The sounds of battle grew fainter with every strenuous beat of her heart. Sweet relief beckoned as the pain began fading, her eyelids drifting shut.
No!
Her fingers dug into the dirt, trying to find something, anything, to hold on to. Stay. Stay awake, stay here, stay alive. She would not die here, not now, not like this.
Not when she hadn't yet had her vengeance.
Gravel shifted between her grasping fingertips, crumbling away. Where was her sword, she needed her–
"Maman," she whispered, but her throat wouldn't make the sound. Sinking into the murky space between oblivion and waking, the senses anchoring her to the world dimmed one by one.
Muffled noises caught the remains of her attention, and Alya clung to them, straining to parse the words' meaning. Something pawed at her throat, an echo of pain piercing the numbness that had taken hold.
A rush of air filled her lungs. Gulping in deep, greedy breaths, she rolled to the side. The back of her throat tasted of blood as she retched. She stilled when a soft touch brushed her nape, drawing back the wild locks spilling over her shoulder to save them from the slimy mess she was coughing up.
"Alya." The gentle voice was infused with relief, sounding familiar and yet alien. Cracking open her eyes, Alya blinked, inhaling sharply as her hard-won ability to breathe momentarily deserted her again. Vibrant blue eyes were staring down at her. The woman's skin was radiant, her regal face framed by a feathered headdress.
"…Marinette?"
A tentative smile crossed the woman's face in response. "Hello."
"Wow," Alya whispered. "Look at you."
Marinette's smile widened into a grin, just a hint of preening in her bearing. But then her expression grew solemn. "Are you alright?" Her voice was subtly altered, melodious and clear as a bell. "Does it still hurt?"
"I'm – I'm fine. I think." Though she had no idea how. She tentatively wiggled her fingers, her toes, and when she was certain all limbs obeyed as they should, Alya pushed herself to sit. "What happened?"
"That," said a deep voice, "is what I'd like to know."
Alya's head whipped around to stare at Lord Lahiffe, who stared back with wide, bewildered eyes. His gaze darted to Marinette, then back to her, as if he couldn't quite decide which one to gape at. Blood flecked his spectacles, the sleeve of his elegant coat torn and uneven.
He barked out a laugh, a touch of hysteria to it. It was a sound Alya knew well, born from escaping a brush of death with nary an inch to spare. Holy shit, it said, I can't believe I'm alive. If she hadn't been so exhausted, she might just have laughed along.
"Because – because none of this makes any sense. None of it. And I – what was that? What are you? Who – Marinette, really? What is–"
He abruptly cut himself off, staring at his hand. The hand Alya had impulsively decided to entwine with hers, squeezing it in quiet comfort.
"I promised to answer your questions, and I will," she said softly. "But the answers are complicated, so I must beg your patience for a moment longer, my Lord. Please."
He said nothing, his troubled stare at last settling on her and only her. Her skin prickled under the scrutiny. A moment later, he gave a sharp nod, even as the tension around the corners of his mouth tightened. He made no move to withdraw his hand, so Alya didn't either as she turned, craning her neck to survey their surroundings.
Starlight filtered in from above, the unnatural miasma slowly dispersing. She'd read of the death fog in her studies, though she'd never experienced it up close. A little pocket of darkness and isolation, designed to keep witnesses out and the screams of the victim in.
Disquiet rose, an awareness that there was something not quite right.
Why would a Changeling summon death fog? Any unsuspecting human who might have stumbled upon them would have added to its power, another puppet for it to use as a living weapon. So who had it been trying to hide from…?
"Where is it?" Alya asked.
"I killed it," Marinette said, subdued rather than triumphant. "I know you said we need to capture one of them, but your time was running out and… I had to choose."
Alya's hand absently brushed her bare throat, her fingertips leaving an unpleasant tingling in their wake. Not quite pain, but the echo of it. Her skin was smooth and unbroken, and only then was she struck by the fact that it really shouldn't be.
"You killed it," she repeated in whispered disbelief. "And then you healed me?"
Marinette nodded, eyes guarded as if expecting a reprimand. Yet her chin was held high, no trace of the high-strung nerves she so often exhibited. No, she looked ready to defend her decision.
