The Empty Throne. Cayla Kluver
know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Everyone has a name.”
“No doubt true. But mine got lost someplace.” He stood and tossed the well-gnawed core he held into a trash heap a few feet away. After rubbing his palms on his trousers, he settled cross-legged on the ground facing me. Annoyed by his attempts to dodge the question, I persisted.
“Then what do people call you?”
“Beggar, runt, scamp, sometimes just boy. Pick what ya like.”
“And what if I don’t like any of them?”
He shrugged. “Tag me with your own.”
Exasperated, I nudged him with my foot, and he shifted farther from me. “No, that wouldn’t be right. Tell me what you like to be called.”
He pulled off his hat and scratched his nest of curly brown hair, brows furrowed. “Guess I like Frat.”
“Frat?”
“Short for Faerie brat, but it suits me.”
I nodded, then examined the youngster more closely. He was slight of build, seeming particularly so in the oversize clothing he was wearing, and was caked in street dirt the same way a carriage might be, with heavier layers at the bottom. But there was no sign of magic about him.
“Are you Fae, then?” I ventured, more curious about this urchin than I wanted to be.
“Half and half. Mum was human, so me dad must’ve been Fae. He didn’t stick round, you see. But she weren’t ’xactly happy about me being born with wings. Cut ’em off when I was little.”
I gaped at him. How could a mother mutilate her own son? And how could he be so nonchalant about the experience?
“Don’t let it bother you none,” he continued, discerning my reaction from my face. “I don’t ’member much of it.”
“Where’s your mother now?”
“Don’ know. Sort of here one day, gone the next. Pro’bly arrested or dead. No matter—I likes things better on my own. She weren’t always so nice.”
“I’d say not,” I mumbled, more to myself than to him. Then I shifted onto one knee, putting my other foot beneath me. Feeling steadier than before, I stood, brushing debris off my leggings and cloak.
“You?” he asked, pointing to my back.
“Me? What do you mean?” I twisted, trying to examine my clothing, thinking that something must be stuck to it.
“Your wings. How’d you lose ’em?”
“Why do you think I lost my wings?” I protested, glaring at him. I wasn’t about to delve into my past at the whim of this boy. “For that matter, what makes you think I’m Fae?”
“You’re Fae, and you lost your wings. Nothin’ more to be said ’bout it. Lots of injured Faeries seek out the Black Magic. You’re not the first I’ve found out here—just one of the few still livin’.”
The matter-of-fact tone of Frat’s statement sent a shiver down my spine. How close had I come to being one of his more typical finds? I needed to get out of here, needed to get my head on straight.
Swallowing down a surge of nausea, I said as calmly as I could, “Well, thanks again. But I’ve got to be on my way.”
He scrambled to his feet and clapped his hat back on his head. “So what are you called?”
Once more, I felt the color rise in my cheeks. Where had I left my manners?
“My name’s Anya. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Frat.”
I held out my hand, and he gave it an energetic shake. Though this was no time to form a relationship with a young boy—and I wasn’t interested in a sidekick in the aftermath of Shea—I nonetheless hesitated. Now that he was standing, he seemed even smaller and somehow more fragile. Guilt about leaving him alone assailed me, despite his bravado.
“Do you have a place to go?” I asked.
“I know more ’bout these streets than you do. Plenty of places to go.”
“All right. I guess I’ll see you around.”
I picked up my pack and slung it over my shoulder, then headed out of the alley. I didn’t glance back, though the sound of scuffling feet told me Frat had departed in the opposite direction.
I quickly put some distance between me and the alley, but thoughts of the Fae boy weren’t so easy to leave behind. I couldn’t quite figure out why. It was true I felt a connection to him because of our common injury, and I doubted I’d ever rid myself of the image my mind invented of his mother’s abhorrent action, no doubt driven by the Fae-hating subculture in Tairmor. But while those things were horribly distressing and terribly wrong, something else was nagging at me. I kicked at some rubbish on the street, and it came to me like a rush of wind—all Frat’s suffering might have been prevented had his father not deserted his lover and child. I liked to believe none of my people would be so callous, so puerile. Our closeness to Nature created a bond with all living things, an understanding of our interconnectedness, and a strong sense of responsibility.
But I was obviously fooling myself—there were Fae who were not good fathers, and by extension Fae who would desert their offspring. I knew well enough that my friend Evangeline’s parents had been neglectful. And then there was Illumina’s father... A faint echo from my dream rang in my head—he is neither a good father nor a good Fae.
My stomach lurched and I halted, putting a hand against the wall of the building closest to me to steady myself. My breathing had picked up, along with my heart rate, and I feared I might faint. I leaned forward to rest my forearms against the stone, head bent down, my thoughts clanging into each other and sending pain through my temples.
Could Enerris have poisoned my mother, his sister? There had always been something unsettling about the man, and my own experiences had taught me he was unkind. And even though he had been the firstborn of his siblings, he had been passed over for the throne in favor of Ubiqua. What would have made him unsuitable to rule in the eyes of their parents?
As I struggled for breath, hazy memories from childhood slowly came into sharper focus—bits of conversation I had overheard about the fire that destroyed a section of the Great Redwood, rumors of injured and mistreated animals, vitriolic philosophies and arguments, and the scarifications on Illumina’s body.
At the thought of my cousin, molten lead seemed to work its way into the pit of my stomach. In addition to sentiments she had no doubt etched into her skin herself, four words had been carved on her back in a place she could never have reached: belief, strength, power, perseverance.
I clenched my fists, my heart turning cold even while anger burned my skin. I was glad Enerris was dead, glad worms and maggots were eating his flesh in some unmarked grave—it was believed he had taken his own life after Ubiqua had banished him to the human world for goading Zabriel into drinking a mug of Sale. But why hadn’t he been dealt with sooner? Why hadn’t he been stopped before he’d had the opportunity to hurt my mother? Despite all the actions in which he had engaged, had he really left no evidence behind? Pity welled within me at the thought of Illumina. There was clearly proof of Enerris’s demented philosophies on her body. Why had no one intervened on her behalf? And with such a man influencing her, how could she have turned out anything but damaged?
I groaned in misery, the lingering effects of the drug conjuring images I wanted to ignore. Then the distressing conversation I’d overheard between the three men in the alley resurfaced. The men had mentioned the tunnels that ran alongside the river. I knew where to find the secret entrance, having used it once before. I might not be able to change the past, to change things for myself, for Evangeline, or for Illumina, but there was one thing I could still do for Zabriel. When darkness came, I’d use the passages to beat the human vultures to