this time,” he said with such confidence that I felt a flutter of excitement. It faded quickly, though.

  “No,” I said, and closed my eyes again.

  He rolled off me onto his back.

  “What?” I said sharply. “This is how it works.”

  “I figured things would be different by now,” he said to the ceiling.

  “I didn’t promise some expiration date for my issues, Zach. Come on, it’s your turn. Otherwise it feels like I’m using you.”

  “Like you say, that’s how it works.”

  “We’re supposed to be using each other. This way I just feel like an asshole.”

  “Good.”

  I rolled off the mattress, cat quick despite my aching bones, groped for my clothes on the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Zach said. “That was shitty of me. You’ve got enough problems.”

  “Fuck you and your pity,” I said. “Give my best to your hand.”

  “Whoa,” he said. Then: “Nah, I guess that’s fair.”

  “Fuck fair,” I said. “Nothing’s fair.”

  I got dressed without turning on the lights and then left. I waited for my cab at the edge of the street, shirt inside out under a chilly, starless January night.

  5

  If we’d known what was coming, there’s no way Tjuan would have volunteered to open a vein for that meeting. It wouldn’t have made a difference, but it’s the principle of the thing.

  King Winterglass had snacked on baby blood for long enough to untangle his thoughts pretty permanently, and King Claybriar had his Echo to ground him, but Queen Dawnrowan was a typical sidhe: coherent enough to lead the fey, but not quite coherent enough to hold a productive conversation without the “intoxicating” influence of iron-laced blood. Basically, Tjuan’s job was to get her drunk in reverse. Last time we’d met with Dawnrowan, I’d been the booze in the cocktail, but now I was being told that it was a bad idea for a fey to consume any one human’s blood too often.

  “What does it do?” I asked Caryl in the kitchen of Residence Four as Stevie removed the tourniquet from Tjuan’s arm and taped a square of gauze over the inside of his elbow. Stevie’s profound autism limited the types of tasks she was assigned, but she was precise with first aid and seemed unbothered by it, which made her the go-to for the otherwise unpopular job of drawing blood.

  “You’ve seen King Winterglass,” Caryl said. “It creates something like an Echo effect, though not mutual.”

  As Stevie moved away, Tjuan flexed his arm, testing the tape. Tjuan had nice arms, which I usually tried hard not to notice. I spent a lot of time trying not to notice things like that about people.

  “Echo effect is a good thing, though.”

  “But it binds him to me,” said Caryl as Stevie handed her the syringe and then disappeared into the back hallway. “He is drawn to me, aware of me on some background level at all times.”

  A casually ironic voice behind me added, “Just like Millie’s always aware of me.”

  I strained my spine doing an about-face toward the doorway to the dining room.

  King Claybriar leaned against the door frame wearing jeans, a pair of bright blue doctor’s gloves, and a gray shirt with one more button undone than was strictly traditional. I made a half-muffled squeak, fumbling for the colorless latex gloves I’d stuffed into the pocket of my slacks earlier that morning. I slipped them on before crossing the room to him, and he smiled in a way that turned his dark eyes as sweet as sundae syrup.

  “Good to see you, Hurricane,” he said. His gloved hand went to my hair, smoothing the layered strands where I’d carefully disheveled them. I didn’t mind. I stroked my fingertips over his goatee, and he dipped his head to kiss them.

  “How long have you been here?” I said.

  “Just a few minutes,” he reassured me. “If you were saying terrible things about me, I missed it.”

  “I’d never insult you behind your back, Majesty.”

  “More fun to do it in person,” he said, giving my hair a little yank. He must have seen the look in my eyes, because he took a deep breath and let go of me with the air of an alcoholic pushing away a drink.

  “Who’s driving?” I asked to get my mind off the many things I could never actually do without putting my Echo in a coma. Fey of importance traditionally entered through the Gate at Residence One, so another Arcadia Project employee would have the job of getting Dawnrowan to the meeting.

  “I’ll drive,” said Caryl.

  As soon as she had prepared an Arcadian screwdriver with blood and Valencia orange juice, we loaded ourselves into her SUV. Claybriar sat in the back with me and held my hand most of the way, which sounds innocent enough, but the things he was doing to my palm with the pad of his thumb were clearly calculated to dismantle higher thought. It was a nice distraction from carsickness, and from the misery that awaited me.

  • • •

  Claybriar’s ravishing queen was already waiting in the meeting room for us when we arrived, as though striving to be the exact opposite of Winterglass in every way. Her hair was like a waterfall of eggnog over a silken dress the exact bright blue of her eyes. Laid across the table in front of her was what must have been her scepter of office, not even disguised: a twisted wooden wand with a gem-encrusted head that was just this short of garish by Earth standards.

