Garnet 2 - The White Queen in the Looking Glass

Chapter Two
The White Queen in the Looking Glass

Lily watched Alyssa leave the room, the silvered glass like a barrier between the White Queen and Black. The young witch stared hard at her reflection for an excruciating moment, examining every flawed detail of her face—too wide nose, too thin lips that no amount of lip plumper could fix, eyes set too far apart, cheekbones too prominent, forehead too big, eyebrows too thick, ears sticking too far out, hair too thick with not enough wave to make it at least look the littlest bit stylish.

At first glance, Lilith Whitmoor was beautiful, a knockout. With a closer look, she was positive that anyone with eyes and a brain would see what she and her parents always saw—faults, imperfections. Where there should have been a glittering diamond, there was only a cracked and flawed cubic zirconia. Just as pretty to the uneducated observer, but worthless on the inside, her mother had always said. And Gia Whitmoor would know; the woman was an expert on fashion and jewels. Lily hated to admit it, but Gia knew quality when she saw it. Which was probably why her mother had wanted to get rid of her when the witch Queen had discovered she was pregnant a second time. Lewis Whitmoor, Lily's father, had had to talk (and threaten) her out of it—in case Gavin, Lily's older brother, "hadn't worked out."

That appreciation for quality was also probably why Gia had homed in on Jack. One of the few things Lily and the flesh-eating Faerie boy had always agreed on—Gia Whitmoor was a depraved cougar with no life who needed to keep her hands off her daughter's Knave. Lily had approved wholeheartedly when Jack had nearly ripped her mother to pieces when the disgusting ho-bag had tried to seduce the dearg.

Yes, Gia and Lewis Whitmoor both knew quality when they saw it…which was why they'd always despaired of their second child and put all of their hopes behind Gavin.

Lily thought of Alyssa Carde, the Black Queen, with her compact body and elfin face; her silky cap of auburn hair, chopped short so no one could grab it in a fight; the spark in her fierce, feral eyes...the same gold as the White Queen's, but a totally different shape and look. She dressed like a homeless bag lady, acted like a total barbarian, and didn't have the sense God gave a rock.

But Jack loved Alyssa, and hated Lily.

She'd seen it in his eyes when he'd come into the bedroom: hate. Pure and unadulterated, sharp as razor wire, toxic as any poison. It had been like every slap her father had ever delivered with the hand that bore his coven ring, times a thousand. The one person who was supposed to stay with her, the one person who had to love her because what else was he there for...and he hated her.

Lily wanted to hate the Black Queen for that, and couldn't. Because unlike Jack, unlike the Black Court she was unwillingly now a part of, unlike her brother Gavin, and unlike her parents, the Black Queen didn't hate her, didn't think she was worthless. In fact, whenever they spoke, Alyssa's eyes held the same love a sister might have for her younger, more obnoxious, wayward sibling. The prodigal daughter. It didn't make any sense.

That's how she stole the Queen of Spades from you, Lilith, her father's voice hissed in her ear. Don't let her fool you. She's manipulating you.

A sharp pain lanced through Lily's temples and she turned away from the mirror to glance out Alyssa's bedroom window. A cap of bronze hair bobbed along next to a halo of golden curls. Alyssa and Jack. The Black Queen and the Knave of Hearts.

No…wait…

An ache settled deep in Lily's chest when she remembered that no, he wasn't her Knave anymore, her Knave who would rip out any number of Red Court hearts to make her happy. He was Alyssa's Black Jack now, the Black King to her Queen.

"I hate her," Lily whispered, but she knew it wasn't true. She hated a lot of people—Geneva, the Red Queen; her own brother, Gavin, their father's favorite; their mother, busy sleeping her way through the starving artists of Paris to solve her midlife crisis; their father, who played favorites and never seemed satisfied with her. She disliked Alyssa, firmly believed she had the IQ of a lamp post, and needed to be put in her place. But the fire behind hate wouldn't come, because if she hated Alyssa, the only person who didn't hate her, then she would have no one.

She'd never had no one before. There had always been Jack. Jack, who fixed her snacks in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep; who would let her camp out in his tree house when they were kids and she'd had nightmares about Gavin trying to kill her; who beat up anyone who made her cry, even Gavin, even though attacking the White Knight would earn the dearg a beating; who took her shopping and always made her feel good about herself when she tried something on, instead of telling her she looked cheap or trashy, like her mother would.

But Jack hated her now. She had to get used to that. Alyssa was the only one who didn't, and wasn't that just pathetic?

Oh, she hates you, her father's voice muttered, silky as sin. How can you not see it? How can you be so blind to her contempt for you? A witch who can be fooled by a human doesn't deserve to call herself a witch.

"Shut up," Lily snarled, dropping her face in her hands. She rubbed her throbbing temples. "I don't care what you say. I'm not coming back just so you can punish me again. At least no one hits me here." And that was just bizarre. Except for that single fistfight at the Heart of the Maze of Mist at Homecoming, no one had physically attacked her since she'd moved into the Black Queen's house. She knew Jack and the others wanted to—they wanted to kill her—but Alyssa had told them point-blank that anyone who attacked her would be kicked out o the Court. "I'm physically safe here," Lily added. "I'm not leaving."

You're not safe, though. This voice was her own, the niggling voice of doubt. If Alyssa ever changes her mind, Jack will have a lot of fun tying you down, slicing you into bits, and baking you into pies. He's always had a fondness for witch flesh. And he'd make sure it hurt. He doesn't love you anymore. Maybe he never did. He won't protect you. He'll hurt you just because he can.

"I'm not listening to either of you," the White Queen whispered. She would've put her hands over her ears, but if she let go of her head she thought it might explode. Tears of pain and panic stung her eyes. Her brain pulsed and throbbed in her skull. She needed to get up and get some ibuprofen from the bathroom…but she couldn’t even seem to force herself to her feet. She just curled up on the vanity stool, clutching her head.

You don't really think the Black Queen actually cares about what happens to you. Even you aren't that stupid. Not my daughter.

Her father again. She could almost feel the burning in her face where he would backhand her if he were there, lecturing her like he used to. The thin, raised scar on her cheek throbbed in time with her head and her heartbeat.

That's how she stole Jack, you know, the voice continued, gently chastising. Why wouldn't it just shut up? Why wouldn't he leave her alone? She didn't belong with him, with the rest of her family, anymore. She was bonded to the Black Queen, and she wasn't welcome there, with them, with her so-called family, anymore.

