Stepping through the portal felt just like stepping through a waterfall.
Which was to say, Chat hated it. His knees nearly buckled, far too much force slamming into his body, and it left him with the unnerving sensation of being coated in some sticky substance. It was no more than a phantom itch, but it still left him battling the urge to clean out his coat. Not that he had one. No, he was naked, pink skin wrapped in a thick layer of leather. A poor substitute for warm fur.
Scarcely five minutes into his Hunt and he was already keenly mourning its loss. How long until he'd have opportunity to wear it again? If he was to be surrounded by humans all hours of the day, it might be years.
But then new scents reached his awareness and he inhaled deeply. Strange. He was used to that ever-present burn in his nostrils, the one that heralded fae and nightmare. But there was nothing, no tingling scratch in his nose keeping him alert. Just a sort of… blandness.
Well, not quite bland.
In fact, without the overpowering scent of Underhill's magic, a lot of other, subtler flavors opened to him. A hint of ice and frost tickling his nose, but also pine cones and sleeping grass and–
He whirled around, eyes widening.
Humans.
Humans wildly swinging iron sticks at nothing whatsoever.
"They're enthralled," a nasally voice said. Ah. There was his taste of home.
Chat Noir turned to face the Changeling. Like him, she was covered in pink skin, even shared his coloring to some extent, an elaborate crown of golden curls sitting atop her head. But her clothing was different, consisting of a voluminous dress, the fringes tipped with delicate lace. His leathers were cut to be more formfitting and practical.
Her body was different, too, all supple curves where he was hard edges. This wouldn't mean much among the fae, but among humans it marked her female, and him male.
Chat Noir had always liked the bodies shaped like an hourglass. Especially when they formed that dip around the waist and flowed into wide hips, that was his favorite. He begrudgingly awarded one point to humanity, for having half their species look like that.
He glanced at the humans still slashing the air. Males. Or maybe that was just their bulky armor obscuring their form.
"Enthralled for what?" he asked his fellow fae.
She rolled blue eyes at him. "The prince was devoured a year ago. We had to concoct a backstory of where he's been. As far as these knights are concerned, they are currently rescuing you from the wicked clutches of evil mercenaries." Her lips pursed as her critical gaze raked over him. "You're too clean. Alter your glamor to look like you've been imprisoned for a long time."
Chat nodded, cuts and scrapes appearing all over his body, his clothes turning from pristine into a dirty mess. After a moment, he also added a head injury, matting golden hair with sticky red. That should give him a convenient excuse for any lapses in his judgements.
"So what's your name?" he asked the fae who'd arrived first to prepare his arrival.
"My true name is my own." She sniffed haughtily. "But here in the human world you may call me Chloe Bourgeois. She was a noble girl, daughter of the king's right hand. He's my thrall, too, and his word will ensure nobody will doubt where you've been."
His smile was strained. Already he could tell that this Nightmare fae was like so many others of her ilk, cold and haughty. Working with her would be a pain. Chat Noir at once began plotting ways through which to separate from her.
She was to be his guide in the human world, but he had the distinct feeling that they'd come to blows if he was forced too long into her company.
His Lady would be angry with him if he antagonized his allies. Separation was the best path forward.
"Do you think they found him?" Rose whispered.
Marinette glanced at the blonde before turning her gaze back to the window. "Who knows," she murmured. "He's been missing for a year. Any true trail he might have left has long since grown cold."
Rose pouted. "You're such a cynic."
She wasn't. Not really. She had prayed fervently for his return, every night, for months and months. But hope could only burn for so long before the flames started licking at her flesh. For her own protection, Marinette had abandoned all expectations of ever seeing the kind boy again.
Not that her odds of seeing him again were that great even if he still lived. He was a prince, after all, and she a mere servant. It was only luck that had led to their unlikely childhood friendship. A series of events that was unlikely to ever repeat.
So Marinette had hardened her heart. Prince Adrien was gone from this world, and life went on, as it always did. They would sort out the line of succession, and then some other man would take the place that should have rightfully been Adrien's. The realm would have a king who bore a different name and nothing in her day-to-day life would change because of it.
And yet Marinette was as glued to the window as Rose, staring at the darkness, looking for any glimpse of the patrol that had set out to follow a clue for the prince's whereabouts. They had left days ago and would surely be back soon.
If there were awards for being the most pitiful woman on earth, Marinette would earn a spot in the top ten. If not the top three. Hells, she ought not underestimate herself like that – she would aim for the gold.