"I knew it!" Alya laughed, giddy and excited, and if her limbs hadn't been so sluggish, she might have yanked her friend into a hug. Instead, the attempt left her flopping forward, her forehead coming to rest on Marinette's shoulder. "I knew you'd be amazing…"
Yes, she'd been certain that she'd found a soul who would create a strong avatar, although she'd tried to temper her high hopes. For Marinette to develop not only the gift of healing, but offensive capabilities as well… Alya grinned against downy feathers as she closed her eyes. It surpassed even her best-case scenario.
"Lady Alya?" Marinette asked hesitantly and Alya jerked awake.
Blinking rapidly to snap herself out of the daze she'd almost sunk into, she disentangled herself to rub her eyes. "Sorry." The last remnants of battle fervor were leeching away, leaving her with an exhaustion she felt all the way in her bones.
"You look pale." Marinette's too-bright eyes softened in concern. "You should rest."
"Not yet." Taking a deep breath to center herself, she looked back to Lord Lahiffe. He'd regained some of his composure, his gaze hooded as he watched their exchange. Yet his hand was still in hers, thumb absently stroking along the back of her hand. Whether it was for her comfort or his, she could not say.
"What you just saw," Alya said to him, "was a Changeling. A fae."
"A fae," he repeated numbly. "Like in children's tales?"
"Tales with a core of an ugly truth." She smiled ruefully. "A truth that is rather unconvincing if you haven't seen it with your own eyes. When you asked me what I know of Chloe Bourgeois' disappearance, would you have believed me if I told you I've been following the tracks of the monsters responsible?"
"…No."
Her voice softened. "Would you believe me now?"
His thumb stilled, and he stared at their entwined hands. "I would like to."
She nodded, accepting the somewhat ambivalent answer, and pressed on. "You won't call for the guards, then?"
Marinette stirred in alarm. "Guards?"
"No," the Lord said with a soft sigh. "No guards. For now." The words hung in the air, trailing off into uncertainty as he canted his head to look at Marinette. "…Are you two fae as well?"
Alya shook her head. "We're human, same as you." When he opened his mouth as if to object, she tapped the butterfly brooch she wore at the center of her gown's low-cut neckline. The Changeling's fangs had missed it by mere inches. Alya shivered at the memory, pushing it away. "Humans who fight fire with fire. This is a weapon which once belonged to a powerful fae, taken by brave warriors who defeated him and passed it on to their descendants."
"You."
"Me," she said with a nod and a small smile. "Every noble House has its secret histories, and this is mine."
"It would appear that House Césaire's family secrets best those of House Lahiffe, then." He rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing up his spectacles as he did so. "Ours mostly involve children out of wedlock."
A pointed look slid back to Marinette.
"…You're not really related, are you?"
Marinette threw her a questioning look and at Alya's subtle nod to go ahead, she said, "No, we are not. I met Lady Alya only last week, when I saw her fight a creature much like this one." She hesitated for a long moment. "It took Lady Chloe."
"Is she…?" He faltered, choking on the words as fingers balled into fists in his lap. "It… that thing in my head, just now, it taunted me with – but it wasn't real, was it? Chloe's not…"
"I'm sorry," Alya said softly.
He nodded, a sheen to his eyes, and said nothing. Alya averted her eyes, his grief so palpable that watching it struck her as intruding on something far more intimate than he would want a near-stranger to see.
The heavy silence stretched on, only broken at last by the rustle of Marinette's long skirt. She settled in next to him, laying a hand on his rigid shoulder. "I won't pretend to know the depth of your sorrow, my Lord," she said, muted and gentle. "But while we are powerless to change Chloe's fate, it's not too late to change Adrien's."
"Adrien?" His voice was hoarse and low.
"He's in danger." As the reminder struck her, Alya shot to her feet. At once, she regretted the sudden movement. Vertigo enveloped her, her already blurry vision growing dim at the edges. Shaking her head to clear it, she said, "That Changeling – I saw it sniffing around him earlier."
"The woman he danced with," Marinette said, nodding.
"Wait, what?" Lord Lahiffe's brow furrowed as comprehension dawned and he pushed himself up as well. "You're saying these things are after Adrien?" A hard edge had crept into his voice and his eyes, protectiveness overpowering grief.
"We came here following the suspicion that they had a hand in his disappearance. And I'd say this all but confirms it," Alya said as she started toward the courtyard. "We need to keep an eye on him, make sure he's…" She trailed off when she stumbled on her second step.