She tricks them into thinking she loves them, just like she's tricking you. I thought you were too good to be tricked. That's what you kept telling me. 'Nobody can fool me, Daddy, I'm the best witch at Pillar Prep.' Were you lying? Looks like it, because she's pulled the wool over your eyes. Oh, Princess, what happened to my girl who could see through all of their tricks?

Lily's head shot up and she found her face in the mirror, pinched and white with rage, tinged with gray. The pain in her head eased back until it was just a slight pressure against her temples.

"You're wrong," she whispered, reaching out and tracing the reflection of her pale face. How long had it been since she'd been outside? Seen the sun? Spoken more than a handful of words to anyone other than Alyssa? Since the night of Homecoming, she realized. Since she'd lost everything because the Black Queen had shattered her Coven and her Court. "She hasn't tricked me."

Oh? That derisive voice mocked her, made her want to scream. But if she screamed, the Black Court would come running because they had to, because Alyssa had ordered them to protect her. Lily didn't want them in here. She didn't want to see them, any of them. Especially not Jack and Alyssa, who were so in love that it turned Lily's blood to shards of razor-sharp ice in her veins because Jack had never looked at her the way he looked at Alyssa. And if she screamed, the throbbing in her head might come back. Hasn't she?

"She hasn't tricked me," Lily snarled at the mirror. Her teeth were a feral gleam between toxic-pink lips. Her eyes gleamed feverishly. "She can't trick me. I can see right through her."

Good girl. Her father's praise, imaginary though it was, filled her with warmth—the first shred of warmth she'd felt since before Homecoming. That's my Lily. Good girl.

Lily leaned back, shoving a hand through her hair. No, she wouldn't fall for Alyssa's tricks. She wouldn't. The Black Queen couldn't toy with the White Queen. And she was the White Queen. She'd get her Coven back. She'd get her Court back…and she'd show her parents that she was worthy of being the Queen, of becoming the High Priestess of the Coven of White, of wearing the Alabaster Crown of Faerie.

And most importantly, she would get her Knave back…even if she had to kill Alyssa to do it.

Garnet 1 - My Roommate—The White Queen

“Snap out of it, you stupid human! Wake up! How am I supposed to sleep with you whining in your sleep?”

 

Lily's nails bit into my shoulders through my t-shirt as she shook me. Dizzily, I pushed her away. Coming out of an alternate dimension, even if I was only visiting the place magically, always left me feeling like I was down two or three pints of blood. How did I know what that felt like? My boyfriend had once taken a chomp out of me and drunk my blood, knocking me unconscious for almost an hour.

 

“What?” I mumbled, focusing my fuzzy eyes on the White Queen—my bad, former White Queen. “What d'you want?”

 

 “Your King is here.”

 

Lilith Whitmoor was icily beautiful in her slinky-white slut dress and spike-heeled screw-me shoes. Only the saving grace of silver leggings and a silver belt kept her from looking like a street walker. Instead, she looked like a heroin-chic supermodel with an abusive boyfriend. The bruises on her face and neck had yet to fade away completely, despite her Faerie blood.

 

“Ugh,” I replied, trying to suppress a twinge of guilt. Those bruises had been from me. I didn’t normally whale on people like that, but…well, she’d pushed me too far by then. Not that I was making excusing. Really. “Please don't call him that. That is so lame, you have no idea. Black Jack is bad enough.” Everyone was calling my boyfriend that now. Ugh.

 

The condescension in her smirk would've made my blood simmer if I'd been more than half-awake. “You wanted to be Queen, human. Deal with it.”

 

Heh. Human. If only she knew. We’d discovered a few weeks ago that my entire life had basically been a lie and I was either adopted, or my parents were holding out on me, because I was actually a demon—basically a type of super fairy. Specifically, I was one of the Boajun.

 

In layman’s terms, a boojum. So scaryful sounding. And I was in a prophecy. Whoopee. In reality, all either one got me was a spot on the hit list of the Fayre royal family and the demon Parliament or whatever.

 

If I’d really wanted to scar the crud out of Lily, I could have told her about being Boajun. She probably would’ve fainted.

 

And then when she woke up, she would turn me in to the Faerie Cops and I’d get killed.

Pushing down those depressing thoughts, I tried to sit up and ended up rolling out of bed and landing on a pile of books. The look in Lily's eyes told me she'd put them there on purpose. Most people probably would've been angry, but I actually found this whole thing a bit amusing. She'd been on the top once, able to bring some serious smack-down. Now she had to resort to petty pranks like that. Pretty sad.

 

The laughter died in my throat when I rolled off the books and onto a tack. The thin needle stabbed deep into my palm until the disk at the end was flush to my skin. Blood welled up and seeped out.

 

“Why,” I growled, prying the tack's flat head away from my flesh, “am I letting you stay in my room, again?” A few drops of blood spilled out of wound. I sucked on it; I was not putting on a Band-Aid because of Lily the Lunatic.

 

Lily smiled. “Because you're a stupid human who doesn't know what's good for her. And you’re too soft.”

 

As she spoke, Jack Knightly stepped into the room with my textbooks in one arm and Eddie Wong, the Knave of Diamonds, in a headlock under the other. My court didn’t like Eddie because he’d almost killed me while under soul-contract to Geneva. Now he worked for me, and we were friends. I called him Funshine Bear; he didn’t mind much.

 

Jack released Eddie—albeit reluctantly—to glare at Lily, while Eddie started gathering up the various articles of crud I needed for the school day. Since the Chinese-American shapeshifter had nearly killed me by severing my carotid with his super-nasty eel teeth a few weeks ago, Jack and the rest of my posse kept him running step-and-fetch as punishment. I kept telling them not to, but despite my title as Queen, I apparently possessed very little authority.

 

A great example of just how little authority was Jack's treatment of Lily. I didn't expect the flesh-eating Faerie boy to love the psychotic witch who'd tortured him since he was barely old enough to walk, but I'd asked him to ignore her at the very least.

 

“Watch your mouth, witch,” the dearg snarled, baring his needle-thin, rot-black teeth in a feral grin, obviously not ignoring her. “In case you've forgotten, I can actually take bites out of you now, and it's been a very long time since I've had a bite of White witch.” Even as he spoke, his obsidian needle teeth multiplied in his mouth until it seemed like his jaw would crack from the overcrowding.