"Look!" Rose squished her nose against the glass. "Lanterns!"
Indeed. Those were lights on the horizon, bobbing up and down like fireflies.
"Rose," Marinette said slowly. "I believe it's time for us to dust the vases in the foyer. I saw stains this morning."
Dusting was far outside her duties as a lady's maid but who would complain if they discretely did some extra cleaning in the middle of the night? They positioned themselves so they had a good view of the main corridor, each armed with a duster for plausible deniability.
It did not take long for the door to slam open and men's shouts to fill the hall. Rose said something, but Marinette did not hear, her gaze fixed on the visible portion of the corridor.
Because there he was.
Unconscious, frayed clothes covered in dirt and grime, he was carried past them by two knights. His golden head of hair was stained with dried red, and Marinette stifled a noise somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.
It was him.
Prince Adrien.
He was alive.
"What's all this commotion?"
Marinette flinched and turned toward the stairs to her back, sweeping into a deep curtsy. Even freshly roused from sleep, Lady Bourgeois was a sight to behold, her thin chemise fluttering around her body. Her blue eyes narrowed with suspicion as they focused on Marinette.
"There you are. Explain to me why my Lady's maid absconded into the night when I needed her?" She sniffed haughtily, tugging at her disheveled locks. "My hair is an utter disaster; how can I show myself to the rest of the household like this? I want to see what the fuss is about." The Lady paused, glaring at Marinette, and then barked, "What are you still standing around for? Get me a comb!"
Marinette curtsied once more and swiftly fetched the comb hidden under a vase. They were stashed in all corners of the household for hair emergencies. Lady Bourgeois prided herself greatly on being fashionable, and even a single strand out of place could send her spiraling into a rage.
Though she'd not always been like this.
No, once Marinette could count herself fortunate to serve a Mistress so fair and even-tempered. But all that had changed almost in the blink of an eye when some sort of betrayal had led the Lady to scorn her betrothed in full view of the court. Heartbreak had turned Lady Bourgeois into an utter nightmare for close to half a year now. Marinette prayed the change in der disposition was not a permanent one.
"My Lady," Rose whispered, belatedly remembering to curtsy as well. "They've found the prince!"
The steward's daughter grew utterly still, her blue eyes instantly welling with tears as she clutched one hand to her chest. "A-Adrikins?"
Marinette hurried up the stairs to where Lady Bourgeois stood frozen and set to gently taming her hair. "We just saw him get carried in. I think he's wounded." She swallowed heavily at the thought of what the poor man must have endured in a full year of captivity.
"Nobody must know," Lady Bourgeois declared at once, fixing both servants with a hard glare. "The situation is precarious enough, let the prince explain what happened before we start spreading tales of what state he was found in."
Speculation surrounding the prince's disappearance was rampant, all wondering who had done it and why. The prevailing theory held it that a rival kingdom had sought to cause a crisis with the line of succession, weakening the realm in preparation of an invasion. But since nobody knew who exactly was responsible, it led to rather tense relations with all the realm's neighbors who eyed the fortification of their armies with suspicion.
"Of course, my Lady," Marinette said softly, as did Rose, the biggest gossip in the household.
The rest of the staff knew before dawn. From there, the news spread like wildfire to the rest of the kingdom.
Chat Noir was so bored.
It was one thing to be forced to lie in bed and pretend to malinger. That, he thought, was within his capabilities. Chat was quite skilled at napping.
But they'd placed him right in front of windows, giving him a full view of white fields and a dark forest on the horizon. Little creatures kept drawing his attention, frolicking in the snow, and his fangs ached with the need to hunt. It did not help that he was hungry all the time, those wheat concoctions they kept feeding him no substitute for meat.
They refused to close the curtains, the physician insisting that warm light lifted the spirit and aided the recovery. Physicians, as far as Chat could tell, were some flavor of human healer. The flavor being 'supremely bad at their job'.
They'd tried placing bloodsuckers on his arm! For a head injury.
He had not been able the hold in the hiss that had torn from his throat. After that they'd prescribed him another dose of leeches, and he had heard them privately whispering about something called an 'exorcism'. Probably involving yet more leeches.