A hand closed around her upper arm, aiding her balance and holding her in place. "You," Marinette said, "need to go home and rest. You're in no state to go back to the feast. Neither of you are."
"No, I–"
"Alya." Command suffused Marinette's voice, the servant girl's avatar wearing the mantle of leadership like she'd been born to it. "I will keep watch over the prince tonight."
"But–"
"She's right," Lord Lahiffe muttered as he picked at his torn coat's sleeve. "It would ruin us both if people witnessed us going for a private stroll and coming back looking like this, Lady Alya."
Warmth rose to her cheeks as his meaning sank in, a quick glance down at herself telling her all she needed to know. Though her transformation had protected her gown from the worst of the battle, it was still stained with dirt and snow, and Lord Lahiffe was similarly disheveled.
They looked like they'd snuck away for a tryst. Vicious tongues would wag so hard they'd combust from friction.
Lord Lahiffe turned toward Marinette, golden gaze studying her for a long moment. "You'll protect Adrien?"
She inclined her head. "It's what I'm here for."
"I'll hold you to that." He exhaled, looking as exhausted as Alya felt. "Fuck, what a mess…"
Suddenly, he grew rigid, gaze guiltily darting around to the two of them.
"Pardon my language."
Alya burst out laughing, almost losing her balance in the process. Maybe it was the exhaustion mingling with the relief of being alive, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not keep it contained, more and more snickers spilling out. It wasn't that funny, not really – like any Lord of his rank, he'd undoubtedly had lessons in propriety rammed into his head since childhood.
A gentleman does not disgrace a Lady's ear with vulgar curses.
Sadly, while Alya could memorized her etiquette guide, the lessons had never quite sunk in deep enough to become an unthinking reflex. But at least she could always recite whatever rule she was breaking by heart.
A Lady's laugh must be like wind chimes; elegant, delicate, and above all pleasing to the ear.
Snorting is ill-advised.
"My Lord," she said, wheezing. "Are you trying to deal the finishing blow?"
"I–" He stared at her, bewildered by her reaction. Right. Of course he was, poor man, she was cackling like a madwoman.
"Just when I made it through battle with a fae beast, you would assault my delicate, womanly constitution with such vile, horrid words?"
Another spurt of giggles escaped, and she was forced to lean against her friend to keep from doubling over.
"Oh, Marinette, hold me!"
"There, there," Marinette said, patting her hair. "We shall endure this horror together."
"She twisted her ankle," Nino said, and his mind went blank just as Lady Alya started wiggling in his arms. Warmth pressed against him, a hint to the true voluptuous shape hidden beneath the layers of silk, and he tried hard not to think about it.
There was a lot he was trying not to think about. His head felt just about ready to burst with questions that demanded answers.
Answers he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.
One step forward at a time. That was how he'd gotten through the last – how long had it been since the world had plunged into him into madness? Minutes rather than hours, probably, and the thought made him queasy.
The dour-faced coachman hopped off his front seat, quickly moving to open the door of the carriage. Grunting with effort, Nino raised Lady Alya high, allowing her to step into the carriage to hobble inside. She was a good actress – her fingers clenched the door for support and her face contorted into a pained grimace when she stepped onto her supposedly injured foot.
By tomorrow his entire staff would have heard of this, and from there it would spread to servants of other households. Not exactly an ideal cover story for either of their reputations – a man escorting a woman home without a chaperone in sight still carried a whiff of scandal, even if it was for ostensibly noble reasons – but it was the best they could come up with, given the circumstances.
He just hoped Adrien would not hold leaving early against him. Not with their friendship so strangely fragile.
"Where to, my Lord?"
"That depends on where the Lady is staying," Nino answered as he climbed into the little compartment after her, careful to keep his torn sleeve out of sight.
"La Grande Auberge," she said to the servant with a practiced smile, naming one of the more prestigious inns in the city's inner ring.
He bowed briskly, and the door slammed shut.
Silence descended.
There were a thousand questions to ask, but none would leave his lips. Whenever one rose to the tip of his tongue, it was displaced by another, one that was more important, more urgent, only to be chased away by the next. Where did one start to rebuild when all the foundation of reality had crumbled away?
But of course, one question loomed above all others, and it was the one he wanted to ask least of all.
Tell me how she died.