  From the way she rose when we all entered, her face drawn with mingled fury and longing, it would seem that it had been a while since she had seen her erstwhile lover.

  “Drink this,” said Caryl to Queen Dawnrowan by way of greeting, briskly placing the thermos of gory OJ down in front of her. “When Alvin arrives, we’ll begin.”

  “I won�
�t play translator today,” said Claybriar aloud, even though he didn’t need to speak to communicate with a sidhe. “I don’t want her inside my head.” He placed himself at the opposite end of the table from the queen and took a seat.

  He must have sent the thought to her as well, though, because she sat down as though she’d been kicked in the back of the knees. I almost felt sorry for her as I settled myself at Claybriar’s right hand. Tjuan took my other side, and Caryl sat at the king’s left.

  “Claybriar,” said Caryl. “Let your queen know she has my permission to use my mind as her lexicon, but tell her to leave everything else in there alone.”

  Claybriar’s gaze shifted reluctantly to Dawnrowan; this time he said nothing aloud. The queen said nothing either, just drank her orange juice, her summer-sky eyes never leaving Claybriar. Alvin arrived not long after us and sat down beside the queen at her end of the table, extending his hand.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said warmly. When Dawnrowan offered her hand, he drew it respectfully to his lips, making her smile. Jesus, that smile; it was all I could do not to get up and go sit in her lap. I gave my head a brisk shake and looked away. Claybriar, I noticed, was studying the recessed lighting.

  “Your courtesy becomes you,” said the queen in a honeyed voice. She rose and, before Alvin could get back to his feet, slipped her slender white fingers into his silver hair and bent to kiss him on the mouth.

  All right, then.

  Alvin looked as surprised as I felt, which was reassuring, but he didn’t pull away. To be fair, who would? The queen’s flaxen hair slipped over her shoulders to fall against his crisp white shirt. When she drew away, she looked directly at Claybriar. Clay was still not looking at her, which seemed to infuriate her. She fell back into her chair like a dropped bomb.

  “Okay,” I said, because if I hadn’t said something I’d probably have started screaming. “Should we start, or should I maybe grope Tjuan a little first? Not sure of protocol.”

  “Millie,” said Tjuan, low and stern.

  “If we’re finished with . . . greetings,” said Caryl dryly, “perhaps we can arrive at why we are gathered. My hope is that I can facilitate a reconciliation between the King and Queen of the Seelie.”

  “That isn’t what you told me,” said Claybriar, straightening in his chair.

  “It isn’t what you heard,” Caryl said smoothly. Elliott was on the job again. “But I did say we need to bring her to our side, which means that the two of you would need to cooperate.”

  “I don’t see why that’s a necessity,” said Claybriar, eyes narrowed. “She has the sidhe, I have everyone else. I say we split the Seelie Court into two kingdoms. As long as we both cooperate with you, why would we even need to speak to each other? I thought our objective here was just to get her out of Dame Belinda’s pocket.”

  “I have no loyalty to Dame Belinda,” said Queen Dawnrowan.

  Everyone turned to stare at her.

  “Why do you seem surprised?” She toyed with a strand of her hair. “Nothing ties me to her but habit, and habit is dull. I might consider another alliance, if it were worth my while.”

  Alvin leaned forward cautiously. “What do you require of us?”

  “My goal is the same as yours,” the queen said sweetly. “A united Seelie Court. Unfortunately, aside from Skyhollow and a few others, the sidhe refuse to bow to this new king. To have no undisputed Seelie King would break the agreement with the Unseelie Court, which is, for now, keeping the two Courts at peace. Therefore, we shall have to find a new king whom both—”

  I let out such a loud noise of disgust that all eyes swiveled to me, including hers.

  “Of course,” I said. “Of course you’d hinge the fate of two worlds on getting the best of your ex in a lover’s quarrel.”

  All trace of coquettishness left Queen Dawnrowan as she gazed at me with a sudden, surprising gravity. “You understand nothing of love,” she said. “Or of quarrels.”

  I floundered for a response, found none. She turned to Alvin, something in her movement economically communicating my irrelevance.

  “You have heard my terms,” she said. “Allow me to choose another king, a commoner of whom the sidhe will approve.”

  “A slaver,” Claybriar spat. “You want a king who won’t try to free the spirits, who will have no opinion or motive other than pleasing you.”

  “And you are so superior?” said the queen, “You were just the same, until that one touched you.” She gestured to me, the limpness of her wrist conveying utmost contempt.

  “Don’t blame this on her!” Claybriar said, leaning forward so violently that his chair made a noise of protest against the floor. “The reason I started arguing with you was that I could! When the commoners swore fealty, they made me a king. Your scepter lost its hold over me, and that proves I am your equal.”