 

Tension crackled like static in the air. I was starting to regret that the “do-no-harm” restriction on all the new members of the Black Court was fading. Pretty soon, they'd be back to killing each other. I didn't know how to fix that, or the current situation. If Jack took any bites out of Lily, she couldn't defend herself because of my bond with the dearg. She was the only one helpless because of how tightly I’d bound her to me. I hadn’t wanted to—who wanted Sadism Barbie prancing around in their head? —but it was either that, or kill her.

 

I didn't like Lily—obviously, as I was prying a tack out of my hand that was only there courtesy of her—but I didn't advocate attacking defenseless people either. But Jack was pissed enough that he probably wouldn't listen.

 

So I did the only thing I could think of.

 

“Ugh!” I yelled, throwing myself back on my bed and kicking me feet like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Come on, you guys!” There was so much whine in my voice, it came out “guy-zuh!” Flopping on my belly and wriggling like a landed trout, I moaned, “It's too freaking early to be starting this stuff. It's only Monday! I have to go to school in an hour.”

 

By now, both of them were staring at me like I'd grown tentacles. Sticking out my bottom lip until my mouth veins were visible, I added in a wobbly voice, “Can't we all just get along?”

 

Jack narrowed his eyes at me, which were leeched of their blackness and washed out to nothing but white. When he was that angry, acting like a ten-year-old Valley girl was the only thing that seemed to work, since he found me so ridiculous he had to laugh. It was a cheap ploy, but hey—whatever worked, right?

 

“No. No, we can't get along,” Lily snapped. “I'm only here because—"

 

“We don't care why you're here,” Jack replied, quietly now. His teeth were lightening up, receding a bit. “What my Queen wishes is my command. Count yourself lucky.”

 

And he swept out, leaving Lily fuming and me thankful there wasn't going to be any fresh blood spatter on my bed.

 

Eddie just kept tidying up around my messy room (also courtesy of the White Queen, who was used to having servants clean everything and refused to learn how to pick up after herself), probably pretending to be invisible so I wouldn't notice him and kick him out. I'd let him stay, though. He really wanted to be useful, and I felt tons better about being “alone” with Lily with my toothy shadow bustling around the place.

 

When Lily had first moved into my room, we'd had a lot of friction over closet space (she had more shoes than Jack had teeth), who got to sleep on the bed (um, me, obviously, since it was my room and she'd tried to kill me several times), and whether she was allowed to use our guest bathrooms like the rest of my court (Jack and Fiver wanted to make her pee in the nettle bushes at the edge of my backyard).

 

Thankfully, we'd moved past arguing about everything. Now she just planted little booby traps around my room and baited everybody so they'd attack her and end her miserable existence as an outcasted witch thrust into abject poverty.

 

That last part was a direct quote. Yeah, I couldn't believe it, either.

 

Unfortunately for Lily's plans for passive suicide, I'd made it clear that anyone who laid a finger on her in anything other than legitimate self-defense would find themselves kicked out of the Court, since I despised the idea of backstabbing and infighting. I wanted a Court, not a pack of wild dogs willing to kill to win my favor. Manslaughter—not a way to impress me.

 

“You need to learn to control your Court, human,” Lily snarked, plopping her plastic butt on my vanity stool and beginning to carefully apply some pearl-pink lip-gloss. The bits of glitter were like tiny jagged shards of glass.

 

Giving orders on how to be a psychotic megalomaniac—also not a way to impress me.

 

“And how do you suggest I do that?” I growled, dashing into my closet. I'd been stabbed by a tack, a sucky way to wake up, so today I planned on dressing like a hobo. Grabbing a bright orange t-shirt with gray stripes that said Help—My Cat Is Stuck in a Tree in Odaiba, I hastily yanked it over my head and grabbed a pair of jeans.

 

“That's obvious,” the White Queen replied when I popped back out of the alternate dimension that was my closet. She was now applying smoky eyeliner. Since I had to tie the laces on my combat boots and couldn't cross my fingers or toes, I crossed my eyes and my tongue and wished really, really hard that she'd poke herself in the eye.

 

“Obvious. You mean I should torture them so they live in constant fear of me losing my temper and killing them in horrible ways, the way you did? 'Cause in case you've forgotten, you've been overthrown. Clearly there are flaws in your plan. And,” I added, coming up behind her and crossing my arms, “you're hogging my mirror.”

 

She didn't budge; just kept applying her silvery lipstick. Eddie straightened up and shot the White Queen a dark look before asking, “Do you need me to remove her, my Queen?”

 

I sighed. “Eddie,” I said, patting him on one skinny bicep. “My splendiferous Funshine Bear. For the gajillionth time, please don't call me that. It's just Alyssa.” Being called “my Queen” all the time was just one step closer to becoming a whacko like Lily. Not on my to-do list.

 

“I apologize,” the nerdy-looking wereel replied. “Let me rephrase: do you need me to remove the White Queen, Lady Alyssa?”

 

It was a choice between sighing again or face-palming. Too much sighing could easily come across as too melodramatic, so I slapped my forehead. Farewell, brain cells.

 

“Back on topic. Your way of getting people to do what you want doesn't work, Lily. Hence your Knaves and your... your Queen secondary staging a coup.” I could almost say that last part without flinching.

 

“If it weren't for you, that never would have happened.”

 

“Blah-blah-blah, hindsight is twenty-twenty and stuff,” I said, taking my backpack when Eddie offered it to me. He'd packed it for me yesterday evening.

 

If I wasn't careful, I could get used to this kind of treatment. On the flipside, I could feel my muscles atrophying from lack of use. Whenever I said something like, “I'm gonna get some ice cream” and got up to get it, the boys sent Eddie to get it instead, and he'd be back with it before I had time to take more than ten or fifteen steps. The only thing I could always manage was the remote control. Eventually I'd lose the ability to manipulate my own limbs and be a helpless torso with stick parts.

 

“Maybe you should shut up and go catch your bus,” Lily said, blowing a sparkling, poisonous pink kiss at my mirror. The Vibe nearly knocked me on the floor as her brilliant golden eyes cut to my reflection in the mirror. Lucky girl—she didn’t have to go to school, since her dad and her brother wanted her dead for failing to kill me at Homecoming. One of the reasons I let her stay here. Maybe I was a big ol’ softie. “Big day today.”

 

“Don't remind me,” I muttered.

 

She smirked, and I throttled the urge to smash her face into the glass. I was trying to set a good example, for everyone. It wasn't—completely—Lily's fault that she was basically an axe-murdering circus freak. Seeing the way she tried to powder over the thick, ridged white mark on her cheek helped me remember that.

