Lies of Murk by Eva Chase
5
Talia
The second time I wake up in the Murk colony they call the King’s Refuge, I’m alone in the little house of corrugated steel Madoc arranged for me, which is about the size of a large tent. He assured me that I could have something larger prepared if I wanted it, but all I wanted was somewhere to sleep without so many rat shifter eyes on me.
I’m far enough away from the Murk’s Heart that it isn’t rattling my nerves anymore, but I catch a faint, erratic quiver of my skin as I rub my eyes. Is there anywhere in this network of tunnels where I’d be able to escape it completely?
Maybe not, but I need to attempt a bigger escape. Which means I have to get a better idea of what and who I’m dealing with out there.
I tug at my new clothes—a long-sleeved tee and sweatpants Madoc had one of the other fae bring me so I could change out of my dress—and glance at the silky bundle I’ve left carefully folded in the corner. I’m glad for the change because I don’t want the other Murk paying particular attention to me when I’m wandering around, and the dress definitely stands out here. But other than my bracelet, it’s the only thing I have that connects me to the home I left behind.
I will get back there. And I can get started on making that happen now.
Cautiously, I clamber out of the hovel. The same unpleasant mix of smells reaches my nose, and there’s a faint metallic tapping sound carrying from farther down the subway station. The rat shifters must be at work there.
My head still feels muggy. I didn’t exactly sleep well in the nest of blankets Madoc left for me, with everything I’ve discovered in the past day buzzing around in my mind.
I go over to the bathroom and splash some water onto my face at the sinks, which thankfully work, although I’m not sure I’d want to attempt drinking the water their faucets spew out. Madoc pointed out the cases of bottled water that stand in one corner of every station and that the Murk must replenish regularly. If they don’t trust the tap water, I certainly don’t.
My stomach grumbles. I make my way along the platform to where a long table is set up. A couple of Murk are laying out an odd variety of food across it: bagels and a huge tub of cream cheese, a large tray of fried meat patties that appear to have cooled, various boxes of cereal with no bowls or milk to use with them, all sorts of fruit from bananas to mangos that look a bit bruised but otherwise all right, and more.
I pick up a muffin and a pear, biting into one and then the other tentatively. Fae brush past me to take their own meals from the table. Other than a few evaluating glances, which give me the sense that they know who I am, they ignore me. I guess that’s better than overt hostility. Madoc at least didn’t lie that his people wouldn’t hurt me.
As one of the rat shifters who laid out the spread steps away, wiping her hands together, I venture a question. “Where did you get all the food from?”
She studies me with sharp eyes and gives me a tight smile. “We take whatever we can find and make off with what doesn’t put us at too much risk. It should all be fine for you.”
So they steal it from the humans above. Although from the looks of some of the items, they might have already been discarded before the Murk took them. The rat shifters can’t have much choice, living the way they do. Where would they grow or hunt for their own food like the fae of the seasons do?
“Thank you,” I say, because even though I don’t trust any of the fae around me, she was at least patient enough to answer.
“Take anything you want,” she adds, with a tip of her head toward the table. “We bring more throughout the day. You’re Orion’s—no one will fight you over it.”
Do the Murk sometimes fight each other over the best scavenged morsels? But what really sends a shiver through me is her casual reference to Orion, as if I belong to him.
In his subjects’ eyes, I probably do.
I thank her again and wander on along the subway platform, scanning the activity on both sides of the tracks and down in their chasm. A lot of the Murk don’t appear to be doing much of anything other than lounging around and talking. But maybe the ones here are those who don’t currently have any work to do. I spot others vanishing into the tunnels and emerging from them. One man heaves a large box onto the platform just a few feet from me.
“What’s in there?” I ask, feeling a little more confident that he’s not going to snap at me for daring to talk to him.
He scrambles onto the platform next to his cargo, his tail swishing to help him balance. “Lead bars,” he says. “Bringing them to the crafting workshop.”
Because presumably it’s easier for the Murk to work with materials they’ve already gathered rather than summoning them out of the earth, just like I need a bronze object in my hands before I can shape it. I motion to the box. “What are you going to craft with them?”
A sly smile flashes across his face. “Whatever our king asks of us to further our plans.”
I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but he’s carting the supplies away before I can pry any further.
I continue exploring, picking my way carefully through the dark subway tunnels, where only occasional magically-charged lanterns provide a faint illumination, and making my way through two more stations. The last tunnel leads to a larger sort-of cavern filled with unfamiliar machines and other tools. This must be the maintenance area Madoc mentioned.
No fae are in that space now. I move along the walls, checking all the equipment over in case I spot something that might be useful, and notice a square opening on the back wall, a few feet over my head. A cover of interlaced steel bars is fixed over it.
I can’t reach it right away, but I manage to shove one of larger machines up to the wall beneath it and climb up on top to reach the opening. The square space is just large enough that I’m sure I could fit inside it.
A faint, cool draft washes over me when I bring my face close. It’s got to be an air vent of some sort. I think I catch a hint of car exhaust. Does it lead all the way outside?
It doesn’t appear to be an entrance the Murk use. I can’t see any way to open or close the cover. The steel panel is held in place by several heavy bolts, dappled with rust that’s starting to meld them into the cover itself.
I look down at my bracelet, hope flickering up in my chest. Maybe it isn’t a blade I’ll need most to defend myself—maybe it’s a wrench. I could shape the metal into one if I concentrated, couldn’t I? It shouldn’t be all that much harder than making a knife.