Restless energy ran through him. Yes, he adored naps, but those roughly twenty hours he spent dozing were offset by four hours of running and leaping and chasing until his tongue lolled and his limbs burned in exhaustion.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and a handful of heartbeats later, the door creaked open. Chat scowled at the newcomer – one of the many maids – and silently cursed his muted hearing. If he still had his ears, his real ears, he'd have heard her coming far sooner. Instead, the world was muffled and dull.
Chloe said he would be able to relax his Glamor in time but for learning how to pretend to be human, it was best to be human. Even when he was alone with no witnesses. Method acting, the Changeling called it. Just so he'd get a feel for what the baseline human male was capable of.
His verdict: not much.
"Your Grace," the maid said, gliding closer to his bed. "I've brought you breakfast."
A quick glance told him it was more wheat mixtures molded into little half-moons. "Leave it on the nightstand."
She placed the silver tray just as he'd asked but then she stood still, folding her hands demurely in front of her skirts. Her bluebell eyes were filled with some sort of expectation as she stared at him.
Ah. He was supposed to recognize her.
Trouble was, humans all roughly looked the same. Male and female he could tell apart, yes, and their different colorings were another vital clue. But beyond that? They had nothing approaching the variety he was used to from the fae. Only the most minor variations in their proportions and face.
And then they had the infuriating habit to dress alike. Who'd thought of this? The 'maids' all wore the exact same garb and pinned their mane atop their heads in the same bun. It was like they were conspiring to make his life difficult.
Thankfully, he had the haughtiness of a Lordling to fall back on.
"Is there anything else?"
"I – Your Grace – which is to say, Adrien – I don't mean to be improper! But I'm happy to see you recovering and I was thinking that maybe–" She trailed off into incoherence as one of his eyebrows slowly wandered up his forehead. "Do you remember me?"
He squinted at her. Black hair, blue eyes. If he had to pick one word for her it'd be dainty. She looked like she would break if he breathed on her too hard.
Chat Noir much preferred a mate who stood a chance of breaking him. Danger only added to the passion.
Where had that thought come from? He already had his Lady.
And this human stirred no memory at all.
"I hit my head and have not been paying attention to the servants tending to me. You'll have to forgive me, but I'm sure you've been doing a fine job." Then he added a variation on the same praise he most liked to hear from his Lady. "Good maid."
Anger flashed in her eyes and for just a moment she looked interesting. "Th-thank you, Your Grace," she choked out through gritted teeth, and then she curtsied, turning on her heels.
The door slammed shut with far more force than needed.
Hurt feelings. Not the right words, then. Ah well, live and learn.
Servants were not that important in the game of whispers, though they could make staunch allies. But those were advanced levels of subterfuge, and for now he would concentrate his efforts on fellow nobles.
He fished one of the food items from the tray and bit into it.
Gagging, he spit it out at once.
Whose bright idea had it been to mix wheat with sugar?
Humans had the absolute worst taste imaginable.
"Your Grace. Your son has arrived in the capital."
Gabriel's lips drew back in a snarl. "Not my son."
His valet nodded. "Yes, of course. One must watch for vultures who would take advantage of grief. Grifters and imposters abound. But Your Grace, Lord Bourgeois has confirmed that it is him, as has his daughter."
"Changeling. Dark magic fools the eye."
"Yes, Your Grace." A barely visible twitch of his stoic valet's eyebrow. "Have you had your dose of laudanum today?"
Had he? The morning had passed in a pleasant blur, so likely yes. Damn. He was supposed to take it in the evenings. The king appreciated the tincture for the dreamless sleep it gave him, but he had to remember not to overindulge. It dulled the senses. "Yes."
His valet's frown deepened with disapproval. "You should get ready to meet the man claiming to be your son."
"Have him executed," he hissed. "Use an iron blade."
The dark-haired man sighed. "Meet with him, and you can swing the blade in person. I understand you are angry that someone might abuse your son's likeness for profit – certainly it's not the first we've seen – but what if it is Prince Adrien?"
"It's not. I saw what she did to him. In the mirror." Gabriel paused. "But you're right. Killing the Changeling in person is much more satisfying."
"You should eat to gather your strength, Your Grace."
The king nodded, absently adjusting his finery. "Yes. Thank you, Noel."
His gaze was drawn to the hated mirror hanging on the wall. It was covered by thick drapery to hide the silent scenes of a hunting predator. The King had not seen his own reflection since that fateful night when the last person who mattered to him had slipped away.
No, whoever it was they'd found could not be Adrien.
Because the fae whore delighted in showing Gabriel the mindless beast she'd turned his son into.