 

 “Is the so-called Black Queen afraid of a little tea party?” She mocked, and I started forgetting again.

 

Tightening my backpack straps with shaking hands, I replied, “Nope. Just afraid of going to prison for killing Doreen.”

 

“I can promise you, human, Doreen is the least of your prob– what in the name of all that’s holy and pure are you wearing?”

 

I glanced down at myself, glanced at Lily in her glamorous dress that looked like it came straight off some fashion show runway. Her slinky, shimmery white and silver silk or whatever it was versus my bone-gray stripes on pumpkin orange cotton—yeah, mine was way better.

 

“Anime t-shirt,” I said. “I've got tons. They're really comfy. This one’s from Digimon.”

 

“I don’t even know or care what that means. You're going to wear that.” There was a wealth of incredulous disbelief in her voice.

 

“Yes,” I said, and she turned to stare at me in abject horror.

 

“To school,” she clarified. I nodded. “Today.”

 

“How many ways do I have to say 'yes?' What, are you brain dead?”

 

“That's what I'm wondering about you. You're going to wear... that.” She gestured with helpless disgust to my outfit. “To a meeting with the Red Queen's Hatter and the Lady Dormouse.”

 

Both of whom should feel honored that I was wearing jeans with no holes in them and bright orange laces in my combat boots instead of the usual black (especially considering Hattie Marshal had tried to kill Jack and me many, many times and Doreen had murdered my best friend by shoving her down two flights of stairs), but I didn't say that. All I said was, “Lily, with names like that, I don't think anyone's going to really care about me wearing an anime shirt to this meeting.”

 

She thought about that for a minute while I wondered if I'd have to fight for the right to sit at my vanity table. Was it worth it? I touched my chopped hair. Bone-straight and baby fine, it never needed brushing. Tangles were invaders to my cranial orbit. The dark auburn locks probably stuck out in a bazillion directions, but I could fix that with water. So no, not worth it.

 

“Maybe I'll get luckily and my dad will think I'm the one that killed you,” Lily said suddenly. “Someone probably will if you show up looking like some kind of homeless kid at a freak convention instead of like an actual Queen. Way to slap Geneva in the face. I would've done that ages ago, but I have too much self-respect.”

 

I had about ten seconds to figure out if I was going to allow my anger over that comment to put me in jail for assault and battery. I decided on trying to avoid the police. Then I bit my tongue until I tasted blood and counted to one hundred, just to make sure.

 

“Well,” I replied, grinning with false joviality as I moved to leave. “I've always had killer fashion sense.”

 

“Lame,” Lily replied without looking at me. She was back to admiring herself in the mirror. Was Geneva that bad about primping? “Also untrue.”

 

“Everybody's a critic.”

§

 

She came downstairs, and everything in me relaxed. Part of me cringed because she should have been coming down those steps with me, but if I'd stayed in that room with the White Queen a second longer, my control would've snapped. My teeth would've ripped through Lily's carotid. And Alyssa would have been... I didn't know how Alyssa would've been. Furious, certainly. But would she hate me for killing the White Queen? After everything Lily had done? After everything she’d made me do?

 

“Is there a problem with what I'm wearing?” My Queen demanded, shaking me back from my red-washed fury.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“My shirt. Lily said there was something wrong with my shirt.”

 

My first instinct was to disagree with whatever Lily had said, simply because she was the one to say it. Then I got a good look at the monstrosity draped around Alyssa's torso and winced. Where did she get some of these things?

 

“Great,” she muttered, seeing my expression. “What the heck should I wear, then? They're lucky I even agreed to this. Now I have to dress up, too? Yeesh.”

 

“I don't see why you dislike wearing nice clothes to school.” It had been like pulling teeth to get her to wear something other than blue jeans and combat boots to Homecoming, despite it being a semi-formal event and the most important night of our lives thus far. Only Julie had been capable of getting Alyssa “girlified.” And she'd still worn the combat boots with her dress.

 

“I feel like crap when I put on nice clothes and they get ripped on barbed wire or covered in blood.” My Queen flopped onto the couch, backpack and all. The frayed canvas-and-duct-tape book-bag had seen better days. “Pee is even worse,” she added.

 

“You've been peed on?” Chantal, the werecat who'd been lounging on the back of the couch like the felines she took after, perked up. “When? By who?”

 

“Jimmy Byron, first grade. He hit me in the head with a rock, beat me up, dumped me in a trash can, and proceeded to pee on me.” Alyssa girl glared up at the ceiling, arms folded tightly across her chest. “Then he did the Tarzan yell and ran off. I pushed him off the jungle gym the next day. Accidentally broke his arm.”

 

So she could take out her tormentors without even trying. “You've led a fascinating life.”

 

“I'll take that as a compliment, but I'm still not dressing up.”

 

I raked a hand through my hair. Sometimes I could get Alyssa to see reason if we sat down and talked things out, but we had approximately five minutes to make the bus. We were being very careful today—not taking Mouse's van, since it was indirectly Darren's van and Darren was a sore subject with Geneva; not taking my Firebird, either, because the fire-engine red paint job might upset the Red Queen or her Court. So we actually had to maintain a schedule.

 

“At least wear a shirt that's in our Court color,” I pleaded. Her mulish expression had me biting back a sigh. My second set of teeth ground against each other until my jaw ached. After three months, didn't she understand she had to make an impression? Even after the battle against the White Court, she didn't seem to care about impressing anyone.

 

 “This isn't a formal occasion,” Alyssa said, eying me from the black leather couch. “It's not like Prom or a funeral. We're sitting down out under the Ramada at school and talking during lunch. Whoopee. Why do I have to wear black?”

 

“I thought you liked black.”

 

“I do, but I also got stabbed right after I rolled outta bed. Since I'm not one to throw pity parties, I want to wear my Greymon shirt.”

 

“Your what? Never mind,” I hastily amended before she could explain anything anime related. They ought to teach classes in anime literature, I thought as I struggled to condense a very long explanation into two minutes. It was the only way to understand most of what Alyssa was talking about past the words, Have you ever seen.

 

 “It's close enough to a formal occasion that you ought to be a little dressy,” I said aloud. “We're trying to open negotiations with the Red Court so we don't have a repeat of what happened with the White Court. We also need an ally against Gavin Whitmoor. What better ally against the White Knight than the Red Court? Please, put on something else.”