Did it hurt, was she scared, did she–
Wrenching his thoughts away from that direction, he instead turned his attention to the woman beside him. She was curled up in the little nook between the bench and the carriage window, resting her head on the curtain. Her eyes were half-lidded, though alert, and watching him.
Her lower lip was still swollen, untouched by the magic that had miraculously knit together the skin on her throat. Because he had done that, not the Changeling. Poison had whispered in his ear, and he had lashed out as hard as he could.
Without quite having meant to, he found his thumb brushing the sensitive spot. Her eyelids fluttered.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"It's not your fault." How did she do that? Curled up as she was, small and delicate, with her torn dress and obvious exhaustion, she should have been a pitiful sight. Yet between the strength in her voice and the fire in her eyes, he felt like he was staring at a lioness. "Far from it. You fought back."
"After almost succumbing," he said bitterly.
"You have no idea how rare it is to even attempt to resist, let alone succeed. It requires a degree of mental fortitude I had to train for years to attain."
He looked away from the intensity of her gaze, but glanced back from the corner of his eyes when curiosity pricked at him. "How does one attain that, anyway?"
"Meditation. Prayer." Lady Alya made a most unladylike face. "Spending every morning choking down a concoction of primrose, thyme and salt."
"Appetizing."
"It's the breakfast of champions," she said, laughing softly. "And fae hunters."
"Fae hunter," he repeated, slanting a glance at her. "How old are you?"
She scrunched up her nose. "And here I thought you were such a well-mannered gentleman."
"Well, you're the one who laughed at me for propriety." His lips curved into a half-grin. "If we're going to descend into uncivilized anarchy, I get to ask Ladies their age."
"Touché." A smile touched her face, and his heart thumped. "I'm twenty."
He nodded. "And if you've been training for this for years…"
"Since I was eleven."
Nino's grin faded. "That seems young."
"And when did your father first push a wooden sword into your hand, my Lord? Did you not play war games as a boy?"
"That's different."
"Is it?" Her sharp gaze pinned him in place.
His lips parted, then closed without sound. He shrugged and looked away, sinking into his seat.
"May I ask you something?" she asked tentatively. They'd agreed that he'd be the one to have his questions answered for the duration of the carriage ride, but he supposed he couldn't hold it against her that she was looking to fill the heavy silence now that he wasn't holding up his end of the bargain.
So he nodded. "Sure."
"You've had opportunity to talk to Prince Adrien since his return, yes?"
Another slow nod.
"Would you say he is…" She trailed off, carefully considering her words. "…himself?"
He frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
"You saw what the Changeling could do," she said. "They can take the shape of men and usurp their place."
No.
Nino's reaction was immediate and visceral.
"A–are you saying–!?"
"I'm not saying anything," she said softly. "I'm asking what you think."
Adrien's different.
Nino felt that in his gut. There was a vast gulf between the Adrien he'd been drinking with tonight, and the Adrien he'd known a year ago. But–
But.
That was to be expected, wasn't it? The scars might be invisible, but nobody escaped prolonged imprisonment unscathed.
"He's…" Nino trailed off, trying to scrape together the right words. "I've known Adrien for over a decade now. And in that time – he changed. So did I. I mean, obviously we did. You can't stay a child forever." He huffed out a breath, shooting her a worried glance. The last thing he wanted was for his careless words to paint a target on Adrien's back. "But there's always this sense of continuity. Adrien at twenty isn't Adrien at fifteen, but they are alike. The same person, with an extra layer. That's what he feels like since his return."
As Nino spoke and put words to this vague feeling he'd been having, he grew more certain in his assessment. Yes, there was an extra layer of… something, opaque and unknown, but the core was the same.
Besides, Adrien had been referencing things only the two of them would know.
Still there was that persistent sense of wrongness, like there was something he had overlooked.
"Does that make sense?"
"It does, my Lord," Lady Alya said gently. She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for something, and then asked, "Did you feel the same way about Lady Bourgeois in recent months?"
Nino reeled back, struck by sudden swerve to the topic he was doing his best to avoid.
"What does that have to do with…"
Before the words even left his lips, a sick realization settled in his stomach. Memories he'd tried not to dwell on clawed their way to the forefront of his mind.
Mercurial mood changes he could no longer predict nor sooth.
Lovely red lips curved into a smile, saying all the right words while his skin crawled.
His fiancée shying away from his touch, her blue eyes filled with contempt.