I’ll remember this spot for later. I don’t want to use up any of my meager magical energy on that right now. I might need all the strength I can summon to reach out to Whitt.
My mates need to know that I’m all right and that the Murk are trying to destroy them.
I slide down off the machine and crouch next to it, leaning against its solid metal side. No footsteps or rustlings of a rat’s passing reach my ears for several minutes. Can I trust that I’m actually alone?
Orion didn’t seem all that concerned that I might leave. Maybe he’s convinced that’s impossible anyway. I didn’t notice any Murk following me as I explored.
I bite my lip, waiting a little longer just to be sure. Then I cup my hands around my mouth to muffle as much of the sound as possible, close my eyes, and picture Whitt’s handsome face: his sun-kissed brown hair, his sparking ocean-blue eyes, his typical crooked grin.
Homesickness wrenches at me so hard it brings a flood of tears to the back of my eyes. My breath turns ragged.
I’ll get back to him—him and my other three mates and the home we’ve made. I have to.
“Wye-con-ell,” I murmur under my breath, putting all the concentration I can into reaching out to him across the vast distance between our worlds. “Wye-con-ell. I need to talk to you. Hear me. Let me hear your answers.”
My voice gets more urgent with each word. A fizzing sort of static rushes through my mind.
Then, all at once, a hint of my mate’s warm sandy scent grazes my nose. I have a vague impression of him, somewhere out there—far more ephemeral than when I tried out using his true name after he first gave it to me, but definitely something apart from the dark, dank room I’m hidden away in.
Talia?Whitt’s voice says in my mind, as if carried on the wind across miles, so faint I can barely make it out. Talia, where are you?
I squeeze my eyes tighter shut and train all my attention on my sense of him far away in the fae world. An ache spreads over my scalp with the effort. The Murk took me. I’m in the human world. Some kind of—
A more jabbing pain splits through my focus. I press my hand to my forehead as if I can force the discomfort back. How much of a message do I have the strength to convey to him before I lose this connection completely?
Whitt’s voice fades in and out as the magic between us wavers. Have they hurt you? Where… you? We’ve been… we can.
I struggle to decide on the most important information I need to pass on to him. I don’t think I know enough for my mates to figure out where this Murk colony is and come for me, not yet. And… I’m not sure I’d want them to anyway. Will they be able to overpower Orion and his people on their own ground, with their Heart so close and the Heart of the Mists so far away? They have no idea—they won’t be prepared.
It’s bad enough being torn away from them. I won’t lead them to their doom.
My hands clench in my lap. I put every shred of energy I have into the few words I can send him. I’m all right. Working to find a way back to you. Watch out for the Murk. They mean to invade the Mists.
The ache digs deeper. A sweat breaks out on my back, and I gasp in a breath. I can’t tell whether all of that reached Whitt. His voice and my impressions of him are fragmenting even more. We’ll… soon… if they… in there… love you.
I love you too, I think back at him with a pang through my heart, but in the same moment, the tenuous connection snaps.
I rock backward, banging my shoulders on the machine I’m sitting against. The headache has expanded all through my skull. When I turn my head, pinpricks of pain stab at the backs of my eyeballs.
I’m obviously not going to be holding extended conversations with Whitt any time soon. But at least he knows I’m alive and reasonably okay. Hopefully he heard enough of my warning to tell everyone to be even more on guard against the Murk.
Gripping a bar that protrudes from the machine, I haul myself to my feet. My head spins, the pain turning blaring for several seconds before it retreats just a little. I take shallow breaths in and out.
Am I even going to be able to make it back to the nearest station?
Holding my head as still as I can, I take careful steps toward the tracks, setting my hands against the machines for balance. I manage to find a slow but steady pace that doesn’t provoke the throbbing in my skull too badly.
When I reach the tracks, I focus on the gravel path between the rails. One step, then another, with a rasp of my boots over the gritty stones. After all my wandering, my ankle is starting to hurt too, a duller throb echoing up my leg.
It feels like years later that the starker glow of the station touches the edges of my vision. I take my next steps faster and immediately regret it.
Agony whirls up behind my temples. I sway to the side, the toe of my boot catching on one of the rails. I tumble forward toward the sharp gravel—
—and firm hands grasp me just as my knees brush the ground with a faint sting.
“Steady there,” Madoc says, easing me into a sitting position. As I wince and press my palms to my temples, he cocks his head at me. “What’s happened to you?”
“I—” I can hardly find my words amid the pain. “My head hurts.”
He peers closely into my eyes, so near that his scent washes over me, cool and faintly electric like the atmosphere just before a thunderstorm. Is he actually worried about me?
“Maybe the sudden, jarring change in environment is affecting you,” he says, lowering his voice even more as if he’s guessed hearing any sound at all sets off fresh sparks of pain. “Let me do what I can, and then I’ll get you back to your house and bring one of our healers to you.”
He touches his knuckles to my forehead and murmurs a few words. A welcome chill floods through my skull, dulling the pain. It’s still there, but the throbbing has become more distant. My thoughts seem to fade in volume at the same time.
“Better?” Madoc asks, and I manage to nod. “Wait right here. I’ll get you a cart so you don’t need to walk.”
In my dulled state, a mumbled plea slips out of me. “I want to go home.”
Madoc obviously knows I don’t mean the hovel I slept in. He brings his hand to my cheek with unexpected gentleness. “You’ll find a good home here among us. We’ll make it a good one for you. I promise.”
He strides off, leaving me puzzling over the raw emotion that crept into those words, as if he meant them more than I’d ever have expected.