 

“Can I wear one of your shirts?”

 

I blinked. “Pardon?” I did not trust that guileless expression as far as I could throw its owner. She had some kind of nefarious scheme cooking. At least I knew she wasn't plotting out various methods of slicing me up while keeping me conscious. That was one of the things I loved about her. It was one of the things that had tricked me into falling fast and hard before I’d even realized what was happening.

 

“Yeah. If you let me wear one of your shirts, I'll dress up.”

 

“That's not dressing up,” I protested, but I might as well have tried to huff and puff a brick pig-house to the ground for all the good it did.

 

“Oh, it so is.” She smiled now, the smile that reminded me why I fought so hard to keep her alive despite herself. The smile that made me keep trying to get her to follow at least some of the rules. When the time came that everyone found out what she was—and it would come, I had no doubt—it would all matter then. It was the smile that made me grin like a loon, and even though I knew I probably looked ridiculous, I couldn't keep that answering smile off my face.

 

She got up and walked over so she could throw an arm around my shoulders. Her arm barely reached all the way around. I smiled, and laid my cheek against her hair. The bus would be coming in just a few minutes, but I didn't care. Not right then. I didn't want to force my way into Pillar Prep and deal with witch politics all day. I just wanted to stay here, with Alyssa and others, and rest. We still hadn't had a chance to really rest.

 

How did she handle it all, day in and day out? How did she handle all the stress and the fatigue and the emotional exhaustion?

 

She had to be on drugs. Well, I wanted whatever happy pills she was taking. Though kissing her always raised my spirits.

 

“Wearing one of your shirts totally counts as dressing up. You don't own a single article of clothing that doesn't have a designer name attached to it,” Alyssa said. “I think the cheapest thing in your closet is seven hundred dollars. I don't own anything that costs that much.”

 

“Well, they were designer sunglasses.”

 

“Sometimes,” she replied, “I cannot believe I know you.” And she kissed me on the cheek and went to kidnap one of my black silk shirts. The spot where her lips had brushed against my cheekbone burned pleasantly. When she did, it seemed everything would turn out all right.

 

But then I remembered that Alyssa was the Alice of the Haydn’s prophecies, the prophecies coded into Lewis Carroll’s “children’s” classics. And that meant that she would bring on the breaking of the Treaty of Jubei, which would keep the human world (mostly) safe from the Ayza, the demon royal family in Fayre. Alyssa was the Alice, which was basically a death sentence. The girl I was in love with—the only girl I had ever loved—had a death sentence hanging over her head.

 

Things were not going to turn out all right. We just had to hold out long enough to rip out the root of the darkness poisoning the Faerie Courts here.

 

Could we hold out that long? If Alyssa had anything to say about it, we would. I just hoped she was right.

Darkness There, and Nothing - CH. 2 - All Is Illusion and Vain Fantasy

Chapter Two

All Is Illusion and Vain Fantasy

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"Thea?" Frigga murmured. The queen of Asgard moved to the window of her private receiving room, brushing a tendril of hair back from her face. Her son saw that her hand trembled just a little. Thor watched as his mother pressed her fingertips to the smooth pane of window-glass, pressed until her fingertips turned white at the edges. "Thea," she said again, as if testing or tasting the name. "Thea."

Sunlight drifted through the glass, casting rainbow sparkles upon the smooth marble floor and across the silken folds of his mother's white dress. Her hair, piled artfully atop her head, caught the amber light of morning. It burnished the bronze strands, bringing out glints of copper fire. Thor stood near the chair his mother had offered him—the chair he'd been too restless to take when he'd first arrived—and watched Frigga stroke the glass. Worry for Loki was in every line of her body, in the brittle set of her shoulders, even the angle of her head as she studied Asgard through the window. They all worried for Loki; until the day he and Thor had battled atop the Bifröst, there hadn't been even the slightest inkling that there was anything wrong with him.

"Who do you think she is?" Frigga asked softly, pulling Thor's thoughts back to the meeting at hand. "This Thea he spoke of? A woman? Could he…" She trailed off, then seemed to steel herself to continue. "Could he have fallen in love with one of the Chitauri's agents, do you suppose?"

Thor's massive shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. "I don't know. I…I'm not sure. He spoke of they. Not a single person. And he…he spoke to me of children."

Frigga's head whipped around, her honey-gold eyes wide. "Children?"

The prince sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "He provoked me, and I told him he was acting like a child. Suddenly he…he changed again. He was being his typical condescending self. He sneered at me, so I struck back with an insult to show him how petty I thought he was acting. It enraged him. I have never seen him so furious. He raged at me not to speak to him of children. I didn't understand…I still don't understand what made him so angry."

"Perhaps this…Thea…was his child?"

Thor's eyes widened and an odd feeling churned in his belly. Loki…with a child? The thought was so alien, so bizarre, Thor could scarcely fathom it. His brother couldn't have a child. Loki as a father?

But then, if not so, why had his little brother become so infuriated at the petty insult? Had Thea been Loki's daughter? Or if not that, then a child he'd inexplicably grown fond of, who'd been killed during the Chitauri invasion? No, because how was that Thor's fault?

Unless in Loki's insane guilt, he had to place blame on his foster brother because he could not shoulder it alone…

"I simply don't know, Mother," Thor murmured, heaving a sigh. "I do not know what Loki is thinking, or even if he speaks the truth. I came only to give you a report of what occurred last night. I know you worry for him."

"I worry for all of you," Frigga replied in a strained voice, turning back to the window. "Tyr was so angry at being passed over for the kingship, but…but he simply wasn't ready. Would never be ready. Víðarr feels Loki's betrayal so keenly; he looked up to him. I do not know if they will ever be able to mend the breach. Balder and Hermod are both torn by what your brother has done, and you…we've asked so much of you, Thor—"

The brash, boyish smile Thor gifted her with seemed to ease some of Frigga's strain. She smiled at her second-eldest. Thor went to her and took her hands. "You needn't worry, Mother. I will handle Loki."

"Don't let Tyr provoke him," Frigga added. "I do not know what cruel game he plays with your brother, but Tyr's harsh words will help nothing."

Thor nodded. "Don't worry. I will speak to Tyr."

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As before, when Thor went to the dungeons to speak to his brother, he approached with silence and the utmost caution. He'd never been as good at skulking and sneaking as Loki and Balder, but these days it seemed that if he took enough care, and Loki was distracted, his brother wouldn't notice Thor's presence until the older prince had had a chance to observe his strange behavior for a time. He was counting on that; after everything Loki had said the night before, Thor wanted a chance both to think and to observe his foster brother.

