Author's note
Part Twelve concludes the portion of the story set in Winter, and the series itself (at least for now). Be forewarned that a lot of questions are deliberately left unanswered, though the conflict with Daphne is not among them. I haven't yet decided whether I want to write about what comes next or whether I'd prefer to let you fill that in for yourself.
This is primarily an incest story, but it is also sci-fi/fantasy, and supernatural elements are not incidental to the plot. In fact, there is very little sex in this volume.
As ever, if you have questions feel free to email me or leave a comment. Either way, I'll try to respond in a timely manner.
*****
When she first stretched out on the dead man's bed, Yvette's intention was merely to revel in the moment. To bask in how cold and powerful she'd become. But then she remembered that the fucker hadn't given her any information before pushing her to take extreme measures. Her body tightened up and she began to shake as she fought to hold her rage inside. Blood ran down her palms, headed for her wrists.
She was stronger than him. Didn't the fact that she was still alive while he was melting into puddles on the floor prove as much? Yet, for all intents and purposes, he'd
won
.
Inside Yvette, a wave built and built and built then fell away without cresting. The violent outburst she'd thought inevitable didn't come and release her from all the toxic energy inside her. Instead, her eyes watered and she began to sob.
She wasn't strong. At all.
No, in fact, she was quite weak. Shamefully so. Would her mother ever let her temper get the best of her like that? Had Lady Winter ever even felt white hot rage? Of course not. Nor would any true daughter of hers. So long as she remained a slave to her emotions, Yvette had no right to those trademark blue lips. In her mind, she watched them turn black. And the tears that soon rolled down her cheeks were the same color. As was only fitting.
Did it help anything to lay there and cry, when she ought to be out looking for her brother? Or at least informing someone of her massive fuck-up? No. It did not. But she was capable of nothing else. Once she started, she couldn't stop. Emotions she'd thought buried so deep as to be nearly fossilized came back to the surface, and she began to hate herself for things she'd herself no longer capable of feeling guilt for.
Yvette had become an unstable, frightful, sadistic monster. On top of that, she wasn't even any good at it. Which a better person might have been proud of, if her failings at least stemmed from an inability to set aside her conscience. But no, it was worse than that. She desperately wanted to be as horrible as her mother, she just lacked the self-control.
But a girl could only cry for so long.
After hours that might have been ten or fifteen minutes, Yvette climbed out of bed. Or, part of her did. All that was weak and sad and pitiful remained, lying still as the mountain beneath her. The rest of her moved weightlessly out into the hall.
Where she found Oberon, accompanied by the strangest little woman.
The fairy prince, like she herself, was made of mist. His form was wispy and insubstantial. Colorless. But his companion was cast in sharp relief. And hoarding all the color in all the worlds. She wore it in streaks through her pale blonde hair, and it danced in her mercurial eyes. Her lips were red then purple, green then orange, even an unearned blue, though only for a brief instant. Her nails flashed neon this and pastel that, darker shades appearing here and there for good measure. Strangely, though, her translucent chemise was plain white.
"Who are you?" Yvette demanded.
But the woman did not respond. She just looked at Oberon then jerked her head ever so slightly towards Yvette in a gesture that was instantly recognizable as a mother giving her son permission to go after the girl. That was when Yvette realized she was sharing his dream, and that the woman beside him had to be Titania, Queen of Faerie. Or, rather, his recollection thereof, conjured up by his subconscious to tell him it was okay for him to let her go. It was almost sweet, but mostly amusing. In a pathetic sort of way.
Had her mother finally broke him? Or had
she
?
Perhaps he'd heard what happened in Cahill's cell. And figured he might be next. Terrifying as her mother might be, she was also rational. But Yvette?
There was a reason Lex Luthor looked as pathetic when compared to the Joker as Superman was to Batman. That, and Kevin Spacey had nothing on Heath Ledger. But the point was, she was unpredictable.
Maybe that scared the little fairy. As it should.
Who said she was a failure? She wasn't her mother, no, but that was okay. It took all sorts. Daphne had her style, and Yvette had hers, which was different but no less effective.
"I understand my nephew made you a promise," Oberon said.
Beside him, Titania smiled with metallic silver lips. Though why that should amuse her so, Yvette had no idea. Especially since she wasn't even there, but a figment of Oberon's subconscious, and he himself seemed anything but amused.
There was less charm in his surprisingly deep voice than she expected. But no matter. She understood what was happening. He was going to offer to save her now, in hopes that she might spare him. If for no other reason than his fey nature, he'd even do his best to follow through on that. If she gave him half the chance.
Somehow, Yvette managed not to snicker.
"He did," she replied. "Are you going to fulfill it for him?"
He nodded. Because of course.
Damn, it was a good thing children of Winter weren't bond to honor their promises the way the fey were. Yvette couldn't even begin to imagine how restrictive that must be.
Granted, since they all played by the same rules, it might not be so bad for them most of the time. When they stayed in Faerie. But here in the big leagues, they were crippled by their childish code. The sad, pretty little things.
"You're so gallant and noble," she said, trying to sound the way young women always did in fairy tales. Like she had no reason for existing other than to reward whatever brave young man might rescue her from her distress. "But first, if we could just-"
A sword larger than the man who wielded it appeared.
Yvette shrieked.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she gave the order to run. But her body refused to execute it. She was frozen in place. Staring in shock as the steel rushed towards her.
The bed was cold.
Of course it was cold. She was in Winter. Beneath the mountain's surface.
But wait. No.
That might all be true, but she was the queen's own blood. Cold was not something she could feel, except at the hands of a trusted lover. She had to
want
to be cold.
And why was she so wet?
It felt like someone had thrown a bucket of warm water on her abdomen. Only water wasn't that heavy and sticky. Molasses? Would somebody throw-
Then she saw her insides giving off steam, and she knew.