  “You could have had the whole of the Court,” said Dawnrowan quietly, “if you had not fought me.”

  “I had to,” he said. “I can’t just sit by—”

  “What the fuck.”

  Tjuan, of all people. We turned to stare at him; he’d pulled his phone from his pocket to frown at the screen.

  “Are we boring you?” Claybriar asked him in a deceptively casual tone.

  A muscle worked in Tjuan’s jaw. “It’s Naderi,” he said, standing and pacing to the far end of the room.

  “Please excuse him,” I said to Claybriar, and then turned to the queen. “It’s his, uh, liege lady. I don’t think she understands the gravity of this situation.”

  Tjuan, on the point of returning the call, turned abruptly. “No,” he said. “She understands. She knows this is fate-of-the-world stuff; that’s the only reason she let me come. If she’s calling me right now, something massive has just hit the fan.”

  “Take it, then,” said Alvin, “but quietly please.” He turned back to Dawnrowan, ingratiating. “I apologize wholeheartedly. And I can understand why you would be reluctant to work with someone who disagrees with you so strongly on a central point of policy.”

  “Policy?” Claybriar said. “Did you just call slavery policy? Fuck you. Fuck you both, actually.”

  “Clay,” I said gently, amazed and weirdly relieved that I wasn’t the one tanking this meeting. My voice seemed to ground him, and he sat back in his chair, took a deep, shaky breath.

  “We understand your point of view on this, Your Majesty,” said Alvin to Claybriar. “And I don’t disagree, on principle. But we need to take into account what it would actually mean to Arcadia, to the Project, if we abruptly dissolve centuries’ worth of—”

  “What?” said Tjuan in a tone that made my hands go cold. For a moment I thought he was chiming in on the whole slavery thing, but when I turned to him, I saw he was talking into his phone. Something premonitory gnawed at my gut.

  “I did not,” he said. Calmly this time, but his eyes had gone as dead as a snake’s.

  “Tjuan?” I said. He just held up a hand. The gesture was so forceful that everyone at the table fell still; the thread of the meeting dissolved like wet cotton candy.

  “Of course he said that,” Tjuan said in a low, dangerous voice. “Fucking Tyler. He can’t tell black men apart.” Uh-oh, I recognized that name. Not a friend of his. “This is bullshit; I’ve—”

  He winced and held the phone away from his ear. I could hear Naderi’s shrill transports of rage, but I couldn’t make out the words. Astonishingly, Tjuan ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

  “Tjuan?” I said again.

  He ignored me, looking to Caryl. “I need to get back to the Residence.”

  “Once the meeting is concluded—” she began.

  “Now,” he said. He almost didn’t make it to a chair before his legs gave out; he had to catch himself a little on the back of it.

  I got to my feet. “Tjuan.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, and put his elbows on the table, rested his head in his hands.
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  “Tjuan, you’re freaking me out.”

  He kept his head in his hands. He was shaking. I resisted the urge to go to him, put a hand on him; it wouldn’t have calmed him.

  “Tjuan, please,” I said, feeling as though my lungs had shrunk to half their size. “Talk to me. What’s going on? What was Naderi calling about?”

  He looked up, eyes empty. “They say I shot a guy.”

  “What? Tjuan, what?”

  “They said I robbed a liquor store near USC at noon on Saturday. The news just released a still from the security camera. It’s all over the news, the Net. Tyler saw it and he called the cops.”

  “Bullshit!” I pulled out my phone, started searching. So did everyone else in the room with a phone; Claybriar and Dawnrowan just sat there looking confused and upstaged.

  I googled and waited for the maddeningly slow hotel Wi-Fi. “Saturday at noon? That’s not possible. You were at the Residence; we had cake with Caryl. And then you went straight to work, and by then it was past one. Tyler has it in for you; he saw what he wanted to see. It’ll be obvious once they—”

  But then the image came up. It wasn’t grainy; it wasn’t ambiguous. I’d been living with the guy for three months, and every bone in my body said it was him. Same tall, slightly slouching frame. Same cheekbones. Same large-knuckled hand wrapped around the

  gun

  the gun the gun the gun

  “Oh my God,” I whispered.

  He was looking directly at the camera. Obsidian eyes with down-tilted corners, slightly asymmetrical eyebrows. Looking at the camera as if to say, Fuck you. I don’t care who knows. Gun still pointed off camera at someone. At someone.

  “Oh my God,” I said again.

  “I need to go home,” Tjuan said.

  “No,” said Caryl. “Tyler identified you.”

  Tjuan seemed to follow Caryl’s train of thought; he put his head in his hands again. I wasn’t quite there yet.

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “I’m saying,” said Caryl, “that if the police are speaking with Tjuan’s employers, they are only a warrant away from showing up at Residence Four.”