The clank of iron-shod boots on the marble floor arrested him. Frowning, Thor paused. The air suddenly seemed to hang thick in the torch-lit corridor. A sliver of apprehension whispered down the Æsir's spine as a guard hurried down the hall, eyes wide beneath the visor of his golden helm. Thor took three quick strides forward and grasped the guard by the shoulders, halting him.

"What is it?"

"Prince Loki, Your Highness," the guard gasped. "He is trying to perform seiðr to break the bonds of his prison."

Something sharp and hot sliced through Thor like a blade. Loki was trying to escape? Now? Because he knew Thor was coming, and didn't wish to answer anymore of his questions? Or because of something else? Thor shoved past the guard, ordering, "Fetch my father."

Without waiting for the guard to acquiesce, he took off running. The blood pumped hot through his veins as he laid one hand on the hilt of his sword. His other hand flexed at his side, his fingers twitching with the desire to wrap tightly around Mjölnir. His hammer would come if he needed it, but for now, he would rely on his blade. Loki hadn't broken out yet—the backlash of power from the shattering prison-spells keeping him bound would've been felt throughout Asgard. There was still time to stop him.

With that thought, Thor lowered his head and put on a burst of speed that rocketed him down the corridor and around the corner, where he slid to a halt just before he would've come into Loki's line of sight.

But Thor could see Loki as plain as day.

His brother sat against the plain white wall of his prison, shoulders hunched, knees drawn up to his chest. One hand curled into a white-knuckled fist, pressed against Loki's mouth hard enough that Thor was surprised his brother hadn't cut his lips on his own teeth. The other hand stretched out toward empty air, palm-up, trembling as if it held up a great weight. Loki's dark sleeves were rolled up to mid-forearm. Blue veins and chords of muscle strained against the pale flesh, and sweat streamed down the white brow, plastering strands of ebony hair to temples, cheeks, and neck.

Loki's breath came in harsh, ragged gasps. His chest rose and fell sharply with each breath. An intense, almost mad fire blazed in the absinthe green of his gaze; that gaze focused on a spot somewhere in front of him, never blinking, distant with concentration. Thor could tell Loki hadn't closed his eyes, even for a second, in some time—moisture gathered and seeped from the corners of Loki's reddened eyes.

The second hand flexed open, shot out to join the other. Long, slender fingers stiffened; both hands shook with Herculean effort. Dark brows knotted in fierce concentration and the green eyes narrowed to mere slits. Pale, thin lips peeled back to reveal Loki had gritted his teeth, almost as if he were in pain. His breath whistled between his clenched teeth as he struggled against the bonds of his prison. The seiðr that the All-Father had placed around the prison and laced throughout the room vibrated and hummed as the pseudo-Æsir fought to bring his spell to fruition. The ensorcelled glass shield rattled in its casement with the force of the magic battering at it.

No. No, Loki couldn't escape. Not again. As vividly as a nightmare that would always haunt him, Thor remembered the day Loki had stepped out of the containment unit on the SHIELD Helicarrier, amusement in his sea-green eyes, that smug grin on his face. As if everything were going according to plan. Thor recalled vividly how he'd run to tackle his brother, to shove him back into the cell, only to pass through the illusion of him like lunging through a sheet of icy water. He remembered the hiss of the prison door closing him in, his little brother's mocking query, Are you ever not going to fall for that?

All too well could Thor remember Coulson preventing Loki from dropping the Asgardian from the Helicarrier to what should have been certain death…only to see his little brother murder the Midgardian who'd inexplicably become his friend with a thrust of the bladed spear through Coulson's back. Loki had murdered him…stabbed him in the back…like a coward…

Thor drew his sword, the uru metal whispering against the leather sheath like a softly spoken promise of vengeance. His heart hammered in his chest, threatening to bruise his ribs. He took a step forward, rage and grief warring for pride of place in his chest. The leather-wrapped hilt of the sword was a heavy weight in his palm. He would do whatever it took to prevent Loki's escape. He would…he would shatter Loki's concentration…and if that didn't work, then…then he would…what would he do?

Another step dragged him closer to his brother.

Something shimmered in the air about two feet in front of Loki's nose. Shadows and shimmers of verdant light twisted and writhed in the air, coiling around each other, morphing like clay to take a vaguely human shape. Loki bit his lip until it bled. A thin trickle of blood leaked from his left nostril. The crimson droplets stood out as stark as rubies in the sun against the wan face and dark clothes. Wrinkles snarled across Loki's forehead and between his eyebrows as he leaned forward, hunger written plainly across his features.

The twining shadows smoothed out, the vague shape sculpting into more definable lines. Thor froze perhaps ten paces away from the cell. Thor didn't know as much about seiðr as Loki—no one did, at least in Asgard—but he knew a little. Enough, in fact, to know that what Loki was doing would never get him out of his cell. It would never help him escape.

It was an illusion spell. Not the kind of illusions Loki normally used to deceive his enemies; something less malignant, less vicious. This illusion couldn't even make tactile contact. Though it could be touched, it couldn't touch anyone itself, couldn't affect the world around it. That was a subtle difference taught to every Asgardian warrior, because this type of illusion could be damaged, but could do no damage in its turn. If Loki had been forming an illusion of himself, perhaps it would have made sense, but this wasn't an image of the pseudo-Asgardian at all, nor could it be mistaken for such.

Thor lowered his sword as the shadows and smoke solidified into the image of a young child. He couldn't see the child's face, as she faced away from Thor and toward Loki; he saw only the back of her head and body. She might have been perhaps five or six years old, judging by her size. Slender, small, with thick, lustrous black curls falling to the middle of her back, she stood in typical Asgardian dress—a simple linen shift the color of fresh cream beneath a green velvet kirtle embroidered with gold runes. A deeply emerald ribbon tied back those curly black tresses, giving Thor just a glimpse of pale, round cheek, delicate ear, slender throat. Her small hands hung at her sides; in one she clutched a stuffed black bear with green eyes.

Was this Thea? She couldn't have been Loki's child. She was too old. Loki hadn't been in the habit of fathering bastards, and even had he been, Odin's edict regarding illegitimate issue was well-known—the by-blows (and their mothers) were to be brought to the palace, given work there, and taken care of as befitted the children, legitimate or not, of the royal family and the court nobles. Loki couldn't have had a child—not one he knew of, at any rate—before falling from the Bifröst three years ago, unless it were a Frost Giant babe…but the little creature Loki had rendered via illusion was no Frost Giant. So who was this girl?

Loki drew a shuddering breath. Jade eyes roved over the illusion of the child with insatiable hunger as he reached out with one shaking hand. Trembling fingertips halted a hand's span from the small cheek. Loki's fingers knotted into a fist and his breath escaped in what might have been a sob. Then, moving as if he might shatter, he caressed the child's cheek with his knuckles. Carefully slid his fingers into the black curls and ran his fingers through them; his eyes tracked the movement of his hand before returning to the girl's face, which Thor still couldn't see.

"I'm sorry," Loki whispered. Thor jolted; it seemed his entire body had gone numb, then been struck by lightning. The rage and fear of Loki's escape dwindled to nothing, replaced by confusion and uncertainty. Loki's mouth quivered as he breathed, "Oh, little one…I'm so sorry. Forgive me. I swore to protect you…swore I would always…but I failed you. I'm so sorry."

Then Loki did the unthinkable—he shifted, rising to his knees, and embraced the child, pressing his face against her shoulder. A fine tremor went through the long, lean frame. Loki crushed strands of the little girl's black hair in his fists even as the illusion began to fade. Thor watched—chest tight and throat raw from swallowing back salt and sorrow at his younger brother's grief—as the girl's image vanished, leaving Loki holding naught but empty air. The rattle and hum of seiðr pressing against seiðr slowly faded.

Slowly, as if afraid of bleeding to death, Loki drew his hands to his chest and bowed his head. His shoulders shook once, twice. Then he went still. He knelt there for a moment, simply breathing. Then he surged to his feet and strode to the fireplace to gaze down at the flames. Thor saw then that an entire stack of drawings were burning to black char and ash amidst the coals. Was that what had brought on this sudden need to conjure the illusion?

Loki passed a hand over his face, and when it dropped back to his side, there was no sign of the anguish that had so recently pained the pseudo-Æsir. The pale countenance was a blank mask, empty of everything. Then Loki's lip curled, his mouth twisting into that familiar and irritating smirk that made Thor's fist ache to knock it askew. He straightened his shoulders. Rolled his neck until a small pop released some tension. Then he sighed and shook his head, before chuckling to himself.

"Thor is a fool," Loki whispered, still sneering. "But then, so are they all."

The words were a slap that struck aside everything Thor had felt in the last few moments upon seeing the illusion of the child. Left behind was only simmering anger.

"Fool, am I?" Thor demanded. His voice emerged harsh and strained, but the fresh anger in it came through well enough. Loki tensed, but didn't whip around to face his brother. Instead he pivoted slowly until he could look Thor in the eye. The elder prince snapped, "And why am I a fool?"

Loki chuckled dryly. "Well, there you stand. Surely the guards rushed off to tell you I was attempting to escape, yet you come running with your sword drawn in an effort to stop me…again. Even though every time you've attempted it, you've failed. Is that not foolish? Or perhaps mad," he added with a bright smile that made Thor's teeth clench. "Is not the definition of madness, 'doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result every time?'"

"Our father is coming to see you," Thor said coldly, ignoring his brother's taunt. "You will offer the proper respect—"

"I believe we've already established that he's your father."

"So you decry us all because he didn't tell you that you were a foundling? Truly?" Thor sheathed his sword. "Don't tell me that everything you've done, every treachery committed, is because Father kept that truth from you?"

His brother shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. "Believe what you will. You always have. Which is why, I imagine, you told the guard to bring the All-Father, in case I managed to get past you once I'd broken my bonds." When Thor said nothing, Loki scoffed. "So predictable."

"I remember what happened the last time you escaped your prison," Thor muttered. "You killed a man I was proud to call my friend and ally."

Loki arched a brow. His eyes glittered with cold amusement; in the light, they seemed almost blue, rather than his typical green. "Oh? Did I?"

Thor lunged for the enchanted glass separating him from his brother. Thumping his fist against it, ignoring the prickling of the magic bound within the glass, the Asgardian growled like an enraged lion, "Don't you dare mock me! He was my friend, Loki, and you murdered him in cold blood."

Another disdainful scoff. "He had a gun aimed at me. What did you expect me to do, Brother—let him blast me into a million pieces? I know you were sorely disappointed when I managed to survive his attempt, but surely you've more sense than that."

"Disapp—" Thor choked on the word. He stared at the disguised Frost Giant with incredulous eyes. "Is that what you think? That I wanted you dead? Bor's ghost, Loki, why would you ever think that?"

"Because I remember you dropping me off the end of the Bifröst into the blackness of an abyss without a thought, Brother!"

He'd said that before, Thor recalled, when they'd argued in the forested hills around Stuttgart. We grew up together, played together. We fought together. Don't you remember? And Loki had said something like, I remember you dropping me into an abyss. Thor hadn't known what to make of that at the time; still didn't. But there had been other things that needed to be said, and so he'd let it go. Yet surely Loki didn't think that Thor had let him fall on purpose? Loki had let go of the haft of Gungnir. Didn't he remember?

"You let go," Thor murmured. And even now, that memory sent a shaft of ice through his heart. "I begged you not to. I begged you, Loki, and yet you…you let go."

Loki blinked, brow furrowing as if in confusion. He shook his head slowly. "No. No, you dropped me—"

"I didn't," Thor insisted. "I would never. You're my brother. I mourned you, Loki. I thought you were dead. When I found out you were alive, I was overjoyed. How could you ever think otherwise?"

"Oh, yes, you seemed quite glad to see me when you dragged me off that Midgardian aircraft by the scruff of my neck like an errant child and then hurled me into a mountainside when we made it back to the ground. I could see your joy as plain as a campfire in the dark, Brother."

"You'd murdered innocent people. The Midgardian authorities had you in custody for crimes you'd committed against them. Did you expect me to be happy about that?"

A flash of snow-white teeth in a smile that was more of a sneer. The mazarine tint of Loki's eyes became more pronounced. "Happy? Perhaps not. I suppose it isn't your fault you've become so soft. I can understand, even sympathize. No, I didn't expect you to be happy. But I didn't murder anyone. The Midgardians who died were unfortunate casualties—"

"Unfortunate casualties?" A rich, deep voice asked from behind Thor. Immediately Thor saw Loki's features close off, his eyes go blank and cold as frosted jewels. His lips thinned into a severe line. The elder prince hadn't realized how much his younger brother had opened up to him until Loki shut down in the presence of the All-Father who'd raised them both. Odin continued, "Is that what you call those innocents, Loki?"

Loki's lips twisted into an expression Thor couldn't quite name. "Do you think me a liar, All-Father? Do you doubt my sincerity?"

Odin's single blue eye burned as it rested on his adopted son. "Do I?"

The disguised Frost Giant gave a short, sharp laugh that seemed to Thor as if it should've left either Loki or Odin bleeding—or both. Loki replied, "Ah, but I'm never sincere, am I, Thor? You've said so yourself. But then," he focused on Odin, and the blankness left his gaze, to be replaced by something icy and razor sharp, "neither are you."

Odin didn't speak for several long moments. Thor studied his father, wondering if the king of Asgard saw as much—despite Loki's mask of mocking boredom—as Thor did himself. Finally, the white-haired Asgardian asked, "You attempted to thwart the containment spells on your prison; why? What did you hope to accomplish? Surely you knew you couldn't break them and escape, so why waste so much effort?"

Thor opened his mouth to tell his father about the illusion of the little girl, then closed it. Loki didn't know he'd been seen; at least, Thor was fairly certain he didn't know, judging by Loki's reaction the last time he'd accused Thor of spying on him. What sort of damage would it do to whatever progress the golden-haired prince was making with his wayward younger brother if he revealed that secret to their father in front of him? Somehow Thor knew that Loki would never forgive him. And what would Odin do with the information? Had Frigga already told him of the mysterious Thea, whose death the pseudo-Asgardian blamed on Thor?

"It wasn't a waste," Loki said simply, smirking once more. "Clearly Heimdall isn't keeping as strict a watch as you would like, since he cannot answer your questions. Then again, he has always been particularly blind to what was right in front of him…as have you, All-Father."

"Loki, that's enough," Thor cautioned sharply. Loki shook his head, but said nothing more. "Father, Loki hasn't escaped, as you can see. He has not the strength to make another attempt in the near future. Let me speak to him alone. Perhaps I can get the answers you seek."

When Loki snorted, Thor shot him a look that clearly said, Shut up.

After another interminable silence, Odin nodded. "Very well. Reason with him…if you can." And he turned on his heel and strode off down the corridor, leaving the brothers alone save for the guards. At a nod from Thor, they took themselves off a ways, giving the princes privacy once more.

"I hope you enjoy wasting your breath," Loki said with a smile. He turned to walk to the chair where he normally sat during his and Thor's often one-sided conversations. "Not to mention your time."

"Both are mine to waste," Thor replied, thinking quickly. "Tell me…who was the girl?"

Loki froze, as if his entire body had been encased in a thick sheet of ice. So excruciatingly slowly, he turned to look at Thor. "What girl?"

"The child you conjured," Thor said gently. Bored mask gone, Loki leveled a vicious look at him. "Who was she?"

"That is none of your concern."

Still keeping his voice gentle, the Asgardian prince asked, "Was that Thea?"

Pale hands slammed down on the table hard enough to make the ink-wells rattle. "Don't say her name!" Loki hissed, hatred seething beneath the words. "How dare you? You don't deserve to speak her name!"

Time for a single moment of ruthlessness. "Why?" Thor demanded. "Because you and I killed her?"

The effect on Loki was immediate. All the rage and hatred dissipated and he sank into the chair like his legs would no longer support him. His pale face grew haggard. He closed his eyes as if attempting to block out Thor and his incessant questions. A ragged sigh escaped him.

"That child—that was her, wasn't it?" Thor asked. "Who was she to you?"

But Loki shook his head. Wearily, he said, "That wasn't her. That was…someone else."

"Who?" When Loki didn't speak again, Thor said, "You said you would give me the reasons for my condemnation today, Brother. You would tell me once and for all why you hate me so. Well, here I am. Give me your reasons. Because of a girl whose name you have forbidden me to speak, and why else?" Silence stretched between, broken only when Thor implored, "Tell me why, Loki."

The seconds ticked by as Loki sat with his eyes closed, his face unreadable. Thor measured those seconds—those small eternities—with the rapid, uneasy beat of his heart. Finally his brother lifted his head and locked shadowed emerald eyes with his own blue gaze.

"The…the child you saw…" Loki seemed to momentarily struggle for breath. "Her name…was…Sophie."

Was. A hollow pang hit Thor in the chest. The child had been so young…"She is dead, then."

Loki's hand, resting atop the table, spasmed into a white-knuckled fist. "Yes."

Sophie. A Midgardian name. A Midgardian child? Thor couldn't be sure, but he did know that Loki would never have given a child of his loins a name from Midgard. No Frost Giant would give their child a Midgardian name. Nor, Thor was almost certain, would any Asgardian woman Loki might have bedded do so, either. Loki had always disdained mortals. He would never call a daughter of his after mortal fashion. But then…who was the child?

Sensing an odd brittleness in Loki, Thor's voice was at its gentlest when he asked, "Who was she?"

The green-eyed prince shook his head. "I cannot explain so you would understand…not in the time we have. I know I promised you an explanation, and so you shall have one, but to make all known, I must start at the very beginning—the moment I fell from the Bifröst." He cleared his throat. "It is quite a long tale. Are you certain you wish to hear it?"

Thor nodded. "Tell me. I will hear you out, Brother."

Loki drew yet another ragged breath that seemed to tear through his chest like a knife. He said softly, "You asked me who Thea was. I'll tell you. She was a prisoner of the Chitauri…a prisoner from Midgard."

"One of the prisoners you captured for them?" Thor hazarded.

Yet Loki shook his head. A rueful smile played about his mouth, edged with no little pain. His eyes were tired when they lit on Thor's baffled face, but a flicker of amusement warmed them from glacial emerald to a softer green.

"You still think you know how it all played out. You think you're so wise," Loki whispered, "so clever." He leaned his head back, supporting the weight of it against one fist. His dark hair gleamed in the lamp- and firelight. The lines of pain around his mouth deepened as he closed his eyes again, laughed softly, ruefully. "You think I caught her, like a songbird behind golden bars, and then regretted caging her when my better nature won out? You're such a fool, Brother. My prisoner? No. Thea wasn't my captive."

Noting his brother's emphasis, Thor asked, "Then…who was she?"

"She was the prisoner in the cell next to mine."